My Kids Tell Me When They Make a Mess
My kids tell me when they make a mess. I’m learning to meet them with patience, keep expectations clear, and own my mistakes when I get it wrong.
Marriage. Parenting. Trauma. Neurodivergence. Survival. Written by people actually living it.
My kids tell me when they make a mess. I’m learning to meet them with patience, keep expectations clear, and own my mistakes when I get it wrong.
Loving someone takes more than good intentions. I’m learning to ask what helps them feel loved, communicate clearly, and make room for both our needs.
Trophy love looks good in pictures. Real love makes room for honesty, accountability, and clear communication—even when the conversation gets uncomfortable.
Going quiet doesn’t mean I’m okay with disrespect. My neurospicy brain is processing—and I’m learning where patience ends and a firm boundary begins.
A missing daycare cup sounds small until you’re trying to get everyone out the door. Then it’s minutes spent looking for one thing while remembering three other things.
Divorce comes with a lot of questions. Some are practical. Some hurt to ask. Some keep circling because the answer to one might finally make three other things make sense.
When working memory and executive dysfunction let important things drift out of active focus, practical external supports can help keep life from disappearing under the next fire.
More than two years after my March 2024 suicide attempt, I am still here—and still learning what it means to let people see the hard parts before it gets that far.
The first HFC podcast episode airs Monday, September 21 at 9 PM—then every Monday night, holidays permitting. Only on Spotify.
My grandmother died when I was 30, and I lost the only support system I felt I had. What followed was less a “midlife crisis” than an ego collapse—and a hard look at grief, codependency, neurodivergence, and rebuilding a self.