Tag: Simple Southern Mommy

Health & Healing, Weight Loss Journey

⚡ SVT, Steroids, and a Misfiring Heart

SimpleSouthernMommy

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.

And then…

The stone hit.

Shop Life & Creativity

From David’s Mommy to Simple Southern Mommy

SimpleSouthernMommy

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.

📥 Download the FlyLady Insert

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.

Neurodiversity & Parenting

🧠 Three Trips and a Lightbulb Moment

SimpleSouthernMommy

Last night, I needed my phone charger.

Simple enough, right?

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.

Sourdough & Simple Living

Meet Bubbles – Bread, Therapy, and Southern Sass Since 2020

SimpleSouthernMommy

Every sourdough has a story. Ours starts with a jar named Bubbles, born right here in our kitchen in August 2020 — back when the world felt upside down and all I could do was bake through it.

But truth be told, I’ve always loved sourdough. I grew up eating Boudin bread from San Francisco — the real deal. Any time we went into the city as kids, we’d swing by the wharf. Everyone else got clam chowder, but not me. I never cared much for it. I got the chili in a bread bowl, every single time — and it was heaven.

When I first started baking with Bubbles, I had no idea how important she would become to our family. What began as a kitchen science experiment turned into part of our wellness — and a whole lot of love. Since having my surgeries, I’ve found I tolerate sourdough much better than store-bought bread. It’s gentler on digestion, better for our health, and kinder to my body thanks to that lower glycemic index and long fermentation process.

And now, with our journey through EDS and uncovering more about Small Fry’s wheat sensitivity, we’ve found that he handles sourdough beautifully — much better than commercial breads, waffles, or pancakes. So we make it all: sourdough English muffins, pancakes, sandwich loaves, and yes — even tortillas. (Though I refuse to make another one until I get a proper tortilla press. I have my limits.)

We use sourdough in so many ways around here, it’s become part of our family. Both boys talk about using it when they grow up — like it’s just something you pass down, like cast iron or good manners. It’s part of how we teach life skills, and honestly, it’s real-life math. The kind you actually use. Measuring, feeding ratios, fermentation time — it’s all in there, and it sticks better than any worksheet ever could.

Saturday morning, Small Fry came into the kitchen and declared it was waffle time — and who was I to argue?
So Bubbles got an extra big feed, and we set aside some discard to make a batch of sourdough waffles on Sunday. That’s the thing about a good starter: she gives and gives, even when you’re not expecting it.

When I first got started, I used to daydream about sneaking Bubbles into Boudin’s like a little secret science experiment. Let her catch some of that legendary yeast in the air and soak up the magic. But now I know — sourdough starters don’t just absorb their environment, they become part of it. They’re living, responsive, adaptive. What you feed them, how you care for them, the rhythm of your home — it all matters.

People like to talk about 100-year-old starters, but here’s the truth: the yeast inside regenerates constantly. A starter is only as old as the yeast that’s living in it today.
That said, an established starter — one that’s been cared for and allowed to grow strong? That’s a powerhouse. My Bubbles is a scrappy little survivor. I’ve forgotten to feed her for a week (or two — life happens), and she still bounces back like nothing ever happened.

Friends who’ve gotten a scoop of Bubbles from me still rave about how strong she is — how quickly their dough rises, how good the flavor is, and how hard it is to kill her. She’s dependable, deeply rooted, and well-loved — just like anything worth keeping.

And let me tell you — even the sandwich loaf I accidentally overproofed on Friday still turned out soft, golden, and perfect for toast. That’s what happens when you’ve got a strong starter and a little grace in the mix.

I also whipped up a loaf of chocolate chocolate chip sourdough for Big Mac’s birthday breakfast — the only way that boy will touch anything eggy is if I turn it into French toast with Bubbles. I accidentally doubled the recipe (bless it), but it baked up beautifully — that loaf’s right there in the photo, proud and rich and full of love.

She’s not just flour and water. She’s therapy. She’s legacy. She’s the smell of something warm filling my kitchen on a hard day. She’s how I feed my people — like I always have.

I didn’t gain my curves eating McDonald’s. I gained them in the kitchen, learning how to season, simmer, and stir with love. I’ve only made one meal Sparky wouldn’t touch — some tragic lemon pork situation early on in our relationship that we just don’t speak of. Otherwise? I’ve got a reputation. I’ve had more than one friend’s husband say, “White girl can cook.” And they’re right.

Friends will ask me for recipes and then remember — I don’t really use them. I cook from the heart, from memory, from instinct. But when it comes to baking? I do measure — because baking is chemistry, and sometimes it matters whether that scoop of baking powder is level or not.
Garlic and vanilla, though? Those are measured by the heart. Around here, flavor leads, and the Holy Spirit handles the rest.

I meant to post this yesterday, but life (and chocolate bread) got in the way — so here we are.
Happy Sourdough Saturday Sunday, y’all. Me and Bubbles are still rising.
She’s fallen, but she can get back up — just like the rest of us.