If you've been reading this blog so far, you may have gotten the impression that I spend my days staring thoughtfully out of windows while contemplating trauma, motherhood, faith, and the meaning of life.

I need to clear something up.

Absolutely not.

Sometimes I can't find my phone while I'm holding it.

I am a deeply emotional, introspective person who can analyze human behavior for hours and then walk into a room and completely forget why I'm there.

Balance.

I've written a lot about the hard parts of my life.

The hospital rooms.

The battles.

The motherhood that changed me.

The things that broke me.

The things that rebuilt me.

And all of those things are part of me.

But they aren't all of me.

Because I am also weird as hell.

And I think you deserve to meet that woman too.

I'm the kind of person who can give genuinely good life advice while actively ignoring my own.

I can help someone work through an entire emotional crisis and then spend twenty minutes looking for something that is directly in front of me.

I have a degree in psychology, which basically means I can explain exactly why I'm doing something unhealthy while continuing to do it.

It's called education.

Look it up.

I have ADHD, so there is a very good chance I currently have approximately seventeen thoughts happening simultaneously.

One of them is important.

Six of them are completely useless.

Three are song lyrics.

One is wondering what we're having for dinner.

And somewhere in there is the thing I walked into the kitchen to do.

We may never find it.

I also have six kids.

So silence in my house doesn't feel peaceful.

Silence feels suspicious.

Silence means somebody has either fallen asleep somewhere they shouldn't be or something is happening that is going to require money, a mop, or an explanation.

Sometimes all three.

Motherhood has also taught me that I can answer questions I never imagined another human being would ask me.

And somehow I am expected to answer them with a straight face.

I cannot.

I laugh at inappropriate times.

The worse the situation is, the greater the chance my sense of humor is about to become completely unacceptable.

It's probably a coping mechanism.

Again, psychology degree.

I know why.

I'm still doing it.

I am also the person who will tell everyone else, "It's going to be okay," with complete confidence while my own brain is somewhere in the corner screaming,

BUT WHAT IF IT ISN'T?

I worry.

I overthink.

I rehearse conversations that will probably never happen.

I prepare responses to imaginary arguments.

Sometimes I win those arguments.

Actually, I always win those arguments.

Because everyone is much easier to argue with when I control both sides of the conversation.

I am incredibly organized about very specific things and an absolute dumpster fire about others.

Give me something important?

I've got it.

Someone needs me?

I'm there.

Crisis?

Move over.

I've been training for this my entire life.

But ask me where I put the thing I literally just had?

We're screwed.

There are two wolves inside me.

One has her life together.

The other opened the refrigerator and forgot what she wanted.

Neither one knows where my keys are.

I love deeply.

I also require everyone to occasionally stop touching me, talking to me, asking me questions, breathing near me, or needing anything from me for approximately twelve minutes.

Then I will miss everyone.

This makes perfect sense to me.

I am both incredibly social and deeply committed to canceling plans.

I want to be invited.

Whether I actually want to attend is an entirely different matter.

Please continue inviting me, though.

Otherwise I will assume you hate me.

Again.

Perfectly reasonable.

I'm also not nearly as serious as some of my writing probably makes me seem.

I can talk about trauma, generational cycles, child development, faith, psychology, and the meaning of human connection.

But I can also laugh until I cry over something so unbelievably stupid that explaining it to another person would make it less funny.

Those are some of my favorite moments.

The stupid ones.

The ordinary ones.

The ones that wouldn't make a particularly profound blog post.

The kitchen conversations.

The inside jokes.

The ridiculous text messages.

The music turned up way too loud.

Laughing with my husband over something neither one of us should probably find funny.

My kids roasting me.

Me roasting them back because I believe in equality.

Those moments matter too.

Maybe more than I used to realize.

For a long time, survival became such a huge part of my identity that I forgot I existed outside of it.

I was the strong one.

The mother.

The advocate.

The caregiver.

The person who handled things.

The anchor.

And somewhere underneath all of those titles was just...

me.

The woman who cusses.

The woman who laughs too loudly.

The woman with questionable ideas.

The woman who sends completely inappropriate memes to people she loves.

The woman who occasionally needs an adultier adult despite being painfully aware that she is, in fact, the adult.

The woman who can be incredibly wise at 10:03 and make a completely questionable decision at 10:07.

She's still here.

And lately, I've been getting to know her again.

Turns out, I actually like her.

She's a little weird.

She's definitely tired.

She has approximately 47 browser tabs open in her brain at all times, and at least three of them are playing music but she can't figure out which ones.

But she's funny.

She's curious.

She loves fiercely.

She makes mistakes.

She changes her mind.

She asks questions.

She laughs at herself.

And for the first time in a long time, she isn't constantly waiting for the next war.

She's learning how to exist when nobody needs saving.

Maybe healing isn't always some beautiful, profound transformation.

Maybe sometimes healing is laughing until your stomach hurts.

Maybe it's dancing badly in the kitchen.

Maybe it's realizing you haven't thought about the thing that hurt you all day.

Maybe it's being completely ridiculous with people who make you feel safe enough to be ridiculous.

Maybe it's discovering that peace doesn't have to be quiet.

Sometimes peace is loud.

Sometimes it's messy.

Sometimes six kids are yelling, the dogs are losing their minds, someone can't find a shoe, something is burning in the kitchen, and you're standing in the middle of it thinking...

Yep.

These are my people.

This is my ridiculous little life.

And I love it.

I've spent a lot of time introducing you to the woman who survived the storm.

I think it's time you meet the woman who lives here when it isn't raining.

She's kind of a disaster.

But she's a lot of fun.