I started Coffee with Mom Sundays because I wanted other moms to feel less alone in whatever the hell they were going through.
I wanted this to be a place where we could sit down with our coffee, take a breath, and say, “Okay. So apparently none of us actually have our shit together.”
What I don’t think I fully understood when I started it was just how much vulnerability comes with that.
Because if I’m going to tell you that you’re allowed to admit you’re overwhelmed, exhausted, angry, scared, frustrated, or just plain done…
Then eventually I have to be willing to admit those things about myself, too.
And that’s harder than I thought it would be.
This week has been a whirlwind of emotions, and I don’t think I’ve actually had time to finish feeling one before life handed me another one.
There were hard moments.
There were conversations about boundaries and insecurities and figuring out how to communicate through things that aren’t always easy. There were moments where people who love each other very much have had to admit that, at one point, we couldn’t even talk to each other without screaming.
But there were also moments where we chose to keep talking.
To actually listen.
To try to understand instead of just trying to be understood.
And I think there’s something beautiful about realizing that healthy communication doesn’t mean you never struggle. Sometimes it means you finally learn how to work through the struggle without destroying each other in the process.
There were beautiful moments with family coming together and working as a team.
There was someone taking me out for ice cream simply because it’s one of their favorite things and now they want to share those moments with me.
There was a phone call from Louie’s special education teacher telling me that yes, the start of school has been rough, but he’s finding his groove.
His timer is helping.
Recess isn’t ending in meltdowns anymore.
And now, when it’s time to line up, he’s getting right up and standing at the front of the line as the line leader, helping lead the rest of his class back inside without a fight.
And if you’ve ever had a child who has had to work really hard to figure out how to navigate a world that doesn’t always make sense to them, you know that a phone call like that isn’t “just a good school day.”
That’s a freaking victory.
Then there was the terrifying kind of mom moment.
The kind where your child gets injured during a football game and suddenly you’re being flagged down to get onto the field.
I know injuries happen in football.
I know they’re part of the sport.
But knowing that doesn’t make it any less terrifying when you’re standing there looking at your child and seeing something that absolutely should not be sticking out where it is.
So we went to the hospital.
And then Saturday was quiet.
For the first time all week, there wasn’t somewhere I had to immediately be.
I had time to sit down.
I called the orthopedic office so I could get my son’s appointment scheduled for next week for further imaging, treatment, and physical therapy.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that…
My body apparently decided it had had enough.
It was almost like it finally looked at me and said,
“Hey. You know all of those things you’ve been shoving down because somebody needed you to handle them?
Yeah.
We’re not doing that anymore.”
And suddenly I was sweating.
Really sweating.
I got lightheaded.
I felt nauseous.
I ended up laying on the cold floor because it felt good and, honestly, because I wanted to be somewhere safe in case I passed out.
Eventually the feeling passed.
But then my logistics brain kicked in.
Because I’m Type 1 diabetic.
So was this stress?
Was my body finally reacting to everything I hadn’t allowed myself to process?
Or was there something else going on that I needed to take seriously?
My blood sugar wasn’t dangerously high or low. My CGM showed 165, and I confirmed it with a finger stick.
But my ketone test showed moderate ketones.
So I did what I needed to do for myself. I took the correction dose I needed, drank water, rested, kept monitoring, and eventually I started feeling more like myself again.
I’m still keeping an eye on things.
And I’m also taking a really uncomfortable look at something I’ve been avoiding.
I am not taking care of myself as well as I should.
Not because I don’t know how.
Not because I don’t care.
But because I’m so damn focused on taking care of everyone else that I keep putting myself at the bottom of the list.
My days are full.
I’m a caregiver during the day.
Then I pick up my daughter.
Then Louie.
Then everyone else.
Then dinner.
Homework.
Games.
Baths.
Bed.
And then I do it all again.
And somewhere in the middle of making sure everyone else has what they need, I forget that I am also someone who needs things.
Which brings me to a question I think a lot of moms have asked themselves at some point:
What happens if something happens to me?
Because we aren’t just carrying children.
We’re carrying schedules.
Appointments.
Meals.
School information.
Sports.
Household responsibilities.
Relationships.
Work.
Emotions.
The mental load of remembering every tiny thing that everyone else might forget.
And sometimes even when we’re sitting in a hospital bed, we’re thinking,
“Did somebody take care of that?”
“Did they remember this?”
“Who’s going to handle that?”
“Am I going to have three times as much work waiting for me when I get home?”
I’ve literally been angry at myself for ending up in the hospital because I was already thinking about everything I would have to catch up on afterward.
And that’s messed up.
Because somewhere along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that taking care of ourselves is an inconvenience to everyone else.
It isn’t.
We cannot keep pouring from an empty cup and then be surprised when eventually there’s nothing left.
And I’m not going to sit here and tell you to wake up at 5 a.m., drink a green smoothie, meditate for an hour, journal your feelings, exercise every day, and somehow become the perfect version of yourself.
Because let’s be realistic.
Some days, getting everyone fed and into bed is an Olympic event.
I’m not asking you to overhaul your life.
I’m asking you to find a little time for you.
Maybe once a week.
Maybe it’s a bath.
Maybe it’s music that makes your nervous system finally unclench.
Maybe it’s reading one chapter of the book you’ve been dying to read.
Maybe it’s sitting in the quiet with a cup of coffee for ten minutes and drinking it while it’s still actually hot.
Maybe it’s sitting in your car alone for five minutes before you go inside.
Maybe it’s doing absolutely nothing.
Just find a little time to sit with yourself.
Not Mom.
Not wife.
Not girlfriend.
Not caregiver.
Not employee.
Not chauffeur.
Not referee.
Not problem solver.
You.
Because maybe that’s how we stop completely losing ourselves in the chaos of motherhood.
Maybe that’s how we remember who we were before we became responsible for everyone else’s world.
Maybe that’s how we learn to love ourselves again.
And maybe I’m completely full of shit.
Maybe this entire idea is ridiculous and ten minutes of alone time isn’t going to magically solve anything.
But I think it’s worth a shot.
Because if we can love our children this fiercely…
If we can show up for our families over and over again…
If we can spend our entire lives making sure everyone else knows they’re worthy of love…
Maybe we deserve to give ourselves some of that love, too.
So this Sunday, that’s what I’m reminding myself.
I’m allowed to stop.
I’m allowed to feel.
I’m allowed to rest.
I’m allowed to need help.
And I’m allowed to take care of myself before my body has to force me to.
So grab your coffee, Mom.
Sit with me for a minute.
You don’t have to fix anything right now.
You don’t have to figure out tomorrow.
Just sit.
Breathe.
And remember that underneath all of the chaos, there is still a person in there who deserves to be taken care of, too.