For Mothers

When I was a kid, I used to come home and turn on the TV. We’d watch PBS shows like Arthur or Pepper Ann, and sometimes even Oprah. My mom would be finishing up her day, usually starting dinner, and after a full day of school, we just needed to not. Not think, not perform, not do one more thing—just be. Somewhere along the way, screens stopped being neutral and started feeling like an issue. Like every time we turn something on, we’re making a parenting decision that says som

Some days are just hard. To quote Grumpy Monkey, "The sun was too bright, the sky was too blue, and the bananas were too sweet." It's nothing you did, but there it is, feeling impossible. The house is a mess. You’re touched out, overstimulated, and running on very little patience. Even when your kids, whether toddlers or otherwise, are happy, it's just too much. If today feels like that, this isn’t a list of things to fix it. I have these days all the time, and I believe eve

Toddlers are not meant to sit still. My daughter will pause during play for increasing amounts of time (we’re talking from 10 seconds to 30 seconds here, y’all), but for the most part, she is moving. She is talking, singing, dancing, exploring. And she wants ME to be included in all of it, which I love. Having a baby was groundbreaking for me, but this phase? This tiny, expressive, brave, curious phase? This is FUN. And exhausting. Toddlers are built for movement, curiosity,

“I’m bored.” Did I mention that I have a tween and a teenager in addition to a toddler? I did, but I have been so wrapped up in the small one that I haven’t yet published anything I’ve written about the older two. I’m a stepmom in a 50/50 household – one week on, one week off – which means I’ve had a front-row seat to different ages, rhythms, and needs. This article is about all three kids, ages fourteen, eleven, and one. At least one time every day, and usually multiple time

How Small Creative Moments Grow Into Something Big Motherhood often feels like a constant give. Between meals, schedules, and endless little questions, it’s easy to feel like your own creativity has slipped quietly into the background. But in the quiet minutes of naptime, you can reclaim just ten minutes for yourself — a small act of creativity that, over time, can blossom into something meaningful. The Power of Tiny Creative Windows Ten minutes might not seem like much, but

We have all been there — some of us often. Tired beyond lack of sleep. A mental fog that feels permanent. And my biggest personal tell: a short fuse. This type of burnout often goes unnoticed. It exists below the surface as a low thrum — a steady hum that makes you feel not quite right. There’s no collapse. You don’t necessarily break down. You just move through the day feeling slightly disconnected from yourself, unable to name exactly what would fix it. It’s no one’s fault.

Having kids comes with a lot of stuff — toys, gear, breast pumps, equipment. Toys. When I looked around my home a few weeks after bringing my daughter home from the hospital, I barely recognized it. But it isn’t just the baby — it’s the older kids, too. Stuff everywhere. Messes multiplying. And the pressure to keep up with it all can feel just as constant. There’s a short, slippery slope between feeling mentally clear and mentally foggy — like you aren’t doing enough — and f

In the first year of motherhood, there was no breaking point or moment when things suddenly became challenging. The challenge was constant. I was running on fumes after a steady accumulation of days during which my body and mind were stretched and rearranged. The weight of responsibility never lifts — you simply adjust. I had support, and advice was everywhere, but what actually got me through were small, quiet comforts that held me up when I was exhausted. Disclosure: This p

There was a moment when I realized that my life as I had known it was over. It was a few days after my daughter was born. We were home, and I was tired — not tired in the sense that I needed sleep, but tired in the sense that my time was no longer my own. It had slipped through my fingers without my noticing. I suspect it happened sometime in the second half of my pregnancy. Postpartum me was tired, new, obsessed with a very small girl, and making clumsy attempts to reclaim s

Two days ago I experienced something that happens about once a month—I had one of those days. You know the ones Mama said there would be, when you suddenly don’t feel right, nothing lines up, insult gets piled on top of injury, and you find yourself caught in a whirlpool, spiraling toward self-pity. I sat down to write and couldn’t. I tried closing my eyes and breathing for a few minutes, blocking everything out so I could start over. Then the doorbell rang. A box of thirty

I have carried a small journal with me since I was a teenager. The notes inside are sometimes practical—grocery lists, to-dos—but many of the pages are filled with abstract thoughts, poetry, song lyrics, or snippets of stories that eventually sputtered out and now hover somewhere in the upper atmosphere of my mind. That journal represents my ability to leave this plane, so to speak, and travel into the inner world of my imagination. Since giving birth, not only has it cease