Tag: love

Embracing Consistency Amid Life’s Challenges

by Mothersense, posted in Uncategorized

I Didn’t Feel Like Writing This Week

I’ll be honest—this week, I didn’t feel like writing at all. It’s been a doozy. More changes. More upheaval. Another loss I can’t publicly speak about yet. Just layers of raw, real emotions, stacked on top of each other like I’m supposed to carry them with grace when half the time I feel like I’m barely treading water.

But I reminded myself of something important: consistency matters. Even when the steps feel small. Even when it feels like I have nothing profound or polished to offer. Writing about my struggles, or my adventures in the kitchen, or the little victories—those things ground me. And maybe they remind someone else to keep going, too.

Inside my own mind, I’ve been giving myself constant pep talks:
Breathe. Slow down. Do better. Be the example.
And Lord knows I don’t always succeed. I miss things. I stumble. I screw up. But I am trying. I am healing, grieving, learning, and growing. And honestly? I’m proud of me.

I keep reminding myself to meditate, to be still, to move my body, to eat what nourishes me, to stretch, to breathe deeply, to stay present. Some days it feels like sooooo much. And this week especially, my mind was rebelling. I didn’t want to write my blog. I didn’t want to get a colonoscopy. I didn’t want to watch my kid leave to go help a grieving family. But I did all of it—and more.

I’m still figuring out what works for me as I get older, as life shifts under my feet, as new seasons roll in whether I ask for them or not. I hope my kids see that I’m trying to be better, to stay healthy, to keep growing. I still have some habits to break, but I’m getting there.

Halloween came and went, and I missed my mom with an ache I couldn’t shake. I want to ask her how she carried the heavy load all those years. She made it look effortless. And she was beautiful while she did it. I miss her smile and that little cackle she had. I can almost hear her telling me she left her burdens in God’s hands—that her faith, tested and steady, is what kept her standing.

She’d tell me I’m smart. That I’ll figure things out. That my instincts are good, and I should trust them. And I do still hear her voice sometimes, softer now, but still clear. I’m grateful for that. Grateful for her.

So here’s my reminder to you—and to myself:
Do your best out there.
Be yourself.
Trust your instincts.
Keep moving.

Love and Light, y’all.

The Impact of Loss: Lessons in Love and Resilience

by Mothersense, posted in Uncategorized

“It’s Just Going to Keep Happening” — Thoughts from a Hard Day

Had the displeasure of making one of the worst phone calls recently — calling an old friend to let him know that someone we both knew had passed away. At the funeral he mentioned: “It’s just going to keep happening.” Raw and honest, those words hit me like a brick.

He’s right. And in that moment, I don’t think I fully appreciated how true those words were. People are going to keep dying. And we’re going to keep seeing each other in these moments of loss — in funeral homes, church pews, or standing around telling old stories while blinking back tears. I hate it. I did not like it, Sam I Am.

I don’t like thinking about them — or myself — continuing to experience more loss.
It sucks. Plain and simple.

Losing someone cracks you open. Then, as if that isn’t enough, it rips open the memories of everyone you’ve already lost. Wowsers, indeed.

At this particular funeral, my heart hurt the most for the younger folks.
Boys left without a father at such pivotal ages.
That kind of loss leaves a scar that never quite fades. You can only hope they’re surrounded by love and support, and yes — that there’s at least some life insurance to help carry the burden financially. I didn’t sales pitch anyone (ew, that would be gross), but as someone who works in that world, I can’t help but think about it. Even just enough coverage to help with the cost of the funeral can make a world of difference when grief already feels like too much.

But I digress…

Life just keeps going, doesn’t it?
We pause, we grieve, we say goodbye — and then, somehow, we go right back to the hamster wheel. Back into the day-to-day of it all.
Loss is hard. Devastating. But we, the ones left behind, can’t let it drag us too far down. That’s the real danger of grief — it can pull old habits back to the surface. It can make you want to numb everything out, to self-medicate, to escape.

So, here’s a reminder to myself and to you:
That doesn’t work.

Shoving the feelings down, pretending they aren’t there — that won’t help.
The only way is through it.

Both of my parents were the last of their siblings. I can’t imagine how lonely that must’ve been. But they didn’t wallow. They were a special kind of tough, and they taught us that you never truly get over a loss. You just learn to carry it. Some days you’ll do great. Some days you won’t. That’s the truth.

So let’s remember something today:
People are out here doing the best they can.
Maybe today, you can give someone a little extra grace, a little more patience, a touch more compassion. We need more of that. Because, like it or not, none of us are getting out of here alive.

And that dash on the tombstone — you know the one.
The dash between your birth and your death?
That’s what counts.

Let’s go out there and make that dash matter.

Peace. Love. And Pickle Juice.
– Julie

Embracing Imperfection: Finding Grace in Struggle

by Mothersense, posted in Uncategorized

I’m Letting You in on a Little Secret…

I’m going to let you guys in on a little secret: I do not have all of my ducks in a row!

Shocking, right? I know a little bit (or maybe a whole lot) about a great deal of things — cooking, baking, sautéing, homemaking, making money stretch — you name it. I’ve built real skills over the years, and I take pride in them. But even with all that knowledge, I still have those days. The ones that make me want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head. The days that drag on so long and hard that I catch myself wishing the time away.

Yes, I know how to make money work for me, but I’ll be honest — once the needs are covered, I still struggle. Do I treat myself to something nice? Save it for later? Spend it on my kids? The internal debate is real.

I live with PTSD and anxiety. I get “blue” days — not what I’d call depression, but heavy enough that I feel it in my bones. I’ve seen true depression up close — in my children, in my ex-husband, in others I love — and it has taught me a lot about compassion, patience, and grace.

Some days, I’m full of energy and optimism, ready to take on the world. And other days… I’m lucky if I can get supper cooked. And that’s okay. I’ve learned that even with all my knowledge — about money, about mental health, about coping — some days just aren’t it.

On those days, I have to remind myself: give yourself grace. Say, “Enough. Be still. Rest.” You don’t have to do it all — especially today.

But here’s the tricky part: rest can easily turn into avoidance if we’re not careful. It’s important to recognize what’s going on and act accordingly. Listen to your instincts. Listen to your body. Rest when you need to — but also, when it’s time, get up and move.

Take the shower. Bake the bread. Step outside and touch grass.

We’re all learning in this life — every second, every day. We just have to keep showing up.

And if you ever feel like you fell short or owe someone an apology — do it, mean it, and move on. Know better, do better. Every. Single. Day.

Love and light,
💛 Julie

Walking My Daughter Down the Aisle: A Parental Perspective

by Mothersense, posted in Uncategorized

Walking My Daughter Down the Aisle – With My Heart in My Hands

This past weekend, I had the honor – and the heartache – of watching my daughter get married. If I’m honest, I’m still trying to sort through the wave of emotions that swept over me. Pride, joy, sadness, nostalgia, relief… they all tangled together, sometimes knocking me off balance. It wasn’t just my own feelings, either. Weddings stir up emotions for everyone, and I found myself carrying not only my own heart but also helping manage the hearts of others around me.

Her biological father wasn’t there. That relationship ended long ago and with it, the possibility of his presence on this day. Instead, her big brother stepped up, handsome and steady, to walk his little sister down the aisle. Watching him place her hand into her groom’s brought tears to my eyes — not just for what was missing, but for the love and loyalty that was so beautifully present.

She missed her grandparents, too. There was a quiet ache where they should have been. The reception had a small wall piece honoring those no longer with us, which was both touching and bittersweet. And yes, there were others who weren’t there — for different reasons — and that stung. But we didn’t let the sadness linger long. This was, above all else, a celebration of love.

And what a celebration it was.

From the vintage two-tone blue Ford pickup pulling the wedding party out to the field by the pond, to the arch set up at the water’s edge — it was a scene straight out of Pinterest. My baby girl, the bride, was radiant. The wedding party looked lovely, the ceremony was short and sweet, and the photos seemed endless (but wonderful).

As the evening moved on, laughter, joy, and love filled the air. It was a day built of memories, both tender and joyful.

But as any parent knows, weddings are more than just events. They’re milestones. They’re turning points. And when I got back in the car to drive away, the tears came again.

Because while I am proud beyond words of the life my daughter has built, of the work she does, of the charming little town she calls home, and the wonderful support system she has around her… I am also sad. Sad because she’s far away. Sad because no matter how grown up she is, she will always be my baby.

I suppose that’s the paradox of parenthood: bursting with pride while your heart aches with longing. Relieved she is loved and cared for, yet still wishing you could keep her close.

So how did I get through it? I’m not sure I have a tidy answer. I breathed. I cried. I smiled until my face hurt. I carried others when I could, and leaned on my own strength when I had to. Mostly, I let myself feel it all — the pride, the sadness, the joy, the overwhelm, and the pieces I can’t even find words for.

Because that’s love. Messy, overwhelming, breathtaking love.

And as I continue learning how to let go while holding on, I carry one truth with me: Mom is always here. Always.

The Power of Empathy: Finding Hope Amidst Suffering

by Mothersense, posted in Uncategorized

Is it just me?

Cautiously Optimistic: Navigating the Weight of Others’ Pain

I’ve often described myself as a cautiously optimistic person. It’s a way of being that helps me face the challenges of life with hope but without completely abandoning my awareness of how fragile things can be. I try to hold on to the belief that things will get better, that there is light at the end of every dark tunnel. Yet, beneath this cautious optimism is something much deeper—an empathy that can feel all-consuming. I feel everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything.

It’s as if my heart is finely attuned to the pain of the world. When I see someone struggling, whether it’s a close friend or a stranger, I feel their burden. I feel their sadness, their frustration, their fear. It’s hard to explain to those who don’t share this experience, but it’s almost as if I can physically feel their emotions in my own body. And with this heightened sense of empathy comes a natural desire to help. If I’m in, I’m all in. When someone I care about is hurting, I will do everything within my power to ease their pain. But here’s where the challenge lies: No matter how much I want to help, no matter how deeply I feel their suffering, I can’t fix everything.

And that’s the part that has become so difficult. Everywhere I go, I see people struggling. Whether it’s a friend facing a personal crisis, a family member dealing with loss, or a stranger encountering hardships I’ll never fully understand, it feels like there is a constant presence of pain in the world. It’s overwhelming at times. And as much as I want to be there for everyone, as much as I want to ease their suffering and show them that they are not alone, I feel a sense of helplessness that gnaws at me.

I think the hardest part is that the more I care, the more I absorb. I can’t turn off my empathy. When someone is hurting, I can’t just ignore it or pretend it doesn’t affect me. So, I carry these burdens with me. I hold space for others’ pain even when I have nothing left to give. This emotional weight becomes part of my daily existence, and sometimes, it feels like it’s a battle to simply get through the day without being overwhelmed.

Coping has become a process—a continuous, daily, and sometimes hourly, practice. I’ve learned to breathe through moments of heaviness, to step back and remind myself that it’s okay not to have all the answers. I’ve had to accept that my capacity to help is limited, that sometimes, the best thing I can offer is simply my presence, my listening ear, and my unwavering support. But that doesn’t always feel like enough. I want to do more—to take away the pain, to find a solution, to make it all better. The frustration of knowing that I can’t is, at times, unbearable.

But as I reflect on these feelings, I realize that my cautious optimism isn’t about ignoring the pain or pretending that everything is fine. It’s about holding space for hope, even in the face of suffering. It’s about recognizing that while I may not have the power to fix everything, I do have the ability to show up, to care, and to be a source of light in the lives of others.

The truth is, I may never be able to ease all of the burdens that I see around me, and that’s something I have to come to terms with. But I also believe that even the smallest acts of kindness, empathy, and support can make a difference. They may not erase the pain, but they can help carry it for a little while. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

So, I’ll continue to navigate the world with this cautious optimism—holding space for the pain I encounter, but also holding space for the hope that one day, things will get better. I’ll keep doing what I can, even when it feels like it’s not enough, because I know that the journey of healing is a shared one. We may not always have the power to solve each other’s problems, but we can always choose to walk alongside each other, offering empathy, understanding, and love. And in the end, maybe that’s the most important thing we can do.