love

Anniversaries make me sappy.

Leave a comment

Eleven years of marriage.
Sixteen years of loving him.

Sometimes I sit in the quiet of our home, usually after bedtime when the world finally slows, and I try to wrap my mind around that number. Sixteen years. A whole lifetime of memories, of growth, of becoming who we are together.

We started with so little. Just two people figuring out life side by side in our very first apartment. Back then, love looked like late night conversations, shared dreams, and the kind of laughter that only comes when everything is still new and full of possibility.

And the beach is where it all took root.

There is something about the ocean that feels like us. Wild and steady at the same time. That is where our story really began, sun on our skin, salt in the air, falling into something deeper than we even understood yet. I still remember that cruise to Honduras, Costa Maya, and Belize, the moment it all shifted for me. Somewhere between the waves and the quiet moments together, I realized I was not just in love.

I was home.

Since then, we have built a life piece by piece. Two homes after that first apartment. A new chapter here in Austin, where everything feels a little lighter and a little friendlier, like we landed exactly where we were meant to be.

But if I am honest, the most defining part of our story was not where we lived.

It was what we waited for.

Twelve long, quiet years.

Years that tested us in ways no one really sees from the outside. Years filled with hope, heartbreak, patience, and an unshakable commitment to each other. There were moments it felt impossibly heavy, but we never let go. Not of each other. Not of the life we believed we were meant to have.

And then, her.
Our daughter.

Three and a half years ago, everything changed in the most beautiful way. The silence we carried for so long was replaced with laughter, tiny footsteps, and the sweetest little voice calling us Momma and Daddy.

Watching him become a father has been my favorite chapter of ours.

The way he loves her. The way she looks at him. The patience, the playfulness, the quiet strength he brings into our family. It is everything I ever dreamed of and more. There is something so sacred about seeing the person you have loved for over a decade step into a role that feels like it was always meant for them.

We did not just build a life.
We built this life.

One filled with resilience. With deep roots. With a kind of love that has been tested and proven again and again. A love that grew up, weathered storms, waited through silence, and still chose each other every single time.

Eleven years married.
Sixteen years together.

And somehow, it still feels like we are just getting started.

I would choose him in every lifetime.
Always.

-Meig

The Weight of Enough

Leave a comment

There’s a quiet tug of war that lives in my chest every single day.

When I sit on the floor and play with her, really play, the kind where I let the dishes pile up and the laundry stay unfolded, I feel it creeping in. You should be cleaning. You’re falling behind.

And when I finally stand up, push through the exhaustion, and start picking up the house, there it is again. You should be with her. These moments are slipping away.

It feels like no matter where I stand, I am standing in the wrong place.

Did I make her smile enough today?
Did I give enough hugs, enough kisses?
Did she feel how deeply, wildly, endlessly loved she is?
Did I do enough?

Mom guilt does not whisper. It hums. Constant and relentless. Especially when your body already feels like it is fighting its own quiet battle every single day.

Because chronic illness does not clock out.
There is no off switch.
No pause button.

Every ounce of energy becomes a decision.

Do I spend it on the dishes or on her laughter?

Do I push through the fatigue to be present or do I rest so I can make it through bedtime?

And somehow, no matter what I choose, it feels like I am failing something.

Tonight I sat on her floor, pulling her pajamas over tired little legs, soaking in her bedtime cuddles. My body felt heavy, completely emptied of everything I had to give.

And still the thoughts came.

Why did I get so frustrated today?
Why will she not just poop in the potty already?
Why did I lose my patience over something so small?

It is in those quiet, end of the day moments that the guilt hits the hardest.

Because I want to be everything for her.
The patient mom. The fun mom. The calm mom. The always present, never tired, endlessly gentle mom.

But I am not.

I am human.
I am tired.
I am doing this while carrying more than most people can see.

And as I sat there, stuck on the floor for just a moment longer than I wanted, because getting up felt like climbing a mountain, I looked at her.

And she looked at me like I was her whole world.

Not a cleaner house.
Not a perfectly patient mom.
Not someone who got everything right.

Just me.

Her momma.

And in that moment, I was reminded of something I so easily forget.

I am not the perfect mom.
But I am her mom.

The one she runs to.
The one she laughs with.
The one she wants at the end of the day.

Even on the days I feel stretched too thin,
even on the days I lose patience,
even on the days I question everything,

I am still exactly who she needs.

And maybe, just maybe,
that is enough.

Love y’all. Go hug your babies. You’re enough. I promise.

-Meig

Three Is Magic

Leave a comment

No one told me three would be this beautiful.

Everyone warned me about three.

They said it with knowing looks and little half laughs.

“Oh just wait until she’s three.”
“Three is when the attitude starts.”
“Threenagers are something else.”

What nobody told me is that three is perfection.

Three is a tiny voice yelling from the other room, “I WILL DO IT MYSELF!” while struggling to pull on shoes that are definitely on the wrong feet.

Three is spinning in the living room saying, “Check out my moves, Momma!” and dancing like the whole world is watching.

Three is independence blooming right in front of my eyes. It’s tiny hands that don’t need mine quite as much anymore, but still reach for me when she’s tired.

Three is Gabby’s Dollhouse on repeat. Again. And again. And again.

Three is dance parties at 10 pm when bedtime should have happened an hour ago.
It’s music playing too loud, twirls across the living room floor, and one more song before we even think about pajamas.

Three is the moment the chaos finally slows down and she crawls into my arms for sleepy cuddles before bed. The kind where her whole little body melts into mine and I remember she’s still my baby, even while she’s becoming her own little person.

Three is hug attacks.
The kind where she runs at me full speed just to wrap her arms around my legs.

Three is messy and loud and exhausting and absolutely magical.

Everyone warned me that three would be hard.

What nobody told me is that three would also break my heart a little.

Because every “I do it myself” is a reminder that she needs me just a tiny bit less than she did yesterday.

And while I’m unbelievably proud of the strong, confident little girl she’s becoming, there’s a quiet part of me that wishes I could freeze time right here.

Right here in the middle of dance parties and hug attacks.
Right here between independence and sleepy cuddles.

Because three is everything being a girl mom was promised it would be.

And I’m trying so hard to soak up every second of it.

Because motherhood is this strange, beautiful thing where your heart grows bigger every day, even while you’re grieving the versions of your child that quietly disappear along the way.

Yesterday she was a baby.

Today she’s three.

And somehow both of those things exist in my arms at the very same time.

And tonight, when I tuck her in and she whispers “I love you, Momma,” I know someday I will look back and realize…

three was never something to survive.

Three was something to treasure.

And I’m treasuring it. Truly.

Go hug your babies and water your plants. Maybe take your vitamin too.

Meig

The Quiet Kind of Happiness

Leave a comment

There was a time when I thought happiness would look big. Big moments. Big celebrations. Big milestones that everyone could see and applaud. I thought it would feel like fireworks or confetti or some loud, unmistakable proof that life had turned out exactly right. But the older I get, the more I realize that the truest kind of happiness is usually very quiet.

Tonight it looked like this. A Friday night with nowhere we had to be. The house settling into that soft end-of-week rhythm where everyone exhales a little deeper. Toys scattered across the floor, the hum of something on the TV that no one is really paying attention to, and the kind of tired that only comes after a full week of living.

I looked over at the couch and there they were. My husband and my daughter curled up together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her little body tucked into his, his arm wrapped around her with the kind of instinct that only comes from loving someone deeply and daily.

Sixteen years with that man. Sixteen years of ordinary days that somehow built a life. And now here he is, holding the tiny human we made together, her wild curls spread out against him, both of them completely content just being close. No big moment. No milestone.

Just us.

Motherhood has changed the way I see happiness. Before her, happiness felt like something you chased. Something you planned or waited for. Something that happened later, once everything was just right. But children have a way of bringing life right into the present moment whether you’re ready for it or not.

They remind you that the best parts of life rarely announce themselves. They show up quietly. In sticky hands reaching for yours. In the sound of laughter from the other room. In the weight of a sleepy child leaning against your shoulder. In the sight of the person you’ve loved for years loving your child just as fiercely.

Happiness is hearing a small voice say, “I love you, Momma,” like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

It’s the way she wraps her arms around your neck when she’s tired, her little body melting into you for one more sleepy hug before bed. It’s laying in bed at night, staring into the next room over and watching her sleep. Listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing and feeling that overwhelming mix of peace and awe that this tiny person exists, and somehow you get to be her mother.

Marriage changes too when you add a little person to it.
Not worse. Just deeper.

It becomes less about candlelit dinners and more about the way he instinctively scoops her up when she’s tired. The way he turns cartoons on so you can finish cooking dinner. The way the two of you exchange that look across the room that says we made this little life together.

The kind of love that builds slowly over years doesn’t always look glamorous. Sometimes it looks like sharing a couch. Sometimes it looks like being tired at the same time. Sometimes it looks like raising a small, curly headed whirlwind together and hoping you’re doing at least a few things right.

But tonight, looking over at them cuddled up together, I realized something.
This is the happiness people spend their whole lives searching for. Not perfection. Not some polished picture perfect version of life. Just love that feels safe. A home that feels warm. A child who feels secure enough to curl up between the two people who love her most in the world.

There will be bigger moments, I’m sure. Graduations and birthdays and all the milestones that come with watching a child grow up, but I have a feeling that years from now, when I look back on this life, it won’t be the big moments that shine the brightest.

It will be nights like this.

A Friday night. A messy living room. A little girl with wild curls. The sound of “I love you, Momma.” Sleepy hugs.
The man I’ve loved for sixteen years holding our daughter like she’s the most precious thing in the world.
And me sitting here quietly realizing that happiness was never something waiting for us somewhere down the road.
It was sitting right next to me on the couch the whole time.

Happy Friday, friends.
Meig