{"id":560,"date":"2026-09-18T12:01:00","date_gmt":"2026-09-18T16:01:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/?p=560"},"modified":"2026-09-14T15:00:18","modified_gmt":"2026-09-14T19:00:18","slug":"turns-out-i-was-still-in-here","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/?p=560","title":{"rendered":"Turns Out, I Was Still in Here"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

One Year, 54 Posts, and a Promise I Actually Kept<\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

This Friday marks one year since I started Still Me in Here<\/em>. One year. Fifty-three published posts behind me, and this will be number 54.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Which is kind of wild considering this entire thing started because I nearly killed myself trying to make my boobs look good in a backless dress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If you’re new here, hi. I’m Bridgette. I’m 45, a wife, a mother in a blended family of six girls, and currently raising teenagers and a four-year-old at the same time, which should probably explain at least some of what happens in the nether regions of my mind. I write about motherhood, midlife, perimenopause, grief, marriage, figuring out who I am outside of all those roles, and apparently my boobs more often than I realized.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

People had told me for years that I should write my stories. I wanted somewhere to talk about the things that make people blush and the parts of being a woman that don’t fit particularly well into the facade of perfection we’re constantly handed. I wanted to be reachable. Mostly, I wanted somewhere I could finish a thought from my own perspective without immediately accounting for everyone else’s feelings about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So naturally, I started with T<\/em>emu-bies: Lessons Were Learned<\/em>.<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

That’s the story of an adhesive allergy, some questionable chicken-cutlet boob contraptions, an emergency room visit, and a husband who decided “Temu-bies” was the appropriate name for the entire experience. My very first post said I wanted to share the raw, unfiltered moments people don’t always talk about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Apparently I meant it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had big hopes for this when I started. I still do. I had this Julie & Julia<\/em> idea in my head where I’d start writing, people would find me, and eventually I’d get to spend my days doing something I love while talking to people as if we were sitting together having coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It hasn’t happened that way. At least not yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I’m not going to give you the anniversary version where I say numbers never mattered and I never cared whether anyone read this. Bullshit. Of course I want people to read it. I want this to grow. I would absolutely love for writing to eventually generate an income. Apparently personal growth has not eliminated my desire to pay bills.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But something happened this year that I didn’t expect to matter as much as it does: I kept a promise to myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I built this site, I decided that if I put myself out there and said I was going to publish every week, then I had to keep showing up. Somehow, I have. Apparently public accountability works better for me than a gym membership.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not every post came easily. There were things I loved that the internet responded to with what felt like a polite shrug. Some posts felt forced. Others started as one thing and ended somewhere I wasn’t expecting because writing has a funny way of making me admit things before I’ve decided whether I actually wanted to know them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s Just Not That Into You\u2026 Even When It\u2019s Your Dad<\/a><\/em> was one of those. I had to admit that grief isn’t reserved for people who have died. Sometimes we grieve people who are still here, and sometimes silence from someone you love is an answer, even when it isn’t the one you wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then there was It Didn\u2019t Keep Me Safe Like They Said It Would<\/em>.<\/a> That one made me look at what I’d learned about being careful, apologizing, keeping the peace, and making myself smaller. I realized I could understand why someone became who they were without using their history to dismiss what happened to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then I wrote Yertle the Turtle & the Cost of Standing on One Another<\/em>.<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was nervous about that one because it brushed against politics, which I generally avoid here. Opinions are like assholes, but we’re not cats, so we don’t need to put them in everyone’s face. What started with reading Dr. Seuss to Evelyn became me wondering whether living gently also meant speaking when something didn’t feel right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That’s probably the best explanation of what writing here has become for me. I start with something ordinary and somewhere along the way discover what I’ve actually been thinking about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My writing has changed too. I don’t feel like I need to set a dramatic scene or package every thought into a lesson anymore. I’d rather pull out the chair across from me, pour the coffee, and tell you what I’ve been thinking about this week. Sometimes we end up talking about grief. Sometimes motherhood. Sometimes my changing body. Sometimes the fact that I finally found bras that properly contain my chesticles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We’re all over the map because I’m all over the map, and I think I’m finally okay with that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I named this place Still Me in Here<\/em>, I had become a stranger to myself in a lot of ways. I’d moved through custody battles, blending a family, losing my mother, getting married again, and having another baby. I had been someone to everyone for so long that I wanted to know who I was outside of being a mother and wife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The name was almost reassurance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I’m still in here somewhere.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A year later, I don’t think I’ve “found myself,” because I’m not sure there’s some finished version waiting to be discovered. I’m still a mess. Perimenopause is an asshole. Anxiety still shows up. Marriage still requires work. Motherhood is hard and rewarding\u2014mostly. Rest is very much a work in progress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can spend an entire year writing about becoming more patient and present and then yell at Evelyn because she won’t stop crying over a missing dragon. In my defense, I knew if she kept crying her nose would get stuffy, which she hates, so technically my yelling was an attempt to prevent the uncomfortable inevitable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Parenting excellence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I recognize myself more now. I’m protective of my time. Evelyn started Pre-K, and I’ve been taking morning walks while she’s there without feeling guilty about them. I just finished substitute training and am incredibly nervous about accepting my first shift, but I deliberately chose something that gives me flexibility. I can say yes. I can say no. I can contribute financially while still writing, walking, and being here for Evelyn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those choices matter to me in a way I don’t think I fully understood four years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I’m incredibly grateful to Nick for those four years. He never made me feel as though not bringing home a paycheck meant I wasn’t contributing to our family. And for the last year, he’s treated this blog like it’s my work simply because he knows it’s important to me. He encourages me, asks the hard questions, and occasionally challenges me to think differently when I would much rather he just agree with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rude, honestly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I’m grateful to my girls too, because they’re growing up with me. I’ve spent a lot of motherhood wondering whether I’m getting it right, but they’re living their lives for the first time just like I am. They’ve never been these versions of themselves before, and I’ve never been the mother of these versions of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We’re all beginners.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I’m grateful to my mother too. I miss her every day, but I’ve started thinking about grief differently. How lucky are we to have people we love so hard that their absence can still hurt years later? That doesn’t make the missing easier, but it reminds me what had to exist for that grief to be there in the first place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She also left me this glorious mind that apparently never shuts the fuck up, so thanks, Mom. At least I found somewhere to put it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In She Remembered: On Raising Daughters, Losing Mothers, and the Marks We Leave Behind<\/a><\/em>, I wrote about hoping I’m leaving the same kind of mark on my girls that my mother left on me. I don’t know if that’s a question I’ll ever get to answer for myself, but I’m starting to recognize little pieces of it when they show up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes I don’t know whether the voices nudging me forward are God, my mother, spirits, guardians, intuition, or simply my own voice finally becoming loud enough for me to hear it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Whatever it is, I hear you. I’m trying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I’m grateful to you. The people who subscribe and the people who apparently refuse to subscribe but somehow remember to come back every week anyway. The people who comment, message me, or quietly read without ever saying a word. Those who’ve been here since the Temu-bies and those who just got here and are now wondering what the hell they’ve stumbled into.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thank you for showing up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think I owe that same thank-you to myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This didn’t become what I hoped it would in its first year. I still want it to grow. I still hope more people pull up a chair. I’m not pretending I’ve transcended wanting any of that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I just don’t think that’s the only measure anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The person I was before becoming a mom and wife is still in here. She sings loudly through her headphones when nobody is around. She loves photography despite forgetting her goddamn camera every time she goes for a walk. She plans too much, worries too much, laughs at inappropriate things, and has a brain that goes in seventeen directions at once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She’s just seeing through some wiser eyes now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought when I started Still Me in Here<\/em> that I was going to find myself again. Maybe I’ve spent the last year getting to know who I am now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Either way, I made myself a promise that I would keep showing up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fifty-three posts later, I’m sitting here writing number 54.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thank you for showing up with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Continue the conversation<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

If today’s essay felt like someone put words to something you’ve been carrying, I think you’ll find a little more of yourself in The Unguided Woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It’s not a roadmap. It’s an honest conversation about perimenopause, identity, grief, and finding your footing again when life feels unfamiliar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Download The Unguided Woman<\/a> here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

One Year, 54 Posts, and a Promise I Actually Kept This Friday marks one year since I started Still Me in Here. One year. Fifty-three published posts behind me, and this will be number 54. Which is kind of wild considering this entire thing started because I nearly killed myself trying to make my boobs […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-560","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-life-lately"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/560","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=560"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/560\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":561,"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/560\/revisions\/561"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=560"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=560"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stillmeinhere.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=560"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}