Tag: writing

I’m Not the Mom I Thought I’d Be — And That’s Okay

by Mothersense, posted in Mental Health Recovery, Reclamation, This Life



When I first became a mom, I had ideas.

Not just little ones, but full pictures in my head of how life would look.

What kind of mom I would be.
What kind of home I would create.
Who my kids would grow up to become.

I did not think of it as expectations at the time.
It felt more like hope.

I wanted a doctor.
Two nurses.
A veterinarian.

I wanted stability for them.
Security.
A life that felt a little more certain than the one I had known.

And I worked hard toward that in my own way.
Raising them.
Showing up.
Trying to guide them toward what I thought would give them the best future.

But life does not follow the plans we make in our heads.

And kids are not meant to become our plans.

They are meant to become themselves.

Somewhere along the way, I had to face a quiet truth.

My kids are not who I once imagined they would be.

They are not following the paths I pictured.
They are not fitting into the neat little futures I had hoped for.

And for a moment, that felt like loss.

Not because there is anything wrong with them.
But because I had to let go of the version of their lives that existed in my mind.

That is a hard thing to admit.

As parents, we do not like to say that part out loud.

But here is what I know now.

My kids are good people.

They are strong in ways that do not show up on paper.
They are learning, growing, struggling, and figuring life out in real time.

And they still call me.

When things get hard.
When they need advice.
When they just need someone to listen.

That means something.

Maybe everything.

Because at the end of the day, that was always the goal, even if I did not realize it at the time.

Not perfection.
Not a specific career path.
Not a life that looks impressive from the outside.

But connection.

Trust.

A relationship that lasts beyond childhood.

I am not the mom I thought I would be either.

I have changed.
Life has changed me.

There are things I would do differently if I could go back.
There are things I have had to learn the hard way.

And there are moments where I have questioned myself more than I ever expected to.

But I am still here.

Still showing up.
Still loving them the best way I know how.
Still learning alongside them instead of trying to control the outcome.

And maybe that is what motherhood really is.

Not raising perfect kids.
Not following a perfect plan.

But walking beside imperfect humans as they figure out who they are.

And learning to let them.

So no, my life does not look like I thought it would.

My kids are not who I once imagined.

And I am not the mom I expected to be.

But we are real.

We are connected.

We are still choosing each other, over and over again.

And that is more than enough.

Where the Fire Started

by Mothersense, posted in Musical Musings



Sometimes a song doesn’t arrive as a fully formed idea. It slips in sideways. A single line. A feeling you can’t shake. A truth that feels a little too loud to say out loud.

For me, one of those moments came wrapped in a lyric that hit harder than I expected:

“If I’m too much, go find less.”

I can’t take credit for that line — it comes from Elyse Meyers — but the second I heard it, it felt like someone had reached into my chest and put words to something I’d been carrying for a long time.

Even though I’d had similar thoughts, I’d never said them that clean, that sharp. That honest.

And that’s what stuck with me.

Because it didn’t come from confidence. Not at first. It came from that raw, uncomfortable place where you realize how often you’ve been shrinking yourself to fit into spaces that were never built for you.

I’ve spent years being a lot of things to a lot of people. Mom. Wife. Student. Teacher. The reliable one. The strong one. The one who keeps it all together. And somewhere in all of that, there were pieces of me I kept sanding down. Softer. Quieter. Easier to hold.

More “acceptable.”

But that line? That line was the snap.

It was the moment the narrative shifted from “Am I too much?” to “Why am I apologizing for being enough?”

That’s where the song started to take shape.


—

The First Spark

When I wrote that lyric, I wasn’t thinking about structure or genre or where it would fit. I was thinking about every time I bit my tongue. Every time I softened a truth. Every time I made myself smaller so someone else could stay comfortable.

That one line carried all of that.

So instead of building a song around an idea, I built the idea around that line.

What does it look like to stop apologizing?

What does it sound like to own your edges instead of hiding them?

What does it feel like to finally say, this is who I am — take it or leave it?


—

Letting It Get a Little Wild

At first, the song leaned reflective. Almost restrained. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized that wasn’t honest.

Because the truth isn’t quiet.

The truth, for me, was a little feral.

It had teeth.

It laughed too loud. It made questionable choices. It lit the match instead of walking away from the fire.

So I leaned into that.

I let the verses get bolder. Messier. More unapologetic. I stopped trying to make the narrator likable and started making her real.

That’s when the song found its voice.


—

Writing for Me, Not for Approval

There’s a version of songwriting where you’re always thinking about the listener. What will they like? What will land? What will sell?

And then there’s the version where you tell the truth first.

This song demanded the second version.

It wasn’t about being polished. It wasn’t about being palatable. It was about being honest in a way that felt a little dangerous.

Because if I’m being real, the line “If I’m too much, go find less” isn’t just a lyric.

It’s a boundary.

It’s a declaration.

It’s a refusal to keep editing myself down to a version that’s easier for someone else to hold.


—

The Shape It Took

By the time the song settled into itself, it wasn’t soft anymore.

It had grit. A little swagger. A little chaos.

It became a kind of anthem for that version of me that doesn’t ask permission anymore.

The one who knows exactly who she is — even when that’s inconvenient.

Especially then.


—

Why It Matters

I think we all have a version of ourselves we’ve been told is “too much.”

Too loud. Too emotional. Too driven. Too complicated. Too honest.

And we learn, over time, how to file those edges down.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned through writing this song:

The parts of you they call “too much” are usually the parts that are most you.

And maybe the goal isn’t to fix that.

Maybe the goal is to finally stand in it.

Fully.

Unapologetically.

And if that’s too much for someone?

They’re free to go find less.


—

That’s where this song came from.

Not from perfection.

From truth.

And honestly? That’s the only place worth writing from anymore.


—

The Line That Lit It (Full Circle)

And it still takes me back to that line I didn’t write, but absolutely claimed in spirit — the one from Elyse Meyers that put words to what I’d been circling for years.

Because sometimes the most powerful thing isn’t inventing the truth.

It’s recognizing it when you hear it.

And having the guts to build something honest in response.


—

Lyrics Excerpt

Verse I bent myself to fit the frame Cut my edges, dulled my flame Smiled nice and played it safe Just to keep the peace in place

Pre-Chorus But something in me finally broke Somewhere between the hush and choke

Chorus If I’m too much, go find less I’m done drowning in second-guess I won’t shrink to ease your mind Take it or leave it, this is mine Strike the match, watch it burn I ain’t got a damn thing left to learn If I’m fire you can’t confess If I’m too much, go find less

Bridge A little wild, a little free A little more of who I’m meant to be No more trimming down the truth No more asking for your proof


—

That’s the song that came out of it.

Not borrowed. Not copied. But sparked — by a line that told the truth so clearly, I couldn’t ignore it.

The Realities of Family Bonds

by Mothersense, posted in This Life

Family Is Complicated

My husband recently asked me to write a blog post about him—more specifically, about the very different families we came from. The conversation that sparked it was lighthearted at first, one of those “what if” discussions that start as fun and end up revealing something much deeper.

We were talking about winning the lottery. A huge sum. Life-changing money. And the question was simple: Who would we invite to ride with us on a party bus to go collect our winnings?

On the surface, the answer seems obvious—siblings, their spouses, our kids. The people closest to us. But then the real question emerged:
Who would be there simply to be happy for us… and who would be there because they think they might get something out of it?

That’s where the differences between our families became impossible to ignore.

My husband is one of five siblings, just like me. His family relationships are… complicated. His youngest sister is someone I never want to share oxygen with again—ever. That bridge isn’t just burned; it’s gone. His older sister and her husband, though, are genuinely good humans. Even when we don’t agree, I love them. They are kind, decent people.

His two brothers are also good people—but I don’t think they’d appreciate the invitation, nor would they accept it under the simple premise of come and celebrate with us. That kind of uncomplicated joy isn’t really how things work in his family.

My family, on the other hand? They’d be there—all of them.

All of my kids and their significant others.Nephews, nieces. My older sister, my brother, my two other sisters, and their spouses. Not because they expect anything, but because that’s how my family has always been. Through good times and bad, joy and grief, stability and chaos—they’ve shown up. Emotionally. Financially. In the best ways they can and know how.

And I’ll admit—I take that for granted sometimes.

Moments like this remind me that not everyone grows up with that kind of family. Not everyone has people who love them even when they aren’t very lovable. Not everyone has a safe place to land.

My husband’s family is very different. Relationships are strained. There’s a lot of water under the bridge, and I don’t think anyone really knows how to fix it—or if they even want to. For me, at least where the youngest sister is concerned, reconciliation isn’t on the table.

What hurts the most for my husband isn’t just angry words or apologies that went nowhere. It’s what he sees as deliberate exclusion—certain children left out by their own parents, “family” events that don’t include all of the family.

The last time everyone was invited to something was his dad’s 70th birthday. He’s 76 now.

Something changed. No one will explain why. And it hurts.

He’s asked his older siblings. He’s tried to understand. He’s no longer speaking to his parents. And while time has passed, the wound hasn’t healed.

I remember one particularly difficult season. He called his mother, needing to talk, needing comfort. She said, “I don’t want to hear it.”
I heard it. From her own mouth.
And it broke my heart.

That was four years ago. Things aren’t much better now.

Family is complicated. It’s messy. But it should be the place you go when things fall apart. It should be the place where you can ask for help, an ear, a shoulder. For my husband, it hasn’t been that.

I am one of five.
My husband is one of five.
We came together nearly ten years ago—baggage and all.

I am deeply grateful for the family I came from. I love them. I’m proud of them. I’m grateful for the family I’ve created too—five humans I gave birth to and two I claim as my own. They are good, decent people, and I know they will look out for one another long after I’m gone.

My husband, even after all this time—after being welcomed and accepted into my family long ago—still struggles with the contrast. Sometimes he’s in awe of the relationships I have with my siblings. Sometimes, I think he’s a little envious.

And honestly? I get it.

Because while he didn’t come from that kind of family, he does have one now. They love him. They root for him. They pray for him. And that matters—even if it doesn’t erase the damage from where he came from.

So if we ever win the lottery?

T and T can ride the party bus with us. All of my family can ride along too, fly my girls and their guys in to make the trip with us, maybe include Curtis and Shelly and just roll out and have fun together. 

The rest can hear about it after the fact and wonder why they didn’t get an invite.

Family is complicated.

Love and Light. Hang tight.

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.