wellness

The Weight of Enough

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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

Hope Is a Powerful Thing

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If you had asked me a year ago how I was doing, I probably would have smiled and said I was fine.

Most moms do.

We’re good at it.
At smiling.
At showing up.
At packing snacks, wiping tears, making dinner, remembering appointments, loving our babies with every ounce of our being… while quietly carrying things inside our own minds that nobody else can see.

The truth is, for a long time I haven’t felt fine.

Not in a dramatic, falling apart kind of way.
In the quieter way that’s harder to explain.

The kind where your brain never really shuts off.
Where you wake up already tired.
Where small things feel overwhelming and your mind feels like it’s constantly running in ten different directions at once.

I kept telling myself I could just push through it. That this is just what motherhood feels like sometimes. That being busy and being overwhelmed are basically part of the job description.

But eventually I had to be honest with myself.

White knuckling your way through life isn’t the same thing as living it.

So I did something that honestly took me a long time to do.

I started seeing a psychiatrist.

Even writing that out feels vulnerable. There’s still this strange stigma around mental health that makes it feel like admitting something is wrong with you. Like if you were just stronger, prayed harder, or more organized or more disciplined, you wouldn’t need help.

But our brains are organs. Just like our hearts and lungs and knees.

And sometimes they need help too.

After talking through everything, we decided to start a treatment plan and see if we can help my brain work the way it’s supposed to. It’s a process, and we’re still figuring out what works best. This isn’t my 1st rodeo with antidepressants or antianxiety medication, but I knew going on that shed throw some scary stuff at me.

Starting this step was scary.

What if nothing changes?
What if I still feel the same way?
What if I’ve been trying so hard for so long and this still doesn’t fix it?

But there’s another thought that keeps showing up, and it’s stronger than the fear.

Hope.

I have hope that things can get better.
Hope that the constant mental noise might quiet down.
Hope that I might wake up feeling rested instead of already behind.
Hope that I might feel like myself again.

Because if I’m being honest, I’m tired of feeling broken.

I’m tired of wondering why my brain sometimes works against me instead of with me. I’m tired of pretending everything is fine when inside it feels like I’m just trying to hold everything together.

I look at my child and I want to be the best version of myself for her. Not a perfect mom, but a present one. One whose mind isn’t constantly fighting itself.

And I know I’m not the only one walking around feeling this way.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve been struggling quietly too, let me say something I wish more people said out loud.

Getting help is not weakness.

It’s one of the bravest things you can do.

Taking care of your mental health doesn’t make you a bad mom, a bad partner, or a failure. It makes you someone who cares enough about your life and your family to fight for yourself.

I don’t know exactly what this journey will look like yet. Healing isn’t instant and it isn’t perfect. There will probably still be hard days.

But for the first time in a long time, I feel something I’ve been missing.

Hope.

And sometimes hope is the very first piece of healing.

Because the truth is this:

Sometimes the bravest thing a mother can do isn’t holding everything together for everyone else.

Sometimes the bravest thing she can do is finally admit she deserves to feel whole too.

Go hug your babies. Go hug your partners. Go hug a tree. Make a therapy appointment.

XOXOXO – Meig

What is Hip Dysplasia?

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Upon hearing about our daughter’s diagnosis, many of you have asked, “What is Hip Dysplasia?” So, let’s talk about it.

What is Hip Dysplasia?

Hip dysplasia is a condition where the hip joint doesn’t develop properly, meaning the ball of the thigh bone (femur) doesn’t fit securely into the socket of the hip bone. It’s like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit quite right. This can cause the joint to be loose or unstable, which may lead to pain, difficulty moving, and in some cases, arthritis later in life.

In infants and toddlers, hip dysplasia is often detected during routine check-ups. If left untreated, it can cause problems with walking and lead to joint damage as it grows. Early treatment is important, and in some cases, babies and young children may need multiple surgeries to help correct the issue. After surgery, they may need to wear a spica cast—a full-body cast that helps keep the hip joint in place while it heals. This can be challenging for both children and parents, but it is an important part of the treatment process.

While hip dysplasia is commonly seen in babies and young children, it can also develop in adults, sometimes with no symptoms until later in life. For some people, the condition is mild and may cause few issues, while others may need ongoing treatment, including surgery, to manage it.

Early diagnosis and treatment can make a big difference in the long-term outcome, helping children grow up with less pain and fewer complications.