The Storm and the Surrender

I may appear to have pretty thick skin to the outside world. I tend to stay calm in the eye of the storm— Well, unless I’m mad. Then watch out. I can be the storm.

I'm not sure when we decide to toughen up. Is there a moment? Does it happen over time? Is it just the price of living in this world—that we grow our armor, our masks? Our villain, our superhero, our front-facing self?

I'm pretty sure mine showed up around age 13—maybe sooner. I decided nothing could break me. I could bear anything. I’d find a solution to every mishap, every mess. I could even play parent to my parents.

But I won't get into all that now. That’s for another day.

And honestly—don’t you get tired of reviewing your own history over and over again? In therapy, with girlfriends, with your partner. When will that damn onion peel already and stop affecting how I react to situations?

I’m over it. Or I’m ready to be.

Then I became a mother.

Wow. No amount of pavement over this skin could have prepared me for this adventure.

We never really know how we’re going to parent until we become one.

When I got pregnant around 26, I made the possibly insane decision that I would have a natural birth. No drugs. Don’t even offer them.

Which is ironic, considering I said yes to almost every drug in my teens and early 20s.

I had my birth plan typed up and taped to the door. I tried to fire the first nurse for suggesting an epidural. Luckily, her shift ended before I had to push her out, too.

Twenty-four hours later... I wasn’t so sure. But when I got pregnant again, I made the same decisions.

Because when life shifts under you, things you never imagined become important. I took a hypnobirthing class. I watched videos of women giving birth in water, smiling through it, babies sliding out like sea creatures, serene and joyful. I thought: I can do this.

And I did. But it was nothing like the videos.

The wolf in me came out. I made it through—but it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Twice.

Birth takes you to the peak of pain, then back again—over and over—until you honestly think: This is it. I’m not going to make it.

But right at the edge... the baby comes. And everything stops.

Some might call that a near-death experience. I call it near-birth.

And then this tiny, warm creature is on your chest. So vulnerable. So real.

And you feel it in your bones: This was meant to be. Your body made this. Carried it. Nourished it. And now you’ll feed it from your body again—for two years, minimum.

I can testify: it’s life-altering.

The fear dissolves and you think again: I can do this. I was made for this. This is what I was put here to do. Oh—this is what these boobs are for! I’d been wondering why I was hauling these around all day.

The years that follow mimic labor—waves of pain, joy, exhaustion, rest.

Watching them rise up. Stand on their own. Create with their hands. Speak their minds. Shape their worlds.

This isn’t a complaint. But it is the hardest ride I’ve ever signed up for. And I did it willingly.

Week after week, day after day: the sleeplessness, the constant devotion. The entanglement. The fierce drive to protect them from harm.

And then— The teenage years.

Where your job becomes letting go. Letting them fall. Letting them walk out the door without you watching, guiding, advising in real time.

The trust required is unreal. Especially in a world that is actually terrifying.

There is no training for this. There is no handbook.

We are flung into superhero roles without a cape. And over time, the illusion unravels.

They grow. And they, too, begin building their own armor— Learning how to move through life.

It’s all wildly imperfect. Messy. Unpredictable.

And the truth is—mothers get the best of it and the worst of it.

If it didn’t challenge you, it wouldn’t change you.

No matter how hard this gets—I won’t give up.

I hold onto the hope that somehow I’ve cloned my favorite human (aka Peter) twice, and that together we’ve created two humans who will be good for this world.

Who will survive the intensity of their own becoming, just like we did.

But God help us right now—because our youngest is testing every ounce of that hope.

Last night, the police called at midnight. He was skateboarding inside his high school. With alcohol.

Last week? A meeting about a 15-day transfer to detention school.

This could’ve been his second trip to juvy, on Mother’s Day no less. If we hadn’t picked up the call.

All I ask is: Please make this one of those stories.

The kind where the teenage years are so wild and mistake-filled that the kid grows up to be a millionaire, who gives back. Who changes lives. Who tells his story so others don’t follow that path.

Those stories exist. That’s the one I choose to believe we’re in.

I will keep showing up. Holding my ground. Not giving up.

Even when I’m so beyond angry I could break things. Even when I want to throw my hands in the air and let the shenanigans win.

Because I’m a mother. And we don’t give up.

Happy Mother’s Day to the toughest batch of underrated, underappreciated, badass humans on earth.

We are the mothers. Never give up. Never surrender.