I grew up on '90s hard rock—Korn, Manson, bands that didn't shy away from emotional chaos or confrontation. So when Falling in Reverse began evolving their sound, they naturally found a place in my playlist. Today, it was "Zombified" that lit the match.
There's a line in the song that says:
"They won't stop till everybody's... Zombified."
It's aggressive—but it's honest. And for me, it captured something I've been carrying for a long time: the exhaustion of trying to speak with care in a world that keeps shifting the rules. The fear that even respectful words—like "sir," ma'am," or "you guys"—might now be seen as offensive. The weight of walking through conversations like a minefield, never sure which phrase might be the one to turn a crowd against you.
It's not just about offending someone. It's the fear of what comes after—the backlash, the erasure, the social exile. We've all seen it happen, especially to public figures. Sometimes the outrage is warranted. But other times, it's built on accusation alone—before context, before understanding, before truth has a chance to speak.
I remember a time when The Diary of Anne Frank was required reading in schools—not because it was comfortable, but because it taught us empathy. Now I find it in the banned book section, like we're supposed to forget the lessons it carried. I miss the clarity we once had. The grace to speak and still be seen for our intent—not just the technical accuracy of every word.
I'm not against change. I'm not against progress. I respect that people want to be seen for who they are. But I also wish we hadn't lost the ability to meet each other halfway—to listen, to ask questions, to extend the benefit of the doubt. We're not all the same. We didn't grow up with the same rules, the same fears, the same language. But we can meet each other with empathy, even when we don't agree.
I didn't write this the moment the frustration hit. I wanted to—but I waited. Sat with it. Let it settle.
I was raised that way. My grandmother and my mother both taught me to pause before speaking, especially when emotions run high. My mom still reminds me: "Never send an email when you're emotional. Wait a few days. Reread it. Make sure it still feels true."
And she's right. Writing for release is human—we all need it. But releasing without revision? That's where things so often go wrong. That's how feelings turn into fallout, and how connection gets lost in reaction.
The truth is, I revise my reactions a lot. Not because I don't feel deeply, but because I do. And I want to speak from a place that invites understanding, not just relief. Because not everything needs to be a reaction. Some things deserve reflection.
Some chapters of life aren't tidy. They don't resolve on the last page or leave you with something neat to hold onto. They're messy. Ongoing. And often full of choices you never wanted to make.
Right now, I'm in one of those chapters.
For a long time, I pushed through my depression, anxiety, and PTSD—because we're taught that's what strong people do. You show up. You don't complain. You keep moving, even when it hurts.
But then something happened that I couldn't push through.
Over time, I began experiencing symptoms that affected my vision—blurry patches, pressure behind my eyes, things that worsened whenever I pushed myself too hard. Eventually, it becomes impossible to ignore. I'm now undergoing testing for a condition called IIH—Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension. It mimics a brain tumor but isn't one. There's been MRIs, CT scans, lumbar punctures—everything to rule out what it might be. And while I wait, I can't work because the risk of losing my vision is too high.
My husband—he's been incredible. After nearly a decade at Lowe's, he was able to switch to full-time, and because he's the only one trained for installation coordination's, they've allowed him to keep a set schedule. That kind of consistency is rare in retail, and vital for our autistic son, who depends on routine.
But even with that grace, things are hard.
We've had to strip everything back. Cancel subscriptions. Pause anything that isn't essential. Bills pile up faster than we can pay them—rent, utilities, car payments, credit cards. Sometimes we're juggling due dates like a math equation, just trying to keep the lights on.
And no, stories don't pay the bills.
Not yet. Not when you're a new author, unknown, still fighting for visibility in a sea of voices. But I keep writing. Not because it fixes everything, but because it gives me something no diagnosis or bill collector can take away: a sense of purpose.
So if you're out there, trying to hold your world together while it frays at the seams—I see you.
You are not lazy for honoring your limits. You are not weak for resting. And you are not wrong for clinging to your dreams, even when the world tells you to grow up and move on.
This isn't the chapter I asked for.
But maybe, just maybe, it's the one that shapes everything that comes next.
Motherhood, at its core, is a legacy—a quiet offering of lessons learned, mistakes made, and truths slowly discovered. It's not a perfect road. It's one paved with sleepless nights, deep uncertainty, and moments where the weight of responsibility feels almost too much. Especially in those early days, when every piece of advice conflicts with the last and you're left to sort through the noise, hoping you make the right call.
But over time, something shifts.
You begin to understand the choices your own mother made. The sacrifices that never came with spotlight. The silences that now speak volumes. And in those moments—where your child clings to you in exhaustion or defies you with a spark that mirrors your own—you realize how much you've grown without noticing.
Motherhood isn't just a single memory etched in stone. It's a thousand flickers of life stitched into the day-to-day.
The time broccoli became "trees." The way laughter echoes louder when it's from your children's bellies. The strategic genius of a toddler pushing a couch to reach forbidden shelves. Or the completely unfiltered hilarity of a metal chair amplifying a very well-times fart during a school meeting.
It's the flash of panic when your child bolts into the street, your body frozen with fear. It's holding your breath as your youngest is wheeled away for anesthesia, praying harder than you ever thought possible. It's realizing that they can, and will, throw themselves in the arms of strangers simply because the world hasn't taught them fear yet—and how terrifyingly beautiful that innocence is.
But amidst it all, there's peace.
Peace in the small signs that what you're teaching is sticking. That your presence matters. That your love, in all its imperfect forms, is enough.
If I could offer one truth to any mother reading this—whether you're in the thick of it, reflecting from afar, or walking a different version of the path—it would be this: There is no single right answer. There is only showing up. Loving them. Doing what's best for your family and trusting that it's enough.
And yes, motherhood has made its way into my stories. Not just as a background detail, but as a reflection of all it carries—joy, fatigue, heartbreak, wonder. Because it deserves to be there. It needs to be there.
So to every mother, every nurturer, every woman who holds space for someone else's growth—
Happy Mother's Day. You're doing more than you know.