This is Not a Breakthrough Post

Some days I wake up feeling like a goddess made of ash and caffeine. Other days, I wake up late, hot, and vaguely furious that I have to exist outside my bed. Both versions of me are valid. Both still show up. Mostly.

It’s weird being in this middle place. Not young, not old. Not thriving, not falling apart. Just… functioning. Kind of. Like a houseplant someone forgot to water but remembered just in time. The soil’s dry, but not cracked. The leaves are curled at the tips, but still green. That’s me: still here. Still standing. Sort of photosynthesizing.

There’s a strange weight to this season of life that no one talks about. The liminality of it. The quiet erosion of who I used to be, alongside the unfamiliar bloom of whoever’s coming next. I’m not even sure exactly when the shift happened - when I stopped feeling like I had to fix everything, be everything, explain everything. But here I am.

The kids are teenagers now. Which is wild, because I still vividly remember the sippy cup years. Now they love me in abstract, sideways - like texting “wyd” from upstairs, or sending me TikToks with zero context and expecting me to get it. They’re brilliant, hormonal, moody, hilarious, and mostly taller than me now. They’re becoming people with entire internal worlds I’ll never fully know, and honestly, that used to hurt. Now? It just humbles me.

They don’t need me in the all-consuming ways they once did. But they still need me, in quieter, more complex ways. They need me to be stable when their world isn't. To be boring, reliable, unshaken. And honestly, that’s been a lot easier than I thought. It takes a kind of emotional endurance I’ve been training all my life for. It’s like parenting on expert mode, with a soundtrack that’s mostly mumbling and door slams.

Still, they knock on my door when something’s wrong. Still ask me to make their favorite dinner on hard days. Still want me near, even if they won’t say it out loud. There’s a kind of sacred tenderness in being someone’s safe landing, even when they’re learning to fly.

Meanwhile, my phone is a graveyard of almost-connections. Half-written texts. Unsent replies that fell apart mid-sentence because I just… couldn’t. I used to think I was bad at friendships, bad at love, bad at human-ing in general. But now I know: I wasn’t bad. I was exhausted. And under-resourced. And afraid to ask for what I really needed. I used to pour myself out for people just to feel worthy. Now I guard my peace like it's an endangered species. Because it is.

I’ve also accepted that my bandwidth is not what it used to be. I can't do small talk like I used to. I can't maintain connections that require constant performance or emotional gymnastics. I want depth, or I want silence. There’s no in-between anymore.

I recently went on a date where the guy asked if I was “over my past.” And I blinked at him, trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or hand him a metaphorical shovel to start digging his grave.

Here’s the thing: I’m not “over” anything. I carry it all. The grief, the growth, the nights I didn’t think I’d make it, and the mornings I did. I carry my former selves - the versions of me who smiled when they should have screamed, who apologized just for existing too loudly, who believed love had to be earned through sacrifice.

Healing isn’t a finish line. It’s not a diploma you hang on the wall. It’s a crooked path, a series of detours, a dance you do in the dark with your shadow, your nervous system, and your inner child who still just wants to feel safe.

But I am becoming someone new. Someone who can say "no" without a paragraph after it. Someone who doesn’t chase closure from people who can’t even spell accountability. Someone who sits in silence and listens to her own thoughts, and sometimes even likes what she hears.

I don’t have a five-step plan. I don’t have a tidy list of breakthroughs. I still cry sometimes for no reason. I still lose myself in anxiety spirals. I still crave connection so deeply it aches, but I’m less willing to compromise myself to get it.

Life right now feels like holding a dozen wobbly plates in the air and realizing no one’s watching, but doing it anyway, just because I can. Because I’ve learned I’m capable of surviving, and even thriving, without applause. Motherhood. Smobriety. Hormones that could melt a glacier. Grief that arrives in quiet waves on a random Tuesday. Hope that shows up like a wildflower through concrete. And this persistent, terrifying, beautiful urge to try loving again - not for validation, not for safety, not for rescue - but just for joy.

I’m not looking for someone to fix me. I’m not even looking to be understood in full. I just want to be met, where I am, as I am, by someone who isn’t afraid of depth, of quiet, of all the messy truth I bring with me.

Until then, I am choosing myself. Daily. Showing up for my kids. Showing up for my breath. Showing up for my future self - the one who will look back and be glad I didn’t quit on her.

I’m learning to call survival sacred. To treat rest like resilience. To see softness as strength.

So no, this isn’t a blog about a breakthrough. This isn’t a “how I healed” post. This isn’t a grand declaration of arrival. It’s just me, saying: I’m here. Not thriving. Not crashing. Just… living. Staying. Becoming. And for today, that’s enough.

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