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]]>Pitch Black
A Mother’s Story of Loving a Child Through the Dark
There are things the body never forgets.
Like the sound of a hospital door locking behind you, while your six-year-old stays on the other side.
The devastation of knowing that behind that locked door your first grader is lying on a plastic mattress with a smother-proof blanket.
The agony of walking back through those hospital doors knowing this time your child isn’t walking out with you.
The numbness of the drive home — arms empty.
The crushing weight of pitch black.
“I sometimes feel like you don’t even care about me and I want to murder me. I feel like I want to die, but in a not hurtful way.”
Finn, age 5
My world tilted sideways.
The silence that followed felt deafening.
The body also doesn’t forget the absolute terror that floods through it when your five-year-old — the same kid who still needs snuggles to fall asleep — looks at you with absolute sincerity and says those words the day before he turns six.
Not theatrics.
Not manipulation.
Not attention-seeking.
Relief-seeking.
He wasn’t trying to escape life.
He was trying to escape feelings that felt too big for a five-year-old nervous system to hold.
Four months later, he was hospitalized for self-harm.
There is no parenting book that prepares you for signing intake paperwork for your child.
No breathing exercise that teaches you how to breathe through the devastation of walking out of hospital doors knowing your child isn’t walking out with you.
No script for explaining to your other child why their brother can’t come home.
No training for the way your nervous system fractures when you realize your child’s pain has grown bigger than your arms can hold.
People love to talk about resilience like it’s inspirational.
They rarely talk about the cost.
The hypervigilance.
The flinch response.
The way certain phrases echo years later.
The way “I’m fine” never lands the same again.
And yet.
There’s another part people rarely talk about.
The rebuild.
The slow rewiring.
Therapy rooms.
Co-regulation at 2 a.m.
Boundaries that feel cruel but save lives.
Choosing steadiness when your insides are shaking.
The belts earned.
The laughter returning.
The light creeping back in.
This isn’t a story about glorifying darkness.
It’s about refusing to pretend it doesn’t exist.
Because sometimes the dark is pitch black.
And loving your child through it anyway — when the dark feels like it might swallow you whole?
That’s the real strength.
He’s still here.
I’m still here.
Sometimes, survival is the victory.
Readers Note:
The inspiration and strength to write this blog came to me while Finn was preparing for his upcoming black belt testing. In martial arts, progress is marked by belts. Each one marks a stage of growth — lessons learned, struggles faced, skills slowly built over time.
Looking back now, Finn’s story unfolded the same way.
White Belt
But the darkness didn’t begin at that moment.
It didn’t begin in the hospital either.
Finn’s story — and mine — had been unfolding long before that night.
His emotional intensity started showing up when he was barely three years old. At first it just felt like big emotions. The kind people brush off as “strong-willed” or “spirited.” At the time, I honestly thought Everett would be the child who challenged me the most. His autism had shown itself early, and I had already started learning how to navigate the world of neurodivergence. I thought I already “knew” what advocacy looked like.
But Finn had other plans.
Somewhere along the way, my easygoing second child quietly looked at the universe and said, “Challenge accepted… hold my beer.”
For years we tried to understand how Finn’s brain experienced the world.
Therapy. Diagnoses. Medication trials.
Some things helped. Some things didn’t.
The week before Finn turned five, we were given the official names for what we had been experiencing: DMDD, ADHD, and anxiety.
But by Christmas 2023, it was clear something had shifted. The cracks had widened so much they no longer looked like cracks at all — they looked like canyons.
Camo Belt
Christmas Break 2023
For most people, the holidays are a time of joy and connection. Excitement. Family traditions.
That December though… was a hard one.
I remember sitting with Finn while he was writing his letter to Santa.
Most kids ask for toys.
Finn asked Santa to fix him.
He said he wanted a “better life.”
When I asked what that meant, he told me he wished Santa could take away his ADHD and his anger — because he was so tired of always feeling out of control.
I remember sitting there with him and thinking the same thing I would later write in an email to one of his former therapists:
It breaks my heart that at six years old he already feels like he’s broken and needs to be fixed somehow.
A few weeks later, in early January, we had an incident that made it painfully clear things had reached a critical point — and that I was in over my head.
With absolute terror sitting heavy in my chest, I emailed every professional in Finn’s support network.
Therapists.
Psychologists.
Psychiatrists.
Anyone who might know how to reach him.
Because at that point, it felt like we were losing him.
And for a moment there, it felt like we had.
I didn’t know how to reach him anymore.
When I made that desperate plea to the members of his support team, his psychiatrist told us to discontinue the Strattera he had been taking — the last medication in his regimen that had any mood-regulating effect.
She said she was “curious to see what would happen” and that she would see us at our next scheduled appointment — in a little over three weeks.
Stopping that medication abruptly took an already volatile situation and turned it thermonuclear.
His sleep started falling apart.
His anger escalated.
Outbursts became more frequent.
More intense.
More unpredictable.
Our house stopped feeling like a home and started feeling like an emotional battlefield.
But the worst part wasn’t just how hard things had become for me.
It was watching Finn start to believe that nothing was ever going to get better. This was just his life.
When he was calm, he would try to explain it.
He told me the anger felt like it lived inside him all the time, just waiting to explode.
He said ADHD was “too hard.”
That he felt like he couldn’t control anything anymore.
That sometimes he didn’t think he could do this at all.
At six years old.
It was during one of those moments, I realized just how much he was suffering.
He looked at me and said:
“You made me feel like a bad person and like you weren’t my mom anymore. And that made me hate you and made me feel like you weren’t a safe person, and want to kill you. This is too hard. ADHD is too hard. I can’t do this anymore.”
This Isn't Normal
A few days later, I walked into my own psychiatrist’s office for what I thought was a routine medication appointment.
I sat on the small couch across from her chair — the same place I had sat many times before.
I started talking about how my medications were working, but how I felt like I might need an adjustment because of things happening at home. I told her it might be a good idea to increase my anxiety medication just to keep myself regulated enough to deal with everything.
It was important that I could regulate myself.
After all, I was also acting as a regulator for two other nervous systems — and it was getting harder and harder to do that.
She asked me what had been happening.
So I told her.
That Finn’s episodes had been getting worse.
About the anger.
The hopelessness.
The things he had been saying.
How he told me ADHD was too hard.
How he said he couldn’t control anything anymore.
How he had looked at me and said he didn’t think he could do this.
I told her about the medication changes.
About the decision to pull him off his last medication — and how much worse things had gotten since then.
At some point while I was talking, she stopped me.
And she said something that completely shifted my understanding of what was happening.
She looked at me and said:
“I want you to hear something very clearly right now. What you are describing isn’t normal. You’ve been living with this reality for so long that you can’t see how bad it’s gotten.”
And in that moment, everything inside me went very still. Because part of me already knew she was right.
When chaos becomes your normal, your brain learns how to survive it.
You adapt.
You push through.
You convince yourself that maybe this is just what life looks like now.
But hearing someone outside our house say it out loud made something click.
This wasn’t just a hard phase.
Finn needed help.
Immediate help.
And then she said something else.
“If this were my child, I would take him to Children’s.”
I left my appointment and got into my car.
Then I called Fred.
He didn’t answer.
So I sent him a message.
Call me. It’s important.
Then I started the car.
Almost without thinking, I began driving toward the kids’ school.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I already knew what was about to happen. I was going to be pulling Finn out of school early. I knew Fred would trust my judgment once he heard what my doctor had said.
On the way, I called a friend whose husband worked as a doctor in that unit. I needed advice. Reassurance. Anything that might make the next step feel a little less terrifying.
But the truth was, the decision had already been made.
It was no longer a matter of if Finn would be going to Children’s.
It was a matter of when.
And honestly, taking him in when he wasn’t having an active episode was probably one of the best decisions we could have made.
When I picked Finn up from school, we sat in the car for a minute before pulling away.
I told him we were going somewhere to talk to some doctors. That they were going to help us figure out better ways to help him feel good in his body and in his mind again.
That this wasn’t a punishment.
We just needed better tools.
Better ideas.
Better help.
As we started driving, I started explaining more about where we were going and why. Something I told him that felt like common sense in the moment, but ended up becoming one of the most defining moments of his visit.
I told him that when we got there, it was incredibly important that he be completely honest with the doctors — because the only way they could help him feel better was if they knew the truth about what was going on inside his head.
He looked at me for a moment and asked,
“Even if it’s embarrassing?”
I told him yes.
Even then.
That doctors hear embarrassing things every single day. That their job wasn’t to judge him, but to help him. And that they could only do that if he gave them all of the puzzle pieces.
Something clicked.
He nodded.
Within minutes, we were pulling into the ER entrance at Children’s.
The Night Everything Changed
When we arrived, they began the intake process.
Because it was psychiatric intake, they asked him a series of very direct questions.
Questions no parent ever imagines hearing asked to their six-year-old.
“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”
“No.”
“Have you ever tried to kill yourself?”
“No.”
Then the nurse asked another question.
“Have you ever thought about hurting yourself?”
Finn paused
Then he turned and looked at me.
“Even the embarrassing things, Mom?”
My heart clenched.
“Yes,” I told him quietly. “Even those.”
He turned back to the nurse.
“Yes.”
Then she asked if he had ever tried to hurt himself.
Finn took a deep breath.
“Yes”
Something inside me shattered.
When she asked how, he explained that sometimes when he felt stupid, he would punch himself in the head.
Because he felt like his brain was broken.
And in that moment I realized something that shook me to my core.
No matter how much I thought I understood what he was going through…
No matter how many therapy sessions we had attended…
No matter how closely I thought I was paying attention…
I didn’t know that.
My six-year-old had been hurting himself.
And I didn’t know.
It gutted me.
How could my baby be in so much pain that self-harm felt like an answer?
How could I not have seen it?
It was one of the worst moments of my life.
Waiting
After the intake nurse finished documenting everything, she told us to return to the waiting room until they were ready to call us back.
So we sat there.
In the emergency room waiting area.
Like it was any other afternoon.
Except it wasn’t.
People moved in and out around us. Phones rang. Nurses called out names.
But everything felt strangely quiet inside my head.
I kept replaying what Finn had just said.
Because he felt like his brain was broken.
That sentence echoed over and over, mixed with a cascade of questions: How did we get here? How did he even think/know to do something like that? How could I not know? Just HOW.
Eventually a nurse came out and called Finn’s name.
She told us they were ready for us in the psychiatric ER area — a separate section from the regular emergency department.
And just like that, we crossed an invisible line.
We followed her through a set of doors and down a hallway that felt far longer than it was.
At that point, I still didn’t know exactly what was going to happen next.
But somewhere deep down, I knew this wasn’t just a conversation with a doctor anymore.
Something bigger was about to happen.
Waiting...Some more
The psychiatric ER area was surprisingly… quiet.
Not warm exactly.
More like carefully neutral.
The hallway was lined with small rooms, clearly designed for kids, each one visible through observation windows where attendants sat spaced along the corridor, watching several rooms at once.
They led us halfway down the hall and into one of them.
The room itself was simple.
A built-in bed with a plastic mattress.
A small couch pushed against the wall.
Smooth cabinets with locks on each door — cabinets designed to lock away anything that couldn’t be left within reach.
A place for his everyday clothing.
A place for any electronics — including my phone.
A place built to lock away the last vestiges of the normal world.
Everything felt intentional.
Not sterile like a typical hospital room.
But clearly designed so that nothing in it could hurt a child having the worst day of their life.
At the time, I didn’t realize that room was the last place I would sit with Finn before walking out of a hospital without him.
Purple Belt
An attendant’s job seemed to be keeping kids occupied while they waited.
For Finn, that meant an endless stack of coloring pages.
So while doctors and nurses quietly decided what came next for our family, my six-year-old sat on that couch coloring.
And then we waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
A few different doctors and nurses cycled in throughout the evening, each asking their own set of questions.
Some of them directed to Finn.
Some of them directed to me.
The hours blurred together.
At some point Lindsey showed up and joined us, which helped more than I can probably explain.
When you’re sitting in a psychiatric ER with your six-year-old, the presence of someone who simply cares enough to sit beside you matters more than words.
Eventually we ended up eating dinner there.
And for a little while, the room was peaceful.
Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Finn started to figure out how the system worked.
He realized that if he asked the attendant for specific things — coloring pages, drinks — the guy would just… bring them.
You could practically see the gears turning in his head.
Finn may have a lot of hurdles, but intelligence definitely isn’t one of them. In fact, I frequently joke that he’s my “evil super genius.”
So after testing the system a few times, Finn decided to aim a little higher.
He asked for ice cream.
And when the attendant came back a few minutes later holding exactly that, Finn looked very pleased with himself.
Like he had just pulled off some kind of elaborate heist.
And honestly, I laughed.
Because even in the middle of everything, he was still very much Finn.
A little while later, while he was polishing off his ice cream, he asked me a question that caught me completely off guard.
“Do they do birthday parties here?”
At first I thought he meant if they celebrated birthdays for kids who happened to be admitted around their birthday.
So I asked him to clarify.
He looked at me and said no.
He meant could he have his next birthday party there.
I remember laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.
Because of course.
Only my child would want a grippy sock birthday party.
That moment of absurdity would be one of the last lighthearted moments before the night changed again. And honestly, I still love that even in the middle of the worst night of my life, he still managed to make me laugh.
Reaching Pitch Black
Eventually one of the doctors asked if he could speak with me in private for a moment.
We stepped out into the hallway.
Not far from Finn’s room.
Close enough that we could still see each other if we needed the visual reassurance.
Far enough away that he couldn’t hear what the doctor was about to say.
Because things had already escalated to self-harm, the doctor believed the safest option was to admit Finn for inpatient care.
They wanted to keep him there so they could provide intensive therapy and closely monitor how he responded to medication changes.
With outpatient care, medications are typically adjusted and then monitored over several weeks before the next follow-up.
But inpatient care allowed them to make adjustments much more quickly in a controlled environment.
The goal wasn’t just stabilization.
The goal was to send Finn home with something we hadn’t had in a while.
Hope
Hope that the medication would help.
Hope that the constant anger and emotional chaos he had been living inside might finally quiet down.
And as the doctor spoke, a single thought kept running through my mind.
Shit… it really is this bad.
Because hearing it said out loud — hearing someone else confirm what I had been slowly realizing for weeks — made everything feel painfully real.
Relief.
Fear.
Guilt.
Devastation.
All of it hit at once.
Parenting manuals never cover the moment when you have to decide whether your child needs a psychiatric hospital.
And at the time, I wasn’t sure if I was making the right decision.
But deep down, I also knew something else.
I couldn’t keep pretending everything was okay.
He was right.
Finn needed help that I couldn’t give him on my own.
THE SELF-HARM CHANGED EVERYTHING...
Sometimes loving your child means trusting strangers to hold them while you step back and hope they can reach the places you couldn’t.
Admission
Once the decision was made, everything suddenly became very procedural.
Forms.
So many forms.
It felt like I was filling out nine million pieces of paperwork.
Medical history.
Emergency contacts.
Authorization forms.
Visitor policies.
Phone procedures.
Code names.
Lists of what I was and wasn’t allowed to bring him.
Pages and pages of information.
Somewhere in the middle of all of it, numbness started to take over.
It was overwhelming.
By the time I finished everything, it was close to midnight and Finn had already been taken to the secured children’s ward.
He was asleep.
Which meant I didn’t get to see him again.
I didn’t get to give him one last hug.
I didn’t get to tell him how much I loved him or would miss him.
I didn’t get to tell him it would be okay.
I just had to leave.
Arms empty.
My heart left behind that locked door.
And for a second, I just stood there, unable to force myself to walk away.
Staring at the handle, like if I opened it again, I might still find him on the other side.
Red Belt
Pitch Black
I don’t remember the drive home that night.
Not really.
I mostly just remember small vivid details.
The sound of the sliding doors as I exited the hospital.
The way the valet attendants smile quickly crumbled into sympathy as he scanned my face while handing me my keys.
The surreal feeling that this wasn’t my life — almost like an out-of-body experience.
How I was amazed that I still had tears left to cry.
And hollow.
So hollow.
Like something essential had been scooped out of me.
All I wanted was some way to numb the pain.
Instead, I called my friend Jami.
And I cried.
Again.
Hard.
At the time she felt like the only person who truly understood what I was going through. She had walked a similar road with her own child, and somehow, she knew exactly what to say — and when to simply sit in the silence with me.
I still don’t think I would have left the hospital that first night if Jami hadn’t reminded me of something important.
Everett still needed me too.
And she was right.
Because sitting in that hallway forever wouldn’t help either of my boys.
Navigating The Pitch Black
I honestly don’t know how I would have navigated that week without Jami.
The next day she showed up without hesitation.
When I felt like I could barely function, Jami stepped right into the trenches beside me.
She helped me sort through the paperwork.
She helped me shop for the things Finn was allowed to have.
There were rules about everything:
- No strings.
- No hoods.
- Slip-on shoes only.
- Nothing sentimental in case items got mixed up.
Information was coming at me faster than my brain could process it.
But Jami kept me moving forward.
She even simplified the paperwork into one list with the most important details highlighted.
We gathered everything Finn needed from the checklist she created — and a few extra things we hoped might make his stay a little easier.
It wasn’t just Jami.
Other people stepped in too.
My mom made sure she could call Finn and be there for his first visitation.
Friends sent encouragement and offered to watch Everett while we visited Finn.
Kids made drawings for him.
Little reminders that we weren’t completely alone in this.
Even though everything still felt heavy.
Overwhelming.
Blurry.
48 Hours Of Pitch Black
After Finn was admitted, I wasn’t allowed to see him again for over 48 hours because of the visiting schedule.
48 HOURS
And during that time, it felt like I was dying.
The only relief I had came in small fragments — updates from the doctors and brief phone calls with Finn.
Which sounds comforting in theory…
But anyone who has ever tried to have a meaningful conversation with a six-year-old over the phone knows how that usually goes.
Still.
Hearing his voice was enough to keep me breathing.
What surprised me most was what the staff kept telling me.
Finn was… okay.
More than okay, actually.
They told me he was thriving there.
One of the nurses even laughed while on the phone with me, saying Finn had just wandered into her line of sight and — in typical “Finnangian” style — was dancing around the unit like he was their personally selected entertainment for the day.
He also made a very important discovery that he was eager to share with me:
Popcorn not only existed there — he was allowed to have it every night.
Which, according to him, was a major selling point.
The therapist told me that at first he had seemed confused about why he was there.
But once she started asking him questions about how he had been feeling — about the anger, about feeling out of control — he suddenly understood why he was there.
And he looked at her and said, excitedly:
“Oh… you’re here to fix my brain!”
It was one of those moments that was somehow heartbreaking, funny, and hopeful all at the same time.
Because even at six years old, Finn already understood that something inside his brain didn’t feel right.
And that maybe — just maybe — someone there could help.
Meanwhile I was back at home trying to function like a normal human being.
Answering messages.
Safety proofing our house.
Taking care of Everett.
Trying to keep the world moving.
But inside I was counting the hours until I could see my child again.
And just when it felt like I could barely keep everything together…
The insurance company started pushing back.
Because of course it did.
While we were still trying to stabilize Finn’s medications, they began questioning whether they would cover them at all.
Then they started pushing back about fully covering his hospitalization.
At one point the doctor warned me that our insurance might even force them to discharge Finn from inpatient care after only three days if he didn’t have another “incident,” even if he wasn’t medically stabilized yet.
Three days.
Three days to stabilize a six-year-old whose nervous system had been spiraling for months.
I remember staring at the message and thinking the same thing I texted a friend at the time:
This fucking healthcare system can shove it.
Because moments like that make it painfully clear just how fragile the safety net really is — and how little these insurance companies care.
Even when it comes to a six-year-old who was self-harming.
Around that same time, Fred started questioning whether inpatient care was the right decision.
At one point he asked me,
“Do you feel like Finn being at the hospital is effective? I feel like he is just on a very, very expensive vacation and it might be better to get him back home.”
I remember staring at that message for a moment before replying.
I realized in that moment, I did want him there.
Even if every day we were apart felt like it was slowly killing me.
So I replied:
“Actually I really do feel like it’s effective. I just got off the phone with the doctor and she told me she saw Finn working with the therapist. They were talking about how to identify his triggers because he was saying he felt like everything made him explode and feel sad, embarrassed, and stupid.”
Because for the first time in a long time, it felt like someone was finally helping him make sense of what was happening inside his own brain — instead of just reacting to the explosions and punishing him for them.
And when your child is drowning emotionally, the last thing you want to hear is someone wondering if the lifeboat is also full of holes.
Seeing Finn
When it was finally time for our first visit, Everett stayed with my best friend Jenn while Fred, my mom, and I drove to Children’s.
Even walking into the building felt surreal.
Before entering the ward, they had us place everything into small lockers. Phones, keys, anything not allowed inside. Every item we brought for Finn was inspected carefully to make sure it followed their safety guidelines.
Then they opened the doors.
And suddenly we were inside the inpatient unit.
What struck me first was how… normal Finn seemed.
He wasn’t scared.
He wasn’t upset.
If anything, he seemed almost excited to show us around.
At one point he even called it his “special hotel.”
Part of me felt relieved seeing him that calm.
Another part of me felt like my brain couldn’t reconcile what I was looking at.
Because this was still a psychiatric ward.
And this was still my six-year-old child living inside it.
I had brought something with me that day — a little “happy book” I made for him.
Inside were photos of people who loved him, drawings/notes from family and friends, and reminders of moments when he had been proud of himself.
Things that proved his brain wasn’t broken.
That he wasn’t broken.
We flipped through it together and I could see the way it lit him up.
For a little while, we just sat together.
We played cards.
He showed me the stack of coloring pages he had made.
It felt strangely normal…yet completely abnormal at the same time.
At one point, he looked at me very seriously and asked if he was “really super good” and promised to “try his hardest” to control his emotions, would he be allowed to come home with us that night.
It took everything in me not to cry right there in front of him.
Because the truth was, the doctors weren’t ready to send him home yet.
The goal wasn’t just to stabilize him for a moment.
The goal was to send him home with hope instead of worry.
They needed time to watch how the new medications worked before it was safe to discharge him.
After explaining that to Finn, he thought about it for a minute.
Then he asked another question.
What if the medicine stops working again?
Do I have to come back?
I told him something that I hoped with my entire heart would be true.
That as long as he told me how he was feeling — as soon as he started struggling — we would find a way to help him before it ever got that bad again.
Then we went back to playing cards for a while.
And for a few minutes, it almost felt like everything was normal again.
But visiting hours in places like that move fast.
Far too fast.
Before I knew it, it was time to leave.
And once again I had to walk away from my child.
Arms empty.
AGAIN.
My heart was still on the other side of that locked door.
I didn’t even make it out of the hospital before the sobbing started.
I slid down the wall in the hallway and just… cried.
The kind of crying that comes from somewhere so deep it feels like it might break you.
My mom helped me pull myself back together.
Eventually I forced the mask back on.
Because Everett was still waiting for us.
And life — somehow — was still moving forward.
Learning to Breathe Again
Eventually Finn was discharged and allowed to come home.
Exactly seven days after he had been admitted.
But leaving the hospital didn’t mean the hard part was over.
In many ways, it was just the beginning.
Because healing a nervous system that had been living in constant chaos doesn’t happen overnight.
The next year would be filled with medication changes, endless therapy appointments, school meetings, and more moments of uncertainty than I can count.
Progress came slowly.
Sometimes painfully slowly.
But little by little, we started to see something we hadn’t seen in a long time.
Hope
Setbacks
But even with the right tools, healing wasn’t linear.
There were still hard days.
Still setbacks.
Still moments where it felt like we were back in the emotional battlefield we had just fought so hard to escape.
But slowly — almost imperceptibly at first — things began to shift.
Little things.
Moments where Finn would stop and take a breath instead of reacting immediately.
Times where he could pause and think about what he was feeling before the anger took over.
His emotional awareness was incredibly advanced for his age.
Which was both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because he could articulate what was happening inside his brain.
A curse because understanding it so well also meant he could feel the weight of it.
The first major hurdle came almost immediately.
Before Finn could return to school, the district required a re-entry meeting.
Sitting in that room with administrators, counselors, and nurses discussing my six-year-old’s psychiatric hospitalization felt surreal.
Especially because this wasn’t the first time I had asked for help.
Months before the hospitalization, I had already reached out to the school counselor asking what resources might exist for a child like Finn — a bright kid who could mask well in short bursts but struggled deeply once he felt safe enough to fall apart.
At the time, we had been told he didn’t qualify for formal accommodations.
But after the hospitalization, the conversation suddenly shifted.
Part of me understood the reasoning.
Part of me worried if sharing so much about Finn’s hospitalization with the school was the right decision. (I still struggle with this sometimes)
Part of me couldn’t shake the feeling that the meeting existed as much to protect the system as it did to protect my child.
Still, it opened the door to additional resources.
And when you’re raising a child whose nervous system is fighting itself every day, you learn to accept support wherever you can find it.
The Blink-182 Moment
10 days after his hospitalization, we were driving home from his first tournament, and a song came on the radio.
“Stay Together For The Kids” by Blink-182.
When it ended, Finn asked if I could play it again.
I remember asking him why, because I couldn’t quite understand why my six-year-old was suddenly “really feeling” a song about divorce.
He told me to just play it again.
That he couldn’t explain it without hearing it.
So I did.
As the song played, he started asking me to pause it in different places.
“This part,” he said.
“It’s not right.”
Then another line.
“Rather than fix the problems, they never solve them.”
Then another.
“If this is what he wants, and it’s what she wants, then why is there so much pain?”
With each lyric he explained how it related to what he had been feeling inside his own brain.
How something inside his brain felt not right.
How it felt like nothing was fixing the problem.
How “fixing his brain” was what he wanted.
What I wanted.
What everyone wanted.
And how much pain that struggle had caused.
I don’t think I will ever hear that song again without thinking about that moment.
About how much pain my six-year-old must have been carrying.
But also about how deeply he understood what he was going through.
The Long Middle
After Children’s, the phrase “I’m fine” stopped meaning what it used to.
Before, it meant exactly that.
Now it meant I needed to listen more carefully.
Was his voice tight?
Was he avoiding eye contact?
Was his breathing different?
I started noticing things most people would never think twice about.
A pause that lasted a little too long.
A door shutting harder than usual.
The quiet that sometimes followed an ordinary afternoon.
Because once you’ve watched your child’s nervous system spiral that far…
your own nervous system learns to stay on guard.
The rest of that year was a blur of therapy appointments, medication adjustments, and constant trial and error.
And Fear.
Fear that one little misstep would land us back at Children’s.
Fear that I was going to miss a major red flag again.
Fear that I wasn’t doing enough — and worry that it might never be enough.
The only thing I knew with absolute certainty was that taking him into Children’s when he wasn’t in the middle of an episode was the right call.
He even asked almost a year later “when he could go back to that hotel where other people took care of him?”
Medication wise, it was still an uphill battle.
Some medications helped a little.
Some helped for a while and then stopped working.
Others made things worse.
Eventually I discovered something called Matthew’s Protocol, which led us to try a different medicinal approach that finally seemed to give Finn’s brain the support it needed.
It took until December 2024 to finally find the medication combination that gave Finn’s brain some peace.
Medication was only one piece of the puzzle.
But paired with everything else he was learning, it finally gave his brain the support it needed to use those tools.
By May 2025, we realized that his meds were working, and the last piece was him needing a stronger stimulant.
And while we are aware that he will need things changed as he grows, seeing how he can be with medication helping him maintain full regulation was HUGE.
It finally felt like we were close to assembling the master puzzle, or at the very least were using the correct pieces.
Recommended Black Belt
Healing rarely happens in dramatic moments. Sometimes it shows up quietly, when you least expect it.
Districts 2025
By the time the next district tournament rolled around, a lot had changed.
Finn had spent a full year rebuilding himself.
Therapy.
Medication adjustments.
Learning how to recognize the early warning signs inside his own brain.
Moments when you could see him trying.
Trying to slow himself down.
Trying to breathe — eyes closed, fists clenched..
Trying to stop the tidal wave before the anger took over.
Little by little, the explosions became less frequent.
The recovery wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
And honestly… I don’t think I realized just how far he had come until that night.
After the tournament, the team gathered at a Mexican restaurant to celebrate and announce the final placements.
The rings that Finn had competed in were some of the hardest ones at the tournament.
They were also huge.
Despite that, he had actually done incredibly well.
He placed third in several of the individual rings.
But because of how the brackets were structured, he didn’t advance to compete for an overall title.
It wasn’t until our team dinner later that night, that the cracks started to show.
And they didn’t show where you would have expected it.
During dinner they were announcing the results from the day-who won what title and medaled.
I glanced over at him.
And the second I saw his face…
My stomach dropped.
He looked devastated.
In an instant my brain time-traveled straight back to Children’s.
That same cold panic flooded my chest.
The same thought slammed into my head.
This is it.
This is where the dam breaks.
Before anyone noticed, I quietly stood up and slipped away to the bathroom.
And the second the door closed behind me, I lost it.
There I was — a grown adult sobbing in the bathroom of a random Mexican restaurant in Georgia — while a large group of people at the table were probably wondering where I had disappeared to.
My phone started buzzing.
Friends checking on me.
Making sure I was okay.
Because they knew.
Being a parent in those moments is complicated.
I truly was happy for the other kids. I love them. I’m proud of them.
But I also knew the storm Finn had lived through the year before.
And I was bracing myself for the fallout.
Part of the reason my brain went straight to panic was because I had seen this moment before.
Last Districts in June 2024 — Finn had taken the loss hard.
Really hard.
At the time his nervous system was still raw from everything we had been through.
Disappointment didn’t just feel like disappointment.
It felt like failure.
Like proof that something inside him was still broken.
So when I saw that same look cross his face in 2025, my brain assumed we were about to relive that moment all over again.
I didn’t know if he could survive a second year of crushing disappointment.
What I didn’t realize yet was that Finn had spent an entire year learning how to carry those feelings differently. He had medication that was truly working.
It took me almost fifteen minutes before I could pull myself together enough to go back out.
Mask back on.
Game face in place.
Because sometimes that’s just part of the job.
Being a mom means holding yourself together long enough to help your kid hold it together too.
I left the bathroom and my eyes immediately found Finn.
Except, the Finn I found wasn’t crying.
He was laughing.
And while I knew he was bummed about not getting a title, you could tell he was mostly just happy for his friends.
Well his friends and cheese dip that is.
And that’s when I realized — in the wise words of my bestie, Taylor Swift:
It’s me, hi
I’m the problem, it’s me
I had spent so long taking care of Finn’s mental health that I had forgotten about mine.
Finn wasn’t nearly as traumatized by his stay at Children’s as I was.
Children are more adaptable and resilient than we give them credit for.
Adults on the other hand, aren’t.
I realized then that the light-hearted jokes I made about having PTSD weren’t really jokes.
I was actually struggling with it.
And I knew then that I also needed to find a way to heal myself.
Looking back now, I realize that healing rarely happens the way we expect it — in easily identified dramatic moments. It shows up quietly, when you least expect it.
I had spent so much time watching Finn, waiting for the next crack in the dam, that I didn’t realize the water had already started to recede.
He had been quietly learning how to carry his emotions differently.
Learning how to pause.
Learning how to breathe.
Learning how to “levitate.”
And somewhere along the way, while he was rebuilding himself… I forgot that I might need to rebuild a few pieces of myself too.
Black Belt
Somewhere in the middle of helping Finn prepare for his black belt test — reviewing the knowledge he’d be quizzed on, timing his 5K, and running through his forms — I found myself pausing to take in the journey we have been on over the last few years.
Something in me shifted, and I knew it was time.
Time to share his story.
I had finally healed enough to do it.
To show his strength.
To show his growth.
To show that even when life feels pitch black — when the darkness feels endless — there is always light somewhere ahead.
But also to show that no matter how much better Finn and I are right now, this path is still rocky sometimes.
And that’s okay.
Life is going to throw you curveballs.
Sometimes those curveballs look like the familiar buzz of another message from your child’s teacher.
Sometimes those curveballs look like unexpected mental health reality checks.
Just a few weeks ago, at his last psychiatry appointment, the doctor asked a question I wasn’t expecting.
“Have you ever seen or heard things you knew weren’t real?”
Finn said yes.
And my heart immediately fell out of my chest.
In an instant I was transported right back to that moment at Children’s when I learned he had been self-harming.
Then he clarified that it hadn’t happened since around the time he was hospitalized.
I took a deep breath as my heart slowly settled back into my chest.
This path we are on will probably never be easy.
But there is light.
Joy.
Hope.
As I stood there Saturday watching Finn work through each part of his black belt test, something dawned on me:
When most people think about earning a black belt, they think about strength and techniques.
Kicks.
Forms.
Breaking boards.
As I watched “Mr. Dorothy” have his newly earned black belt tied around his waist, I felt a rush of pride and relief.
Pride in seeing just how much his hard work had paid off.
Relief that he had passed — several of his friends hadn’t.
Because, for Finn, the hardest thing he had to learn wasn’t how to spar.
It wasn’t learning a perfect back stance.
It wasn’t mastering a 360 bo staff toss or memorizing the names of every Grand Master.
It was learning how to breathe.
How to pause.
How to sit inside big emotions without letting them take over.
That’s the kind of strength you can’t earn in a dojang.
But somehow, Finn managed to do both.
The same kid who once asked if the doctors were there to “fix his brain” was now standing on a mat, earning his black belt.
When Finn walked off the mat after testing ended, I expected him to come straight toward us.
But for a moment I couldn’t find him.
When I finally spotted him, he had his arm around a friend who hadn’t passed.
While everyone else was celebrating, Finn was quietly walking beside him, comforting him.
Watching him walk beside his friend that day, something became clear:
The belt wasn’t the most important thing he earned that day.
It was never even about his belt.
It was about his journey.
In Songahm Taekwondo, the belt system is represented by the life of a pine tree.
A seed is planted.
It reaches for the sun.
It becomes a sapling, fighting for space among the taller pines.
Its path becomes steeper as it grows stronger roots.
Eventually the tree reaches maturity — standing tall and strong.
And when it does, it begins planting seeds of its own.
Finn’s journey followed that same path.
My little seed did grow.
He found the sun.
He became a sapling and fought his way among the taller pines, bending through storms no child should have to face so young.
His path became steeper than anyone could have predicted, but he kept reaching upward, deepening his roots along the way.
And somewhere along the way, the pitch black that once surrounded us slowly gave way to morning.
I got to witness that sunrise after Districts in 2025.
Now his tree stands strong.
Ready to weather storms.
Ready to plant seeds of hope for others who may still be standing in their own darkness.
Watching him walk beside his friend that day, I realized something I hadn’t understood before.
The storm we survived didn’t just teach Finn how to endure the dark.
It taught him how to recognize it in others.
And in that moment, the darkness no longer felt endless.
He didn’t just survive the pitch black.
He learned how to be light for someone else still standing in it.
If you’re a parent walking through your own version of Pitch Black right now— I see you. Your dawn will come too.
A Letter To Finn
Author’s Note
Before publishing this piece, I wrote Finn a letter and we read the entire story together.
It was important to both of us that he felt seen, heard, and represented in a way that felt true to his experience too.
We cried a little while reading it.
Then we hugged.
This is his story as much as it is mine. And more than anything, I hope it helps him see just how strong he is, how far he has come, and how much hope his journey might give to others walking a similar path.
For those who are curious, this is the letter I wrote to him.
For Finn
You don’t have to remember everything about that week.
Honestly, part of me hopes you don’t.
But I do want you to know this:
You were six years old and fighting battles most people don’t face in a lifetime.
And you fought.
You kept talking.
You kept trying.
You kept showing up.
That strength didn’t appear out of nowhere.
It was always in you.
And if there is one thing I hope you never question, it’s this:
Your mom was right there with you.
Even when I was terrified.
Even when I felt like my soul was breaking.
Even when I walked out of that hospital without you and thought my heart might actually stop beating.
I never stopped fighting for you.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.
Because loving you was never the hard part.
It was the easiest promise I ever made.
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Leaving the therapists office Monday, tears still in my eyes, I was left feeling raw and vulnerable while experiencing an overwhelming amount of mom guilt. Her words crashing through my head on repeat:
“You need to ask his psychologist when enough is enough and he needs committed to the children’s psych ward. It also sounds like it’s time for him to be on medication…”
I feel unprepared to face my reality. The reality that it might be time to consider putting Finn on medication. The reality that after describing the amount of abuse Finn has put me through this week, my own therapist mentioned committing him. Though she wasn’t talking about him being committed today, she did say she noticed that the amount of virtirol and violence towards me was increasing at an alarming rate, so knowing the signs of when a child needs psychiatric intervention is important.
Really though, it feels like the reality is that I’m not enough. That I’ve somehow failed some magic parenting test. I sit in my car and just break down. Huge heaving sobs as the mom guilt cripples me. Oh the mom guilt. Then there is the guilt that I said my deepest fear out loud: “I worry that we’re going to lose Finn like we lost Fredric’s father.”
So I sit in my car, torturing myself. Repeating my fears and self-perceived shortcomings. Allowing the waves of grief and guilt to drown me, before I muster up the courage to call the pediatrician and let them know we need a consult.
I barely hold it together as I describe what I’m calling about. As I hang up, my voice cracking, I muster up the energy to call my best friend Ellie. And I breakdown again. Not even her soothing voice and wise words break all the way through my misery.
I turn to Facebook support groups, but before I can even post, all I see are my fears coming true in others experiences. “I had to call the police on my child and lock myself in my room for safety” “I just had them committed into the children’s psych ward for the 3rd time” and so on. I start sobbing again, terrified that this is my future with Finn. That we are fighting a losing battle, no matter how much therapy and interventions we use.
I know I need more help, so I reach out to a group of local girlfriends to see whose shoulder I can cry on. Amanda invites me over, and I sit on her bed and release all my fears and worries in a torrent of tears and grief. She listens patiently and firmly puts me in my place, telling me everything I need to hear, even though I feel unworthy of the compliments and reassurances.
I leave Amanda’s, eyes swollen and sore, to pick up Finn. He’s in great spirits and I immediately feel better… until we go to the park. At the park, when I tell Finn it’s time to leave he starts berating me and then starts kicking me. I can feel the stares and judgement. I head to yet another girlfriends house, because it’s obvious that I still need support pulling myself out of the black hole of grief that has sucked me in.
She reiterates what both Amanda and Ellie have said, except this time it starts to sink in past my grief. It’s almost as if they talked about me before arriving and decided on a script. I lament “I just thought I had MORE TIME…” Her response is finally what started snapping me out of it:
As a parent we always think we have more time”
It just resonated with me… it was so simple, but so true. Still somewhat doubtful, I decide to let her comforting words be the truth, despite still feeling unworthy of them. I slowly try to let myself heal some, feeling thankful for my tribe.
This. This right here is the struggle of a parent with a child with DMDD. This is what it looks like when we break. I’m slowly picking up the pieces that my emotional rollercoaster left in its wake, but today I feel stronger. I have a plan. I’ve only cried once, when I told his OT that it looked like we were going down the medicinal path. Yet, as I write this, I know I’ll get through it, just like I get through everything else, one day, one hour, one minute at a time.
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“I hate you. I hate everyone. I want you to kill me. Someone needs to kill me. I don’t want to be alive anymore. Kill me now. What does blood taste like. I’m going to drink all my blood. You hate me you hate me you hate me. You don’t love me. Everyone hates me. I want to die”
Finn, Age 4
Everything written above, was said by Finn, to me, in the span of 5 minutes this morning. This morning is our first back at OT and school since break. He’s been becoming more and more dysregulated through this holiday season. It makes sense, after all, we’ve been off schedule, off therapy, and really just off.
What is dysregulation? It is defined as the following:
“Dysregulation, also known as emotional dysregulation, refers to a poor ability to manage emotional responses or to keep them within an acceptable range of typical emotional reactions. This can refer to a wide range of emotions including sadness, anger, irritability, and frustration.”
The effects of dysregulation can be mild or severe, but in our case, as the holidays have come to a end, and as our normal schedule is supposed to resume, calling it severe is an understatement. In general, emotional dysregulation involves having emotions that are overly intense in comparison to the situation that triggered them. This can mean not being able to calm down, avoiding difficult emotions, or focusing your attention on the negative. Most people with emotional dysregulation also behave in an impulsive manner when their emotions (fear, sadness, or anger) are out of control.
As I sit here and write this, I begin to feel the guilt creep in. I know I handled this mornings outbursts poorly. I feel like I’ve been stuck in a hurricane of my children’s volatile emotions, and that has slowly chipped at my patience. I struggled this morning, as I’ve been struggling the past 2 weeks. Struggled with screaming at the kids “why don’t you have shoes on yet? I’ve asked 48 times!” “We’ve got to go! We are running late!” “Can you please for the love of all things, just put on your dang coat?!? GUYS WE ARE RUNNING LATE!”
I know this sounds like a typical parents morning, but the majority of them don’t have 2 dysregulated children, one of whom is taking turns playing dead on the ground with screaming back at you they want to die and hate everyone, while the other tries to hit you and screams “this is the worst day of their life” and slams doors/hits the walls.
I know when the adult is dysregulated, the chances of the kids getting regulated are slim to none. Typically my children rely on me to be their emotional regulator, so when I’m not regulated, utter chaos breaks out. We are all left drained. Empty. Sad. Disappointed.
I know it won’t be long until we are snuggling again, but it definitely takes longer for the pain from these moments to fade. However, I live for the good moments in between. I try to keep the memories of the happy and fun times in my head, as a balm to ease the tougher days.
I’m not sharing this for sympathy, but rather insight. To show those of you who struggle with mood disorders, either with yourself, child, spouse, etc, that you’re not alone. For those of you who don’t have this struggle, but who could use a reminder to give a little extra patience to the woman or kid who is a little short with you today.
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“I want to die. I don’t love you anymore and you’re not my friend anymore. I hate you.” These are about the last things you’d ever want to hear your child say to you, though you might expect it from an overly emotional teen. Unfortunately, I don’t have a teen and these words were screamed at me by my three year old, Finn.
Finn was recently diagnosed with ODD. ODD or Oppositional Defiant Disorder might be a term you’re not so familiar with. A quick Google search defines ODD as: an ongoing pattern of behavior that is characterized by anger, irritability, as well as argumentative and defiant behavior towards those in authoritative positions. I’m guessing that sounds like every 3, 4 and maybe 5 year old out there to you, right? Well, not so much.
If you go on to read further, this behavior can be something that kids only exhibit at home or at school, maybe not both. Also, it lasts for a long time, and happens quite frequently. More so than your typical child, even toddlers, as crazy as they are. And this is where I’d like share my story of being a mother to a child with ODD.
Donning My Armor
We’ve been dealing with the “I hate you’s” for a couple months now, but the “I want to die” is new, and it HURTS. Quite frankly,, living with and loving Finn is painful and hard. You have to develop a thick skin, or you’ll quickly devolve into tears. It feels akin to being in an abusive relationship- you never know what will trigger the next explosion, so you’re constantly walking on eggshells.
Before you rush to judgments and try to tell me that Finn “seems normal” or that he’s just “high spirted” so it clearly must be my parenting, I ask that you try to put yourself in my shoes. Raising Everett is tricky, but it’s nothing compared to Finn. Everett had clear issues that I was able to work with at home and therapy. He thrived once he started getting therapy, and unless you spend significant time with Everett, you may not even realize he’s on the autism spectrum. Finn is, for lack of better words, utterly chaotic.
I find myself dreading the simplest tasks with him. Taking him to a playground or friends house is a constant struggle. He manages to make EVERY SINGLE THING into a weapon. Sticks, blocks, trains, etc. I’m constantly waiting to see which child will be his next target. When he’s corrected, he frequently screams “I hate you” and I feel the eyes of other parents staring at me, silently judging.
Don’t get me wrong, he can be the sweetest and cutest child. He loves being snuggled by me and tells me the sweetest things about how much he loves me, but the second I say or do anything that upsets him, boom, the Finn bomb explodes with vitriol. I’m dodging toys while he screams insults at me, all because I asked him to do something simple, like pick up a toy. And this goes on all day. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.
I’ve officially been emotionally beat down.
No matter how well I put together my emotional armor, he still finds a way to get through my cracks. I’m to the point where I’ve officially been emotionally beat down. The thought of doing anything with him fills me with anxiety. I dread the thought of him getting older and even more potentially violent. I worry constantly about his future and if we will get lucky and he’ll “grow out” of it.
Don’t get me started on the mom guilt side either…You think to yourself, “Gosh, I’m such a horrible mom, I dread the park because I can’t just let him play, what’s WRONG with me”? And then things are bad, and you cry. And you feel so angry, and sad, and resentful. And hurt. You’re so hurt, that the next time your child wants to be with you, hug you, love you, it’s hard. Because you’re a human being with feelings, and it’s hard to let go. So then, you feel guilty. You feel guilty that you resent this child that you do love SO much, but that you don’t feel like “liking.” And then you find yourself pulling away. Because you’re scared of those feelings. So, somewhere, in the back of your psyche, subconsciously, you pull away. Shut down. Try not to feel because it’s too much. You feel alone. Isolated. People don’t understand.
You’re even at the point that when someone says, “I bet you love being a stay at home mom,” you feel angry. They’ve said nothing wrong, but in the back of your mind, you’re thinking, “HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT WHEN YOU KNOW WHAT I’M GOING THROUGH”? But, they don’t really know, do they?
“He Looks Normal”
The rub of all of this? He presents so typical for short periods of time that I am already having issues getting him help through our school system. From the outside, things look OK. Here’s this beautiful, thoughtful, highly intelligent little boy, who can act like an angel for strangers. Can charm and be friends with any child around him. At home, that same child can be verbally mean, physically abusive, manipulative, and so defiant that asking anything of them is almost pointless. So, people think you’re overreacting. That you’re just overly sensitive to normal childhood behavior. And you start to think that maybe you are crazy. Not good enough. Inadequate. That it’s your fault.
There’s a Jekyll and Hyde situation going on. And nobody sees. And you can convince yourself that nobody cares and that you’re not going to make it. And if I’m being honest, I’m feeling like that most days.
Moving Forward
Right now, we’re in the trenches. Fighting every day, living our truth, being honest, getting help, and doing what we need to do to survive. That means getting him even more therapy and better methods for interacting with him.
We just had him screened and he didn’t meet the qualifications for general special needs, so we are having to get him tested for other issues his pediatrician thinks he may have. It’s so frustrating to know that he’s suffering from an invisible diagnosis and we can’t seem to get him the help that we so clearly need.
However, our story with Finn is just starting. I’m hoping it has a happy ending, but the harsh reality is that around 40% of children diagnosed with ODD don’t grow out of it and out of that 40%, half of them eventually develop antisocial personality disorder. So I’m going to fight like hell to try to avoid that path. I’m going to do what needs to be done to try to give him every tool he can use to battle this, and, I’m going to tell his story.
Why tell his story? People deserve to know it. Right now, I’m treading water, and sometimes find it overwhelming to do anything more, so I hope this reaches some people that are maybe struggling like I am. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. Hearing the words, “I know what you’re going through” have such enormous power.
Welcome to our journey with Finn.
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It’s nice to have another mom to talk to, especially a local one, who has a child with similar issues the same age. The thing is, even though our boys have similar issues, they deal with them different ways. Hence why Autism is called a spectrum.
This year, while I decided Everett actually needed to be in school to thrive, Marjorie made the opposite decision. I felt like it’s a decision a lot of Autism Moms are faced with, even when there isn’t a global pandemic, and I loved her reasoning behind it. I invited her to write a post for the NSSM blog to help out other mothers in a similar situation. I hope you love it as much as I did!
Buckling In: Why I Chose to
Homeschool My Neurodivergent Child
It started with a preschool teacher’s accusatory finger pointed toward my face and ended with me in tears so heavy I could barely catch my breath. Was it all my fault? I felt like an amateur and a failure as a parent.
We moved from Ohio to Alabama only two months prior. This wasn’t our first cross-country move, but it was certainly the hardest on our 5-year-old son, Connor. Connor is on the autism spectrum, and while he has low-support needs, changes as big as moving to a new state can be incredibly difficult for him. He has “invisible” struggles that are, as I’ve learned, hard for others—even educators—to understand.
We were able to get him a last-minute spot in a public preschool program here in our current nook of greater Birmingham. Connor did very well during his 4-hour per day program—just as he did in Ohio, just as I expected. But likewise, just like in Ohio, he was becoming overloaded due to the complicated expectations of school (this isn’t something we were fully able to grasp at the time, however).
Each afternoon when I would pick him up from preschool, he fell apart. He would hold it together in school, and then when I arrived at pick-up, he would immediately let that composure go. It would, on some days, be a momentous struggle to get him buckled in his car seat. He would kick and run around. He would sometimes throw fits and yell. By this point, I was normally sweating with rising anxiety.
When we would arrive at home a short one-minute drive later, he would let it all go. And I mean all of it. He was back in his safe space. At this time, after school each day, he was having legitimate meltdowns—the kind that depleted all of the energy he had and all of the energy I had. While the meltdowns eventually ended each day, he was often left in a very irritable state for nearly the rest of each evening. He would continuously grab and pull things at home and in public in order to gain input to calm himself. He was easily triggered by seemingly small occurrences. My husband and I were both struggling to handle these behaviors and struggling to find an answer. We weren’t perfect, but we were absolutely trying.
On that day the teacher put her finger in my face, I was already close to my mental breaking point. I politely asked her if she had noticed Connor’s struggles to get into his car seat and I asked her if she had any suggestions to help. To my surprise, she said to me, finger pointed toward my face: “I’m probably going to say this the wrong way, but that’s on you.” I was told that I simply needed “clearer boundaries” for him. She did not see him as struggling because she was blinded by his ability to mask in school.
That might not sound like the most terrible thing to hear, but in that moment, it felt like a huge slap in the face. I was a struggling parent and simply asked for advice. Even after I tried explaining during an IEP meeting what I saw happening (no, clear instructions and a social story were NOT working, per her suggestions), she seemed to completely disregard those thoughts.
The consideration that maybe there was something more going on that she couldn’t see was obviously not something that would be entertained during this meeting. I started to question if I could continue to participate in IEP meetings and continue to have teachers misunderstand me and my child.
Unfortunately, kids like Connor are often misunderstood. Behaving in school and academically advanced? Clearly his after-school behavior is simply a result of a lack of parental boundaries.
Oddly enough, we saw a psychologist during this time period and he was able to witness the meltdowns and behaviors I was seeing. Maybe teachers didn’t believe me, but he saw it. He said, “Marjorie, I need you to know that this is not parenting related. He is struggling with anxiety and impulsivity and overload. This is nothing you are responsible for. I’m glad I got to see it so I can get the full picture.”
“Marjorie, I need you to know that this is not parenting related. He is struggling with anxiety and impulsivity and overload. This is nothing you are responsible for. I’m glad I got to see it so I can get the full picture.”
THIS.
THIS lifted me away from anger. I think I called everyone I knew that day to tell them how validated I felt. I wasn’t a failure. I had a kid who was struggling and now it was time to “buckle in” and figure out how to drive all over again.
Shortly after, to the shock of everyone around the world, covid-19 happened. And our worlds changed drastically. While many others were struggling, we were, for the first time in years, finding peace and calm and happiness.
This is not to say everything was immediately perfect. But once school abruptly ended, we were able to study our son more closely. We started to figure out his triggers, his limits, and what was overstimulating for him. We noticed that his moods were getting better. He wasn’t as irritable or as easily frustrated. I can’t say it was all due to school, but that was certainly a huge part of his life that had been taken away completely. It only made sense.
We’re now starting to see and understand that Connor “masks” in some situations like school and then lets go of that mask when he’s no longer forced in that situation, or when he just can’t take it anymore. We have since witnessed this in other circumstances (after long outings or especially overwhelming environments like restaurants or chaotic playgrounds, for instance).
As the weeks went by, I was able to create the type of peaceful routines I noticed that he needed. I utilized some strategies taught to me in OT. When I noticed him becoming overloaded, I pumped the brakes and allowed him to do things like use his iPad, draw, use materials like play-doh, and just generally unwind. It was starting to work. My husband and I were in true disbelief. He hadn’t had a single meltdown in weeks. He was listening better. He was behaving better. He was connecting more than ever before with his sister and with us.
When it came time to make a decision about homeschooling, we decided it was worth giving a shot. After all, at the time it didn’t seem like schools would be a safe place anyway, and I knew the addition of wearing masks would be even more overwhelming for Connor. Not to mention going from a 4-hour preschool day to a 7-hour Kindergarten day.
I consider myself to be a very quietly stubborn person—as in you might not realize how much I will fight or push or work to make something I care about happen. And that’s exactly what I did when it came to homeschooling. I researched and learned along the way. I ended up switching curriculums just two months in, because I found one that better met my son’s needs. I fiddled around with schedules and observed how much time my son could spend learning each subject before needing a sensory break. I was able to fully advance him a grade level (and sometimes more depending on the subject). As a child who is academically strong, he was both struggling in school and not working at his ability levels.
Talk about a less-than-ideal situation.
Now, he gets to work exactly where he’s at and even pursue topics of interest that are not covered in kindergarten—he loves studying countries, cells, computer animation, you name it! He also has more time to participate in wonderful social skills groups, martial arts (which is proving to be an awesome outlet for him), and I am able to help guide and process social interactions with him. For the first time in years, I can take deep breaths again.
I can honestly say that, right now, I rarely have moments where I sit and cry because I’m so overwhelmed and feeling hopeless. And goodness, my child really seems like a happy child, which is all I’ve ever wanted for him. He really isn’t having meltdowns anymore, like, at all. Sure, he certainly doesn’t always behave or listen, he still gets overloaded and irritable sometimes. Life isn’t perfect, and I’m still learning as we go.) But, it’s been five months since schools shut down in March and we’ve only had a few meltdowns here and there. He used to have them everyday, sometimes multiple times a day. His general mood is so much calmer and happier. He follows directions well and even volunteers to help around the house. He does really kind things for everyone in his family, and because he’s happy, we can see how that impacts our entire family. We are all happier. There is a sense of peacefulness in our home that we’ve never experienced. And I’m no longer as anxious when I take him to parks or around other kids. He’s making a lot of progress. I think because we are now in this calmer place, we’ve been able to actually focus on skills like socializing and good behavior.
Before, it just felt like getting through the day was all we could do. I know new challenges may arise (actually, undoubtedly, they will), but I’m ready for them. And through this experience and transition to homeschooling, I’ve learned that I have the tools and ability to figure it out. I have more trust and confidence in myself as a parent. Even on days I feel discouraged, I remind myself that I love my child more than anyone on this planet, and that has to be enough. I will always do what’s best for him and tweak our situation and environment as needed.
Homeschooling was never something I thought I’d do. But I was given a child who is a little “different” and is honestly more amazing than I can put into words. The way his brain works astonishes me. That may mean that he doesn’t fit neatly into the box others expect him to fit into, but that’s the beauty of homeschooling—he doesn’t have to be in a box. Actually, his space and capacity to learn is now wide open. I cannot say with certainty that we will homeschool forever. I have no idea what the future holds.
I do know that this is absolutely working for now. Even on days we have setbacks, it’s still so much better. Homeschooling I’m sure will not or does not work for all neurodivergent children, but I do know that it works for some. (Sidenote: there are numerous Facebook groups just for autism and homeschooling!)
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, Connor now gets in his car seat for me with no issues. He buckles himself in and it’s no longer a stressful experience. I think it’s safe to say it took a whole lot more than clearer boundaries and a social story attached to the back of my seat.
Daily schedule (times vary by the day, but this is a “typical day”)
7-8 am: get dressed (we get dressed even on days we stay home!), breakfast, free play
8-930 am: our typical “school hours” where we cover core subjects, including ELA, math, and handwriting (we use “The Good & The Beautiful” curriculums, primarily). I also have activities from “The Peaceful Preschool” for my 3-year-old daughter.
9:30-10 am: snack time
10-12 pm: active time – we like (have to!) to get out of the house, so usually this means a playground, a visit to the science center, a playdate with friends, etc.
12 pm: lunch out or at home
1 pm: usually our “down time,” which can mean anything from a little bit of iPad time, sensory bin play, doodling with art supplies, etc.
2 pm: This is when we often do other subjects, like science and social studies. We do science experiments (a favorite!), read books on social studies topics, art projects, etc.
3-4 pm: I try to cook most days and include the kids! So we are typically getting things prepped and cooked for dinner at this time.
4-5 pm: Connor just started taking martial arts classes, so usually this is the time we are heading there or participating in martial arts
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As I jokingly call myself a “Recovering Catholic,” I struggle to put into words the question that was just asked of me:
What exactly do you believe in, if it’s not God?
The truth is, I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that I don’t exactly fit into any religion. I don’t really think there is some all powerful man staring down from the heavens watching all of us, but I’m not above believing in so called “miracles” or forces that are beyond my comprehension. I’ve thought a lot about this since realizing that I could no longer be Catholic. For those of you who are curious, my realization came after admitting to myself that I honestly didn’t believe in transubstantiation. Transubstantiation is the process during communion when the wafers and wine transform into the body and blood of Christ- a major tenet of Catholicism. I already had some issues with the church that I was struggling with- from the treatment of those in the LGBTQ community to only men being allowed to be priests, but that one realization made it clear I was no longer in the right community. Since then, I’ve explored other religions and haven’t found anything that I can get behind 100%.
While I personally find most organized religion to be somewhat unappealing, I don’t necessarily feel religion itself is a bad thing. I do however struggle with the hypocrisy. I’ve met a significant amount of people who say they believe in certain religious values, yet they don’t actually practice said values in their every day lives. It feels like for most individuals, church is either a place for socializing, what they’ve always done without questioning, or a way for them to feel like they have some kind of “moral licensing” over others. That’s not to say that there aren’t true believers who live up to their religious beliefs out there, but I’ve seen enough people that don’t to make me leery.
Raising Secular Children
Personal experiences aside, I don’t want my children to treat other humans with compassion because some mysterious higher power told them to, or because they are afraid of the fiery depths of hell. I want them to be good humans simply because it’s the right thing to do. This is how we should treat all humans, regardless of their age, gender, race, sexual preference, size, religion, etc.
Granted, many individuals learn selflessness, generosity, and gratitude through religion — because religion does instill these values — countless others do not. Forgiveness isn’t exclusive to religion. Thankfulness isn’t exclusive to religion. Empathy and understanding are not exclusive to religion. Religion and morality are not inextricably linked — because religion doesn’t make good people. People make good people.
Dealing With The Big Questions
I won’t lie, sometimes it would be nice to have religion as a backup for those “big” questions, about things like death, life, differences, and morals. There is a certain comfort that comes from having a God like figure in your life, knowing that he is taking care of you and loved ones as well as feeling like there is some greater plan to your life. So how do we handle these types of questions?
I’ve found that just being as honest and compassionate as possible is usually the best path. Children can handle the truth as long as it’s presented in a way thats suitable to their age level. I have a few great examples of this:
Over the summer, Everett finally started getting interested in why girls had a “fahchina” aka vagina. My first explanation involved the most basic details. I explained that it was essentially the female version of a penis and that it just looked and acted a little differently.
This explanation held him over for a couple weeks, then he came up to me and asked again. The simple explanation didn’t work. He wanted to know how they worked and why I was bleeding. So I explained it in very basic scientific terms and showed him a kids anatomy book so he could see a woman’s reproductive system. He thought it was super neat and hasn’t asked a question about it since.
My other example deals with death. Last fall when Everett’s pet rabbit, Snowball unexpectedly passed away, I really struggled with how to best comfort him. It would have been so easy to tell him that his rabbit went to live in bunny heaven and was having the time of his (after)life. The scientific approach, ie explaining the life cycle, also didn’t work with Everett. He didn’t believe the bunny was truly gone until he saw the dead bunny, then insisted that after the bunny went into the earth it would come back, (side note: how terrifying would that be ?
?), and kept asking us to dig the rabbit up to make sure (we didn’t).
Obviously, only time really heals a broken heart, but what really helped Everett the most was writing the bunny a letter that we buried beside his grave (so Snowball would know how much he was loved). We also planted some flowers on top of the grave, so Everett had a visual representation of how Snowballs memory could be kept alive.
Given that I feel that everyone should be treated equally, I don’t feel right forcing a religion onto the boys- it should be their choice. My husband and I may identify as nonreligious, but we both believe our children deserve the right to make their own choice on the matter. We plan on exposing them to various options once they start having questions. We hope to do this as unbiased as possible, but we will be honest with them about why we chose to be secular.
Living in the Bible Belt and being secular can be isolating, so I can understand if they want to join in with their peers when they are older. Our goal is to simply make sure that they understand what their choices are and to let them pave their own path.
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“Let people help”. “Rely on friends and family”. “Don’t be shy to ask family members to help around the house”. This is the advice touted on every baby blog, in all of the pregnancy books and shouted from the rooftops by experienced moms. But what if you can’t?
The end of my pregnancy and beginning of my daughter’s life hasn’t looked at all how I expected it to. Breastfeeding classes? Canceled. Mommy-and-me play groups? Nonexistent. Friends and family coming over to meet the baby and help around the house? Nothing but a fantasy. As thankful as I am to have had a healthy baby girl and an amazingly supportive partner, I still feel like COVID-19 stole this time from me. I’m still processing and mourning the loss of a time in my life that was supposed to be happy and exciting.
My stepmom planned a wonderful baby shower for me, with friends and family flying in from all over the country, that I never got to go to. I bought a dress for the pregnancy photoshoot that never got to happen. Gazing at our bundle of joy via ultrasound with my husband by my side ended up being me alone in a room with the technician, wearing a protective mask, trying to record a video of that dark screen on my iPhone to show my husband later. My mother-in-law hasn’t even met her grandchild for fear that she would bring the virus up with her from Florida.
Being pregnant and giving birth during a global pandemic has been one of the hardest experiences of my life. The social isolation alone was challenging, but to experience that with pregnancy and postpartum hormones on top of caring for a newborn for the first time seemed almost insurmountable. When hospitals started restricting visitors, I read story after story of women who were forced to give birth completely alone because the visitor policy didn’t allow their child’s other parent.
Whether I would elect to have a homebirth or have my husband unable to attend the birth of his first child was not a decision I ever envisioned having to make. Thankfully, I didn’t have to. What I did end up having to do was arrive in the hospital, after 24+ hours in labor, breathing through a piece of fabric.
Before I could get inside, I had to stop and get my temperature checked, knowing that if I “failed”, they would try to isolate my baby from me immediately after birth. The fear that they would try to take my baby from me and prevent skin-to-skin, breastfeeding and general motherhood immediately after birth brought me to tears on more than one occasion. Had I tested positive, I was prepared to insist they leave her with me or I would have to leave the hospital and birth somewhere else.
Again, I’m thankful it didn’t come to that.
Once inside, I couldn’t be taken to L&D until I had my COVID test results back. After having my upper nasal cavity assaulted by a lengthy Q-tip, I continued to labor in an emergency department hospital room with no access to pain medication. We were told that I could remove my mask after getting the all clear from the test, but that as soon as the baby came out of me, I had to put my mask back on. At the time, I remember feeling SO grateful that I didn’t have to push with the mask on my face, which isn’t something most mothers have to incorporate into their birth plan. My husband was told to wear a mask the entire time (though to be honest, we both kept forgetting to put it back on when people came in the room with everything we had going on). All of the nurses wore masks at all times. In fact, I saw a nurse in the hallway without a mask on and asked her if she had seen my nurse who had been helping me for days. It turns out she actually WAS my nurse (embarrassing), but I had no idea what she looked like because of the masks.
As if giving birth during a global pandemic wasn’t enough weight on my shoulders, our country simultaneously (finally) began stepping up against systemic racism. While we were in the hospital after birth, our plan was for my husband to run home to tend to our dog on the second day. However, rioting around the globe and within our city resulted in a curfew during my hospitalization, and if my husband left, he wouldn’t be permitted to come back into the hospital until the next morning when curfew was lifted.
Coming home from the hospital was more emotional than I envisioned. I was leaving the safety of on call lactation support and endlessly being able to ask the nurses “is this normal?”. I knew these resources, normally available to new moms after they leave via support groups and meetups, would not be available to me.
When I did find a lactation group still meeting in person, my husband and I debated if it was safe for me to go get some much-needed help getting my baby to latch. My internal monologue debated if I was a horrible mother for risking exposing my child or if I was a horrible mother for not getting the nursing help that I knew I needed to feed her well. It felt so lose-lose. Ultimately, I made the decision that I thought would best set up my daughter for lifelong success and got the help that I needed to nourish her little body.
After a few weeks of settling in and things starting to get easier, I started reading some more baby books again now that I had the time. When the first chapter of a new book started with an emphasis on accepting help from friends and family, I literally threw the book across the room and cried to myself. When my family tried to guilt me into traveling with the new baby or letting people come see her that hadn’t quarantined, I sobbed in the shower. I wasn’t having to choose which daycare to put my daughter in when returning to work, I had to choose whether I was a horrible parent for even considering putting her in daycare during this time or if I should give up my career that I love. If I didn’t have the support of my husband, I don’t know how I would have emotionally made it for this long (shout out to all the single parents – I cannot even fathom how awesome you are for surviving!).
But hey, it’s not all bad – at least I didn’t have a ton of strangers touching my stomach for the last 4 months of pregnancy! In all seriousness, living through this situation has taught me that I can handle a lot more than I thought I could. It also taught me that there are more ways than one to lean on my support system.
I sought out others going through what I was going through. I found a lot of solace in two reddit groups – one private group specifically for mothers due at the same time as me (every birth month has a private reddit bumpers group – I highly recommend you find yours!) as well as an open group for pregnant people during this time called CoronaBumpers. My husband and I may not have hands on help, but I know we have support day and night through a network of amazing friends and family, even if it is virtual.
Two months after she was born, I still don’t know if I’m doing things right. I have no idea if I would be learning tips and tricks from other mothers that would make raising her easier. I’m still feeling isolated and lonely, but when I’m feeling really overwhelmed, I take a whiff of that amazing new baby smell and I know we will get through it together.
-Abbi Hernandez, Ph.D.
7/24/2020
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You may remember that I’ve started a long term photography project called #motherhoodintheraw. It’s all about learning to love your body again after having children.
Your postpartum body is as permanent a state as parenthood itself, and society as a whole, are conditioned to find reasons to not love it. My project is all about highlighting the beauty and changing the negative perspectives surrounding postpartum imagery.
The postpartum body is such an intense thing. You’re stuck in this place between what you used to look like and what you want to look like, neither of which will actually be achievable. You just grew a freaking human inside your body! Everything moved, shifted, stretched to accommodate these tiny beings. No one talks about how your stomach may be numb for years or how your ass literally deflates. I had two c-sections and have breastfed for five out of the past five-and-a-half years. Breastfeeding boobs are not to be confused with the large, perky ones you see on these breastfeeding celebrities in magazines. No, these are mounds of milk-filled flapjacks, and you can’t wear underwire to keep them up because it could cause a blocked milk duct.
Certainly pregnancy does create body changes. Those are things that should be appreciated and valued and not used as a weapon to limit our worthiness. Reframe your thoughts toward body appreciation when you notice criticism pop up. Or, how about acceptance? Even if you can’t find something you appreciate about your body, can you accept that it just is, releasing the judgment of good or bad? Let me be clear: Acceptance is not apathy. You are not giving up when you accept what is. You can still care about making important changes to your eating and exercise habits, how you cope with stress, or any other change that is important to you.
Resist the urge to compare your body to anyone else. It’s a human tendency to “compare and despair” as a way of assessing your self-worth. We can’t help that we do it, but we can control our response. Instead of body bashing yourself, just notice the comparison and give yourself a little mental hug, like you would your kids, letting them know you care. Say “It’s ok to be hurting about this, you are worthy and loved as you are.” This gentle response practically ensures that you will be in a better mindset to consider whatever self-care practices you can manage that moment: a drink of water, sleep, a balanced meal, a quick workout, a hot shower, or a good book.
A few things to remember and to tell yourself:
- All bodies are good bodies (yes all bodies).
- My body is worthy just for being born and for everything it’s done for me since then.
- I respect my body exactly as it is right now even if I wish it would change.
- I am fully committed to taking good care of my body as it is right now.
- My well-being matters to me more then weight, shape, appearance, and pants size. What do I need right now for my well-being?
- I will notice my negative thoughts and feelings, especially when I compare myself to others.
- I will treat myself with kindness – the way I hope my children will care for themselves when they are my age – even when it’s difficult.
- I have permission to have a bad body moment, day, or week without it being a judgment on how good I’m doing at body acceptance. I’m human.
Becoming a parent changes us, physically and mentally, forever. We will all do better when we embrace this new normal and reject unhelpful demands directed at our bodies. We deserve better.
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“Fine. Everything’s fine.” I tell myself as I watch my house slowly be torn apart by the two tiny tornadoes I call my children. I sit there and look at the utter chaos and wonder if I leave it on the floor long enough if it will magically disappear. I have so many items on my to-do list that I’m almost paralyzed by it daily. I’m running on pure survival. Yet, whenever someone asks about my day or how I’m doing I say everything’s fine. If I wrote a book about my life at this moment, it could be summed up as “Everything’s Fine, and Other Lies I Tell Myself.”
Everything’s Not Fine
I know I’m not alone- the truth is the majority of us moms aren’t “fine,” we’re just in various stages of heading towards our breaking point. We’re so much more and so much less than fine most days.
Being a mom is amazing, but it takes nearly every ounce of our being–emotionally, physically, and mentally. More often than not, we find ourselves taking care of everyone else except ourselves. It is a tremendous blessing that is both exhausting and rewarding.Let’s get real though…. lately I’m so tired that I’m not even sure that the word tired is even adequate.
My tired is tired.
I’ve been in pure survival mode so long, I’m not even sure how to function like a normal adult. I feel my nerves fraying at the ends—like, physically felt them fraying—and wondered if I might actually break. I’ve fought the urge to walk out the front door and keep going, far, far away. Quite frankly, I’m in desperate need of a momcation before this slowly ticking time bomb I call life explodes.
If you feel like you could’ve written this, raise your hand ?
The burnout is real, and no you aren’t imagining it. It’s also not your fault.
Women in general have a nasty habit of putting everyone else’s needs ahead of themselves. We give and we give, but often, we forget to give back to ourselves. We make excuses such as, “I just am not sure I have the time” or “I just don’t have the money for a *insert self care item here.”
The truth is, there is always time/money for yourself, that is if you’re committed to treating yourself better. Society doesn’t care about us burning out and it’s definitely not providing us solutions to our burnout problems. It’s up to us to be honest about what’s burning us out, accept that we can’t change everything and we won’t ever be the perfect Pinterest mom or wife. Be honest about what you need to help with your burnout. For me, I needed a vacation from my responsibilities. So last week, I treated myself to a “Momcation On A Budget.” Let me tell you, it was HEAVENLY!
Getting Started
My goal was to be completely child and husband free for 24 hours. I wanted to follow my own schedule, sleep in, and heck use the bathroom without hearing MOMMMMA 500 times. My mother in law was going to be in town, so I knew it was the perfect opportunity for me to take a night away from the kids.
I started looking into my options. Should I ask a child free friend to crash in their spare room? I knew that would be a nice option, but I didn’t want to feel like I had to socialize, so I kept looking. I looked at hotels, and then decided an Airbnb would be more cost effective and casual. I reached out to a lovely friend who I knew ran several properties and inquired if she would be willing to put me up for the night in exchange for being featured in my blog. As fate would have it, she had a few openings and agreed to work with me. *insert happy dance*
So that was one obstacle down, and it got me thinking, what would my ultimate momcation have? From there, I worked my network of contacts and managed to work in dinner at an amazing restaurant, that just so happened to be in the same building as the Airbnb (Roots & Revelry) , and a massage at my favorite spa (Head2Toe). I’ll tell you some more details about the places I named below.
Momcation Time
Initially, I planned to leave my house early, go to a massage then relax at the Airbnb before dinner. Things needed to be moved around some, so when I left the house, my first stop was now going to be one of our local gourmet chocolate shops. Sadly, both were closed thanks to it being the week of the 4th of July. So I brainstormed some and decided to go to our local gourmet ice cream shop instead. Ahh, sweet tooth craving satisfied! The perfect way to kick of my momcation!
You can always find time and money in your budget to spend under $10 on yourself and sneak away from your kids for an hour of resetting. If you don’t have a sweet tooth, grab a drink, go for a relaxing walk, explore the Art Museum, or join a free workout class. You don’t have to get away overnight to find time to take care of YOU!
Next up, my Airbnb! When a hotel seems out of budget, a great option for getting away while still staying close is an Airbnb. My Airbnb was located at the Thomas Jefferson Tower (TJ Tower)
TJ Tower is a beautifully restored building. Built in 1929 it has gleaming marble floors, tasteful decorations, and a welcoming elegance. It’s gone through several renovations and name changes over the years, but one of my favorite features is the Zeppelin mooring tower. It was built during the time period where it seemed like dirigibles would be the next big transportation system, and now it’s currently the only remaining tower in existence. Super cool!
The Airbnb is a small, one bedroom apartment, that’s tastefully decorated and has all the basic amenities-even dog dishes. You can see photos of it above. It was the perfect place for me to hideaway. There is a small convenience store in the lobby where I picked up some wine for my night of relaxation.
I stopped into Roots & Revelry to check in with Brian, (one of the buildings co-owners), and to grab a drink. Brian had some really interesting facts about the building and was very welcoming. The bar manager, Destin, was very passionate about his job, and you could tell. He carefully explained the whole menu, showed me the onsite herb garden, and even gave me a clear ice demonstration. I had a couple drinks and popped into the Airbnb for a few minutes to get settled.
Upon coming back, Brian showed me their stunning ballroom and event space. I hope I’m lucky enough to have an opportunity to attend/photograph an event there. It’s seriously gorgeous!
I headed back to the bar to start to order some food. I tried the delicious PB&J, the filet, and the bread pudding. Each one was flawlessly prepared and tasted divine. I had so much fun at the restaurant I stayed way later than anticipated, but it was totally worth it! Their brunch menu also looked amazing-I can’t wait to go back and try it!
I headed back to the Airbnb and promptly fell asleep! I woke up a few times thanks to Finn keeping me on a wacky schedule, but it was sooooo amazing to sleep in without sharing my bed with small children or getting up at the crack of dawn!
Next up on my momcation agenda was the massage and facial. Cheron Blythe, the owner of Head2Toe is a serious boss babe. She’s one of the most dedicated shop owners I’ve met and is constantly finding new and creative ways to improve her business. She offers many onsite amenities, such as an elegant glass shower, a nice back porch to relax on, the world’s most comfy massage chair for pedicures, and specialized hand mixed creams to name a few.
Cheron walked me through the process so I felt absolutely comfortable, and then I stripped down for the facial and massage. The facial also included a super neat cupping process and a 30 min hand/foot rub. Once the facial was completed, I had an amazing massage. I left feeling like a new woman!
Now for the fun part! Head2Toe, Roots & Revelry, and the Thomas Jefferson Tower joined forces for an epic local giveaway! TJ Tower is giving away one free night in their Airbnb, Roots is giving away a $50 gift card, and Head2Toe is giving away a free facial & hand/foot rub. All for ONE lucky winner! Follow the instructions on Instagram & Facebook for your chance to win!
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