I started writing this on Sunday and now it’s Tuesday—posting day—which feels fitting because my brain has been operating like it’s already Thursday since about 5:15 this morning.
I’ll be honest: I feel a little all over the place. A little disheartened by analytics. A little tired of trying to remember the funny thing I thought of right before falling asleep last week (note to self: write it down or it will disappear forever). But mostly, this week isn’t about getting it right.
It’s about surviving.
And apparently, my butthole is on fire.
Things no one talks about: when you cut out bread, rice, pasta, and potatoes, your body will respond by demanding Buffalo chicken wing dip like it’s a personality trait. I have been living on a high-protein version made with a whole rotisserie chicken, nonfat Greek yogurt, and—because of course—cottage cheese. Lettuce wraps? Elite. Flavor? Outstanding.
My aging stomach, however, would like a word.
Also, despite all of this effort, there has been zero weight loss. Perimenopause and my lingering, taunting period have entered the chat, whispering sweet nothings about ice cream and chocolate, which—last I checked—are technically not bread or pasta. Rude. Most days I do well, but there’s the occasional “why not?”
So yes, it’s time for a reset. A mental one more than anything.
In just over a month I’ll be 45. A couple of months after that, I’m headed to Chicago to see my big sister—my first real big-girl trip (we don’t count 2008, because Emily came along in utero as a surprise plot twist). I’ve been thinking a lot about what 2026 is supposed to mean for me, based on my very scientific Kindergarten Cop–style prediction.
It’s still going to be chaos. But I get to decide what that chaos looks like.
I want to be more present, even if the house falls into disarray. I want to knit. Drink tea. Embrace my old-lady tendencies. But clutter still spikes my anxiety, and balance feels…theoretical. I haven’t found it yet.
Case in point: I’ve spent most of this week debating whether to cancel our YMCA membership because I haven’t gone since November. The idea of taking Evelyn to ChildWatch sends my nervous system into full alert. There’s a trauma response buried in there from when she was a baby and screamed every single time we got in the car. I hated going anywhere.
She’s fine now.
But my body remembers.
I know I need to get out of the house. I need space that doesn’t come with a timer or guilt. I need movement that isn’t just housework (because let’s be real—if I have to choose between a workout and reorganizing something that absolutely does not need reorganizing, I’m choosing the housework every time).
Parenting guilt is like Catholic guilt. Even when you’ve done nothing wrong, you feel the need to confess—or abstain.
The numbers move too. Some days they spike, some days they dip, and I’m learning not to let that mess with my head too much. A few weeks ago, my “low” days were a few hundred views. Now even a quieter day is over a thousand. That doesn’t mean I’ve figured anything out—it just means people are finding this space, leaving, coming back. And that’s kind of how life works too.
I’m still here.
I’m still writing.
Even when it feels wobbly.
And yet—there are moments.
Last weekend, right before the snow, it was just Nick, Evelyn, and me in the car. She asked to listen to Florence + the Machine. I put on Sympathy Magic, and I watched her mouth the words until she got to:
“Head high, arms wide, aching, aching, aching—and alive!”
She sang it with her whole body. Not because she knew the words—but because she knew the feeling. She’s seen me sing it that way. Felt it that way.
My heart cracked clean open.
That’s the part of the prediction I need to hold onto. Yes, it will be chaos. Yes, I’ll keep grounding everyone as a mother, a sister, a woman. But how, when, and for whom I do that is up to me.
One thing I am holding onto this week is what’s coming.
Nick and I have a weekend away planned—just us, courtesy of my eldest tackling the house, teens and most importantly…Evelyn. No schedules. No “Mom, watch this.” No being needed every five minutes. We’re heading to Wild Lights at The Wild Center in Tupper Lake—walking nature trails at night, glowing with light and music drifting through the trees. Honestly? It feels a little magical.
I won’t lie—I briefly contemplated an edible to heighten the experience. No decisions have been finalized.
After that, we’ll be snuggling into a chalet at White Pine Camp. Just time alone with Nick as ourselves for a bit. Not parents. Not problem-solvers. Just two people who still really like each other and need quiet to remember what that feels like.
Somewhere in all of this, I also had the very random thought that I’ve been intentionally trying to bring a little more “sexy time” energy back into my marriage lately. Not in a performative way—just small moments of reconnecting. Making out. Laughing. Remembering that Nick and I existed before carpools, schedules, and exhaustion. It’s not about effort as much as it is about getting out of my own head long enough to let myself enjoy it.
I think that’s part of why I’m so excited for this weekend away—time where we don’t have to rush, or be needed, or multitask our way through intimacy. Just us, remembering how to be together without interruption.
I’ve also realized I need to buy Nick a pair of gray sweatpants purely for my own viewing pleasure. No deeper meaning. No metaphor. Just men’s lingerie, if we’re being honest. Sometimes reconnecting is emotional intimacy, and sometimes it’s just appreciating your husband in sweatpants and remembering you’re still very much a person with eyeballs.
Today, however, Evelyn is fully embodying all of my internal chaos externally. She’s the Tasmanian Devil with feelings. A tiny, emotional tornado in leggings. Her newest tactic when she’s overwhelmed? Hissing and spitting like a feral kitten. We’re on timeout number two and it’s not even 9am. Impulse control is nonexistent. We are doing our best.
I also bought a new pair of jeans this week, and there’s something poking me—like the tiny plastic end of a tag—but every time I go to find it, it’s gone. I feel it when I move just right, but I can’t actually put my finger on it. And honestly? That feels like most of my life lately. Discomfort without a clear source. A reminder that something needs adjusting, even if I don’t yet know what or how.
Today is Tuesday. It feels like Wednesday, but it’s not. The plumber is coming “shortly” (which means never or immediately—no in between). The girls have a two-hour delay. Laundry is staring at me aggressively. Evelyn is sitting next to me with headphones on, playing PokPok so I can write. The house is quiet. My brain is loud.
There isn’t a lesson here. This is just my everyday life. I’m managing a toddler, a household, a marriage, my own body, and the pressure to be productive while also being human.
And today, that’s enough.
One step at a time.
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