If you’ve ever felt like your life is a series of "glitches in the matrix" that only occur the exact second you try to take a nap, pull up a chair. You’re in the right place.
I just spent the last two days fighting the lingering effects of a fever, a gaslighting broiler, a kitchen sink that staged a protest, and a full-blown existential spiral—all while trying to maintain the "strong mom" exterior. Here is the unfiltered breakdown of my last 48 hours.
The Chronology of the Chaos:
The Broiler & The PTSD Trigger
It started with a simple request: "Please thaw the pork chops." I know my house. I know that if the broiler is turned on, the smoke alarm will sing the song of its people. My son, in his almost-21-year-old wisdom, insisted it wouldn’t happen.
Spoiler: It happened.
Within minutes, the alarm was blaring like crazy. Because I have complex PTSD and regular PTSD from surviving two house fires, that alarm didn't just annoy me—it sent me into a total panic. My heart rate felt like it hit 1000\text{ bpm} as I sprinted to the patio door with pillows in hand, my nervous system completely hijacked by the memory of those fires.
I had just broken my fever that day, but my body was still recovering from the illness. I could barely see through the glare on my glasses, and suddenly I was in a full-blown, intense shouting match. My son has ODD, and my attempt to set a healthy boundary felt like a challenge, fueling the fire. And the cherry on top? The meat wasn't even cooked. We were literally screaming over raw pork.
The Architect Spider & The Message of Grace
While I was still in the thick of recovering from my fever, my kitchen became a disaster zone. When I finally dragged myself out of bed to dump a bowl of water, the sink was so full of dishes that the water splashed everywhere.
In the middle of that mess, I noticed a perfect spider web spanning the kitchen island. That spider had built a masterpiece while I was in bed. It felt like a meta-commentary on how, while I’m busy trying to hold reality together, the universe is just busy spinning webs in my sink.
That night, after the argument, my son and I had a moment of connection. We talked about boundaries and the "Volume 100" struggle. He mirrored my own resilience back to me: "We are human we are messy all we can do is wake up and try again... it is a journey of the imperfect".
The Sanctuary Pivot
The next day, I didn't want to come home. I needed a timeout. I went to my office and saw a regular client for a two-hour headspa treatment. My client, also recovering from a fever, joked, "If this is your weak, no wonder the guys are scared of you". I stayed after, blasted music, and organized my office. It’s the one place where I have total control and see tangible results.
The Spiral and the Ugly Cry
When I finally walked through my front door, the silence of the house felt heavy, almost suffocating. That’s when I saw it: a beautiful, thoughtful plant left by a friend, accompanied by a note that said I was "seen and valued". It was such a tender, gentle gesture—the kind of validation I had been starving for—but in my fragile state, it didn't soothe the wound; it opened it. The sheer kindness of a stranger only highlighted the void left by the people who are actually supposed to be in my corner.
I walked inside, and as I tried to navigate the lingering chaos of the last few days, my hand caught on a Christmas gift my mother had given me. It slipped, hit the floor, and shattered. It was just an object, but in that second, it felt like the final, physical manifestation of everything I’d been holding together.
I broke down. It wasn't a graceful sob; it was the kind of guttural, ugly cry that empties you out completely. I sat there on the floor, shaking, the pieces of the gift scattered around me, and realized this wasn't about the broken glass at all. It was the collapse of a dam I’d been reinforcing for years.
I cried for the crushing weight of being the sole person responsible for guiding my son through this world, carrying his anxiety, his ODD, and his sensory battles on my own shoulders. I cried for the little girl inside me who is still, at 40 years old, grieving the mother-daughter bond I watched others have—an inseparable, effortless connection that I’ve spent my whole life searching for but know, with a heartbreaking certainty, will never be mine.
Most of all, I cried for the exhaustion of the "Strong Mom" script. I was so tired of being the career woman who produces results, the maid who cleans up the messes, and the caretaker who holds everyone else together, all while carrying the quiet, stinging shame of feeling like a "bother" to the very family who never thinks to call and ask how I am. I felt utterly alone in my own strength, and for that one hour, I just let myself fall apart, because I didn't have a single drop of "strong" left to give.
Why I’m Sharing This
I’m sharing this because you aren't alone. You aren't the only one who feels like they’re failing when the dishes pile up or when the smoke alarm sends you spiraling. Being "strong" doesn't mean being perfect; it means showing up to the "weird shit" every single day, even when you’re crying, even when you’re sick, and even when life is a total disaster.
Life isn't a highlight reel. It’s a journey of the imperfect. And honestly? We’re doing a hell of a job.
Looking to connect: Facebook, Instagram, Tiktok, or SnapChat
