Some days collapse time.
You get news that breaks your heart, and suddenly you're walking the beach with a friend, talking about breastfeeding struggles when your first babies were six months old. That conversation was almost a decade ago. We don’t live in the same city anymore. We haven’t kept in close touch. But she was at my wedding. She was joyful, deeply kind, magnetic. Last week, she died of cancer.
The following morning, I learned that a friend’s 9-year-old daughter had a brain tumor—discovered and operated on in a matter of hours. I remember buying her a sleep sack when she was born — it was the first baby gift I ever bought, childless in London, quietly imagining what it might feel like to be a mother someday.
She’s blonde and smart and silly and kind. The kind of kid who lights up a room without trying. She reminds me so much of my daughter — the girl in the middle, flanked by two brothers who adore her and make her tough as nails.
After I got the news, I couldn’t bring myself to leave my children. I had the opportunity to hike with just my mom that afternoon, but I just couldn’t step away. I needed to be with them — to see them, to hold their soft, tiny hands. The weight of it all hit me physically. A kind of anxiety I’ve never felt before. The sudden understanding of how fragile everything is. I kept thinking: for those who carry this kind of fear every day — how do they keep moving?
Two pieces of news that stopped me in my tracks.
But I was also… parenting and we were on vacation. Potty training. My youngest had diarrhea in his “big boy pants” — on a hike, a gondola, and a bus away from our hotel. I was ankle-deep in it — literally and emotionally.
Somewhere in there, a voice note from my friend — my son’s godmother — came through. She’s in her final month of residency: 15-hour hospital shifts, 3-hour daily commutes, a 1-year-old with a raging ear infection. She’s also trying to support struggling interns — while catching flak from a colleague who actually said, “No one helped me.” The weight of it all — the effort, the isolation, the impossible expectations — hit me as part of the same wave. How heavy everything can feel.
And then yesterday, my husband tore a muscle in his leg. He’s in a boot now, on crutches. A few months ago, this would’ve felt like the headline. But in the swell of everything else, it’s just another detail folded into the week. We both barely blinked.
Grief, fear, chaos — and then laughter at dinner.
Trying to be light with my children because they can’t carry the weight I’m feeling.
Showing up, over and over, for them — not as a performance, but as a way to keep going.
This week, we also hosted our first webinar in the Mini Moments for Mighty Parents series.
Amy said something that’s still sitting with me:
“As women, we tend to give more than we receive — and that shows up in the breath. We often exhale longer than we inhale.”
And while I still don’t think I could put on my air mask in the crashing place before my children’s, I do want to try to inhale just one second longer.
So today, I was still heavy and tired and sad.
I took a nap. And I dragged myself on a run.
It wasn’t impressive. No one’s going to give me kudos on Strava.
But I did my loop.
And that’s enough for today.
Because it’s always both/and in motherhood.
I was tired, and I ran.
We always do.
At night, I go up the stairs again and again to my youngest calling, “Mum, come!”
Fifteen, twenty times some nights. But who’s counting?
Every time, it’s the same: “Hug, kiss.”
Not to get one — but to give them.
Wet. Sloppy. Tight. Pure.
And honestly? I need it too.
This week has been a balance between the brutal and the beautiful. Between grief and giggles. Between diapers, diarrhea, and death. Between surviving and showing up.
On my run, two songs hit different:
🎧 “Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now”
🎧 “I was born for this, born for this. It's who I am, how could I forget? I made it through the darkest part of the night. And now I see the sunrise”
So yes — if you need to pretend that airplanes are shooting stars, do it.
Make the wish.
Laugh at the dinner table.
Climb the stairs.
Inhale one second longer.
Because maybe — just maybe — we are born for this.
To hold the hard, the holy, the hilarious — all at once.