Post traumatic stress disorder isn't a secret in my life, and I talk about it often. As a storyteller, I don't shy away from vulnerability—even when I'm drowning in overwhelm and burnout, I show up with the lessons of a lifetime of healing childhood wounds.
I wasn't raised by people who knew how to love well. Most marriages ended in divorce, relationships were built on competition and passive aggression, love and respect were transactional—and if you weren't careful enough to toe an ever-moving line, you landed in a discard pile faster than an Uno card. Guilt and shame were served as often as hot dogs at a barbecue, and emotions that broke the surface of toxic tradition were as unwelcome as flies. I got good at finding joy in the hard moments, and I lived a "laugh or cry" philosophy that helped me joke my way through trauma.
And then I became a mom, learning to navigate parenting with trauma, which added new layers of wanting change for the next generation. I learned to combine cPTSD and motherhood with grace for both my children and myself, balancing tenderness as a mom with pride in who my daughters and I have become. Even when it's hard because I'm juggling emotional exhaustion and gratitude. But lately, life is brimming with challenge—both new challenges and old ones resurfacing—which means lots of practice to keep my perspective locked on gratitude and my heart filled with peace. Because even when love costs something, choosing love anyway is maybe my greatest strength.
Recently I told a friend, with complete honesty, that "my cup runneth over" because my life is so good. I have good friends, good kids. Stimulating conversations. Enriching hobbies. A life filled with purpose. But then I said, with equally complete honesty, that "it's running so far over, I'm drowning in it!" I can't keep up with all the texts or accept all the invites, there are too many things to worry about, and sometimes I feel like I've got a salad plate in my hands but life is serving a Thanksgiving buffet.
Perfect example: this past week, when I gave everything I had to throwing my youngest daughter a fabulously pirate themed birthday party for her sweet sixteen...and just about lost my mind.
She took my phone, her mouth falling open in surprise as she scrolled down the list. "This is the kind of stuff you've been doing? No wonder you're tired!"
I hadn't touched my book in three days. Instead I'd been frantically reorganizing the entire house, repacking heirloom china to protect it from careless teen guests, cleaning every nook and cranny, stashing clutter. Staging my home. Stressing over dust bunnies and the spider population. A recent bout with depression still held me like a weighted blanket made of fatigue, and anxiety covered my face with a pillow stuffed in shame. I was barely breathing, but I smiled anyway and tucked the phone in my pocket. "Yep. Imagine what's NOT on that list." In less than twenty hours her party guests would arrive—and we still needed to dismantle, clean, and reset our pantry, clean our kitchen, bathroom, and floors, attend a doctor's appointment, eat, shower, and sleep.
She turned the phone over and sighed. "Well, maybe we'll pull an all-nighter." And in my head, I laughed. While she had been excited and carefree, anticipating her pirate party, I had been pulling all-dayers AND all-nighters entirely alone. Because sometimes, showing up with love means sacrifice...and I had sacrificed myself so quietly she hadn't even noticed.
That afternoon, time seemed to slow down—or maybe teamwork really does make the dream work. Either way, we settled the doctor and picked up last minute food and decorations from two different stores within an hour, and then we headed home for the hard stuff.
Our pantry is built of wire shelving. Completely visible, utterly cluttered. And since it's nearly impossible to move, it was backed by a wall of only mostly-vacant spiderwebs. It took almost three hours to empty, disassemble, clean the pieces, murder the spiders, mop the floor, wipe the wall, and put it all back. She kept hugging me at random moments. She offered a massage when a leg cramp threatened to cripple me. She made dinner when the sun fell behind the mountains and our growling bellies got louder than our spider shrieks. Small acts of love, the offerings of a child realizing what motherhood really means, in the unseen moments of service suddenly brought to light.
"You were right," she said, while the vacuum choked on spiderwebs and we ate our dinner with an episode of Golden Girls. "We are the most disgusting people to ever live."
And I laughed because it's mostly a joke...but childhood shame, depression, and anxiety...well, they were laughing too.
The hours passed and one day turned into another. We swept, vacuumed, shifted, and rearranged. Every time she asked if it was time to decorate yet, I said, "Not until the house is done," and watched her smother discouragement with determination. We checked our list, she took her shower while I tackled the dishes, and with ten hours left on the clock, we chose sleep and an early wake-up. The list wasn't finished. The decorations weren't up. There was still too much to do. But in those hours, we collected joy, swept up giggles, and sprayed a cleansing solution of jokes over the stench of hosting anxiety. And she saw a little more of what sacrificial love really looks like.
"I can't believe you're doing all this just so I can have a birthday party." She wrapped her little arms gratefully around my neck, and as her shining curtain of mahogany hair spilled over my arm, I held my fifteen-year-old daughter for one of the last times. Still my baby, but so nearly grown. And the funny thing is, choosing presence over perfection gave us both.
In the end, the party was a spectacular success made all the more wonderful by friends who showed up early to swab the decks, hoist the sails, and raise the Jolly Roger. Tables were covered, gold coins and plastic gems sparkled in organized chaos, and no one got stuffed in Davy Jones' locker. The galley held a chili bar fit for any ship's captain. And for dessert, we walked planks made of caramel rice crispies. Because in the end, what love really looks like is sharing the load and showing up—even if your back hurts and your to-do list mocks you.
Love is laughing at the mess and choosing joy anyway, even if you're grossed out by spider guts.
*****
In the same way I'm open about the impact of PTSD, I want to be open about the challenges of motherhood with disabilities—especially when those challenges mean hard choices in prioritizing my time and energy. And I don’t always get it right. I don’t always finish the list.
But in the mess and madness of motherhood, mixed with ambition and tempered with limitations, I’m learning not to measure love by what I checked off; instead, I'm making a point to recognize it in showing up.
Am I exhausted? Absolutely. Does my back feel like a shipwreck today? You bet. But my daughter felt seen, celebrated, and loved. And her honest recognition of what it took to make it all happen meant I felt those things, too.
Healing from trauma doesn’t mean I never struggle—it just means I choose love anyway. I choose presence. And I remind myself that the mess doesn’t mean I failed. It just means we lived. Because even when there's dishes in my sink and crumbs on my table, there’s laughter in my lungs and love in my home.
And that’s more than enough to help this mom...