Sometimes, life gives you a crossroads… and sometimes it gives you a quarter.
In August 2024, we got some big news: Sparky’s company would be relocating operations to the Charlotte area—right near the border of North and South Carolina. It stirred something in us. We’d been living in a difficult housing situation for a while, and my health had been declining without clear answers. We’d been praying hard for change—for healing, for hope, and for home.
Then came January, and with it, a name for what had been plaguing me: Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. That diagnosis changed a lot, but it also brought clarity. We found ourselves wrestling with the possibility of another big move. Would we really uproot again? Could we? The last time we took a leap like that, I was five and a half months pregnant, moving from California to Texas on nothing but faith and a dream.
We brought the idea to our family here in Texas—and wouldn’t you know it? North Carolina and South Carolina were already on their radar too. It was like the Lord had been laying a trail of breadcrumbs.
One night, Sparky and I were sitting up late, like we used to do before the kids—music playing, hearts open. And then it came on: Heads Carolina, Tails California. We looked at each other and smiled. I picked up a quarter and flipped it. Heads Carolina. Again. Heads Carolina. Over and over again. Tails wouldn’t show up if I tried.
For us, it became: Heads Carolina, Tails Texas. And Texas… it just wasn’t coming up.
When we told Big Mac, he tried flipping it too—several times—and all he could land was heads. He’s been the most hesitant. Texas is all he’s ever known. But even he started to notice the pattern.
Then came another sign: I learned the Medical University of South Carolina is leading groundbreaking Ehlers-Danlos research. Right there—where we were being called.
We took a relocation trip a couple of weeks ago, and from the moment we arrived in the Carolinas, it just felt right. The air, the peace, the people. We clicked instantly with our real estate agent, part of a team that specializes in helping families like ours make these life-changing moves. It didn’t feel like we were scouting—it felt like we were coming home.
And today… Sparky got the email. It’s official.
We chose Heads Carolina. We’re moving in Summer 2026.
Something I ordered shipped Friday—just 2 hours and 21 minutes away. And yes, that’s with Texas traffic, where every freeway’s under construction and the state flower should honestly be the traffic cone.
It’s now Tuesday. Still no package.
In the time it’s taken for USPS to not deliver that box, I’ve: ✅ Gone to the ER ✅ Gotten discharged ✅ Scheduled a follow-up with my GP ✅ Mentally picked throw pillows for my suite at Hotel Harris
The boys call it that—Hotel Harris—because I’m there too often, not because I should have a private room. (Though for the record? I’ve never had a roommate. Ever. The punch card must be working.)
Sparky says I need a business card listing all my meds just to make check-in faster. And honestly, at this point I’m just waiting on: 🛏 A monogrammed robe 💉 Frequent flyer miles 🧃 And a punch card that earns me a free saline bag after my 10th stay
USPS? Still reenacting the Oregon Trail with my package. If it doesn’t show up soon, I half expect the tracking to say:
“Your order was delayed due to dysentery.”
Amazon? They swore it’d be here Monday. Now it’s “maybe tomorrow,” with all the confidence of a teenager trying to fold laundry. And now they’ve updated it to June 6 and tried to blame the carrier. No, Amazon—you didn’t get it out on time. That’s on you.
BUT THEN—plot twist. FedEx delivered today. My Tezspire order from Accredo showed up. Caught me mid-shower, in my still-not-monogrammed robe, because of course they did.
I thought someone finally got it right. Then I opened the box… and they only sent one pen. Not three.
So now I get to call the international pharmacy hotline and explain, yet again, that a full order means more than one.
So yes, Amazon and USPS are still deep in the Great Delay Games, raising rates while lowering expectations. And even when FedEx wins the race, Accredo drops the baton at the finish line.
This post is part of my Health & Healing series. If you’re just joining in, you can catch up on Part 1 and Part 2.
By late 2023, I had more doctors than streaming subscriptions—and just about as many plot twists.
It started in October with a voice. Not just any voice—a Minnie Mouse voice. High-pitched, cartoonish, and completely out of nowhere. I sounded like a helium balloon in a choir loft. My first ENT chalked it up to allergies (as if that diagnosis doesn’t already have a monopoly on my chart). But when it didn’t go away, Holly—my GP and right-hand girl—got me in with a second ENT who took it seriously.
Surprise, surprise—he knew our boys’ ENT. The very same one who had done five surgeries on Small Fry and Big Mac. That connection felt like divine reassurance. I was in good hands.
A stroboscopy in November confirmed it: vocal nodules.
Then came November 8, 2023.
Sparky and I were just sitting on the bed, talking about nothing in particular, when my heart suddenly took off like it was late to a fire. I stood up, grabbed my phone, and calmly told him, “I’m calling 911.”
That shocked him more than the racing heart. After all my years working in healthcare, I don’t throw that phrase around. But I knew. Something was seriously wrong.
Harley, our sweet, non-formally-trained service pup, was already on high alert—pawing at me nonstop, trying to get me to lie down. He knew before I did.
The paramedics arrived and guessed—what else?—anxiety. Because every woman in her 30s must just be “stressed,” right?
Nope. Try 220+ beats per minute. I wasn’t panicking. I wasn’t spiraling. I was clear-eyed and ticking like a time bomb.
At the hospital, they assumed it was a heart attack. They admitted me, ran tests, and slapped me on a low-sodium cardiac diabetic diet… which was a joke, because I’m not diabetic and hadn’t been for a while. I was pre-diabetic before losing over 70 pounds, but I’d long since said goodbye to that label.
They discharged me with a referral to cardiology, but no one really had answers. Just shrugs and guesses—maybe a reaction to the steroids I’d been given for my throat. At the time, it was brushed off as a fluke. A strange blip. Nothing serious.
The cardiologist I saw in the hospital wasn’t a good fit, so I circled back to Holly—my GP and right-hand girl—who helped me get a second opinion with a cardiologist we both trusted more. That move would matter more than I realized, because while we didn’t have the full picture yet, it was the beginning of seeing the truth clearly.
Meanwhile, the scope I had in December—an EGD—revealed silent bile reflux, which helped explain some of the symptoms I’d been living with since my VSG. That discovery led to the decision to revise to an RNY. We submitted the paperwork in early January and—shocker—it was approved the same day. That never happens, but it did. It felt like a sign.
What most didn’t know was that my immune system had already started crumbling earlier that year. Back in summer 2023, I had landed in the hospital with a severe UTI that required IV antibiotics. That wasn’t normal for me—not then. But like a lot of things in this journey, I didn’t yet realize it was a piece of a much bigger puzzle.
I thought I was in the clear. I was approved for surgery. I was on the upswing.
Rebel Rule #1: Your starter works for you—not the other way around.
Some folks will tell you sourdough has rules. Rigid routines. Timers, temperature logs, and hydration ratios calculated to the decimal.
Not in this house.
I’m a rebel sourdough baker.
My starter—bless her bubbly heart—is named Bubbles, and she fits my life, not the other way around. Chronic illness has shifted my mornings. I’m not waking up at 5 AM to feed my starter like a farm wife from 1847. I rolled out of bed just before 10 this morning—later than I planned, but my body needed the rest.
And guess what?
That loaf still rose. That starter still sang. That bread will still be baked with love and eaten with joy.
I don’t chase hydration percentages. I go by feel—good ol’ Southern instinct, just like Mama taught me. This feed was a thick one. I’d used nearly all of Bubbles earlier in the week—saving just about 70g after whipping up sourdough discard waffles for our chicken and waffles night.
And when I fed her, I went a little heavy on the flour.
Why? Because I live in Texas, where the humidity is relentless and the heat rolls in like a preacher at a tent revival. Onsteamy days like this—when the air’s so thick it feels like you’re wading through soup and your bare feet stick to the kitchen floor—it’s all I can do to keep Bubbles fed and myself upright. A heavier feed stretches her a little longer, and on days like this, that’s exactly what we need.
Because around here, sourdough isn’t about perfection. It’s about peace. It’s about presence. And it’s about showing up with what you have, when you can, and letting grace do the rest.
Tezspire, misdiagnosis, and why David’s birthday ended in surgery
This post is part of my Health & Healing series. If you’re just joining in, you can catch up on Part 1.
After months of allergy testing and being told I was basically allergic to everything but air and sarcasm, I finally got approval for Tezspire. I was so relieved to have a plan in place. A sample arrived, I was prepped, and we were finally doing something proactive.
That joy didn’t last long.
I injected it into my thigh like you would with an EpiPen. But the pain was sharp—instant—and I reflexively yanked the injector back like I’d touched a hot burner. The nearly $5,000 dose sprayed everywhere.
The wall. The sink. My pride.
There was no time to get another from the doctor’s office. I was days away from surgery, and just like that, I lost it. The shot. My composure. All of it.
From then on, we switched to the abdomen—thanks to surgical nerve damage, I couldn’t feel it anyway. Belly shots are old news when you’ve been through two pregnancies, insulin injections, and more abdominal procedures than I care to count.
I’ve had allergy issues for years. Back in 2018, I thought I was doing everything right: working out, eating clean, oatmeal every morning, lemon water, fresh seasonal fruit.
Except—plot twist—I’m mildly sensitive to almost all of that. Cashews, oats, barley, lemon, peas, watermelon, soy, fish, strawberries…
I was basically eating my way into joint pain and inflammation.
And that’s just the food list. I’m allergic to every tree in our region except the willow. Plus cats, dogs, dust mites, pollen, mold, grasses… basically, my pillow wants me dead.
So while the Tezspire drama was new, the story behind it was old and complicated. Like everything else in my medical file.
That night, the pain hit like a freight train around 10 PM. I knew it wasn’t food poisoning or acid reflux—I was warned before my VSG-to-RNY revision that the gallbladder might be the next to go. They told me six to nine months. Mine didn’t wait that long.
But truth is? My gallbladder had been on the struggle bus for years. The first major attack was in college—Kaiser called it a kidney stone. Another came on Mother’s Day 2017 or 2018. We blamed my ADHD meds. A third one hit just after my original VSG, but still: no stones, no action.
Now here I was in 2024, clutching my side and praying someone would take me seriously.
The ER ran an ultrasound—no stones. They tried to send me home. They floated “maybe it’s a virus.” I floated right back, “Maybe check my liver enzymes and trend my labs.”
And wouldn’t you know it—CT confirmed it: a very sick gallbladder. But the OR was booked, so surgery had to wait until Monday.
While I waited, May 5 arrived. David turned 13. And I was in a gown, hooked up to IVs, in pain.
Cue the mom guilt.
But leave it to Sparky. After work, he swung by In-N-Out and picked up burgers, fries, and root beer floats to celebrate with David. They made the best of it—and now, that meal is David’s birthday tradition. Every year, he wants In-N-Out and floats, because it reminds him we still celebrated. Even if mama was in the hospital.
On May 6, they wheeled me in.
The surgeon later told me they had to enlarge the incision because my gallbladder was so inflamed.
“It should’ve come out years ago,” he said. (You don’t say.)
Later, my gastric surgeon found out and asked, “Why didn’t you call us? We could’ve had you moved and done it Sunday.”
Sir, I was medicated, horizontal, and already in a hospital gown. That ship had sailed.
At this point, it feels like my gallbladder was just another item checked off the ‘what’s left to remove?’ list.
I wanted to believe this was the fix. But something didn’t sit right. The reflux was worse. I had lost more weight. I was more active, more mobile, more present—but I was still in pain. At 175 pounds, I was technically still overweight, but I had lost 110 pounds total since my highest weight.
Despite all that progress? Something was off.
This wasn’t just gallbladder drama. It wasn’t just another surgery. Something deeper was wrong. And my body was about to make that very clear.
“Turns out, the gallbladder was just the opening act. I thought the worst was behind me—bless my heart.”
After I published my first post—Three Trips and a Lightbulb Moment—I thought the flood of memories might slow down.
They didn’t.
In fact, they cracked wide open. Because once I started seeing myself clearly, there was no stuffing it all back down.
💊 Starting, Stopping, and Starting Again
I was first put on ADHD medication in 4th grade, and I stayed on it through college.
Then came adulthood—and with it, impossible systems. Refills were harder. Appointments trickier. Stigma louder.
So I stopped.
And for a while, I managed. I got married, had babies, held it all together the best I could.
Until I couldn’t.
🌫 The Fog I Didn’t Know I Was In
After Small Fry weaned, I restarted meds.
It was like someone turned the lights on in a room I didn’t know I was living in the dark.
I could finally:
Finish a task without switching tabs in my brain.
Clean the kitchen and remember why I walked in.
Respond to chaos without feeling like I was unraveling inside.
I remember thinking,
“Oh. This is how other people feel every day?”
⚠️ Then Came the Headaches
Two weeks in, I had three migraines in five days.
The stimulant wasn’t a good fit for my body.
We tried a few other options and eventually landed on Strattera.
I knew it was the one when Small Fry dumped an entire bag of flour across the hallway and into his room…
And I didn’t yell. Didn’t freeze. Didn’t cry.
I just… cleaned it up.
Calm. Present. Functional.
That had never happened before.
💥 The Setback That Shook Me
Around Mother’s Day 2017, I had a sudden gallbladder attack.
At first, we thought the medication might be to blame.
So I stopped it.
We tried switching again, but nothing else worked the same. Eventually, I went back to Strattera—because it didn’t just help my focus, it helped my anxiety too.
I stayed on it for years—until 2022, when life got hard again. Really hard.
Like many moms, I put myself last. And my brain? It went right back to survival mode.
🛒 The Walmart Message
It was February 2023 when I realized something had to give.
I was standing in Walmart. Foggy. Tired. Scattered. Spent.
And I knew if I didn’t message my GP right then and there, I’d forget again.
So I did. Right in the aisle, between groceries and brain fog.
We restarted. Adjusted the dose—especially after my RNY surgery. My stomach couldn’t handle the full dose at once.
But we figured it out.
Because I need this medication. Not to feel “superhuman.” Just to function like other people already do.
🧠 The Truth About ADHD in Adulthood
The world still treats ADHD like something we outgrow. But I haven’t outgrown anything.
I’ve just gotten better at pretending—until I can’t anymore.
I know what it’s like to:
Spiral in silence.
Forget a load of laundry five times in one day.
Lose the words in the middle of a sentence.
Feel guilt for things you can’t control.
And I’m done living under that shame.
I know what my brain needs now. And I’m not apologizing for it anymore.
🏫 Homeschooling Was Never the Plan—Until It Was
I swore we’d never homeschool. Said I didn’t have the patience.
But after COVID, I saw the writing on the wall.
I saw the push to isolate desks, to enforce silence, to box in every behavior—and call it support.
I saw Big Mac being nudged toward the same cracks I fell through.
And I said no.
Just for a year. That was the plan.
But one year turned into more. Because for the first time, we were building a system that worked for them, not against them.
💬 What I Know Now
ADHD wasn’t something I outgrew. It’s something I finally understand.
This journey taught me:
Medication is not weakness—it’s access to my own mind.
Support isn’t always found in systems—it’s built in small, sacred spaces.
The stories we’ve buried hold the key to healing.
Last week, I shared these stories with my therapist. I told her I hated journaling. She smiled and said:
“You’re doing it now—just in your way.”
She’s right.
This isn’t just a blog. It’s my story—finally told. Unmasked. Unapologetic. And maybe, finally, understood.
Category:Throwback + Thankful Thursday(even though it’s posting Sunday, this is still your story lane)
When I met my husband Kevin back in 2005, I was a whopping 110 pounds—tiny, happy, and dangerously unsupervised in a kitchen. I learned to cook, learned to love, and started climbing the nursing school mountain while working full-time as a CNA. Somewhere in there, my metabolism clocked out early like it had a better offer.
By the time we got married in August 2010, I was 215 pounds. Still hustling, still full of biscuits and ambition. Then life kicked into high gear: two pregnancies, full-time parenting, grief, long shifts, and one medical mystery after another.
Patrick (our second boy, aka Small Fry) came along in 2015. By 2019, we were grieving Kevin’s mama, Patti. Somewhere in that storm, I hit myself with my own car—yes, you read that right—and by September 2021, I hit my highest weight ever: 286 pounds.
I had tried it all—pills, shakes, accountability groups. I could’ve opened a small business out of failed weight loss programs.
Eventually, after maxing out our insurance (a running theme in this series), I was approved for VSG surgery. On November 21, 2021, I went under—full coverage, full courage, and fully convinced that this would change my life.
And it did. But not in the way you think.
September 11, 2022 – From my heaviest to 76 pounds down. Same dress, same mama, just showing up stronger.
September 11, 2022 – From my heaviest to 76 pounds down. Same shirt, same mama, just showing up stronger.
I lost 76 pounds. I gained energy. I gained movement.
And one day—September 14, 2022—Small Fry, sweet and sincere as ever, wrapped his arms around me and said:
“Mama… my fingers touched.”
Small Fry’s hands finally touched. A non-scale victory I’ll never forget.
That was what he’d been hoping for all along. Not my arms around him—his arms around me. That moment? That was everything.
That’s when I knew I’d made it. Not to skinny. Not to someone else’s idea of wellness. But to the kind of healthy where your kid can finally wrap his arms all the way around you— and grin like he just won the world.
But if you think that’s where the story ends?
Bless your heart.
Because in 2023 and 2024, my body staged a full-blown rebellion. One part silent reflux. One part gallbladder gone rogue. One $4,000 allergy shot turned bathroom explosion. And more ambulance rides than I can count.
Thursday on the blog:
“The $4K Shot & My Gallbladder’s Final Act” Tezspire, tacos, hospital birthdays, and why Small Fry now knows the phrase “swine flu.”
How a Blog, a Baby, and a Whole Lot of Grit Turned Into a Southern Sticker Empire
I didn’t start this blog to build a brand. I started it because life flipped upside down—and I needed a place to breathe.
Kevin and I got married on August 7. By September 7, those two pink lines changed everything.
Then came the layoff.
Over 2,000 people lost their jobs when Barclay Capital was bought out and the work was sent overseas. Kevin was one of them. He was placed on a non-compete—told to stay home, wait it out, and then collect severance. With no work left in his field in the Sacramento area, we made a decision that still feels wild to look back on:
We packed up our lives, our hope, and our not-yet-born baby—and moved cross-country. I was five and a half months pregnant.
David was born at 37 weeks by c-section. He was frank breech, and I had developed preeclampsia. It wasn’t a traumatic birth, but it was the beginning of a season that would quietly reshape us.
Kevin was on unemployment for a long stretch. He picked up temp work off and on for the first four years of our marriage. I worked as a CNA—on opposite shifts. We passed like ships in the night, trading car keys and baby updates on the fly.
And somewhere in all of that? I started blogging.
The blog began as David’s Mommy—a place to share family updates with loved ones far away. But then couponing became my hyperfixation, and the blog quickly followed. My stockpile? Diapers, wipes, toothbrushes, and razors. I had a binder, a system, and a rhythm that worked.
In the summer of 2024, I made a quick coupon comeback and ended up with 60+ boxes of cereal stuffed into our closet. (We’re just now running out. And yes—it’s mostly Cheerios. The fun cereal disappeared fast.)
Life picked up again, and the coupon phase quietly faded into the background for good. But don’t worry—I never stopped tracking down the best meat deals like it was an Olympic sport.
And according to my Catholic girl gang? I’m the Queen of Etsy, Crafting, and Deals. Honestly, I’ll take that crown.
The blog faded too. I had Patrick. I was a mom of two now, still working, still shifting priorities. Then one month—before I got pregnant with Patrick—I forgot to pay the rent. That moment snapped something into focus.
It reminded me of something I hadn’t touched in years: My love for stationery.
I’ve loved planners since junior high, when we got those school-issued ones. I didn’t just need to organize—I needed order. So I ordered an Erin Condren planner, and suddenly, I could breathe again.
As soon as that planner landed, I wanted a system for everything. That’s when I discovered the FlyLady method—but I didn’t want to rewrite her routines every week. So I designed my own insert that broke the zones down in a way that actually worked for me.
That became the very first David’s Mommy product. A practical tool made out of pure necessity.
At the same time, I was in RCIA. I began making rosaries and opened my first Etsy shop: Faith Based Mommy. But I was still working as a CNA, deep in motherhood, and the shop didn’t take off. I quietly closed it.
But I wasn’t done.
Because that one insert turned into an idea. That idea turned into a shop. David’s Mommy on Etsy officially opened on July 31, 2014, following the name of the blog.
And on January 4, 2016, we rebranded to Simple Southern Mommy— because by then, I had two boys, and there was no way I was leaving the little brother out of the name or the story.
Not because life got simpler—but because I had learned to see the beauty in the small, the strength in the survival, and the purpose in all the pivots.
Now?
Over 73,000 sales
Saints and sloths
Sassy stickers and homeschool charts
Printables with heart and function
A blog built on lived-in truth
This blog is my front porch. The shop is my kitchen table hustle. And that insert? It started it all.
So whether you came for a sticker, a printable, or just needed a reminder that your story matters—welcome.
You’re part of this now. And I’m so glad you’re here.
📝 The Insert That Started It All
I’ve brought back the FlyLady printable that launched this shop— ✨ Originally designed in Microsoft ✨ Now available as a Google Doc (converted automatically) ✨ Editable so you can make it your own
No need for Microsoft! Your download opens right in Google Docs, and all the directions you’ll need are included in the Printable Directions file.
P.S. If you haven’t read the post that really kicked all this off, check out “If You Give a Mom a Planner…” — it’s the moment everything changed. A missed rent payment, a planner order, and a mama who remembered she was made to create.
Except I made three trips to the office before I ever got it.
Trip 1: I saw food left out in the kitchen. My brain latched on. “This needs to be handled.” So I handled it.
Trip 2: I heard Big Mac. He was still up—he hadn’t taken his meds. That became the new priority.
Trip 3: I finally got what I originally came for: my phone charger.
And somewhere between trips two and three, it hit me.
This is how my brain has always worked.
🧠 First Grade Was the First Clue
I was diagnosed with ADHD in first grade, in Mrs. Miles’ class. But instead of support, I was pulled away from my classmates and placed at a separate desk.
They said it was to help me focus. What it really did was label me, without a word.
No fidgets. No flexibility. Just isolation and pressure. “Sit still. Focus. Try harder.”
That was the first time I remember feeling like I didn’t belong.
And the bullying? It followed fast and hard.
✨ The Exception
But not every classroom was a battlefield.
In 2nd and 4th grade, I had Mr. Lane.
He always met me where I was. He didn’t shame me for how my brain worked—he adjusted. He was calm. Creative. Patient. He was my Mrs. Jones. The kind of teacher who stays with you long after the spelling tests are gone.
And it was in his class—the last week of 4th grade—that I finally started ADHD medication.
It didn’t fix everything, but it was the first time something lifted—the fog, the shame, the sense that I was just lazy. For once, I could focus, and someone saw me instead of a problem.
In a blur of years where I was too much for most, Mr. Lane made me feel just right.
🪙 The Tokens
By fifth grade, in Ms. Arnold’s class, everything had gotten harder. Puberty had started. My cycle had begun. Hormones were raging—and my ADHD symptoms intensified.
Her intentions weren’t unkind, but the system? It still missed the mark.
Their solution?
A manila envelope filled with three jagged squares of neon posterboard, cut hastily and uneven.
That was my limit:
Three times I could get out of my seat.
Three questions I could ask.
If I didn’t use them, I could save them. Behavioral currency for basic needs.
This wasn’t support. It was containment.
I didn’t need restrictions. I needed understanding. Instead, I got scraps of neon paper.
🔥 Fire #1 – The School
In fifth grade, I was outside playing when I heard the fire alarms blaring from the school.
We lived close enough that I could hear them from the yard—and when they didn’t stop, we went to see what was going on.
My school was on fire.
We later learned it was arson—someone had broken in with a blowtorch and set it.
Our class was displaced for the rest of the year. We were first moved into the old multipurpose room, then into portables. Nothing felt normal. Nothing felt safe.
I had just started ADHD medication a few months earlier, at the end of 4th grade with Mr. Lane.
But it was hard to tell what was working when everything around me was on fire—figuratively and literally.
🔥 Fire #2 – A Flashback I’ll Never Forget
On my 13th birthday—January 7th—I was in the last period of the school day when I heard the sirens:
Fire trucks. So many of them.
As I walked home, I saw the trucks lining the street. I saw smoke rising above my neighborhood.
Then I turned the corner.
Our car was pushed up on a neighbor’s lawn—my mom had driven it there herself after seeing the smoke, rushing to reach the house and check on my brothers.
They had gotten home before me and followed our plan, running to the neighbors across the street.
And then I saw it:
Our building. The two upper units were on fire. Our ground-level home didn’t burn—but it was filled with smoke and flooded with water. Everything we owned was damaged.
We couldn’t stay.
We moved in with my grandparents. I slept on a mattress in the formal dining room.
It wasn’t just what we lost. It was how fast we had to leave it behind.
👀 Then My Son Looked at Me
Fast forward.
Big Mac— our son with autism—looked at me one day and said:
“Mama… maybe you’re like me.”
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
Maybe it wasn’t just ADHD. Maybe I’ve spent my whole life masking something more.
The sensory overload. The rigidity. The shutdowns. The way I get so overstimulated I forget what I was doing in the first place.
Maybe it’s not forgetfulness. Maybe it’s a lifetime of trying to act “normal” while quietly unraveling inside.
🦖 Don’t Step on a Crack
I saw the plan.
The desk chart. The new rules. The quiet spaces that looked a lot like isolation in disguise.
And I saw my son—about to fall into the same cracks I had fought so hard to crawl out of.
Virtual learning didn’t feel safe. It felt familiar.
“Don’t step on a crack, or you’ll fall and break your back.” I used to think it was just a rhyme. Now I know—it was a warning.
💬 What I Know Now
I may never have a paper diagnosis. But I have a brain that keeps revealing more of its story every day.
I met with my therapist yesterday and told her about the blog. I talked about what I’m starting to write, and the memories that won’t stop coming.
She told me what I’m doing is amazing. She said this work is healing.
She’s encouraged me to journal my trauma before, but I’ve always said the same thing:
“I hate writing.”
I didn’t want to sit with it. I didn’t want to re-live it.
But this—this is different.
This is witnessing. This is me giving voice to stories I’ve carried in silence for too long.
Stories I’ve only just begun to speak out loud. Even Sparkey hasn’t heard them all.
Until now, I had only shared my pain story—and Small Fry’s birth. But now they’re spilling out.
And I’m not trying to stop them.
Because I remember what it felt like to fall through the cracks. And I’m building something steadier—for our boys, for our family… and maybe for me, too.
There are nights when I can’t find comfort in my own body. When every position feels wrong, and no amount of shifting or adjusting brings relief. My back feels like it’s being wrung out like a washcloth—tight, twisted, worn. Some spots burn sharp, like someone’s taken a knife and turned it slowly, just to see what gives. Other places just ache with a bone-deep fatigue that no amount of rest ever quite erases.
It’s hard to put into words, even for the people who love me most. But I try—because I need them to understand when I can’t keep pretending I’m fine.
Last night was one of those nights. I was so uncomfortable I couldn’t even settle. Just constant, restless pain. So we made the call: take the muscle relaxer. Not to fix anything, but to knock me out. Because sometimes the kindest thing I can do for myself is stop feeling—even if that means giving in to sleep I didn’t earn through peace, but through exhaustion.
It’s not weakness. It’s not giving up. It’s choosing mercy.
And today? I caught myself asking—why does everything hurt so bad? Where did I go wrong? I hadn’t overdone it. I hadn’t done anything wild or reckless.
But I had handled Harley on the leash at the shot clinic. I stood in line with other pets, kept him steady, kept me steady. That’s something I couldn’t have done even a month ago.
And sure, today I sat on a stepstool to move laundry from the washer to the dryer. But you know what? We adapted that space when we replaced the machines—not just so I could do it without hurting myself, but so I could do it without having to ask for help. We’re making our home work for me. That’s not defeat. That’s wisdom. That’s progress.
This body of mine—held together by faulty glue and a whole lot of grit—is getting stronger. The steps we’re taking are working. The strength is coming back. But healing has never meant painless. It just means I’m doing more in spite of the pain, and with a lot more wisdom along the way.
Rest isn’t weakness. Needing help doesn’t mean failure. And pain, as stubborn and sharp as it is, doesn’t get to steal the fact that I’m still going.
Simple Southern Mommy 