The Day I Realized My Kids Deserve More Than the Tired Version of Me

This morning, I was barreling down the interstate in my trusty Toyota Sienna. Windows down, wind rushing past my ears just enough to simulate calm—white noise therapy on wheels. In the backseat, the kids were mid-argument, and Alvin and the Chipmunks’ cover of Imagine Dragons' “Thunder” was thumping from the speakers—courtesy of my five-year-old’s enthusiastic request.

Before you start picturing a breezy summer drive, let me clarify: the windows were down because the A/C is out, and the outside temperature is approximately that of the sun. I could feel sweat pooling in places I won’t mention, already dreading the damage report once we arrived at our destination.

Then came a comment from my son that stopped me in my tracks: “Mom, why do you always look mad or sad?”

Oof.

I muttered something sarcastic under my breath—probably a mature, insightful response like “because I’m raising you guys in a mobile sauna”—when I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.

He was right.

My face was all pinched and worn. Tired. Grumpy. Sweaty. I looked mad and sad. Because… maybe I was?

The rest of the drive became an unexpected therapy session with myself.

I’m tired. Not just “I didn’t sleep great” tired, but the kind of tired that stacks over time. I don’t remember the last time I had multiple nights of uninterrupted rest. There’s always noise—loud, chaotic, repetitive noise—and my brain is stuck in overdrive trying to process all of it. Add in the mental and emotional load that never clocks out, and it's no wonder I feel like I’m running on fumes.

But here’s the thing: underneath all that? There’s still me.

There’s a fun girl in here. The one who loves to dance in the kitchen, belt Adele at full volume, and laugh so hard she snorts. The girl who wants to bounce on the trampoline—if not for the very real risk of peeing her pants. The girl who dreams of spontaneous road trips and late-night cereal instead of feeling haunted by Mount Laundry and the pressure to “eat the rainbow” at dinner.

That version of me still exists.

But my kids? They rarely get to see her. And that realization hit me hard.

They spend every single day with me—eating meals, sharing space, breathing the same air—and yet, do they really know me? The real me? Or are they getting a watered-down, perpetually stressed version of their mom in the name of… what exactly? Responsibility? Perfection? Purpose? I’m not even sure anymore.

So tonight, we hit the reset button.

We had cereal and bacon for dinner. I folded the laundry and actually put it away. The house got a reset—physically and mentally. And tomorrow?

We’re starting something new.

Not something big. Just something real.

More laughter. More dance breaks. More cereal dinners if that’s what it takes. Because this version of me—the one who remembers how to live—deserves a seat at the table. And my kids deserve to know her.