Rest matters. Recovery matters. Slowing down matters. And all of that is true.

But I think one of the reasons rest can feel so frustrating is that a lot of us have been handed a very specific version of what it is supposed to look like. It is candles. It is subdued spaced. It is a bubble bath. It is sitting still in a soft robe while your nervous system somehow cooperates on command.

And cool if that works for you> Beautiful. No notes.

But what if it does not?

What if the thing that actually helps you recover is not the marketed version of rest at all?

That is something I was thinking about yesterday when I had lunch with a friend. In the middle of our conversation, I realized something that has actually been true about me for a long time, even if I had not fully named it.

For me, it works really well to have a project.

Not necessarily a giant life-changing project. Not a whole reinvention montage. Just something I can sit down with, work on, and complete. Something the completionist in me can point to afterward and say, “There. I did that. That was satisfying.” Satisfied exhale.

For a long time, that has looked like puzzles. Sometimes it has looked like assembling a piece of furniture that arrived in a box with fifteen panels, a little bag of mystery hardware, and instructions that seem to have been translated by a haunted fax machine. And weirdly enough, I love that kind of thing.

I know. Not everybody does.

Some people see a flat-packed dresser and feel dread. I see a tiny kingdom I can bring to order with an Allen wrench and a little determination.

And when I finish something like that, I feel renewed.

Not because it is glamorous. Not because it looks restful from the outside. But because it gives me a sense of completion, momentum, and calm. I worked on something. I finished it. I can see the result. That does something good for my brain and my spirit.

My friend was talking about her own version of what helps her recover, and it was a good reminder that people really are different this way. Some people rest by doing very little. Some people genuinely feel restored by working on something they enjoy. Some people binge a show. Some people garden. Some people clean out a closet and come back emotionally reborn. Some people take a bath and emerge like a woodland deity with boundaries.

The point is not that one version is right.

The point is that recovery is personal.

And I think that is the part we miss sometimes, especially when we are overwhelmed. We are so busy trying to survive that we do not always stop long enough to ask ourselves what actually helps. Not what sounds good. Not what looks peaceful. Not what social media tells us is “self-care.” What actually leaves us feeling more like ourselves again?

Because those are not always the same thing.

There is such a marketed version of rest and recovery. It has a look. It has branding. It has a vibe. And if that is not the thing that works for you, it can leave you feeling like you are somehow failing at resting too. Which really does feel like an unfair sequel.

Now not only are you tired, but apparently you are tired incorrectly.

No thank you.

Especially as caregivers, it is so important that we figure out what actually refuels us. Not in theory. Not in fantasy. In real life.

Because caregivers do not usually have endless extra time lying around waiting to be optimized. We do not have the luxury of spending our precious recovery time on things that are supposed to help but do not. We need to know what genuinely restores us. What brings our shoulders down a little. What gives us a little more energy, a little more steadiness, a little more sense of ourselves.

That might be quiet. It might be active. It might be creative. It might be practical. It might be putting together a dresser while muttering at the instructions like you are in a very low-stakes home improvement thriller.

If it helps, it helps. And by the way: there is no prize for doing rest in the prettiest way.

You do not need your recovery to look elegant. You do not need it to be trendy. You do not need it to match someone else’s ritual. You do not need to force yourself into a version of restoration that is not actually restorative.

You get to define what rest looks like for you. In fact, I would go a step further. You should define it.

Because knowing what helps you recover is not extra credit. It is part of how you keep going. It is part of how you stay sustainable. It is part of how you care for yourself in a way that is honest enough to actually work.

So maybe the question is not, “Am I resting the right way?”

Maybe the question is, “What helps me come back to myself?”

That is the version worth paying attention to.

And if your answer is a puzzle, a power drill, a good spreadsheet, a long drive, a garden bed, a comfort show, a closet cleanout, or twenty uninterrupted minutes with a project that makes your brain hum in a good way, that counts.

It all counts.

What actually helps you recover, even if it does not look like the usual version of rest?

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My son recently turned 18, and that is absolutely a milestone worth honoring. It matters. It is meaningful. It carries all the feelings that come with watching your child grow into adulthood.

And in our case, it also meant handling some legal next steps so I can continue helping keep him safe, supported, and well cared for as we move forward.

That was what this morning was about.

I had a hearing related to maintaining guardianship, and even though I knew it was necessary, it was still one of those things that sat heavily in the background of my mind. These moments carry so much more than paperwork. They carry responsibility, emotion, love, and the quiet ache of navigating systems that many people outside this world never have to think about.

I was prepared for it to be stressful. Complicated. Draining. I had mentally left room for delays, confusion, and at least a little bit of classic universe behavior.

Instead, it went really well.

Smoothly, even.

And sometimes when you have spent a long time preparing for difficulty, smooth can feel almost disorienting. In the best possible way.

But what stayed with me even more was something I never could have planned.

Another family was also on the call, going through something similar, and it turned out to be a family I know. A dad I know.

That unexpected connection shifted something in me.

Because caregiving, especially in the more layered and administrative parts of it, can feel incredibly isolating. There are moments that are hard to explain to people who have never had to navigate them. You can love your child fiercely, know you are doing what needs to be done, and still feel very alone in the process.

And then sometimes, life lets you look over and see someone else walking a parallel path.

Not the exact same story. Not the exact same family. But enough overlap to remind you that you are not imagining how weighty this can be, and you are not the only person carrying it.

That mattered to me today.

The hearing going well was a win.

Feeling less alone was also a win.

I think a lot of caregiving victories live in places the outside world does not always see. They are not flashy. They do not always come with celebration or recognition. Sometimes they look like paperwork completed, a process going smoothly, or a quiet reminder that there are other people out there who understand more than you realized.

Today, that reminder found me at exactly the right time.

So if you are in a season where something feels hard to explain, hard to carry, or strangely lonely, I hope this reminds you of something too:

You may not be the only one walking that road. Sometimes the world has a way of showing you that, right when you need it most.

What’s a moment that recently reminded you that you’re not alone?

One of the easiest traps in caregiving is assuming that tomorrow will be exactly like today.

Especially after a hard day.

Earlier this week, my son and I had one of those days where the entire routine fell apart.

The plan had been simple. He would get ready for school, I would make it to an appointment, and the day would move along like it usually does.

Instead, everything unraveled.

No school.

No appointment.

Full reset.

Not my favorite.

By the end of the day I was tired, frustrated, and honestly a little worried that the next day would be exactly the same.

Because that’s the sneaky thing about difficult days. They can make you feel like you’ve entered some kind of parenting version of Groundhog Day.

But when I woke up the next morning, I caught myself doing exactly that. Assuming the day was already doomed.

So I stopped and reminded myself of something caregiving has slowly been teaching me:

Every day has the opportunity to be different.

Not perfect.

Not magically easy.

But different.

So instead of carrying yesterday’s frustration into the new morning, I tried to start fresh.

And you know what?

It was better.

Still parenting. Still chaos. Still laundry negotiations.

But better.

That’s one of the lovely truths of caregiving. Progress doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like a slightly easier morning after a really hard day.

Sometimes the biggest caregiver win is simply refusing to let yesterday write today’s script.

And that small shift can change everything.

What’s a caregiving win in your family that might not look big to anyone else, but means the world to you?

But parenting my kid, especially with his autism, taught me something important: the charts don’t get to decide what progress looks like in our house.

Our milestones might be emotional regulation that used to take an hour and now takes five minutes… or a morning where the biggest debate is socks.

Turns out one of the biggest milestones was me learning to let go of someone else’s timeline.

What’s a milestone in your family that might not look big to other people, but means everything to you?

For me, that usually happens around 4 a.m.

I’ll wake up, realize I’m awake, and immediately make the classic modern mistake: reaching for my phone.

And of course, what’s waiting for me there?

Headlines.

Heavy headlines.

The kind of headlines that make your brain immediately go into “the world is on fire” mode before your feet have even hit the floor.

Now, combine that with parenting.

Because not long after that moment, my kid wakes up and needs the usual things: breakfast, socks, reminders, structure, conversation, and occasionally philosophical debates about why we need to wear a coat when it’s 16 degrees outside.

And suddenly we’re both starting the day already running low.

At one point I realized what it felt like.

It felt like two raccoons fighting over the same trash can of emotional energy.

Neither of us caused the problem.

Neither of us has enough energy to spare.

And yet somehow we’re both digging around trying to find something usable.

Not exactly the peaceful start to the day anyone hopes for.

At some point recently I realized something simple but important:

Just because the world is heavy right now doesn’t mean I have to process all of it at 4 a.m.

Yes, we need to stay informed.

Yes, we care about our communities.

Yes, engagement and action matter.

But sometimes the most responsible thing we can do is wait until daylight.

Wait until we’ve had coffee.

Wait until we’ve helped our kids get settled.

Wait until we have enough emotional bandwidth to actually respond instead of just absorbing stress.

Because reacting from exhaustion doesn’t make us more effective.

It just makes us more depleted.

And caregivers especially cannot afford that.

Protecting Your Energy Isn’t Ignoring the World

This isn’t about pretending things aren’t happening.

It’s about being intentional with when and how you engage so you can actually make a difference.

Over time I’ve started experimenting with a few small shifts that help preserve that energy.

Things like:

1. Delay the headlines.

If I wake up early, I try not to open the news immediately. Sometimes I’ll read later in the morning instead, when my brain and nervous system are more ready to handle it.

2. Start with something grounding.

Even something small helps. A cup of tea. Sitting quietly for a moment. Watching the sunrise if I happen to be awake that early anyway.

3. Protect the morning routine.

The first part of the day sets the tone for both of us. If I start calm, the chances of the morning staying calm increase dramatically.

4. Remember that regulation is contagious.

My kid reads my energy faster than any news headline ever could. If I’m frazzled before breakfast, he feels it immediately.

5. Engage when you’re resourced.

Community support, advocacy, helping others, staying informed. Those things matter. But they’re far more effective when you approach them with energy instead of exhaustion.

Caregivers Need Energy for the Long Game

Caregiving isn’t a sprint.

It’s a marathon where someone occasionally throws unexpected obstacles, emotional curveballs, and laundry into the path.

If we want to stay engaged in our communities and still show up for our families, we have to protect our energy like it matters.

Because it does.

So lately, when I wake up at 4 a.m., I remind myself:

The world will still be there at 6: 30 a.m. We all hope.

The headlines will still be there.

But the energy I bring to my family and my community?

That depends on how I start the day.

And if that means waiting until daylight before diving into the chaos of the world… Well.

That’s one raccoon strategy I’m happy to adopt.

Your Turn

If you’re a caregiver, I’m curious:

What helps you stay informed and engaged without draining yourself first thing in the morning?

Because right now, learning how to protect our energy might be one of the most important things we can do for the people who depend on us.

Appointments.

Med changes.

School emails.

Therapies.

Logistics.

And somehow, our own care quietly slips to the bottom of the list.

Today, I finally made it to my doctor’s checkup. Nothing was wrong. Everything looked good.

And yet, it felt like a bigger win than it should have.

Not because I don’t value my health, but because time moves differently when you’re a caregiver. Days fill up fast. Years fly by. And suddenly you realize, “Oh… it’s been longer than I thought.”

I felt a little guilty, too. About the things I didn’t get done today while I was at the appointment. That old voice tried to tell me I should have powered through instead.

Here’s the truth I’m practicing:

Taking care of myself is part of my caregiving responsibility.

My kid needs me healthy, regulated, and here for the long haul. Preventive care isn’t indulgent. It’s maintenance.

So today, I’m choosing to let the guilt go and acknowledge the win.

Not everything has to be urgent to be important.

Sometimes the most loving thing you can do for your family is show up for yourself.

What’s one piece of self-care you’ve been meaning to schedule, even if it feels small?

Lately, I’ve been sitting with this quiet kind of guilt.
The kind that pops up when things finally slow down enough to think.

It sounds like:
“You should be doing more.”
“Remember all the things you wished you could do as a kid?”
“Now you have access… so why aren’t you doing all of it?”

I know I’m not the only parent who carries that. Caregivers especially.
We measure ourselves against some invisible checklist of experiences and opportunities, and somehow it always feels like we’re behind.

But here’s the part that surprised me.

With everything going on right now, I realized that letting go of certain plans has actually eased some of that guilt.
Not because I stopped caring.
But because I noticed what has been working.

We’re really good at being resourceful.
Really good at creating safety, joy, and connection right where we are.

For a long time, I focused on helping my kid find joy and regulation at home. Not because I didn’t want to go places, but because that’s what worked for us. And now, in a season where the world feels heavier and less predictable, I’m honestly grateful we built that skill together.

It doesn’t feel like making the best of a bad situation.
It feels like recognizing that adaptability is a strength.

Instead of feeling like I’m taking something away from him, I’m realizing we’re leaning into something we’re actually good at. And that matters.

This doesn’t erase the hard stuff.
The guilt still shows up sometimes.
But it’s a reminder that success doesn’t always look like more.

Sometimes it looks like stability.
Sometimes it looks like creativity.
Sometimes it looks like finding joy exactly where you already are.

What’s one place you’ve had to adapt instead of push forward and found something unexpected on the other side?

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It’s one of those questions people ask all the time. And if you’re a parent, especially one juggling therapy schedules, regulation, and real life, you probably have a default response ready to go.

“We’re fine.”

“We’re okay.”

“All good.”

Not because it’s completely true, but because it’s efficient.

This morning, though, that answer didn’t quite work.

We wrapped up speech therapy over Zoom, something my kiddo and I have been doing long enough that it feels like part of the weekly rhythm. Today’s therapist was someone he had worked with before, but it had been a while. So she asked the question.

“How are you doing?”

And instead of answering on autopilot, I paused.

Which could have totally backfired.

Because pausing means thinking. And thinking means realizing that the answer is usually a lot more complicated than “fine.”

But once I paused, I realized I actually had real things to say.

He’s more regulated than he used to be.

His vocabulary has grown.

He’s developed this habit of writing words when he needs to calm himself down, and honestly, watching that still feels a little magical.

None of that means everything is easy now.

None of that erases the cold weather, the heavy news, or the feeling that the world is a lot right now.

But it does mean something important. Progress is happening.

I didn’t have to pretend we were thriving. I didn’t have to gloss over the hard parts. I just got to say, “Here are the things that are going well.”

And that felt really good.

As parents, we move so quickly from one day to the next that we don’t always stop to notice what’s actually improving. We’re too busy managing, adjusting, and getting through the next thing on the list.

So here’s my gentle reminder to myself and to you.

The next time someone asks how you’re doing, you don’t have to give a polished answer. You don’t have to give the full story either.

But maybe you can name one specific thing that’s working. One small win. One quiet shift.

Because sometimes the most honest answer isn’t “fine.”

It’s, “Some things are still hard. And some things are genuinely better.”

And that’s more than enough.

Not the hypervigilant kind of attention. The nervous-system-on-high-alert kind. But the quieter kind. The kind that notices patterns, moods, and timing.

This week gave me a good example.

I needed to get a passport photo for my son. Just the photo. Nothing urgent, but something I’d been putting off because I knew it could be tricky.

I considered doing it on Thursday, but he wasn’t in the right headspace. So I didn’t push it. Friday came around, and it was almost like he could sense this was the day. He took a shower, let me brush his hair, and suddenly I had a kid who was ready.

That alone felt like progress.

Then I asked him to come downstairs, stand in front of my screen, look at the camera, and smile. Not a small ask on some days.

Doing it at home made all the difference. We could keep it light. We could joke. If it didn’t work, it wasn’t a failure. We’d just try again later.

I kept thinking about how different this would have been in a passport office or post office. Bright lights. Strangers. Time pressure. A line of people waiting. The expectation that we “get it right” immediately.

Choosing the gentler option didn’t mean lowering standards. It meant setting us both up for success.

And that’s something I’m learning more and more as a parent. Paying attention to timing matters. Paying attention to environment matters. Paying attention to what actually works matters.

Progress doesn’t always come from pushing through discomfort. Sometimes it comes from waiting for the moment when cooperation is possible.

That photo got taken. I’m fairly sure it’ll print just fine and get the job done. But more importantly, we moved through the task without stress or tears.

And that feels like a win worth noticing.

Where in your life could timing make things easier right now?

January has a funny way of making people feel behind before the year has even really started.

Suddenly everyone is talking about fresh starts, new routines, and big goals. And if you are a parent, especially a parent of a neurodivergent kid, that pressure can feel even heavier. Because nothing in your house magically resets just because the calendar changes.

My kid did not wake up on January 1 with perfect regulation.

I did not wake up with endless energy.

And our routines did not suddenly become easier.

What we did wake up with was the same life we were already living. And that matters.

Last week was full in every sense of the word.

I was juggling a complex voiceover project that required focus and emotional bandwidth, while also parenting in real time. It was only the second day my kiddo tried school transportation home. That alone is a big deal in our house.

And it went fairly well. Which in autism parenting means, “There were some bumps, but we survived.”

When he got home, he staged a tiny sit in in the car because he wanted the driver to take him to McDonald’s. After some calm, some reassurance, and a promise that McDonald’s would happen some other day and not with that driver, he did eventually come inside. There were a couple of dicey big emotion moments, but we moved through them.

Meanwhile, the world kept being complicated. The news kept being heavy. And we both kept being human beings trying to navigate it all.

That is what starting where you are looks like.

It looks like showing up for work and parenting at the same time.

It looks like navigating transitions that are not smooth.

It looks like calming big feelings and then getting back to the day.

None of it was perfect.

All of it was real.

And here is the thing I keep coming back to.

We have practiced hard things.

We have survived transitions.

We have learned how to reset after messy moments.

That experience does not disappear just because a new year begins.

So instead of forcing ourselves into January like it is a brand new identity, what if we let this month be a continuation of the growth we have already been doing?

Not a reset.

A rhythm.

Not perfection.

Presence.

Not pressure.

Progress.

If today feels uneven, loud, or uncertain, you are not doing it wrong. You are parenting in real time. And that absolutely counts.

What does starting where you are look like for you and your family right now?

And if you’ve known me for any length of time, you know that sentence alone used to be enough to send my nervous system into full dress rehearsal mode.

The night before a transition, my brain would start working overtime. Running scenarios. Solving problems that had not happened yet. Carrying the emotional weight of tomorrow before today was even done.

That’s the thing about high-functioning anxiety. On the outside, you look prepared. Responsible. On top of things.

On the inside, you’re quietly sprinting through every possible outcome like it’s an Olympic sport.

Parenting a kiddo who needs support only amplified that tendency. Because now it wasn’t just about me. It was about him. His routine. His comfort. His ability to transition. His day going well.

So I tried to control the future with worry.

Spoiler alert: It never worked.

What has changed over the years is not that transitions suddenly got easy. They didn’t. It’s that I started noticing something important.

We’ve practiced hard things.

We’ve had bumpy mornings and survived them.

We’ve learned how to reset when things don’t go as planned.

And maybe most importantly, I’ve learned that my anxiety doesn’t actually protect us. It just exhausts me.

So this year, on the day before we head back into routine, I’m doing something that feels radical in its simplicity.

I’m letting today be today.

No preemptive panic.

No borrowing stress from tomorrow.

No assuming the transition will be rough before it even begins.

That doesn’t mean I’m careless. It means I trust our skills now. I trust our ability to regroup. I trust that even if tomorrow is imperfect, we will still be okay.

That’s a huge shift for me.

Not because I stopped caring, but because I stopped trying to outthink the future.

So today, we’re enjoying today.

And tomorrow, we’ll meet it as it comes.

For someone who used to live ten steps ahead, that feels like real growth.

If you’re on a similar path, balancing anxiety, caregiving, and the constant transitions of life, here’s your reminder:

You don’t have to rehearse every possible outcome to be a good parent.

Sometimes the win is simply staying present long enough to notice how far you’ve come.

And that absolutely counts.

Today was the last day of school before winter break.

It was also the first day we tried something new.

My kiddo took school transportation home.

Before we go any further, let me clarify: this is not an every-day situation. We are starting with one day a week. One very reasonable, very contained day.

And yet, in my head, that one day expanded into a full-length emotional feature film with a dramatic score.

I’ve been driving him for years, so naturally my anxiety clocked in early. Is he going to be okay? Will this work? What if this turns into A Whole Thing?

Then I had to catch myself. We’ve been practicing for this. This isn’t reckless. It’s intentional. And sending panic vibes into the universe wasn’t going to help either of us.

So I made a deal with my nerves. I went to school to be there as a backup, just in case he decided this new adventure was a hard no.

Spoiler alert: he did not need me.

He got on transportation without hesitation.

He got home safely.

He walked into the house, went straight to his room, and acted like this had always been the plan.

Meanwhile, I aged emotionally about seven years for no reason.

And just like that, the thing I had catastrophized turned into… nothing. No drama. No fallout. No big reaction.

It was a good reminder that sometimes the thing we’re bracing for isn’t actually the thing. It’s the letting go. It’s trusting that growth doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing. It can be one small, manageable step that feels enormous only because it’s new.

So tonight, I’m celebrating the win. His independence. My willingness to try. And the realization that one day a week doesn’t actually last forever.

Sometimes growth shows up quietly.

Sometimes it shows up without asking permission.

And sometimes it just walks into your house, goes to its room, and calls it a day.

And honestly? I’ll take that win. 💙

Bold assumption.

A few minutes later, my son showed up and very confidently informed me that he wanted to take a shower and that I should, in fact, get out.

Not because there was an emergency. Not because he needed help. Just because he decided it was his turn and my time was up.

My first reaction was, “Wow. The audacity

My second reaction was, “Wait… this is actually a big deal.

A year ago, this would never have happened. Showering was something to avoid, delay, or replace with staring at a phone for an impressive amount of time. Today, he independently chose it.

Yes, there is another bathroom. Yes, my moisturizer routine was tragically interrupted. But I had a clean kid who made a healthy choice all on his own.

That didn’t happen overnight. It came from a lot of repetition, patience, and me casually reminding him, “You usually feel better after a shower,” while wondering if any of it was sinking in.

Turns out… it was.

It was a good reminder that growth rarely shows up on schedule. It shows up inconveniently. While you’re wet. And holding a towel.

Encouragement matters. But not all encouragement looks like praise or applause. Sometimes it looks like stepping aside and letting someone realize they’re capable.

So yes, I lost my shower.

But I gained proof that something is working.

What kind of encouragement seems to land best for the people you’re supporting right now?

So… I found a moldy box of burgers in the back of my car.

And not “oops, I forgot these overnight” moldy.
I mean full-on science project, absolutely-old-enough-to-vote moldy.

The kind of moldy where you’re driving around thinking,
“Huh… something smells off. Must be the kid, right?”
Because as parents, let’s be honest, we often blame the chaos on them first.

But nope. This one was on me.
Mom was the culprit.
I officially earned my honorary degree in “Not Checking the Grocery Bags.”

I pulled that fuzzy, tragic burger box out of the trunk, did a dramatic dry heave, and then just laughed. Because truly… if we don’t laugh at moments like this, we will cry ourselves straight into a grocery store aisle.

But the Real Lesson Wasn’t the Burgers

Somewhere between gagging and spraying Febreze like I was cleansing the spirit of my vehicle, I had a little moment of clarity:

Sometimes things get tossed into the figurative (and literal) backseat and forgotten.

Not because we’re careless. Not because we don’t care. But because we’re tired. Running. Managing everything. Human.

That describes parenting perfectly.

We juggle school mornings, therapies, meds, work deadlines, sensory moments, meals, laundry, dishes… and somehow also try to show up as emotionally available, patient humans.

So of course something’s going to “mold” in the backseat.
Sometimes literally.
Sometimes metaphorically.
(But hopefully with less smell.)

Could I beat myself up for forgetting those burgers?
Absolutely.

Could I cringe thinking about every person who sat in my car lately?
Easily.
Could I spiral into the whole “good moms don’t do this” routine?
In record time.

But this week, I’m choosing grace. Because good parents aren’t flawless.
Good parents are trying. Good parents check the car… eventually. And eventually I did.

So this week, here’s what I’m holding on to:

✨ You can be a great parent and still forget something in the backseat.
✨ You can love your kid fiercely and still drop a ball.
✨ Sometimes the mess becomes part of the story, and sometimes the story becomes the laugh you needed.

And if you’re in a season where you’re holding life together with ponytails, DoorDash, and caffeine… You’re still doing a fantastic job.

Your Turn

What’s the funniest or weirdest thing you’ve forgotten, misplaced, or found way too late?
Please tell me I’m not the only one in the abandoned-burger struggle.

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Comedy Through the Chaos Thursdays at 2:00 PM CT
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You ever notice that “trust the process” sounds great when you say it out loud, but living it feels like a group project where you’re the only one doing the work?

Every time one of my kiddo’s doctors says, “Let’s try this new med,” or, “We’re adding a new therapy,” or, “Let’s change up this routine,” I brace myself. Because I know what might come next.

Sometimes things get worse before they get better.
Sometimes they don’t seem to get better at all.
And sometimes everything goes so sideways that we end up right back where we started, just with less patience and more laundry.

But every now and then, something clicks. Something small works. And I remember, oh yeah, this is what progress looks like.

And Then There’s the Rest of Life

Take this Wednesday morning, for example. We didn’t make it to school. Not even close.
And as we cycled through reset after reset, I started watching the clock and feeling that creeping anxiety that loves to whisper, “You’re letting someone down.”

I had told my friends at the Twin Cities Film Fest that I’d come by to help with a project.
And every passing hour, I kept thinking, when do I call them and say I can’t make it?

Finally, I stopped pretending I could still pull it off and sent the message:
“I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to make it in.”

And guess what they said?
“Oh, you didn’t see the email? We already got everything packed up. You don’t need to come in.”

Cue me laughing at my phone, saying, “Well, thank goodness.” In the midst of all of our big emotions, I hadn’t seen any emails. I’d barely seen my watch, mocking my morning slip away.

Here I was, spinning myself into a guilt spiral for hours, convinced I was disappointing everyone, and the problem had already solved itself.

They even wrote back, “That’s so sweet of you,” which was kind, but also a gentle reminder that my anxiety often arrives early to a meeting that doesn’t even exist.

The Real Work of Trust

Whether it’s new meds, a new therapy, or just a new Monday, I’m learning that trusting the process isn’t passive.
It’s active patience. It’s resisting the urge to panic-text everyone before you even know there’s a problem.

Sometimes we need to let life unfold before assuming it’s falling apart.
Sometimes the thing you’re worrying about has already worked itself out, and you just haven’t gotten the email yet.

So this week, I’m reminding myself to pause before I panic.
There’s a special kind of courage in parents who keep trying. The ones who refill the meds, show up for the appointments, start the new routines, and still hold hope after the last one didn’t go as planned.

Trusting the process doesn’t mean pretending you’re fine. It means staying in it long enough to see what could change.

Progress doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it whispers.
And sometimes, it just laughs quietly from the next room, a reminder that things are still moving even if we can’t see how yet.

So here’s my reminder for both of us: keep trying. Keep trusting. Keep showing up.

Because even when it feels like nothing’s working, it might just mean the process is still working on you. 💙

???What’s one area in your life where you’re trying to trust the process right now?

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Almost a year ago, I hired a new PCA, a personal care assistant, for my son.

If you’ve ever built a relationship with someone who supports your child, you know it’s not instant. It’s a slow build. One part patience, one part hope, and about twelve parts deep breathing.

This PCA started small. Short visits. Simple routines. Sometimes he’d just sit quietly in the room while my son played, not trying to force conversation. Just being around and occasionally asking my kiddo if he was ready to hang out.

For months, the pattern was the same: my son would repeat over and over again, “Goodbye. See you tomorrow. Go Home.”

And every time, the PCA would smile and say, “I’ll go at 8 o’clock,” or whatever time he was going to leave, without taking it personally. No power struggle. No frustration. Just quiet consistency.

Then, last week, something shifted. When it was time for the PCA to leave, my son looked at him and said, “No, Sit Here.”
And for the first time ever, they sat together on the couch for twenty peaceful minutes. No pressure. No talking. Just comfort.

That moment might look small from the outside. But it was huge. Because it took nearly a year of patience, space, and gentle persistence to get there.

Trust doesn’t grow overnight. It grows in silence, in consistency, and in the willingness to show up again and again.

A few days later, that same lesson came back to me, it a totally different way.

I had to travel overnight for a work event, which meant my son would stay with his auntie and his PCA. Even though we’ve been practicing these overnight routines for months, the mom brain kicked in hard.

What if he’s upset? What if his staff are stressed? What if it all falls apart while I’m gone?

By the next morning, before I even got in the car to drive home, I could feel an anxiety spiral starting. I was stuck with a mind full of images of him melting down and his caregivers in crisis.

And then I caught myself.

Nobody had called. Nobody had texted. Everything was quiet and that silence wasn’t a red flag. It was a sign that things were good.

That’s when it hit me: I was sending out worry like it was going to fix something. But it never does. Worry doesn’t make me calmer or my son happier. It just plants anxiety where trust could be growing.

So, I stopped. I decided to harvest the positive instead. To trust the people around us and the work we’ve done together.

Instead of thinking about the negative, I remembered the good times. Images of him laughing and happy and playing with his Auntie. Because those memories and vibes deserve to have space, as well. And we all deserved to have those positive vibes in the universe pushing us along.

And I’m so glad I did. When I got home, my son was happy, his caregivers were calm, and we all had a peaceful night together.

This week’s takeaway:
Trust takes time. It’s built in small, patient moments — and strengthened when we choose not to let worry take the wheel.

When we stop answering every call from fear, we make room for something better to grow: peace, connection, and genuine joy.

I’d love to hear from you. What’s one small “trust win” you’ve had lately, with your kids, your coworkers, or even yourself?

If you want to keep digging into conversations like this, I’d love for you to join me on Cadre, where I share more tools, stories, and community around finding balance in the chaos. You can catch my Comedy Through the Chaos livestreams on:

Thursdays at 2:00 PM Central

Saturdays at 10:00 AM Central

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This week at a conference I was emceeing, one of the panels on psychological safety and burnout really stuck with me. More than one speaker said the same thing in different ways: We All Need a Cutoff Time.

Not because we don’t care. Not because we’re lazy. But because protecting out cutoff protects us.

I felt both seen and called out, because truth be told, I’m a natural workaholic.

I love what I do. The emceeing, the speaking, the writing, the creating. I thrive on staying busy. But even when it’s work you love, it can still drain you if you don’t learn how to stop.

Over the last few years, I’ve had to practice building my own cutoffs. Sometimes that means shutting my laptop at 8 p.m., even when I know I could keep tinkering. Sometimes it’s letting that email wait until morning. Sometimes it’s forcing myself to step away because my kiddo deserves me present, not just nearby.

It’s not easy. Especially when you’re wired to “just finish one more thing.” But I’ve noticed the difference. I’m calmer. I’m more patient, especially as a parent. And the next day, I actually have more creative energy. Cutoffs don’t kill ambition. They keep it alive.

I also love my kiddo. And for parents, especially autism parents, there’s no real “clock out.” So, I’ve realized cutoffs still matter. Sometimes it’s cutting off the chores at 10 p.m. so I can actually winddown. Or cutting off the guilt when I can’t do everything in one day. Or cutting off that nagging voice in my head that says, “you’re not doing enough.” Because if I don’t, I fry. And a burned-out caregiver can’t show up the way our kids need us to.

That lesson kept echoing in little ways this week. I reminded myself that even when routines stay the same, every day looks different - and that’s not failure, it’s just life. I thought about how important it is to leave safe space for big feelings, because the more room we give kids to process, the less explosive those feelings become. And I remembered that parenting really is just one big experiment. Sometimes new routines or strategies work. Sometimes they don’t. And that’s okay. Failure isn’t really failing. It’s just information for the next try.

All of this reminded me that “safety” isn’t only about locked doors or clean checklists. It’s about mental, emotional, and relational safety. For ourselves, and for our families.

So join me in practicing it. Cut yourself off before you burn out. Celebrate the days that go differently. And give yourself permission to experiment without labeling it a failure.

I’d love to hear from you: what’s one cutoff, adjustment, or experiment you made this week that brought you a little more peace?

And if you want to keep digging into conversations like this, I’d love for you to join me on Cadre, where I share more tools, stories, and community around finding balance in the chaos. You can join my livestream on Thursdays at 2:00 pm Central and Saturdays at 10:00 am Central.

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By nature, I’m a glass-half-full kind of person.

I’ve gotten pretty good at shaking things off and moving forward. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t daily challenges that hit me square in the face as a parent to a special needs kiddo.

This morning was one of them.

My son was in full-on fail-to-launch mode, and I was desperately trying to get him dressed and out the door so I could make it to my dental appointment. You know that feeling - where you’re trying to juggle your kid’s needs while also convincing yourself that you can squeeze in some basic self-care? Yeah, that was me.

Eventually, it became clear: I wasn’t going to make it.

So between rounds of “please put your shoes on” and “yes, you have to wear pants,” I called the dentist’s office to cancel.

When they asked why, I gave them the one-sentence version: “I have a child with special needs, and this morning isn’t working.”

They kindly rescheduled me… for January.

Not next month. For FOUR Months from now. For a basic cleaning.

I’ll be honest. My eyes welled up. It felt like defeat.

But I reminded myself: this isn’t life or death. It’s an appointment. And in the meantime, I have floss.

Cue my sister Kaysie. She showed up (as she often does) and suggested I call a closer dentist she likes. So I did. And miracle of miracles, not only were they taking new patients. They had a cancellation for next.

Glory hallelujah.

And here’s what hit me in that moment:

Sharing my reality — not sugarcoating it, not pretending it was fine — opened the door to support. The dental receptionist didn’t make me feel guilty. My sister gave me a solution. And I got reminded that sometimes, community starts with honesty.

No guarantees next week won’t bring its own chaos. But for now, I’ll floss, I’ll laugh, and I’ll keep practicing the messy art of parenting.

Here’s your unsolicited advice:

Find a safe space. With a friend, a sibling, a stranger in a waiting room. Somebody to share your story. Not the polished version, the real one. Because sometimes just saying it out loud makes the weight a little lighter.

💬 Drop a comment: When’s a time sharing your story gave you the relief or connection you needed?

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This morning, I had one of those classic parenting missteps.

My kiddo was moving at glacial speed, and in my less-than-stellar moment, I blurted out:
“Stop being weird.”

And the look on his face? Oof.
I knew immediately I’d hurt his feelings.

I didn’t mean, “stop being yourself.”
I didn’t mean, “weird is bad.”
I definitely didn’t mean, “your quirks don’t belong here.”

I was just… tired, rushed, and a little salty about the dilly-dallying.
And sometimes my mouth runs faster than my brain.

So I backed up. I said I’m sorry.

The Hard Truth About Words

The reality is that his Mom is basically professionally awkward. Weird is wonderful. Weird is who we are.

Sometimes as parents (and honestly, as humans), we forget how heavy our words can land. We mean them lightly, but our kids hear them literally.

In that moment, my son didn’t hear, “Mom’s annoyed we’re running late.”
He heard, “Weird is wrong.”

And that’s the opposite of what I want for him.

Weird is creativity. Weird is personality. Weird is connection.
Weird is safe.

What I Wish I’d Heard Growing Up

I’ve said this before: apologizing to my kiddo when I make a mistake matters to me.
Part of that is because, growing up, I didn’t always get apologies when they were due. It sometimes felt like the adults around me saw apologizing as weakness. Like admitting they’d misspoken would knock the parent crown off their heads.

I don’t believe that.
To me, a well-timed apology is a sign of understanding and strength. It says, “I care about how my words landed more than I care about being ‘right.’”

That’s the model I want my son to see.

So I apologized. Out loud. Directly. Without excuse.

Apologizing to our kids doesn’t make us weak.
It makes us human.

And it models what I hope he’ll do in his life—admit the missteps, repair the hurt, and keep going.

Comedy Through the Chaos Lesson

Sometimes my mouth gets me in trouble.
Sometimes I’ll say the wrong thing.
What matters most isn’t never messing up.

It’s showing my son that it’s safe to own the mistake, laugh at the awkwardness, and make it right.

Because he deserves to feel safe being weird.
And so do I.

Your turn: Have you ever said something to your kid (or anyone) that landed differently than you meant- and had to back up and apologize? Drop it in the comments. You are not the only one with a runaway mouth.

✨ Want more? Join me live on the Cadre App:

• Thursdays at 2 PM CST — Comedy Through the Chaos

• Saturdays at 10 AM CST — Parenting Edition

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This morning marks the first day of school. And in a move that feels very familiar, my son is slept in.😅

At first glance, it looks exactly like last year: me, checking the clock; him, snoozing happily while I’m trying to figure out how many “wake up calls” I’ll need to attempt.

But here’s the difference: last year, this scene was filled with anxiety. The stress of a new year, a new routine, the weight of unknowns. This year? It feels like a rhythm we already know. The chaos is still there — but it’s familiar chaos. And that familiarity feels… oddly fabulous.

Here’s the thing about parenting, especially parenting a child with unique needs: progress doesn’t always look like brand-new milestones or dramatic change. Sometimes progress looks like handling the same patterns with more calm than you did before.

So today, I’m not waiting for a picture-perfect morning. I’m choosing to savor the fact that we’re starting this year on familiar ground — and that’s enough.

If you’re navigating your own version of back-to-school chaos (or work chaos, or life chaos), here’s your unsolicited advice: don’t underestimate the power of familiar. Sometimes, the routines that once stressed us out can become the very things that help us feel steady.

How are you finding steadiness in your familiar chaos today?