Back Where I Left Off—But Not Who I Was

Looking back, it all felt… bigger. Louder. Fuller. I was deep into keeping a journal full of poetry and midnight thoughts. I felt connected to my voice. But after our youngest was born, reality smacked me in the face with a diaper and a stack of bills.

And then came the baby. And with her, reality came crashing in like a wrecking ball wrapped in baby blankets.

Our sweet, “picture perfect”blended family home slowly unraveled into something that felt a lot more like chaos. Influences outside our walls started creeping in, messing with our rhythm. And rereading my old posts? I can see how hard I tried to be the “easy” co-parent. I genuinely wanted peace. For the kids. For everyone. But here’s the hard truth: jealousy is ugly, and constant backhanded jabs from people you’re just trying to coexist with? That stuff compounds. It wears you down.

I learned the hard way that postpartum depression doesn’t always show up right away. Did you know it can hit 3 years later? I didn’t. But three years in, trying to juggle a newborn, a business, and just surviving inside our own four walls, I was drowning. Quietly.

My husband begged me to talk to someone.

So I did. I walked into therapy thinking I’d talk about stress or maybe how tired I was. Especially starting a company with a newborn strapped to my chest. But instead, my therapist looked at me and asked,

“What are your boundaries?”

And I froze.

Because I didn’t have any.

No one taught me that you’re allowed to draw a line.

And by the time mine were crossed, I was too deep in self-blame to notice.

I let people take, and take, and take.

Then I hated myself for being empty.

This post isn’t tied in a bow. There’s no perfect ending here. Just a woman with battle-worn grace, slowly picking up the pieces and choosing herself this time.

And unfortunately in choosing myself and having boundaries now, it has turned Co-Parenting into Combat. Because I’ve learned “NO” is a full sentence.

There’s so much I want to say but legally, I can’t.

So here’s what I can say:

No child should know the sound of sirens before lullabies.

But mine do.

They’ve seen more police officers than some adults have,

And that’s not a badge of resilience.

It’s a scar of chaos.

My advice?

If you’re an ex, stop being a spiteful one.

Stop weaponizing courtrooms and custody agreements.

Stop acting like dragging your co-parent through legal hell is some twisted form of “protecting the kids.”

Because here’s the truth that people avoid:

50/50 custody does not equal 50/50 effort.

One parent will always carry more. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically. And sometimes that parent breaks under the weight of trying to “coexist.”

Forget the Facebook groups asking, “What can I do to make my ex follow the parenting plan?”

Here’s a better question:

What are your boundaries? And do you even know you’re allowed to have them?

I didn’t.

Not until my nervous system gave up before I did.

I’ve become physically sick.

Living in a state of constant fight or flight isn’t living. It’s surviving.

Between attorney fees and medical bills, we’ve spent THOUSANDS just trying to find peace in pieces.

And I miss the parts of motherhood I used to love.

The quiet morning snuggles.

The giggles in the backseat.

The days where I could just be “Mom”. Not THAT MOM or THAT STEPMOM, the one being judged, questioned, challenged, and pulled apart in court transcripts.

Now?

Now I cry more than I sleep.

Not because I’m weak,

But because I’m exhausted from pretending we’re a family

when we’re really a fragile balancing act of three households trying to coexist under one roof.

And it’s too damn much.

So if you’re reading this and co-parenting feels like a war:

Wave the white flag.

Not for your ex.

Not for the court.

But for your kids.

And for yourself.

Lately my prayers have become my survival. I’ve been praying more. Not the quiet, prayers I grew up reciting in church pews,

But the kind whispered through tears… On my knees, in the dark, when no one’s watching. Sometimes even in the middle of a panic attack.

I’ve wrestled with faith. I still do.

My past left me with resentment, with questions I didn’t dare ask out loud. But after these last few years, the heartbreak, the unraveling, the aching… I found myself back at the feet of the one I tried to walk away from.

And one thing I’ve learned?

Trusting God doesn’t always give you the answers you want.

But it will give you the ones you need.

He moves mountains.

Sometimes quietly. Sometimes all at once.

But always, exactly when He’s supposed to.

And here’s the strange part:

Other women come to me for advice! In my delirious state of mind in survival…

They call, message, pour their hearts out and I sit there thinking,

“Why me?”

I’m not put together.

I’m messy.

I cry more than I post.

And yet, somehow, something I say makes a small impact.

Maybe it’s not me at all.

Maybe it’s just God speaking through my broken places.

So if I’ve ever helped you,

If anything I’ve said gave you hope,

It wasn’t me.

It was grace.

And I’m just as grateful for the healing as you are. Get on your knees and pray.