Life goes by

  The last couple of weeks have stretched me in ways I didn’t expect. Not in some big, explosive way. Not in a “life is falling apart” way. In a quiet way. In the way where you’re lying on the floor next to your baby while he eats, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’re doing enough. I’ve been thinking a lot about routines — pumping schedules, nap timing, daycare rhythms, dinner plans — and how easy it is to turn them into rules instead of tools. I used to believe that if I just followed the perfect schedule, everything would feel stable. Milk supply wouldn’t dip. Guilt wouldn’t creep in. I wouldn’t second-guess myself. But that’s not how real life works. Real life is messy. Babies don’t eat the exact same amount every day. Some days pumping is 20 minutes. Some days it’s 10. Some days it’s anchored to a nap instead of a clock. Some days I use the wearable pump while folding laundry. Some days I skip and breathe. And I’m learning that flexibility is not failure. ...

  There was a time when I was really, really good with money. Then life happened. Toxic relationships happened. Financial betrayal happened. And when someone steals from you — especially someone you trusted — it doesn’t just empty your bank account. It rewires your sense of safety. Now I track everything. Every transfer. Every bill date. Every automatic withdrawal. Some people might call it paranoid. I call it protection. I’m not obsessing over numbers because I’m unstable — I’m tracking them because I refuse to ever feel financially trapped again. I have automatic transfers set up. I move money into savings even when I don’t technically have to. I build buffers on purpose. I keep cash on hand. Not because I’m afraid… but because I’m building leverage. I want options. I want to move out when I’m ready. I want to buy a car in my own name. I want a cash cushion that means no one can corner me financially ever again. The version of me that got stolen from is not ...

  The paperwork is served. The proof is filed with the courts. On paper, things are finally moving forward. And yet emotionally, I feel like I’m standing still. Recently, I reached out to my husband—not out of longing, not out of hope—but out of necessity. I needed medical history for the sake of my youngest child. That’s it. Practical. Responsible. Detached. Or so I thought. That single interaction cracked a door I believed had been sealed shut. He asked to see his child, so I tried to do what felt safest and most appropriate. I set boundaries. I suggested a scheduled Zoom call. Rules in place. Distance maintained. Protection—for myself, first and foremost. Because he lives across the country. And because history matters. Somewhere in those limited exchanges, he began claiming change. Talking about salvaging the marriage. About counseling. About becoming the husband he once promised he would be. And that’s where the confusion crept in. There were moments that ...

  At this point, most people who follow my page know that I am still legally married but in the middle of a divorce process after escaping an abusive marriage. Papers have been served. The legal ending is in motion. The emotional ending happened long ago. We were only married four months when I fled. I left in August 2024 because I was afraid for my life. I could not survive the daily violence, the strangulation, the threats, the control, the fear. I reached a breaking point mentally and emotionally and ended up hospitalized. I called my mother crying and admitted she had been right — and she helped me get out. She helped save my life. In September 2024, he was arrested in Colorado related to the abuse I reported. He spent months in jail while the case moved through the system. In the end, the case was dismissed — not proven innocent, not proven guilty — dismissed due to insufficient evidence to proceed. That outcome does not erase what I experienced. It does not rewrite my rea...