Finding Forty

I had more caffeine than ever before. Caffeinated, not cracked out. And for a brief, unfiltered moment, I thought, I get it.

I could use some drugs right about now too.

Not serious. Not even close. Not approval. Not permission. A mockery, almost.

Because how do you fall apart to that and add that level of chaos to children who are already at their capacity too?

We were in Arkansas Children’s Hospital again. The same hum. The same quiet, clinical tension that settles into your chest before anyone even says a word.

And then—the Ronald McDonald House.

Just a glimpse.

And something in me shifted.

No clear flashback. No vivid memory. Just a knowing.

I’ve been here before.

My baby sister. Open heart surgery.

And me—a child—standing in the beginning days of my birth mother’s addiction.

There’s a kind of stress that lives in places like that. The kind that doesn’t ask if you’re ready. The kind that doesn’t care how old you are.

The kind where you quietly learn to hold it together because someone has to.

That day in the hospital room, I realized something else.

I played with my son the same way I once played with my sister thirty years ago. Distracting from procedures. Turning clinical words into something softer, safer. Making it feel like a game when it wasn’t one.

It should have been my first time mothering through hospital complexities.

But it wasn’t.

I had done this before.

With my sister—just three years younger than me. I was the one who comforted her, held her through tears, distracted her, made sure she felt safe.

It was me.

A child turned mother long before her time.

So of course my body remembered. Of course it knew what to do when it was truly my turn—my responsibility.

What I didn’t expect was how quickly the past would sit down beside the present.

Not loud. Not overwhelming.

Just… there.

Layered in.

The child I was and the mother I am standing in the same space at the same time.

And in that overlap, something in me steadied.

Because this time, I wasn’t the one hoping someone would hold it together.

I was the one who could.

As I comforted my son, I realized I was parenting two children in that moment—him, and the motherly child within me.

That wasn’t yours to carry.

I’m sorry that was placed on you when you were just a child.

You did so good.

Your 40 year old self is so proud of you.

And thank you—for preparing us for this. For here. For now.

Because my children—the ones we dreamt of protecting and providing for, the ones who first inspired us to break generational cycles before it was ever our job—benefit greatly from the care you gave then, as I reshape it, remodel it, and fit it to meet their needs now.

I heard myself say, It’s just one moment. It’s just one day. It will get better.

To him. To the room. To myself.

And with that clarity came something heavier.

The disgust. The distaste.

For a birth mother who chose herself—her comfort, her capacity—over the children who didn’t have a choice at all.

Because now I can see it. I can feel the pressure. The overwhelm. The edge of this is too much.

I can understand how someone gets there.

And still—I cannot fathom the choices she made.

I can see the path.

I just didn’t take it.

Yesterday, I was stretched. Overstimulated. Overcaffeinated. Holding more than felt reasonable.

And still—I chose him.

Every time.

I translated fear into play. I turned language into comfort. I held the line.

Because I remember what it felt like to be the child in that space, absorbing everything with no control over any of it.

Understanding how doesn’t require accepting what.

I understand the weight now.

I just don’t understand leaving it on a child.

My baby boy cried for me as I stood beside him, able to comfort him.

In the same way I once cried. My sister cried out for our mother.

The difference is she was checked out.

She chose herself—her needs, her preferences—then, and she still does.

Estranged. And estranged we will remain.

Understanding didn’t change that.

It confirmed it.