Mastering the Monkey Bars

My daughter has officially finished kindergarten. Which means I am officially a mom of a first grader.

So many thoughts have been running through my head lately. Mostly, how much this kid has changed in just one year.

Her confidence.

Her skills.

Her independence.

I’ve been thinking about the beginning of the school year. This tiny five-year-old embarking on the unknown—for both of us.

I worried she was too young.

Would she fit in?

Would she make friends?

Would she be intimidated?

All normal worries, I think.

It was new for me too.

I was meeting new people, navigating birthday parties, soccer teams, school events. Palmer made friends quickly. I started recognizing familiar faces at pick-up. She found her routine, and somewhere along the way, so did I.

One of the biggest takeaways from this year was her persistence.

I didn’t realize the monkey bars were going to be such a big deal in kindergarten. Apparently, that was the thing to do.

My daughter wanted to do the monkey bars so badly, but she found them challenging.

Every day after school, she and her friends would run to the playground. Some kids had already mastered them. Some hadn’t. Every week it seemed like another child could make it all the way across.

I watched her get frustrated.

I watched her get discouraged.

But I also watched her keep trying.

Then one day, out of nowhere, she yelled, “Mom, look what I can do!”

I looked up just in time to see her swing across the monkey bars with a huge grin on her face.

She had finally mastered them.

But the monkey bars are just one thing.

This year she mastered making friends.

She mastered being brave.

She mastered navigating a new school.

She mastered being a kindergartener.

And somewhere along the way, I learned a few things too.

I learned to let go a little.

I learned to trust her.

I learned that she is capable of more than I sometimes give her credit for.

As I watched her fly across those monkey bars, I realized they weren’t the biggest thing she learned this year.

They were simply the last reminder of how far she’d come.

The monkey bars were just the proof.

The Hunger Games: Arlington Summer Camp Edition

I didn’t realize registering my child for summer camp would require strategy, speed, and emotional resilience. I had no clue how competitive camp sign-up is in Arlington, Virginia. Honestly—not just summer camp. Any activity.

Swimming classes? I go to my friend’s house, her husband stays home from work, and the three of us sit there with our computers and phones open trying to see who gets the best spot in the queue. It’s stressful. I imagine this is what it feels like trying to get Taylor Swift tickets.

I have never hated seeing the word “waitlist” more than I do now. It basically means nothing. Here is some fake hope you might get the spot. Good luck, sucker. Never once have I been on a waitlist and actually gotten off of it.

And the sticker shock. Lord help us. For the cost of a one-week camp that isn’t even full day, she better come back speaking another language fluently and understanding how to do taxes.

One week of camp. 9:00–12:30. $850.

Get the f out of here.

You know what I want to spend $850 on? A blow-up pool, wine, and cheese. The last two are for me.

Seriously though, it’s a little ridiculous how insanely expensive these camps are.

Here I go sounding like a boomer, but when I was a kid, we played outside in the neighborhood until someone’s mom yelled our name or the sun started setting. Those were the good old days—freedom, bikes, sprinklers, and drinking from the hose like it was completely normal.

I went to camps as a kid too, but I know for a fact it wasn’t like waiting in line for the newest iPhone. And it definitely wasn’t this expensive.

Now summer feels like a competitive sport for parents.

Who got into what camp?
Who remembered registration opened at midnight?
Who made the spreadsheet?
Who somehow already has their child signed up for tennis, STEM, art, coding, and wilderness survival camp by February?

Meanwhile I’m over here just hoping mine has a fun summer and remembers to wear sunscreen occasionally.

My daughter will probably do a tennis camp like she did last year, spend endless days and nights at “Grumps and Dipper Camp” (my parents), hang out with me, see friends, and hopefully go to the pool regularly—if we can get into one. That’s a whole separate Arlington issue.

And honestly? That sounds pretty great to me.

Because when I think back on my own summers, I don’t remember enrichment. I remember freedom. I remember boredom. I remember popsicles, bikes, catching lightning bugs, and staying outside until it got dark.

I understand how important camps are for working parents, and I truly give props to the parents who make the spreadsheets, stay on top of registration dates, and somehow manage it all. But sometimes I wonder if we’ve made childhood—and parenting—a little too intense.

Maybe kids don’t need a perfectly curated summer.
Maybe they just need one that feels like summer.

Proof It’s Possible—Just Not for Me: The complicated reality of watching IVF work for someone else

As someone who has gone through IVF, I genuinely am happy when it works for other people.

I know how much goes into it—the emotional toll, the physical exhaustion, everything it takes just to get to that point.

But just like hearing someone got pregnant naturally and feeling that quiet ache…it happens when someone has success with IVF too.

And that’s the part that feels hard to explain.

I keep coming back to the same feeling—being happy and grieving at the same time.

Because it feels… abnormal.

Especially when it’s someone who went through IVF.

All of the thoughts start creeping in.

How were our situations different?
Low egg reserve? Age? Financial stability?

It worked for them. Now they have a baby.

So what went wrong with my journey?
What’s wrong with my body?

And even when you know those thoughts aren’t helpful…
they don’t just go away.

They show up at random times.
In moments you’re not expecting.

I was recently at a doctor’s appointment with my mom, and somehow infertility came up. The PA told me she was going through treatment and asked where I went, what my experience was like.

And I remember wishing I had a better story for her.

She’s young, and I truly hope she has a different outcome than I did.

When we were leaving, she thanked me for sharing. I told her good luck—and I meant it.

But it stuck with me.

Because it brought up that familiar thought…
If only I could start over.

Maybe we would have done something differently.
Maybe a different protocol.
Maybe it would have worked.

And it’s not as simple as turning those thoughts off.

They come back.
More often than you’d expect.

These are the moments people don’t really talk about.

The ones that don’t always feel safe to say out loud.

The ones that make you question yourself.

Does this make me a bad person?

Here’s the reality check—

It’s not about the other person’s success.

It’s about what it represents.

Hope.

Seeing something work for someone else… and realizing it hasn’t worked for you.

The timeline you thought you might be on… happening for someone else.

Wanting something so badly… and realizing you’re still standing on the outside of it.

Proof that it’s possible—just not for you.

And that quiet question that lingers:
Why not me?

It’s not that I’m not happy for them.

I am.

It’s just that I wish I was there too. And maybe that’s just part of this—learning how to hold joy for someone else…while still carrying your own grief.

Infertility isn’t rare – so why is access still so hard

Infertility sucks. Plain and simple.

It’s crazy that we’re finally starting to talk about infertility more—more awareness, more conversation—yet for so many people, access to care still depends on where you live, where you work, and what your insurance decides to cover.

Because it’s not so black and white.

Just because your employer offers insurance that includes infertility coverage doesn’t mean IVF is included. And for most people, it isn’t.

Some states have laws around fertility coverage—about 20 to 25 plus D.C.—but only around 15 actually require IVF coverage. And even then, it’s not always straightforward.

So people pay out of pocket.

A single IVF cycle can cost anywhere from $15,000 to $30,000—and that’s with no guarantee it will work. And most people need more than one.

I know this firsthand.

Our insurance covers none of it. And like so many others going through infertility, we’ve had to figure out how to make it work—sometimes that means loans, sometimes it means hard decisions, and sometimes it just means hoping you can keep going.

And then you look at other places, like parts of Europe, where infertility is treated as a public health issue—not a private luxury.

Which makes you wonder… why isn’t it treated that way here?

It’s hard enough to find out you have to go down this path—one that is mentally and physically exhausting.

But then there’s the other part…
figuring out how to pay for it.

And eventually, for some people, making the decision to stop—not because you want to, but because the “well” has run dry.

We stopped because it became too expensive.

And that’s the part that’s hardest to say out loud.

Because if it were up to me, I would put my body through 100 more cycles if it meant having a baby at the end.

But that’s not our reality.

Even with more awareness—more employers offering benefits, more states passing laws—access to care is still uneven and limited.

And it shouldn’t be this way.

No one should have to put a price tag on whether or not they get to grow their family.
And right now, too many people still do.

Momxiety Moment: The Hit Was Quick. The Overthinking Was Not.

It happened fast.
An “oh shit” moment.
A collision with a teammate.

Let me preface this—this is kindergarten soccer. These are not aggressive athletes out there.

I’m not usually the mom who spirals every time my kid gets hurt.
Most of the time, I’m the “you’re okay, shake it off” mom.
But this hit… wasn’t one I could brush off so easily.

My first instinct? Run onto the field and grab her.

I’m trying to console her while also assessing the situation.
Was I looking for signs of a concussion?
Was she more scared than hurt?
Or was I doing what I always do—jumping straight to worst-case scenario?

Of course I was. Because that’s who I am.

You’d probably think in this situation the worst-case scenario would be a concussion. And yes, that crossed my mind.

But what I was really worried about?

That she wouldn’t want to play soccer anymore.

Through the tears, I hear:
“I’m never playing soccer again!”

Dammit.

Now what?

She seems okay… so do I encourage her to go back in?
Do I give her space and hope she forgets about it by next weekend?
Do I push? Do I protect?

(Quick shoutout to the parents who come prepared, by the way. I’m lucky if I remembered her water bottle—ice pack and Band-Aid are not part of my game-day routine.)

She sat on the bench with an ice pack next to the teammate she collided with. That felt like a small win.

Then I overhear them talking:
“If you go back in, I’ll go back in.”

Okay… okay. I like where this is going.

And just like that, the girls decided to go back in and finish the game.

This might sound a little dramatic… but I was so proud.

Because the hit was scary—but that’s not what stayed with me.

It was the going back out.

It’s hard being a parent. We want to protect them from everything. Every fall, every hurt, every moment that might shake their confidence.

But we can’t.

What we can do is stand on the sidelines and watch them decide who they’re going to be in those moments.

And she chose to go back.

On her own.

And that… was pretty awesome.

We Need to Talk About Infertility: Breaking the Silence

For something that affects so many people, infertility is still talked about so quietly.
Like it’s something we’re supposed to carry on our own.

I didn’t fully understand that until I was in it.

Infertility isn’t just a medical condition—it’s something you live with every single day. Even in the moments where you think you’ve moved on… it finds a way to creep back in.

On the outside, life can look completely normal. But internally, there’s this constant loop—thinking, waiting, hoping… and sometimes trying not to think about it at all.

And for something that feels so loud internally, it’s still such a silent battle.

Which makes me wonder—why is something this big still so quiet?

Because this isn’t just personal.
It’s bigger than that.

Infertility is a public health issue that deserves attention, support, and real change. Because behind every statistic is someone waiting, hoping, and trying to hold it together.

And that shouldn’t be something anyone has to do alone.

So why does awareness even matter?

For one, it reduces isolation. It helps people feel seen in something that can feel incredibly lonely. It builds understanding—for the people going through it, and for the people who want to support them but don’t always know how.

Because there’s often a gap between what people think infertility is like… and what it actually is.

Expectation:
“Just relax.”
“It’ll happen when the time is right.”
“There’s a reason for everything.”

Reality:
Infertility—and the treatments that can come with it—are an emotional rollercoaster.
It’s constant waiting.
Holding onto hope… and sometimes losing it.
Trying to stay positive while also protecting your heart.

Infertility Awareness Week is about bringing visibility to something so many people are silently going through.

Because maybe it’s been a quiet struggle…
but it was never meant to be invisible.

What people don’t see are the appointments, the waiting rooms, the constant mental load—even when you try to take a break from it. The bruises from injections. The endless blood draws. The egg retrievals that don’t go the way you hoped.

The questions you carry about your own body—why isn’t it doing what it’s supposed to?

It’s not something you just go through.
It’s something that stays with you.

It’s hard to explain how you can feel heartbroken and hopeful at the same time. Happy for someone else… while quietly grieving for yourself. And then the guilt that follows.

What actually helps isn’t fixing it.

It’s being seen.
It’s being heard.
It’s someone saying, “I’m here,” without trying to make it better.
It’s not having to explain everything just to feel understood.

If we want this to feel less isolating, it starts with awareness—but it can’t end there.

It looks like more open conversations.
Better support.
And access to care that doesn’t feel out of reach.

Because something that affects this many people shouldn’t feel this invisible.

Maybe it’s been a silent battle for so many of us…
but it was never meant to be carried alone.

If you want to learn more about infertility, find support, or get involved in advocacy, organizations like RESOLVE: The National Infertility Association offer resources, education, and ways to connect.

Somewhere, a Mom Is Doing More Than Me (And I’m Not Okay)

Nothing humbles me faster than another mom casually mentioning her color-coded routine.

I’m lucky if all of my kid’s socks match. And honestly? That’s a win.

In the world we live in today, everything is posted on social media—which can be helpful… or not.

There’s something I like to call the “highlight reel vs. real life.”

Seeing a mom up at 5am making bagels from scratch and hand-cutting dinosaur sandwiches—oh, and don’t forget she squeezed in a workout and meditation before the kids even woke up—that’s the highlight reel.

You know what’s happening at our house at 5am?
Nothing.

Because we are still asleep.

And when we are awake? Breakfast is somehow the last thing we think about. I spend an ungodly amount of time just trying to get my kid out of bed, followed by the 30-minute “please get dressed” dance.

Somewhere in there, I’ve reheated my coffee at least four times.

That’s real life.

With all jokes aside, there’s this internal pressure to do everything “right.”
This invisible standard we hold ourselves to.

But… what the hell is “right” anyway?

The mental toll is real. We compare ourselves constantly.
WHY?

Linda has her life together. Good for Linda. Truly.
But why does that automatically mean I’m not doing enough?

We overthink every decision. We question everything.
And somehow, we end up feeling guilty… even when we’re doing our best.

That makes zero sense.

The truth is, we don’t actually see what people are going through.

What we see on social media is a small, controlled snapshot.
A highlight. A moment. A fraction.

It’s not the full story.

No one is posting the 30-minute meltdown before school.
Or the third snack request five minutes after breakfast.
Or the moment they hid in the bathroom just to breathe.

Everyone is struggling with something—we just don’t always see it.

And then there’s the validation piece.

Moms don’t really get it.

We’re just expected to do a good job. That’s the baseline.

But my version of a “good job” might look very different than Debbie’s—and that’s okay.

Did the kids eat?
Did they survive the day?

Okay then. Good job.

You don’t have to keep up.

You don’t have to match anyone else’s routine, energy, or expectations.

You just have to do what works for your family.

Because the truth is, the more we compare, the heavier it all feels.
And the heavier it feels, the more it steals the joy out of motherhood.

Maybe we’re not supposed to keep up with other moms.

Maybe we’re just supposed to keep up with our own lives.

And if everyone is alive at the end of the day… I’m calling it a win.

10 Things I Overthink Daily As a Mom

I don’t just think… I overthink.

In some ways, I think I’ve always been an overthinker—but motherhood takes it to a completely different level. Every little thing you could possibly overthink, you now overthink… times ten.

Motherhood is a full-time, unpaid job. And to the people who say, “But you get to be a mom—that’s payment enough,”—that’s sweet. It really is. But motherhood also tests you in ways you never imagined.

Your thoughts go from, “Where am I going for happy hour tonight?” to “Did my kid poop today?”

And honestly, the amount of time poop is discussed is… concerning.

I love being a mom. It’s rewarding, exhausting, beautiful—and completely maddening.

Here are 10 things I overthink on a daily basis as a mom:

10. Food – Is she eating enough?

How many vegetables has she had this week? Does ketchup count?

My kid is a professional snacker. If there were Olympic medals for snacking, she’d win gold and set a personal record. Meals? Optional. Snacks? Mandatory.

9. Am I doing enough?

She’s in activities—swimming, soccer, dance, gymnastics. She’s booked and busy.

But is it too much? Not enough?
Am I giving her enough quality time? Enough just be a kid time?

Also, let’s be honest—after school until dinner is absolute chaos. Something shifts in these kids and they become… unhinged. So yes, activities help. For her—and for me.

But then I wonder: should I be doing more one-on-one time? Breakfast dates? Mommy-daughter dinners?

And then reality hits—I’m exhausted.

8. Did my kid poop today?!

This should not take up as much mental space as it does… but here we are.

She’s 5½. She says she went. But did she? I wasn’t there. Can I trust her? Has it been days? Is that why she’s not eating? Is that why her stomach hurts?

I think about this way more than I’d like to admit.

7. What did I forget today?

It’s always something.

Library day? Forgot the books. Again.
You’d think I’d have this down by now, but no.

My daughter reminds me immediately:
“MOM. You forgot my books.”

Yes. Yes, I did.

I’ve tried notes, reminders, mental checklists. Nothing works. At this point, I’ve accepted that sometimes… we just won’t have library books.

6. Is this normal?

She’s moody. Is she tired? Sick? Growing? Or just… being a kid?

Is that a rash? How long has that been there?
Did she eat something new? Is it allergies?
Scabies?! (Why is that always where my brain goes?)

Day six of a cough? Obviously something serious.

I tell myself to stop Googling… and then immediately Google it.

5. Are other moms like this?

Do other moms think like this all day?
Or are they just out there… calm?

Because if so, I’d love to know their secret.

Social media definitely doesn’t help. Everyone looks like they have it together, and I’m over here spiraling over snacks and library books.

4. Why is it so quiet?

Silence is never good.

You think, “Wow, this is nice.”
And then panic hits.

You’ve been having an uninterrupted conversation for more than 30 seconds? Something is wrong.

You run in and find:

lipstick all over their face
hair that’s been “trimmed”
something broken

You can’t even be mad. You knew better.

3. Am I yelling too much?

This one stings.

There’s nothing like being exhausted, running on no sleep, reheating your coffee for the 8th time before 10am… and then snapping because shoes aren’t on.

I replay those moments later and think, “I could’ve handled that better.”

Mom guilt is loud.

2. Am I messing her up long-term?

Do we have a good routine?
Is she getting too much screen time?
Am I too strict? Too lenient?

The tablet? Yes, I use it. Especially during dinner when I’m solo and trying to cook. It’s survival mode.

Could I do better? Probably.
Will I fix it tomorrow? Also probably not.

Maybe by 5th grade we’ll have it figured out.

1. Am I a good mom?

This is the one everything comes back to.

Every question, every worry, every overthought moment—it all leads here.

Am I doing enough?
Am I being patient enough?
Am I raising her right?

And the truth is… if you’re asking yourself that question, you probably are.

Because maybe it’s not that we’re overthinking.

Maybe it’s just that we care this much.

When IVF Ends, and There Are No Protocols for Grief

Our IVF journey is over. No double pink lines appeared, no transfer date was set—instead, we are left with emptiness, frustration, and feelings of loss.

Deciding to stop IVF treatment brings a unique kind of grief. It’s not the loss of someone we had, but the loss of someone we imagined. We’re grieving the hope of expanding our family. And that’s a strange feeling to sit with, especially when we’re so lucky to have a healthy, beautiful daughter.

How do you balance grief and gratitude?

I’m grateful—I love my daughter more than words can describe. I know how fortunate I am. But I’m also grieving. I’m sad. I’m angry. And those feelings don’t cancel each other out. One doesn’t diminish the other. Gratitude doesn’t erase grief.

I find myself sitting and thinking about all of the early morning appointments, the blood draws, the injections. The endless waiting. Waiting for the nurse to call. Waiting for good news that never came. I put my body through hell, and I’m left with this heavy heart—and no baby.

Secondary infertility after motherhood is a strange and lonely place. There’s this unspoken assumption that you should be “done” or “grateful.” And I am. But I also wanted more. That’s not selfish. That’s human.

Now we’re living in the “after” part of the IVF journey—this in-between space that feels like limbo. There’s this immense sadness that lingers. It doesn’t go away. Yet, life moves forward. Parenting still has to be done. Meals have to be made. Bedtime routines still happen. Being a mom doesn’t pause for grief.

Some days, I feel like a child on the verge of a tantrum. It’s not fair, my heart screams. I’m not ready to say I’m done. But the reality is… the odds are not good.
And of course, there’s still that tiny, painful part of me that whispers: Maybe it’ll just happen. But in many ways, that faint hope makes it harder.

So where do I go from here?

How long will I carry this emptiness? How long will I long to feel pregnant again?
No one has those answers. There’s no guidebook for this part. No plan, no calendar, no protocol.

Just time, I guess.

Navigating The Unexpected Journey: Secondary Infertility

I became pregnant with my daughter relatively easily. I was 34 when we found out we were expecting. My husband and I had waited about eight years after getting married before trying to conceive. Fast forward four years, and we are now facing secondary infertility.

If you’re unfamiliar, secondary infertility occurs when someone conceives their first child without fertility treatment but struggles to conceive again. It wasn’t something I had ever considered—why would I? I got pregnant within two months and successfully gave birth to my daughter. The idea of now needing medical intervention to have another child has been incredibly difficult to process.

After experiencing a chemical pregnancy, I went to my OB for an ultrasound to check my follicle count. That day, when my doctor told me I had only two follicles on my right ovary and none on my left, our IVF journey began.

I am grateful to have friends who, unfortunately, know the IVF process all too well. I had no idea how much support I would need—emotionally, physically, and financially. The toll IVF takes is almost indescribable. One of my closest friends warned me that the hardest part is having hope, only to be met with disappointment over and over again. She was right. With every hurdle you clear, there are five more waiting. There are no guarantees in IVF, and with that comes a complete lack of control—two very difficult things to accept.

I was 39 when I started my first IVF cycle—estrogen patches, injections, a mock embryo transfer, and an egg retrieval—only to end up with one embryo that came back chromosomally abnormal. Now, at 40, I’ve just completed my second cycle, with the exact same result. One embryo, not viable.

Waiting for that call from the doctor is gut-wrenching. It’s either a step toward a viable pregnancy or another cycle of injections and procedures. And now, here we are—about to start our final round of IVF, holding onto hope for a better outcome.

Failed IVF cycles bring grief, anxiety, depression, and guilt. After our first failed round, I felt lost. I wasn’t sure how to process the grief of losing an embryo. I remember listening to a podcast about the many ways people grieve during IVF, and it resonated deeply. The loss of a potential life—a little pocket of cells—was more devastating than I had anticipated. I had just put my body through so much, and for what? Nothing.

We had to pause before starting the next round. I needed to give my body a break, and we needed time to recover financially. This last round of IVF was the hardest yet—mentally, physically, and emotionally. The endless procedures, the uncertainty, the complete lack of control—it left me feeling utterly defeated.

It’s an incredibly painful reality to pour so much time, effort, and money into something with no guarantee. And yet, if we are able, we continue. Because even in the darkest moments, hope lingers.