life

3 Days Before Surgery

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Packing for Dallas at Midnight: A Moment of Clarity in the Chaos

It’s midnight, and I’m still packing for Dallas. I started around 9 PM, and I’ve managed to get one suitcase packed—though even that feels incomplete.

I can’t help but wonder: why am I moving so slowly? Why can’t I focus on this simple task?

The answer seems to lie in the clash between my racing thoughts and my sluggish body. The louder my brain gets, the slower my hands move. It’s as though the more anxious I feel, the less capable I am of doing anything at all. I glance at the baby monitor. There she is—my sweet girl, sound asleep in her crib, as peaceful as she can be. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my mind.

Intrusive thoughts keep flooding in. I wish there were a mute button for my brain, just something to stop the noise for a few minutes so I can breathe.

What makes it worse, though, is when people ask me how I’m doing. How do you answer when you feel like you’re barely keeping it together? I’m not eating much. I’m staying up late because my brain is too loud to sleep. When I do sleep, it’s fitful and haunted by nightmares that leave me waking up in a sweaty panic. I’m terrified of the future, of what’s to come. I can’t think straight, I can’t focus, and the simplest tasks feel impossible—like packing a bag.

Packing, in particular, feels like a painful reminder that this isn’t just some nightmare. This is real. It’s been real ever since our daughter’s diagnosis, the day we saw the pediatric orthopedic surgeon for the first time. But I’ve been able to push it to the back of my mind, to pretend for a while that it isn’t happening. It’s easier that way. I’ve been dissociating, going through the motions of day-to-day life, trying to enjoy the small moments. We took her to the zoo for the first time, and I allowed myself to believe everything was okay, if only for a few hours.

But now, with every item I fold and tuck into the suitcase, it hits me all over again. This is happening. And I don’t know how to make sense of it all.

I guess, for now, I’ll go finish packing. But I don’t think I’ll be able to ignore it much longer.

Who is Meighan? She’s just Momma now.

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The Lost Identity of Motherhood—and the Journey to Find Myself Again

I used to wonder what happened to moms after they had children. Where did they go? It was almost symbolic: they seemed to slowly disappear from their own photos, replaced by baby pictures, and for some reason, that used to straight piss me off. I’d find myself wondering: How could someone get so completely lost in motherhood?

Now, I get it. I really do.

There is a loss of identity when you become a mom. At least, that’s been my experience. You become consumed by things you never thought you’d care so much about—milk intake, nap timings, diaper changes, meal plans, teething remedies. The list goes on and on. And somewhere along the way, you forget yourself a bit. You forget how to talk about anything other than the endless cycle of mothering. The things that used to bring you joy—your hobbies, your passions, your interests—fall to the wayside. Slowly, your world becomes smaller, and your conversation more limited. Let’s be honest, it can get a little… dull.

But then, you find other moms. Women who, before motherhood, you might not have connected with. But now, you’re all in the same boat—rattling around in this lost property box together. And in some way, it’s comforting. You’re not alone in this strange, beautiful chaos.

I know deep down that I’ve gone AWOL since becoming a mom. I’ve almost forgotten that there’s a world out there, separate from motherhood, that I can still be a part of.

So, I’m slowly reclaiming my “me-ness” again. It’s a work in progress, but it’s happening. And when I do, I notice something beautiful: Ady enjoys it more, too. It feels more authentic. Now, instead of just playing “Ms. Moni” on repeat, we have little dance parties to the music I love. I’ve even started taking the time to look half-human again in the mornings—putting my old face back on. These small changes, as trivial as they may seem, are helping me reconnect with myself, and I’m pretty sure they’re good for all of us.

Motherhood is a balancing act. You’re helping this tiny human develop their identity, but it’s just as important not to forget your own. It’s okay to be both: a mom and a person, with interests, dreams, and a self that existed long before motherhood.

And every little step I take to reclaim that feels like a victory. Here’s to becoming Meighan again, instead of just Momma.

Just let me grieve.

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Please, Don’t Tell Her How to Grieve

She’s in the kitchen, washing dishes with her back to you. You approach her quietly, two cups in hand. Fingerprints were smudged on the glass. A few gulps of milk were still sloshing around inside. You set them beside the sink and glance at her apologetically.
She doesn’t notice.
Steam rises from the faucet as scorching water pours over her hands, scrubbing absently at an already clean pot. Her gaze isn’t on the dishes. It’s fixed out the window.
You follow her line of sight, watching a red bird flit about in a bush at the back corner of the yard. When you look back at her, her expression has clouded over. Her eyes, heavy with sorrow, blink slowly as if to hold back something that can no longer be contained.
And then, a single tear escapes.
Suddenly, the dishes don’t matter anymore.
It’s back again.
You’ve been tiptoeing around it, avoiding the mess it creates each time it resurfaces. You’ve given so much of yourself to hold her up because the world feels like it crumbles whenever she falls apart.
And you’ve caught yourself wondering… When will she get over it? When will the tears stop? When will the memories stop tormenting her?
When will she finally move on?
I know you want to tell her it will be okay. That everyone loses someone they love, and time will heal her pain. You want to remind her that she’s not alone in this.
I know you want to say something. Anything.
But above all, please, don’t tell her how to grieve.
When she cries, don’t try to quell her tears. She’s not drowning in them. She’s swimming through the memories of love they shared.
When she speaks of them, don’t change the subject because you think it’s too painful. It’s more painful to bury the memories than to let them be.
And as the days pass, don’t ask her to move on. She’s not stuck. The person she’s mourning will always be a part of her, and she will always be a part of them. Death didn’t break that bond. Time won’t either.
The tears will stop for now. But they may return tomorrow, or next week, or in twenty years. And when they do, it’s because the love they shared is everlasting.
There’s nothing you can say that will change this. Nothing you can do to make it easier.
So please, don’t tell her how to grieve.
Just hold her hand. Listen to her stories. Walk beside her through the sorrow.
You may not be the one she’s missing, but you’re the one she has left.
And sometimes, your quiet presence is all she needs to get through. ♥️