Finding Forty

Creating holiday magic from the ground up

I used to think the magic of Christmas belonged to childhood.

To those who grew up with matching pajamas, steady traditions, and stories retold every December without fail.

I used to believe that Christmas magic was inherited, like an heirloom passed down through generations.

But when you grow up without heirlooms, when your memories are marked by instability, unpredictability, or emotional landmines, the holidays do not glow with nostalgia.

They sit heavy.

For some of us, Christmas was not magical.

It was loud.

It was lonely.

It was uncertain.

Every year looked different, and the best we could hope for was that this one might be a little less dramatic than the last.

When you do not come from tradition, you do not step into adulthood carrying recipes, rituals, or warm memories.

You step in carrying determination.

You carry the quiet ache of what you wish you had known.

And somehow, in the most unlikely way, you use that ache as fuel.

That is what cycle breakers do.

We do not recreate something we once loved.

We create something we never had the chance to experience.

And let me tell you, there is nothing effortless about creating magic from scratch.

Christmas, for me, is not made of inherited rhythms.

It is made of rolled up sleeves, late night lists, last minute ideas, and sheer hope.

It is searching for simple traditions, lighting a candle because it feels like something families do, and building a season moment by intentional moment.

It is taking a deep breath and whispering

Let this feel like magic for them.

Even if it never felt like magic for me.

Cycle breakers do not chase perfection.

We chase gentleness.

We chase stability.

We chase moments our children can tuck into their hearts without fear.

And somewhere in the middle of the work, between the wrapping paper and the whispered bedtime stories, a quiet truth begins to rise.

The magic is not found.

It is forged.

It is created in the way we show up again and again, offering our children what we are still learning to offer ourselves.

Safety.

Softness.

Wonder.

So if Christmas feels heavy, complicated, or unfamiliar to you as an adult, if you are piecing it together with willpower and compassion, know this:

You are not doing it wrong.

You are doing holy, healing work.

You are creating the memories your children will one day look back on with warmth.

You are giving them the magic you were never given.

And that is the quiet, powerful beauty of being a cycle breaker.

The traditions you build today become the heirlooms they carry tomorrow.

And this year, as the season begins, I find myself watching two little boys take in the early signs of Christmas with wide eyes and open hands. One is just beginning to notice the lights, asking tiny questions and waiting for a magic he only half understands. The other is nestled against me, unaware of the weight this season once carried, already held in a gentler story than the one I grew up with.

And even now, before the wrapping paper and the cocoa and the chaos, I can feel it happening.

The shift.

The softening.

The quiet proof that the work I am doing matters.

Because the magic does not wait until December twenty fifth.

It shows up in the small beginnings.

In the early mornings.

In the way they throw down and lean in, safe.

In the way they look around, loved.

In the way the season feels steadier in their hands than it ever did in mine.

The magic I never had is already becoming the world they get to grow up in.

And that alone makes every effort, every choice, and every moment worth it.

There are moments in trauma healing that feel like someone has reached into your chest and touched an old bruise you didn’t realize was still tender.

Not to hurt it, but to acknowledge it.

That’s what happened when my estranged brother reached out.

A simple message.

An invitation to meet.

And then the words I never thought I’d see:

“I’m sorry… I hope you can forgive me.”

It wasn’t just a message from him. It was a message from my past.

From a childhood where chaos was normalized.

Where survival was the skill we learned before reading or riding a bike.

For anyone who grew up in trauma, you understand:

childhood doesn’t end when you become an adult.

It follows you.

It shows up in your nervous system, your relationships, your boundaries, your fears, your craving for connection and your fear of it at the same time.

When his message came through, my first reaction wasn’t simple.

It was layered.

I felt nostalgia for the siblinghood I once imagined.

I felt grief for the family we never had.

And I felt dread, because reconnecting, even gently, asks the body to reopen old files it once buried for protection.

But trauma work has taught me something essential:

You can feel compassion without abandoning your boundaries.

You can hear someone’s apology without merging your life with theirs.

You can hold truth and tenderness at the same time.

We Were Children Navigating a Storm With No Lifeguard

For so long, I viewed the pain between us as personal, something he caused, something I carried.

Healing has shifted that lens.

The truth is:

we were two children in a traumatic environment that offered neither guidance nor emotional stability.

He was the firstborn trying to earn love from a mother who didn’t have the capacity to give it.

I was the younger sibling watching and learning in a house built on survival and instability.

Our choices as kids and teenagers were not character flaws.

They were coping mechanisms, understandable reactions of children without safety, structure, or emotional literacy.

That realization didn’t excuse the hurt.

But it helped me understand its roots.

And understanding is one of the first steps toward freedom.

Healing Changes the Story You Tell Yourself

I’ve spent years in therapy.

Years in support groups.

Years working with teens from backgrounds so similar to ours that it felt like watching our childhood unfold in front of me, only this time with adult eyes and vocabulary.

What I learned is this:

Trauma explains behavior.

It doesn’t condone it, but it explains it.

And when you finally see the pattern, the grip of the past loosens.

I no longer hold hate.

I no longer hold blame.

What I hold now is a deep desire for peace, for myself, for my children, even for the ones who hurt me.

Memory Is a Strange Kind of Mercy

In the middle of all the pain, I still remember him trying to protect us.

I remember him standing between us and the neighborhood kids.

I remember him carrying expectations that were far too heavy for a boy his age.

And somehow, healing has allowed me to hold that truth alongside the hurt, not deleting one to make room for the other.

This is what trauma recovery does:

it gives you a more complete picture.

It lets you see the child who was drowning, not just the teenager who lashed out.

It lets you honor the wounded parts of someone without giving those parts authority over your present life.

Boundaries: The Quiet Heroes of Healing

So when I responded to him, I answered with compassion and clarity.

I told him I appreciated his message.

I told him I saw the bravery in reaching out.

And I also told him the truth:

Right now, my emotional bandwidth is limited.

My life is full of tender places, a toddler navigating big emotions, a newborn, postpartum health challenges, a husband with autoimmune issues, and my own cancer recovery.

My response wasn’t rejection.

It wasn’t punishment.

It was protection, of my healing, my stability, and the life I’ve worked so hard to build.

Boundaries aren’t walls.

They’re doors we open intentionally and cautiously.

And sometimes, healing means only opening them a few inches at a time.

Repair Doesn’t Always Mean Reunion

His apology doesn’t erase the past, and it doesn’t guarantee the future.

But it does plant a seed.

A seed of possibility.

A seed of acknowledgment.

A seed of repair, small, delicate, but real.

Trauma healing has taught me that reunification doesn’t have to be the goal.

Peace can happen without full reconciliation.

Forgiveness can be internal and quiet.

Connection can be slow, minimal, and still meaningful.

What matters most is this:

I can honor my story without reopening the wounds.

I can accept his remorse without sacrificing my stability.

And I can allow a small, cautious bridge to form, one step at a time, one message at a time, only as fast as my nervous system feels safe.

This is healing.

Not the shiny, dramatic kind.

But the slow, steady, grounded kind that honors the child I was, the adult I’ve become, and the family I’m building now.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is answer the past with both compassion and boundaries.

Sometimes the bravest thing is simply this:

“I see you. And I’m healing too.”

When a single sentence becomes a generational shift

Some stories don’t arrive loudly. They slip in as a line in a report, a pause in a sentence, a moment that settles in your chest and quietly rearranges something deep inside. This week’s Trauma Tuesday is one of those moments—a reminder that healing doesn’t always look like grand revelations. Sometimes it looks like a simple, unexpected sentence that shows the work you’ve done, the work you’re still doing, is taking root in your children in ways you once only prayed for.

We received the OT evaluation for one of my children today.

I moved through pages of numbers and charts,

skills measured and compared,

little boxes checked in tidy rows.

And then

a single sentence stopped me cold:

“Strengths include a supportive family…”

I cried.

Not from fear.

But from the kind of healing that rises quietly

when you realize you’ve become the parent

you once needed.

Because biologically, maternally, generationally

this is a first.

My children get to grow up

in support,

in safety,

in softness.

With parents who show up,

who try again,

who hold space,

who build something gentler than what they were given.

Something I didn’t have words for as a child

but somehow learned how to offer as a mother.

And today on our 8-year anniversary

that line felt like a mirror.

A reminder that even in the mess,

even in the doubt,

even in all we get wrong,

we are doing something profoundly right.

We are breaking cycles.

We are building a new story.

We are showing up.

Presence is our inheritance to them

and it is quietly rewriting everything.

And oh, how often I forget the holiness of that.

If you’ve ever had a moment like this—where healing sneaks up on you in an ordinary sentence—I would love to hear it. Share it in the comments or send a message. Cycle breaking can feel lonely, but we’re rewriting these stories together.

Today, I told my husband to lie to me—and I meant it.

If you know me, you know my number one pet peeve has always been lying. I hate it. I pride myself on honesty, even when the truth is uncomfortable. So for me to actually ask for a lie? That’s not something I did lightly.

I’m in my second pregnancy. Even before this baby, I had gained around 70 pounds since our dating days. My body is softer, my face rounder, my clothes fit differently. And still—maybe especially now—my husband never hesitates to tell me I’m beautiful.

Messy bun, spit-up stains, food on my shirt… even when I know I look exhausted, he’ll look me straight in the eyes and say it: You’re beautiful.

And as much as that should melt me, the truth is… it hasn’t always felt honest. In my head, flattery is lying. It makes me wonder: if he’s lying about this, what else could he lie about? Compliments start to feel like fiction.

But today was different. Today I realized that sometimes the lie isn’t really about the words—it’s about the heart behind them. When he says I’m beautiful, maybe it’s not about my hair or my weight or the laundry on my shirt. Maybe it’s about how he sees me, even when I can’t see myself.

And lately, there’s more at stake than just my reflection in the mirror.

A new school year is about to begin for him at his job, and for me in a brand-new position. We have a toddler in a new stage, a baby on the way, new expenses, new pressures. He’s overwhelmed. I’m overwhelmed.

The difference is—he speaks his fears out loud. I swallow mine. I tell myself, It’s all going to be fine. I tell him it’s all going to be fine. Logically, I know it will be. But when he says the very things I silently think but refuse to voice—when I hear them spoken into the air—it’s like my composure shatters. Suddenly, it feels like it could all come crashing down on us.

So today, I told him: If you can lie to me and tell me I’m beautiful in the most beastly season of my life, then you can lie to me and tell me it’s all going to be alright.

Because maybe that’s what love really is—not only telling the truth, but knowing exactly when to speak the kind of lie that holds someone together until they can believe the truth for themselves.

The right lie, in the right moment, can feel an awful lot like faith.

Descended, Not Defined

I come from a line of women who were never quite “typical.”

My mother. Her mother. Her sister.

All likely neurodivergent—undiagnosed, unsupported, and uncontained.

Not women you’d call “high-functioning.”

They didn’t mask. They didn’t assimilate.

They lived on the margins—off systems, disconnected from stability, estranged from each other… and eventually, from me.

Survival looked more like chaos than triumph.

We weren’t close.

The relationships were fractured, frayed.

Generations of misunderstanding and unmet needs passed down like heirlooms.

I’m estranged from my mother.

She was estranged from hers.

And still, I carry the imprint.

People love to romanticize eccentricity.

I didn’t see brilliance—I saw instability.

I saw what happens when difference goes unsupported for generations.

Their creativity was bizarre—sometimes fascinating, sometimes heartbreaking.

Purses made from candy wrappers. Baby blankets stitched for grandchildren long before their daughters had even finished childhood.

Fabric scraps and strange collections strewn through cluttered homes, filled with the remnants of projects that never found purpose.

Self-made artists without an audience—compelled to make, but with nowhere to place it, no one to receive it, no grounding behind it.

There was something original there, yes. But it lived alongside chaos.

And often, it was hard to separate art from dysfunction.

And now—this fall—I begin the school year as a Gifted and Talented teacher.

I’ve wrestled with the word imposter.

Because I didn’t come from excellence.

I came from dysfunction, dependency, systems that swallowed people whole.

I don’t come from a legacy of achievement.

I come from women who weren’t understood, and who ultimately didn’t survive in the way we often mean when we say “survive.”

So how did I end up here?

Maybe not as an expert.

But as a witness.

As someone who knows what it looks like when a bright mind is missed—because I grew up in that shadow.

Giftedness isn’t always tidy.

Sometimes it screams. Sometimes it withdraws.

Sometimes it shows up as a child no one wants to test because they’re “too emotional,” “too distracted,” “too weird.”

But I see them.

Because I come from them.

And I don’t want my students to grow up misunderstood, misdiagnosed, mislabeled—

or to be someone’s strange memory decades later.

I want better for them.

This isn’t about honoring a legacy I want to continue.

It’s about interrupting one.

I’m not here because those women taught me.

I’m here because they couldn’t.

And in that space—between estrangement and empathy, between survival and hope—

I teach.

Today, I washed poop off a toddler, underwear, and myself.

I am tired. Not “I need a nap” tired—soul tired. I am pull-string doll tired. Repeating the same phrases over and over like I’m the only one who hears them.

“We don’t climb the furniture.”

“Gentle hands.”

“Because I said so—again.”

Redirection? Ha. I know I should do it. I try to do it. But by the twelfth time, the only thing I’m redirecting is my sanity.

At this point, I would sell my last brain cell for a Red Bull, a tray of sushi, some cold deli meat, and—brace yourself—a stiff drink. Maybe even a cigarette.

And to be clear: I don’t smoke. I’ve had a cigarette, sure—preteen me used to sneak the butts from my birth mom’s ashtrays. But I’ve never smoked as an adult. That’s how deep in the trenches I am right now… craving something I don’t even want, just to feel a flicker of adult autonomy again—to choose something indulgent solely for myself, without explaining, sharing, or cleaning it up after.

They say motherhood is precious.

And it is.

But not because it’s clean or calm or easy.

It’s precious because it breaks you open. Because somewhere between the chaos and the quiet, you catch glimpses of something sacred. Like the way he serenaded me after his nap—

“You are so beautiful to me.”

Just like that. No prompt. No performance. Just the unfiltered tenderness of a toddler who moments earlier was treating the couch like a trampoline.

Today was hard. Tomorrow might be too.

But tonight, I’m going to sit in the silence (if it ever comes), crack open an Olipop, and toast my survival. Because even when I feel completely undone…

This messy, maddening, magical work is still holy.

Intro:

As I prepare to welcome my second son into the world, I find myself living in the tension between fear and faith. This is a glimpse into the quiet, anxious prayers and steady declarations that carry me through these final weeks.

The possibility of loss and tragedy

as I await the birth of my son

haunts me.

I shove the thoughts away,

try to focus on the other possibilities.

Statistically, most people deliver babies without tragedy.

I plead—

with God,

with the universe,

with my body,

with my ancestors,

with the child growing within me—

for everything to go well.

I need to drink more water,

eat more vegetables,

walk more often,

breathe more deeply.

Instead, I rush to

reorganize the house,

decorate the nursery,

complete the tasks left undone

since the birth of my first.

I know it’s all going to be okay.

I know he’s going to be perfect—

and our hearts will radiate love and excitement.

The fears will fade.

The finances will work themselves out.

The fun will unfold.

I declare it so…

so I know.

Swamp Witch Energy

I’ve been home with my son for days dealing with the most disgusting virus. Even once he started feeling better, the sensory stuff lingered—chewing and spitting out food, then wiping it on me. Our “sweet” picnic moment? Yeah, that included me getting smeared with regurgitated sandwich. I redirected him to the towel like a champ, but still… 🤢

By the time my husband got home, I was DONE. I told him I felt like a swamp witch—like I couldn’t wash the gross off of me. I felt sticky, sour, touched-out, and exhausted. I didn’t even want to eat.

HOURS later—conversation long gone from my mind—he looks at me, all sweet and loving, and says:

“I love you, my cute little swamp witch.”

Y’all. I LOST it.

Who calls their pregnant wife a swamp witch?! 😂

It’s funny now (thanks to sleep), but in the moment? Nope. I was feral. I wish I had been soft and endearing. I was not.

Marriage, man.

Motherhood, too.

We’re all just doing our best in the bog.

I’ve never been rich.

Only in short, fleeting moments

have I known what it’s like to have plenty.

But never—until now—

did I understand the true richness

of a full night’s sleep.

In my youth,

I believed sleepless nights

meant passion, purpose,

or well-aligned priorities.

Now, as a parent,

those same hours are spent

rocking, soothing, surviving—

with a heart so full it hurts.

But the person I am without sleep

is a far cry from who I am with it.

The difference is not subtle.

It’s stark—concerning, even.

Sleepless me is brittle.

She walks the edge of tears and temper,

where my ugliest upbringing resurfaces,

where insecurities sharpen into weapons,

where anxiety feels commitable.

It’s not just exhaustion—

it’s exposure.

A peeling back of every layer

I’ve worked so hard to soothe.

And still,

there’s nothing I long for more

than the crisp alertness

that follows real, uninterrupted rest.

Because in this season,

sleep is not just rest—

it is restoration,

it is wealth,

it is grace.

And slowly, surely,

those full nights will return.

And so will I.

When motherhood gets messy, love still shows up—even if it’s not in the ways you imagined.

Last night was one of those nights.

The kind where sleep feels like a stranger, and exhaustion settles deep in your bones.

Where my chosen tones and words—sharp and frayed—leave behind regret.

Where my actions aren’t the ones I want to remember, much less repeat.

It was a night of toddler rage.

Cookies and Elmo at midnight—because why not?

“You want it? You got it. Just calm down.”

Was I spoiling him?

Or was I showing him what unconditional love looks like, even at 2 a.m.?

He hit himself in the head. Screamed.

Pain I couldn’t relieve.

I held his ears between my palms, a small gesture to show I understood.

He settled for a moment.

Then Advil.

Then louder screams.

And while I tried to comfort one child, the other—still nestled inside me—took blow after blow from tiny, panicked feet.

My swollen belly bore it all.

I peed my pants.

Not from laughter.

Not from surprise.

Just from sheer overwhelm and the strain of it all.

And I cried out—but only in my mind.

Because there was no time to fall apart.

My husband holds me tight, tells me it will be alright.

Just kidding. I’m dreaming.

We’re too tired for niceties.

Instead, he helped me swap my panties for something clean and dry

while giving a countdown of how many hours we might still plausibly sleep.

That’s love too, I think.

Not flowers. Not poetry.

But hands that help you stand in the mess.

The air felt thick with confusion.

Each of us grasping for control.

Each of us desperate to feel safe.

This is the part of motherhood people don’t post.

The midnight meltdowns.

The decisions that blur the line between boundaries and survival.

The shame, the pee, the guilt, the love.

It’s not picture perfect.

It’s not even passable some nights.

But it’s real.

And I’m still here.

Still showing up.

Still holding him through the storm.

Still holding me through it, too.

Looking forward to the day we hold each other again.