I am a mother. A single mother of three incredible, sometimes messy (where do all the dishes and towels come from), brilliant, and exhausting (so many school assignments and schedules) children. It’s not even that they are toddlers anymore; they are older, wiser, and, in many ways, self-sufficient. But I wear that title of “Mom” like armor, but lately, even armor feels too thin to protect me. The weight of my past, of trauma that shaped me long before I had the words to name it, lingers in my bones. And now, as I watch the world shift in ways that feel uncertain, even dangerous, I find myself struggling to feel safe.
Weight of the world
I have lived through things no one should have to endure. As a child, I learned early that the world could be cruel. As an adult, I have faced betrayals, loss, and pain that left me gasping for air. And yet, through it all, I have held on. For my children, yes. But also for myself. Because somewhere deep inside me, there is still a girl who believes in hope.
Lately, though, that hope feels hard to hold onto. The current political climate—so much anger, division, and uncertainty—has settled into my chest like a weight I can’t shake. It keeps me awake at night, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. When I do sleep, nightmares come. Memories I thought I had buried. Faces I’d rather forget. And I wake up gasping, disoriented, tangled in sheets that feel more like chains.
Anxiety follows me through the day, whispering fears of the unknown. What will happen next? Will I be able to keep my children safe? Am I doing enough? Will the world they inherit be kinder than the one I knew? The uncertainty is suffocating.
But here’s the thing: I refuse to let fear win.
It has always been that way. I have always strived to find the light at the end of the tunnel. I seek the silver lining. I aim to find those glimmers every day, no matter how bleak things may seem.
I may not be able to control the world outside my door, but I can control how I show up in it. And I can choose, even in my most anxious moments, to seek out glimmers of hope. I remind myself daily that survival is not just about enduring pain—it’s about finding joy in spite of it.
So, for any person reading this who feels the same—who lies awake with a pounding heart, who carries the weight of both past and present, who feels like the world is closing in—I see you. I am you. And while I don’t have all the answers, here’s what I’m learning:
Prioritize Small Acts of Self-Care
Self-care doesn’t have to be grand or time-consuming. Some nights, it’s as simple as lighting a candle (you know I’m a candle fan) and taking deep breaths. Some days, it’s letting the laundry wait because my body needs rest, even though it can’t wait too long because, as I mentioned…TOWELS. Other times, it’s stepping outside for a minute of fresh air, especially on windy days because there’s something soothing about the sound and the feel of wind.
Create a Sense of Safety Where You Can
The world feels unpredictable, but my home doesn’t have to. I’ve started small—soft blankets, warm lighting, a quiet corner where I can breathe. I remind myself that safety isn’t just physical; it’s emotional, too. I limit my intake of news when it becomes too much, and I set boundaries with people who drain me.
This includes making sure to leave time in my day to workout. Boxing is a stress reliever for me, and it helps my brain create the chemicals I need to rise out of the darkness. I use the Supernatural app in VR to box. It is the best investment I’ve ever made for my health. If you have a VR headset and are looking for a way to get and stay healthy, please let me know. I can get you a 30-day free trial. Seriously, leave a comment below.
Lean Into Love
My children’s laughter is a life raft. Even on my hardest days, their hugs, their stories, and their sometimes chaotic joy remind me why I keep going. Love, whether it’s from family, friends, or even my dog Bekka—is an anchor when the world feels unsteady.
So if I spend extra time brushing my daughter’s hair, listening to music she likes, or sharing the details of a story we recently read, then I’m going to spend that time. Sometimes it is their presence. I don’t know if they are aware of how much it means to me when we are all home for dinner and can eat at the same time. When I can see all my kids in the same place, all eating dinner, talking and sharing together, that fills my “bucket,” so to speak.
I look forward to weekends when Brian will be visiting. We can binge old classic movies, drink wine or bourbon, and eat cheese and crackers. Sometimes, it’s difficult because he’s also a grown adult who feels anxiety and concern about the world around us. Maybe I lean into him too much.
Seek Support Without Shame
I am slowly learning that I don’t have to carry this alone. Whether it’s therapy, a trusted friend, or an online support group, speaking my fears out loud takes away some of their power. There is strength in saying, “I’m struggling.” There is even more strength in asking for help.
A couple of years ago, I had a fabulous therapist whom I recently reached out to because I realized that I needed to talk to someone. Someone who I know will listen, who will provide me with new tools and ways to cope and who will keep me scouting for hope.
Hold Onto the Glimmers of Hope
A glimmer of hope isn’t always a grand revelation. Sometimes, it’s a sunrise after a sleepless night. A stranger’s kindness as they wave or nod their head to acknowledge me. A deep breath that doesn’t feel as heavy as the last one. The way my daughter sometimes leans her head down on my shoulder without thinking. The fact that my teenage son still says he loves me when he gets out of the car to walk into school. Coming home after a long workday to see my kids working on making dinner for us. Or to see some freshly cleaned towels folded, when I know I didn’t do that load of laundry. These small moments matter. They are proof that even in darkness, there is light.
I don’t have all the answers. Some nights, the fear still wins. Some mornings, I wake up exhausted and uncertain. But I keep moving forward. Not because I am fearless but because I refuse to let fear steal my life.
So, to the woman reading this who feels lost, overwhelmed, and afraid, I see you. You are not alone. You are strong, even when you don’t feel it. And no matter how dark it seems right now, the light will return. It always does.
And when it does, we’ll be here, standing in it together.
