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The Stories We Carry

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  When I think about how much I loved reading when I was younger, I always think about Goodwill. My mom would take me, and she would let me pick out 10 or 15 books at a time because she knew I would go through them so fast. And she was right. I would bring those books home and disappear into them. I didn’t just read fiction. I devoured it. I could curl up in a corner somewhere with a book and completely disappear from everything around me. I wanted to step into someone else’s world. I wanted to live someone else’s life. I wanted different characters, different families, different problems, different endings. For a little while, I didn’t have to be me. I could be whoever the story needed me to be. Looking back, I think I loved that feeling of escape. There was something comforting about opening a book and knowing that, for the next few hours, I could disappear somewhere that wasn’t my life. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Now, as an adult, and as someone who i...
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“Words…”

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There are always words in my head. Always. They swirl around in there, sometimes quietly and sometimes so loudly that I can barely hear anything else. Thoughts. Questions. Conversations I’ve had. Conversations I wish I’d had. Things I said. Things I shouldn’t have said. Things I wonder if I should have said differently. I think too much. I analyze too much. I feel too much. And lately, I’ve been feeling like maybe I’m just…too much. Too much for too many people. Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too invested. Too caring. Too opinionated. Too available. Just…too much. And then, somehow, I can turn right around and feel like I’m not enough. Not enough for too many people. Not enough as a friend. Not enough as a wife. Not enough as a mom. Not enough in the things I do. Not enough in the way I show up. It’s a weird place to live. Somewhere between feeling like I’m too much and feeling like I’m not enough. And I’m unsure. I’m uncertain. I don’t really know what I’m su...
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When your brain won’t be quiet

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For years, I have managed my anxiety and depression the way I manage most things in life — with discipline. I run. I lift weights. I push through. Miles on the pavement. Sweat on the floor.  Music in my ears.  Movement has always been my medicine. It gave my thoughts somewhere to go. It burned off the edge. It helped me feel strong when my mind felt fragile. But lately… it’s different. It feels like my world is spinning just slightly off its axis. Not enough for everyone else to notice. Just enough that I can feel it constantly. My OCD tendencies — the ones I’ve quietly managed for years — are louder. I don’t struggle with intrusive thoughts. It’s not dark or catastrophic in that way. It’s just… relentless. My brain won’t quiet. I count everything. Steps. Reps. Stairs. Tiles. If I don’t make my bed, I feel unsettled all day — like something is wrong and I can’t fix it. If something is out of place, it hums in the background of my mind until I correct it. ...
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