I firmly believe everyone should record at least one ugly crying video during a personal crisis.
Let me be clear: This is not for posting. This is not for content. This is not a “soft sad aesthetic with perfect lighting and a single tear.”
No. This is a full-blown, unfiltered, windshield-in-the-background, mascara-smudged, mouth-contorted, breathing-like-you-just-ran-a-marathon cry.
And the funniest part? The setup.
Because in the middle of your emotional collapse, you still somehow think, “Let me prop my phone up real quick.”You’re adjusting angles, checking lighting, making sure your phone doesn’t fall, like, priorities. You’re in shambles, but still directing your own low-budget documentary.
I recorded one of these a while back. Totally forgot about it. Fast forward to today: I’m cleaning up my phone, deleting old videos, feeling productive… and BAM.
There she is.
Me. In my car. Crying like an absolute idiot. About being lonely.
I almost dropped my phone laughing.
First of all, there is nothing cute about crying. Anyone who says “crying can be beautiful” has never seen themselves mid-sob with their face doing things it has no business doing. My face looked like it was trying to escape my skull.
Second of all, the DRAMA.
I was watching it thinking, “Girl… if I could reach through this phone and slap you, I would.” The things I was crying over? The people? The situations? The absolute bare minimum I was begging for?
Embarrassing. Historic levels of embarrassing.
What makes it even better is that now I’m out here writing blogs about how I can’t stand needy people. Meanwhile, past me was like, “Please love me” in surround sound. The irony is loud.
But here’s the thing: watching that video did something unexpected.
It reminded me that:
Emotions are temporary. What feels like the end of the world today becomes comedy later.
Growth is real. You don’t notice it while it’s happening, but playback does not lie.
Humor is healing. Because honestly? That video deserves background music. Maybe a sad violin. Maybe something dramatic. Maybe a full voiceover just roasting myself.
I mean, journaling about my feelings is one thing. Writing about my wall? Fine. But physically watching myself cry like a jerk?
Top-tier comedy. Five stars. Highly recommend.
So no, don’t post it. Don’t share it. Don’t send it to friends. Record it for you.
Because one day, future you is going to stumble across it, laugh until you snort, shake your head, and think, “Wow. Look at me now.”
And honestly? That alone makes it worth pressing record. 😌
As 2025 came to a close and 2026 began, we experienced something I never thought would fully come full circle, ending one year and beginning another together, peacefully, after years of putting our children first.
Over the years, my children’s father, their stepmom, and I have spent a lot of time together as a blended family. We’ve sat side by side at games, shared 2025 Father’s Day, celebrated milestones, and shown up when it mattered. There was never open conflict, but true emotional ease took time to develop, and if I’m being honest, there was a period where I showed up for my kids even when, internally, it didn’t feel completely comfortable yet. We did what needed to be done because it was right, even while peace was still growing.
For the first time ever, I rang in the New Year together, with my children’s father, their stepmom, their brothers, family friends, my children, and my own family, all in one place, on one night, under one roof.
What surprised me most wasn’t the gathering itself. It was how calm it felt.
There was no anxiety. No discomfort. No feeling like I had to brace myself emotionally. I felt at home. I felt like I belonged, not just as a mother, but as part of the larger world my children live in.
As we were leaving that night, my youngest son, now 20 years old, said something I will never forget:
“Mom, today was great. This is the first New Year’s I can remember where I didn’t have to stop at midnight to call one of my parents.”
His father and I divorced when he was two, and his brother was three. Hearing that made me realize something profound: this moment wasn’t just about us, it was about years of choices finally coming full circle.
If there’s one thing my children’s father and I should truly be proud of, it’s this, we never used our kids against each other.
No matter what we were navigating personally, we always shared the important days. Holidays, birthdays, milestones, we made sure neither of us missed out. Our feelings never outweighed what was best for our children.
Was it always easy? Absolutely not.
There were moments early on when we couldn’t even look at each other. But even then, the common ground remained the same: the well-being of our kids came first.
I never spoke poorly about their father to them. He never spoke poorly about me.
If there was a punishment in one house, it stood in the other. Respect didn’t change depending on which parent they were with. Our boys learned consistency, accountability, and respect, no matter where they were.
Looking back, I realize how rare that is.
So often, separation turns a child’s world into a battlefield. Adults get lost in their own pain, their own narratives, and forget how deeply children feel the tension, even when it’s unspoken.
I don’t believe people should stay together if they are unhappy. But I do believe that if you choose to part ways, you owe it to your children to make their world as peaceful as possible within your capacity.
I’m also grateful for the role my children’s stepmom has played. Stepping into a parenting role for children that aren’t biologically yours isn’t easy. I’m sure she has her own reflections, things she wishes she did differently and things she’s proud of. I know I do too.
There were times in my life when step-parent dynamics felt like a competition. But now, with my children grown and perspective gained, I see it clearly:
We all fit in their lives at the same time. Each of us holds an important place.
No, this wasn’t the life I imagined when I was young. No one gets married expecting divorce or blended family complexities. But given the circumstances, I can honestly say, we did good.
And I’m grateful that 2025 ended in a way that felt like closure.
Because for the first time in their lives, my children welcomed a new year with both parents under the same roof, without animosity, without tension—just love, respect, and blended family togetherness that felt seamless.
Earlier today, a coworker casually asked me about my recent dating experience. Without overthinking it, I said what I’ve said before: he was too needy.
She smiled and said, “You know… you said the same thing about the last person you dated.”
I laughed. But this time, instead of brushing it off, I paused. And for the first time, I said out loud, “Maybe it’s me.”
That thought stayed with me longer than I expected. So later, out of curiosity, I decided to look inward instead of outward. I asked myself, and yes, ChatGPT, what kind of attachment style I actually have.
Because here’s the truth: I genuinely love love. I love the beginning of a connection. I love meeting someone new, the conversations that flow easily, the curiosity, the excitement of learning someone’s mind. That stage feels light, fun, alive.
But there’s a very specific moment when something shifts for me.
It’s when the connection stops feeling like two people choosing each other and starts feeling like someone attaching themselves to me emotionally. When all of my time is suddenly expected. When from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep, I feel like I have to be “on.” When my life quietly becomes someone else’s routine.
That’s when I feel myself pulling back.
I don’t find it romantic when someone doesn’t have a full life of their own. When their interests fade, their world shrinks, and everything begins to revolve around me. Instead of feeling desired, I feel responsible. Instead of feeling connected, I feel drained. And if I’m being honest, it becomes deeply unattractive to me.
What surprised me most is that this doesn’t come from fear. I’m not afraid of intimacy. I don’t avoid closeness. What I avoid is enmeshment.
The attachment style that best describes me is often referred to as secure-avoidant, someone who values emotional connection but also deeply values autonomy. Someone who wants love, but not at the cost of losing themselves. Someone who thrives in relationships where closeness is intentional, not automatic.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized this isn’t limited to romantic relationships at all.
I’ve never been the person who needs to see the same friend every single day. I’ve had the same close circle of friends my entire life, but I’ve always valued space. Even with family, whom I adore, I can happily spend a day or two together, but by the third day, I crave time alone. Not because I don’t love them, but because that’s how I stay grounded in who I am.
That’s just my nature.
What I’ve come to understand is that I haven’t yet found someone whose rhythm truly matches mine, someone who enjoys their own company, has their own passions, their own routines, their own inner world. Someone who doesn’t need me to fill every space, but still chooses to share space with me.
I don’t want distance. I don’t want constant closeness either.
I want balance.
I want a relationship where two independent people walk alongside each other, not one person becoming the other’s entire world. I want connection without pressure, love without obligation, and intimacy that feels chosen every day, not assumed.
Last week was a rough one for me. If you read my last blog, you know I had a moment of deep despair. A moment where I finally decided to surrender, not give up, but surrender. There’s a big difference. In my prayer, I asked God the questions I’ve carried quietly for so long: Why me? Why am I still alone? Why haven’t I lived the life I envisioned, one filled with adventure, meaningful friendships, joy? It’s not for lack of being a good person. So why?
In that prayer, something shifted. I realized I was tired, tired of asking those questions, tired of trying to manipulate life into giving me what I thought I should have. I was exhausted from carrying it all. And in that surrender, I realized something that broke me wide open: I’ve never truly lived for myself.
My entire adult life has been centered around my children. I became a single mom when they were just two and three years old, and I made the choice to put my life on hold to be present in every possible way. Even on weekends they weren’t with me, I’d turn down plans and stay close to home, just in case they needed me. I felt guilty doing things without them, so I simply didn’t. I didn’t go out. I didn’t travel. I paused me. And over time, as I continued saying “no” to friends and family, the invitations stopped coming.
Then, the day after my surrender prayer, something happened. I got into a minor argument with my son. I was upset because he had plans to go out of town again, yet another weekend away. He’s in college now, and most weekends, he’s gone. I felt hurt. I told him so.
And his response stopped me cold: “Mom, you need to let me live my life. I’m entitled to live my youth.”
He didn’t say it to hurt me. But it did hurt, because I realized, he was right. I’ve given my whole life so that he and his brother could live theirs. I’ve sacrificed willingly. And yet, in that moment, I saw the truth: they never asked me to. I chose that. I did it out of love, but I also clung to it because it became my identity.
That day, I cried, hard. But for the first time, I didn’t cry because I felt empty. I cried because I was being shown something: It’s time to let go. It’s okay now. My boys are 20 and 21. It’s okay to live again. It’s okay to make plans, to go out, to travel, to enjoy life. That doesn’t make me less of a mother. In fact, it’s what I need to be the best version of myself, for them and for me. It’s time I model what it looks like to love others without losing yourself in the process.
And just when I thought that was my big lesson for the week… the universe handed me another one.
This past weekend, I had a moment of weakness, a familiar one. I caught myself almost falling back into an old habit: filling the silence, the loneliness, the space… with something that no longer fits.
I dated someone for two years, a good man, kind and thoughtful, but deep down, I knew from early on that we weren’t right for each other. My journals don’t lie. Entry after entry, I wrote about how I felt unsettled. I stayed because I felt bad. Because he had no family and mine became his. Because guilt can be a powerful prison. I broke up with him multiple times, and each time, he took me back with hope in his heart. To him, I was everything he’d prayed for. And maybe he was settling, too, because truthfully, I never prioritized him. I didn’t give him the love he deserved.
We’ve been out of contact for seven or eight months now. I hadn’t thought about him much at all, until he posted a picture with a new woman on social media. He looked happy. And just like that, I felt something. Not love. Not regret. Just… triggered.
Right before that, he’d left a box of my things with my mom. And the timing? Let’s just say it wasn’t accidental. He knew my family followed him online. He wanted a reaction. And sadly, I gave him one. I even found myself debating whether to reach out. I thought: Maybe I’ll just suggest coffee, just to see if he still wants me. Because I know he would. He told me countless times—no one would ever replace me. But then…
I caught myself.
This was a test.
A test of my surrender. A test of whether I was really ready to stop repeating patterns that don’t serve me. A test of how I handle the waiting.
And that’s where my couch theory comes in.
I look at surrender like this:
It’s like having an old couch you’ve finally gotten rid of because you know it no longer fits. Maybe it didn’t match your decor. Maybe the energy was off. Maybe it was never the right couch in the first place. So you let it go. You sell it. It’s gone.
Then you go out and buy a brand-new couch, the perfect one. The one that suits your mood, your style, your room, your life. But it’s custom. You meet the person who’s going to build it, and you tell them you trust them. You give them a plan, show them exactly where the couch will sit, explain how it should feel in the space. “I trust you to build the perfect couch for this room,” you say. They nod with confidence and tell you it will take four to twelve weeks to build, before delivery.
So now what?
You have no couch.
Your choices:
Sit on the floor and wait patiently.
Go back and drag the old couch back in, the one you already decided didn’t work.
Hop on OfferUp and buy a temporary couch. Something cheap. Something fast. Something that doesn’t match your vision but fills the space, for now.
But we all know what happens: that quick fix ends up costing more in the long run. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t fit. And when your real couch arrives, now you’ve got to do the work of getting rid of that temporary one, again.
So here I am, waiting. Sitting on the floor, metaphorically speaking. Not recycling old couches. Not buying stand-ins out of loneliness. I’m holding out for what’s meant for me. For what fits.
Yes, it’s hard. Waiting always is. But this time, I know what I’m doing. I know what I deserve. I know that filling space just to feel full isn’t the answer. I’m not here for quick comforts anymore. I’m here for peace, alignment, and truth.
So no more recycled couches. No more temporary stand-ins. No more mistaking loneliness for love.
Some nights carry a heaviness that no amount of success or self-love can lift. Not because life is broken, but because a very specific piece of it is missing. And that piece matters more than most people realize.
I’m content with what I’ve built. I’ve worked hard, raised two incredible sons, and created a life that makes sense on the outside. Financially, I’m stable. I’ve carved out a career that I enjoy, surrounded by good people. I’ve handled my responsibilities. I’ve shown up. I’ve done the work. And yet, despite all that, there’s an ache that lingers, because emotionally, romantically, intimately, I’m alone. And that absence has a way of coloring everything else.
It’s a unique kind of pain to have everything but love. To be the strong one, the capable one, the one who gets it done, but still come home to silence. It’s not the silence itself that hurts. It’s the realization that no one is thinking about you in the way you long to be thought of. That there’s no one eagerly waiting to see you. No one to share your day with. No one to plan a weekend or dream up a future.
People often say, “Just learn to love yourself. Enjoy your own company.” I have. I do. I’ve spent two decades showing up for myself. I go out to dinner alone. I treat myself well. I laugh. I lift myself when things feel heavy. But let’s be honest, being self-sufficient doesn’t erase the human desire for connection. I don’t want to be saved. I want to be seen. And I’ve never had that, not with a romantic partner.
I’ve never had someone to do life with. Never had a man who truly wanted to build something side by side. Never had someone say, “Let’s take that trip together,” and mean it. I’ve never traveled, not because I didn’t want to, but because I never had someone who wanted to experience that with me. That kind of companionship, that shared enthusiasm for life, has never found its way into my story.
I thought, by now, it would have. I thought once my boys were grown, once I had space for myself, that space would be filled by someone who understood me, someone with ambition, heart, family values, and faith. Someone steady. But here I am at 44, sitting with my dogs on a Friday night, leftovers in the fridge, no plans, and a heart that still wonders why that kind of love hasn’t come.
The other night, I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the kind of insomnia that comes from caffeine or stress. It was deeper. I laid there wide awake, fully aware that I wasn’t okay. And in that stillness, I did what I rarely do, I talked to God out loud.
I told Him I surrender.
Not because I’m giving up on love. But because I’m exhausted from trying to force it. Exhausted from constantly hoping today might be the day. I told Him I can’t carry the disappointment anymore. That I would rather trust His timing than keep torturing myself with expectations that never seem to be met.
Surrender, for me, isn’t about losing hope, it’s about trading it for faith. Letting go of control. Letting go of the timeline I imagined. And trying to find peace in what is, rather than what I thought should be.
Because I have done everything right. I’ve grown. I’ve healed. I’ve loved. I’ve given. I’ve created a beautiful life in so many ways. But without that connection, without that person to build and enjoy life with, it sometimes feels like all of it is missing a pulse. Like I have everything, but at the end of the day, it amounts to nothing… because there’s no one to share it with.
So tonight, I sit with the truth. I’m not bitter, but I’m not pretending anymore either. I want what I want. I deserve what I deserve. And if it’s in God’s plan, I’ll be ready to receive it. If not, I trust that my soul will carry this lesson into the next life, and maybe then, it will be my time to feel the kind of love that’s eluded me in this one.
Until then, I’ll keep showing up. Not for the hope of someone coming, but because I know my story matters, even in solitude. Because being alone doesn’t mean I’m not enough. It just means my heart still believes in something more. Quietly. Patiently. Faithfully.
Affirmation Of Visions 