Well… I was going to make this post yesterday…
Then yesterday happened. 😂
So here we are, on Tuesday, actually talking about Tuesday’s topic.
Because apparently I am terrible at posting something every single day. Not because I don’t have things to say, but because sometimes real life has other plans—and around here, real life tends to have A LOT of plans.
Five kids. Caregiving. Work. Appointments. Sick days. Football. Soccer. Relationships. Housework. Homework. Sensory Needs. Coffee. More coffee. And approximately 47 things that somehow become my responsibility before 9 a.m.
So I’m giving myself permission to stop treating this blog like another thing I can fail at.
The chaos is literally the point.
And if I miss a day?
I’ll be back when I can. ❤️
Anyway… Happy Tuesday. Let’s talk.

Maybe I’m not becoming harder to love.
Maybe I’m just becoming harder to lose.
For a long time, I confused loving someone with constantly adjusting myself for them. If they were uncomfortable, I changed. If they were upset, I tried harder. If they pulled away, I questioned what I had done wrong. If something about me didn’t fit what they wanted, I found another piece of myself to tuck away.
And eventually, I started realizing something really uncomfortable:
I was becoming exhausted because I wasn’t just carrying my own life. I was carrying everyone else’s emotions, responsibilities, expectations, and needs while trying to make myself small enough that nobody else had to be uncomfortable.
And I’m done.
That doesn’t mean I expect perfection from anyone. I don’t. I know people get angry. People get hurt. People have bad days. People need space. People screw up.
But I do expect people to show up for me the way I show up for them.
I expect love to still exist when we’re angry.
I expect respect to remain when we’re disappointed.
I expect someone to be able to tell me they’re hurt without making me question whether I’m still worthy of being loved.
And I’m done accepting the idea that protecting someone else’s comfort requires me to abandon my own.
I’ve spent enough time trying to prove that I’m worth choosing.
And honestly? I’m not doing that anymore.
I’ve been told, in one way or another, that maybe I’m not someone’s “type.”
Okay.
Maybe something changed. Maybe I changed. Maybe they changed. Maybe we just stopped fitting the way we once did.
But I don’t care anymore.
Because I was somebody’s type when they chose me.
And somewhere along the way, the more uncomfortable things became, the more I started shrinking myself to fit into the pieces someone else wanted me to be.
I’m not shrinking anymore.
And maybe that’s going to make me harder for some people to love.
I’m okay with that.
Because I look at my daughter and think about the woman I want her to become.
Even on the days when that sweet little face belongs to an absolute fucking terrorist. 😂
I would never want her to believe she needs to hide a piece of herself to prove that she’s worthy of love.
I would never want her to think she needs to become quieter, easier, prettier, less emotional, less opinionated, less complicated, or less herself so someone will stay.
If someone doesn’t love her for who she is, they can move the hell out of the way.
And honestly, that applies to all of my kids.
Because my boys are watching too.
They’re learning what love looks like. They’re learning what respect looks like. They’re learning what their mom accepts and what she doesn’t.
I don’t want my sons growing up thinking it’s normal to expect a woman to disappear inside a relationship just to keep it together.
I don’t want my daughter growing up thinking that’s what she has to do to be loved.
So maybe this season of my life isn’t about becoming harder.
Maybe it’s about becoming whole again.
Maybe boundaries aren’t walls.
Maybe they’re the places where I finally decided I belong, too.
And maybe the most important thing I’m learning is this:
I don’t need to be everyone’s type.
I just need to be mine.
And as long as I am, I’m going to be okay with whatever gets decided next.