writing

The Quiet Kind of Happiness

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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

For Adalyn, Almost Three

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Adalyn, my wildflower bright,
You chase the wind, you catch the light.
With dino roars and spinning wheels,
You turn the world with how you feel.

Your smile is a spark, it’s sunbeams bursting,
It finds my heart and it quenches the thirsting.
You dance like storms and giggle like rain,
Then you hold me close through joy or through pain.

You roar like a T-Rex in the hall,
Then twirl and tumble, with your feet so small.
You lead with love, you leap with grace,
You are such a whirlwind in a tiny space.

Feral, free, and full of fire,
You climb, you jump, and you never tire.
But in your arms, the world is still,
It’s a gentle hug, such a quiet thrill.

You rally crowds for “dance mode” fun,
The party starts with just one run.
And in our group hug, squeezed in tight,
You shine with all your little might.

You’re kind, you’re strong, you’re truly you,
And every day, you’re something new.
I watch, in awe, as time moves on.
My sweet baby girl, my rising dawn.

So when the days feel far too fast,
I’ll hold these moments, make them last.
For in your eyes, I clearly see
The best the world could ever be.

Keep shining bright, my beautiful little firecracker.
I love you. Mean it. Always.
Momma 💕❤️

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.

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. ♥️