There’s a kind of heaviness that comes with being the “strong one.” It’s not loud or dramatic; it doesn’t cry out for help. It lives quietly in the background, behind calm smiles and the words, “I’m fine.” You become the…

There are some words that will never be spoken.

Not because I don’t deserve them, but because the person who should have said them isn’t here anymore…

There’s a certain kind of tired that lives beneath your skin — the kind that coffee can’t touch and sleep can’t fix.
It’s not the kind of exhaustion that fades after a nap or a weekend off. It’s the kind that builds quietly over time, layering itself…

There’s a strange kind of ache that comes from being the different one in your family.
It’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet — hidden in the way conversations shift when you speak up, or the…

I was thirteen the first time I got drunk.
Too young to even know who I was, but old….

I grew up in a family where silence was the rule. Problems weren’t faced, they were swept under the rug. Hard conversations didn’t happen — we just let tension hang in the air until it became part of the wallpaper.

No one raised their voice, but no one raised the…

I don’t think I’ve ever really known where I belonged.

Even as a kid, I remember looking at other people and wondering how they just… fit. They had a thing. A direction. A sense of self. I always felt like I was standing in a hallway full…

I grew up knowing what instability felt like—not just as a concept, but as a constant, gnawing presence. I knew the sound of hurried packing. I knew the sting of slammed doors. I knew how it felt to fall asleep in a house that didn’t feel safe. My childhood wasn’t rooted in warmth or security—it was…

Childhood is supposed to be simple.

It’s supposed to be filled with belly laughs and scraped knees, bedtime stories and soft blankets, the kind of innocence where the biggest fear is whether the nightlight is bright enough…

I grew up as the oldest daughter in my family. And if you’ve ever been the oldest daughter, you probably know what that means: responsibility, expectation, and pressure that feels heavier than anyone realizes…

Turning 30 hit me harder than I expected. Not because of the number itself, but because it forced me to stop and really look at my life. And when I did, I realized something I’d been avoiding for years: somewhere along the way, I lost myself.

I became a mother young. I didn’t have much time

For a long time, I lived as if my worth was measured by how much I could give away.

I said yes to everyone—because if I didn’t, what would they think?
That I wasn’t dependable?
That I wasn’t loving enough?
That I wasn’t “good” at this whole motherhood/wife/friend/human thing?…

For the moms who are tired of being “fine.”

It usually starts quietly.

You tell yourself you’re just tired, that everyone feels this way, that if you could just get through this week, you’d feel better. But weeks turn into months, and the exhaustion doesn’t fade—it settles in…

Because sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing.

You finally sit down. For five seconds.
Then your brain whispers: You should be folding laundry.
Or answering texts. Or planning dinner. Or wiping something…

No one hands you a contract for it.
No one announces when you’ve been promoted.
But somehow, somewhere along the way—you became the default parent.

The one who:

• Remembers the dentist appointments

• Knows the shoe sizes…..

It wasn’t one big dramatic breakdown.
It wasn’t even me yelling at my kids over something small (though I’d done that more often than I’d like to admit).

It was an ordinary Tuesday morning.
And it was the day I realized I had nothing left to give…