Tag: mental health

The Quiet Discomfort of the Closed Laptop

by Mothersense, posted in Mental Health Recovery, Reclamation

On Monday, we talked about the danger of the blur—that exhausting space where your work life, your home life, and your school day bleed together until you are running on empty. We talked about the antidote: building micro-boundaries, shutting the screen, and putting the phone in a basket.
It sounds so good on paper. It feels like a victory when you actually do it.
But if we are being completely honest, no one talks about what happens right after you shut the laptop or put the phone away.
No one talks about the silence. And no one talks about how incredibly loud that silence can be.
The moment you enforce a boundary and step away from the production line, a weird kind of panic can set in. You sit down on the couch, or you step into the kitchen, and instead of feeling a wave of peace, you feel a wave of guilt. Your brain, which has been conditioned to run at a million miles an hour, starts screaming at you:
You should be checking that insurance contract. You should be organizing that lesson plan. You should be fixing something, building something, doing something.
We live in a culture that treats constant motion as a badge of honor. We are conditioned to believe that if we aren’t producing, we are failing. So when we finally force ourselves to stop, the quiet doesn’t feel like a reward—it feels like an withdrawal.
It is deeply uncomfortable to just sit still.
But here is the truth we have to remind ourselves of as we head into the weekend: Rest is not a reward for a job well done. It is a requirement for a life well lived.
When you choose to step away, you aren’t being lazy. You are being brave. It takes an incredible amount of courage to look at an endless to-do list, look at a world demanding your attention, and say, “Not right now. My peace is worth more than this productivity.”
If you close the screen this weekend and find yourself wrestling with the guilt of doing nothing, take a deep breath. Let the discomfort sit there. It’s just your brain unlearning a bad habit.
The work will be there on Monday. The chaos isn’t going anywhere. But your spirit needs a minute to catch up with your body.
Give yourself permission to sit in the quiet this weekend, even if it feels a little awkward at first. You aren’t falling behind; you are just filling back up.

Mother-Sense: The Legacy We Carry, The Wisdom We Give

by Mothersense, posted in Mental Health Recovery, Reclamation


As we approach Mother’s Day, my house feels a little fuller, the air a little thicker with memory, and my “Mother-Sense” is on high alert.


In the songwriting world, we talk about a “bridge”—that part of a song that connects where you’ve been to where you’re going. To me, that is exactly what motherhood is. It’s the bridge between the generations. It’s the radical hospitality of opening your heart to biological, bonus, and chosen children and saying, “There is a place for you here.”


More Than an Inheritance


I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy lately. In my “second half” of life, I’ve realized that the most valuable thing I can give my seven children and my three grandbabies isn’t something that can be kept in a bank or a box.


It’s Mother-Sense.


It’s that internal compass—the resilience to stand back up when life knocks your fence down, the intuition to know when a friend needs a quiet cup of coffee, and the bone-deep knowledge that they are loved, exactly as they are. It’s a functional, living tool kit for life.


The Reciprocal Song


People often say that mothers are the teachers, but if I’m honest, the song goes both ways.


My children have taught me more about courage than any lyric I’ve ever written.


They’ve shown me how to see the world through fresh eyes when mine were tired.


They’ve been the “steady anchors” in my own stormy seasons, reminding me that even when the melody changes, the foundation holds.


An Invitation to the Table


Whether you are a mother by birth, by marriage, or by choice, your “sense” is a superpower. It’s the wisdom that tells you when to hold on tight and when to let go so they can find their own rhythm. It’s the quiet strength that keeps the home fires burning, even when you’re busy building your own dreams and writing your own “second half.”


This Sunday, I won’t just be celebrating the title of “Mother.” I’ll be celebrating the resilience of every woman who has ever stepped into the gap, offered a hand, and shared her wisdom to light someone else’s path.


To my fellow mothers: What is one piece of ‘Mother-Sense’—that bit of hard-won wisdom—that you hope stays with your children forever? Let’s fill the comments with our collective legacy today

The Soundtrack of May: Finding the Melody in the Transition

by Mothersense, posted in Mental Health Recovery, Reclamation


There is a specific frequency to May in this part of Texas. The “blackland” is vibrant, the mornings still hold a lingering coolness, and the world feels like it’s humming a brand-new tune. As a songwriter, I can’t help but listen for the rhythm in it all—the way the wind catches the fence line or the steady, rhythmic chirping of the birds before the afternoon heat settles in.


By May 1st, we aren’t just “planning” for growth anymore; we are living right in the middle of it. If April was about the quiet work of the roots, May is the full-blown chorus.


Listening to the Layers


In a good song, the layers have to work together. You have the steady beat of the drums (the daily chores, the family schedules, the “must-dos”) and the soaring melody (the dreams, the creative sparks, the “could-bes”).


Lately, I’ve been practicing the art of listening to those layers without getting overwhelmed by the noise.
The Steady Beat: The familiar sounds of a full house—the laughter, the front door swinging open, the clatter of life. It’s the anchor that keeps everything else grounded.


The Creative Counterpoint: That sudden lyric that hits you while you’re folding laundry or the melody that starts to form while you’re out walking. It’s the reminder that even in the busiest seasons, there is room for a new song.


Changing the Key


Sometimes, life asks us to change the key. Maybe the pace is picking up, or the “sound” of your season is shifting from a quiet acoustic ballad to something a bit more upbeat and demanding. That shift isn’t a bad thing; it’s just a transition.
I’m learning that you don’t have to fight the change in tempo. You just have to find your footing in the new rhythm.

Whether you are navigating a career shift, a creative milestone, or just the changing needs of your family, there is a melody there if you’re quiet enough to hear it.


What is Your Song Today?


Take a second today to really listen—not just with your ears, but with your heart.


What is the “hook” of your life right now?


Is it a song of peace, a song of hustle, or a song of quiet resilience?


As we step into May, I’m keeping my notebook close and my heart open to the music of the everyday. There is so much beauty in the transition if we just stop to hear it.


I’d love to know: if your life had a soundtrack right now, what would the genre be? Let’s talk about the music of our lives in the comments!

The Becoming : Pride in the midst of chaos

by Mothersense, posted in This Life

Both Things Can Be True

This past week felt like a culmination of so many moments for my niece.

She is my older sister’s only child, and she is truly a gem of a human—kind, smart, hardworking, and quick with a perfectly timed sassy comeback when the moment calls for it. It’s her senior year, and with that comes all the lasts of high school, not just for her, but for her mom too. Anyone who has parented a senior knows those endings hit in unexpected ways.

My niece is a 4-H and FFA gal, a band kid, and a Girl Scout. Through these programs she has learned responsibility, leadership, grit, creativity, and how to show up even when things are hard. I am so incredibly proud of her accomplishments. At her last county show, she earned Reserve Champion with pickled beets (yes—pickled beets!), and her market broilers made the sale. Those are not small wins. They are the result of years of early mornings, late nights, dirty boots, careful planning, and persistence.

Another “last” arrived quietly when I had the chance to talk with my sister about what comes next for her baby—her everything. And make no mistake, this kid has options. Several schools have already accepted her, and some came with scholarship packages. That is huge. That is exciting. That is the payoff for all those years of busyness and commitment.

It sent me straight back in time to my own years as a mom with kids who showed. The careful choosing of recipes. The guarding of certain ones like state secrets (banana butter, I’m looking at you). The pride of watching your kids take ownership of their work. Even my two older daughters—without any guidance from me—entered items and won prizes. There is something deeply satisfying about watching your children surprise you with who they are becoming.

All of that nostalgia, love, and pride has been swirling around me this week… while my own life looks a bit like a shit show.

Our water heater quit and is limping along on a temporary fix after days without hot water. I’m dealing with a kidney infection and a pharmacy run that couldn’t come soon enough. Our car is broken down and has a flat tire. My husband had a job lined up, attended orientation, only to be told days later that the position had already been filled. And just to round things out, I sliced my fingers open trying to pry a tin can (yes, I absolutely should know better), which earned me an ER visit, a tetanus shot, glued fingers, a wrapped thumb, and the loss of a good portion of my thumb pad. Goodbye thumbprint.

And yet—both things can be true.

I can feel immense love and pride for my niece and her accomplishments while my own world feels messy, loud, painful, and frustrating. I won’t fall into woe is me. This is my life. It is complicated and exhausting and sometimes downright ridiculous. There are days I want to strangle someone (figuratively… mostly). But then there are days when I glance in the rearview mirror and realize how far I’ve come.

I’ve survived every single thing I thought would break me.
That survival rate? 100%.

Am I the same person I once was? Absolutely not. But isn’t that the point? Life is about the becoming. About collecting skills, wisdom, scars, and stories. About learning how to stand back up. About making the world a little better where we can—just like my lovely niece is already doing.

And yes, you’d better believe I can still recite the 4-H pledge, parts of the FFA Creed, and the Girl Scout Promise.

Here’s to the becoming in 2026.
Love and light, y’all 🕯️

2025: Lessons from the Valley of Hope

by Mothersense, posted in This Life

2025: Lessons from the Valley

2025 was one for the books.

It was a year of long pauses and deep reflection, a year where many days were spent in the valley and far fewer on the mountaintop. A year filled with storms—some sudden, some slow-building—and not nearly as many victories as I would have liked. It wasn’t a year that offered easy answers or tidy endings. It was a year that asked me to sit with discomfort, uncertainty, and fear, and to learn what it truly means to endure.

Difficult seasons have a way of stripping life down to its essentials. When the noise fades and the days feel heavy, you learn quickly what matters and what doesn’t. You learn what you can cling to when there is nothing left to hold but hope—sometimes not even hope as we like to define it, but simply the decision to keep going.

There were moments this year when the darkness felt especially close. Moments when the questions came faster than the answers, when the weight of “what if” pressed hard against my chest. And one of those moments came under fluorescent lights, in a hospital room, as I prepared to undergo anesthesia for a heart catheterization.

Lying there, surrounded by beeping machines and hushed voices, my mind did not wander to all the things I still wanted to do or all the plans I hadn’t finished. It went straight to one thing—one moment I desperately wanted to reach.

My daughter’s wedding.

As the anesthesia began to take hold, fear crept in. Not the loud, panicked kind, but the quiet, sobering fear that asks: What if? What if I don’t wake up? What if I don’t get there? What if the moment I’ve been holding onto slips past me?

In that moment, I clung to prayer. I clung to love. I clung to the image of my daughter in a wedding dress, to the sound of laughter and music, to the sacred hope of being present for one of the most important days of her life. When everything else felt uncertain, that was my anchor.

And I made it.

I made it to the wedding.

And it was beautiful.

My daughter was beautiful—radiant in a way that goes far beyond appearances. There is something profoundly moving about watching your child step into a new chapter, about witnessing love take shape in front of you after all the years of raising, protecting, worrying, and praying. Standing there, heart full and eyes wet, I knew with absolute clarity that every storm, every valley, every fearful moment had led me to that sacred joy.

2025 taught me that difficult times don’t always come with immediate redemption. Sometimes the victory isn’t in the overcoming but in the surviving. Sometimes it’s in showing up—still breathing, still loving, still willing to hope even when hope feels fragile.

What do we cling to in the darkest moments?

We cling to love.
We cling to faith.
We cling to the people and moments that remind us why staying matters.
We cling to the belief that even in the valley, beauty can still be waiting ahead.

This year wasn’t easy. It wasn’t gentle. But it was meaningful. And if there is one lesson I will carry forward, it is this: even when the storms are many and the victories feel few, life can still surprise us with moments so beautiful they make the struggle worth it.

2025 may have been a year of hard lessons—but it was also a year that reminded me why I keep going.