Cant Make This Crap Take Up

Real Life. Raw Moments. No Filters.

Author: Josie Mac

  • The “One Foot of Decent Men” List

    By Josie Mac

    THE “ONE FOOT OF DECENT MEN” LIST (yes it’s that small)

    These are the unicorns. The rare ones.

     The men who actually communicate, take accountability, and don’t weaponize children like emotional pawns in a game nobody asked to play. They don’t fold like origami the second life gets uncomfortable. They clean up after themselves — physically and emotionally. They regulate their emotions without a full system crash. They don’t need you to mother them, manage them, or decode them.

    They show up.

     They stay consistent.

     They grow.

    They have actual, adult-level empathy.

    There are… maybe… five.

     Total.

    On Earth.

     We’re being generous.

     THE OTHER FOOT — AKA THE BOOT OF RIGHTEOUS VENGEANCE

     This foot is buussyy.

    This is the one drop-kicking manchildren, Peter Pans, and emotionally constipated warriors who treat accountability like it’s optional and growth like it’s a personal attack.

     It’s handling the weaponized incompetence champions, the deflection pros, and the “I’m sick” sniffle soldiers who need a full emotional support team for a minor inconvenience.

    It’s reserved for the accountability-avoidance experts, the grown toddlers with facial hair, and the exes who somehow blame you for relationships they personally set on fire.

    And yes — it’s got extra energy for anyone who thinks a woman with needs is “too much” while they’re out here crumbling under the weight of a responsibility as small as a sliver.

    Final truth:

    There aren’t two types of men.

    There are two levels of effort.

    And one of them is already exhausted.

    Still buffering.

    Try again later.

  • 🐿️ Woodland Creatures vs. Men in Mild Discomfort

    (Why I relate more to squirrels than men!)

    By: Josie Mac 

    If squirrels can survive falling out of  trees… explain to me why grown men collapse over sneezing.

    Quick side note before we begin.

    At some point I realized something about myself.

    I’m basically a squirrel.

    I definitely don’t have all my ducks in a row.

    In fact, one of them might actually be a pigeon.

    There’s a strong possibility another one is a chicken.

    At this point the whole lineup looks suspicious.

    But I can gather nuts like nobody’s business.  Unfortunately, I don’t mean the snack kind.  If you know… you know. Can’t make this Crap up.

    For some reason the people kind just… find me.

    Like I’m running some sort of woodland intake center for chaotic humans.

    And honestly?

    I’d much rather be gathering the ones you can actually consume.

    Much more relaxing.

    And I can speak with confidence about them — because frankly… I relate.

    Squirrels fall out of trees all the time.

    We’re talking forty-foot drops straight from the heavens.

    They bounce once, shake it off, and keep running like nothing happened.

    Because when life throws you out of a tree,

    you don’t lie on the ground complaining.

    You bounce once, grab a snack, and keep moving.

    Which brings us to a fascinating comparison.

    Woodland creatures vs. men experiencing mild discomfort.

    Possum

    A possum gets attacked by a coyote, loses half its body weight, drags itself to safety, climbs a tree, and still somehow manages to raise a family.

    Man sneezes twice.

    “BABE… I think… I need to lie down… my head feels weird… do I have a fever? Feel my forehead — NO WAIT — don’t touch me — I want soup but not that soup.”

    Squirrel

    Falls from a forty-foot tree.

    Bounces.

    Keeps going like it didn’t just plunge from the heavens.

    Man sits wrong for 0.7 seconds.

    “OH MY GOD MY BACK.”

    Lays on the floor for dramatic effect.

    Possibly clutches a pillow.

    Considers early retirement.

    Raccoon

    Gets hit with a broom.  Eats questionable garbage.  Survives a winter storm.

    Still shows up at 3 AM ready to fight the entire neighborhood like it owns the place.

    Man gets a sliver.  Drops to his knees like he’s reenacting a war movie.

    And honestly, we need to circle back to possums again.

    Because they are truly icons.

    Possums will literally play dead, resurrect themselves, wander off, run a marathon of survival nonsense, and still return later to eat your trash like nothing ever happened.

    Honestly?

    That pretty much sums up my life.

    Which really makes me wonder sometimes —

    am I becoming more like the animals…

    or are the animals just more human than some people?

    Meanwhile a man watches his wife open the pickle jar he swears he “loosened,”

    and now he requires emotional support for the next three business days.

    Then we’re apparently holding a small memorial service for his dignity.

    Counseling sessions may also be scheduled to process the emotional trauma.

    At this point I’ve learned something important.

    Woodland creatures survive falls, predators, winter storms, and literal chaos.

    Men survive… sneezing.

    Which honestly explains why I relate more to squirrels.

    They bounce back, keep moving, and gather their nuts.

    Meanwhile I’m over here doing the same thing —

    just with the human variety.

    Because at the end of the day…

    Woodland creatures survive predators, storms, and gravity.

    Men survive mild inconvenience.

    And me?

    I survive the nuts… yup the crazy chaotic kind.

  • Raised On Hose Water

    A Survivor’s Perspective

    by Josie Mac

    I come from a generation that drank water from galvanized outdoor hoses, inhaled lead paint particulates like it was seasoning, and I absolutely digested insulation fibers because why not.

    We rode bikes with no helmets, no rules, and no supervision. We lived in houses where the adults smoked everything, and we just… existed in it.

    We were also raised with that nightly reminder:

    It’s 10 o’clock. Do you know where your children are?

    I was basically raised on rust, secondhand smoke, tetanus, dirt and grease, and vibes.

    And somehow—somehow—

    I still have functioning brain cells.

    Well… sometimes.

    We joke about it now. We meme it. We laugh. But underneath the humor is something real.

    We learned how to entertain ourselves. We learned how to disappear into our rooms. We learned how to be independent before we learned how to ask for help. We learned how to survive before we learned how to feel.

    We don’t talk enough about how growing up feral shaped us. How it made us resourceful. How it made us resilient. How it also made us tired. We carry a strange mix of pride and grief. Pride because we made it. Grief because nobody noticed how hard it actually was.

    So when I look at this generation—overstimulated, exhausted, searching for dopamine and connection—I don’t see weakness.

    I see kids trying to cope in a louder world.

    Different chaos.

    Same nervous system.

    Maybe the real story isn’t about who had it harder.

    Maybe it’s about recognizing that every generation is surviving something.

    We just give it different names.

    I call mine:

    Raised on hose water

  • A Male Pain Scale- Realist Version

    By Josie Mac

    At baseline, he’s perfectly fine. Snacks have been consumed. Television is on. Life is good.

    At mild discomfort, he stubs a toe, gets a paper cut, or has to stand up from the couch. He is convinced he briefly saw the gates of heaven open. No babe.. that was the light reflecting off the frying pan I threw across the room so I wouldn’t put myself out of my own misery!

    At moderate discomfort, he sneezes too hard, coughs, or feels a mysterious neck twinge. Google is consulted. Symptoms are searched. An obituary outline begins forming.

    At severe, critical, code-red levels, there is slight testicle contact, an itchy underwear tag, or jock itch detection. Immediate demands include a priest, morphine, an ice pack, his mother, a Viking funeral, and your hand while he “crosses over.”

    Near-death experience is triggered by a mild cold, sore throat, or clogged sinuses. He is convinced no human has ever suffered like this before. Before you know it, the mild cough that last for a couple of days is suddenly cancer. The sore throat is my tonsils need to be extracted before my airway is completely closed off and I can’t EAT! And the sinuses… oh the pressure.

    Actual death occurs when someone calmly asks him to take accountability for something.

    Flatline.

    Meanwhile, women exist somewhere between zero and four thinking, “Whatever, I’ll get it done.” At level five? “Oh… I might mention this to my doctor next year. If I remember.”

    Men With Periods — The Apocalypse Edition

    Day one begins with the cramp. A man feels his first menstrual cramp and immediately panics. “What in the hell was that?! Was I shot?! Did my appendix just exit my body?!”

    You explain calmly that it’s a cramp, knowing… this is just the beginning. Wait till the volcano EXPLOSION OF HELL!

    “A WHAT?! Call 911. No—call everyone. I need my mom! I think I’m dying.”

    Twenty minutes later, the mood swing hits.

    “I don’t know why I’m crying. I saw a puppy. It smiled at me.”

    You nod. “Hormones.”

    “HORMONES?! This is possession.”

    Then comes the bleeding. He emerges from the bathroom pale. “There’s blood. I’m hemorrhaging.”

    You shrug. “It happens every month.”

    “EVERY WHAT?! How are women not extinct?!”

    He stares at pads and tampons like blueprints for a time machine, stacks seven pads “just to be safe,” and declares a light day while canceling all plans upon standing.

    If men had periods, period leave would be federal law. Paid. With snacks, heating pads, and emotional support counselors. And they’d brag about it like a near-death achievement.

    Final truth: They can’t handle a sniffle. Give them cramps, bleeding, hormones, back pain, headaches, emotional instability, and society would collapse in eleven minutes.

    Still buffering.

    Try again later.

  • The Adam’s Apple Malfunction Theory

    By Josie Mac

    The Adam’s Apple Malfunction Theory

    Let’s ask the question no one ever really circles back to:

    Why do we call it the Adam’s Apple?

    Yes, it’s biblical. Yes, I’m a believer. Yes — Adam ate the apple.

    But here’s the part that always gets skipped:

    Eve ate it too.

    And somehow… the apple didn’t get stuck in her throat.

    For centuries, Eve — and by extension women — have been blamed for temptation, for

    “leading men astray,” for being the problem — as if she force-fed him fruit or stripped him of

    agency.

    Yet anatomically speaking, if the apple lodged anywhere, it lodged in Adam’s throat — front

    and center, visible forever. Which feels… symbolic.

    The Malfunction

    Some men clearly need to shed their entire throat chakra, because somewhere along the way

    ego got stuck, accountability lodged sideways, introspection never made it past the uvula, and

    apology hit a traffic jam at the tonsils.

    The Adam’s Apple isn’t malfunctioning — it’s rejecting responsibility like a bad organ

    transplant.

    So no, we can’t punch it. But we can laugh at the fact that it appears to function as a

    permanent blockage preventing maturity.

    If men had to experience even ten percent of what women carry daily — kids, chaos, court

    papers, medical schedules, and calm conversations — the Adam’s Apple would’ve packed its

    bags and left.

    And let’s not forget the double standard. When women lose their shit, it’s a psych ward, a

    padded room, and instructions to find a corner — in a round room. Meanwhile, men implode

    emotionally and it’s just called stress.

    If conversations could have subtitles, this would say:Thinking…

    Think…

    ERROR

    Try again.

    Rerouting…

    We can’t punch the problem. But we can laugh at the emotional anatomy that failed us —

    because sometimes laughter clears the throat better than silence ever did.

    Still buffering.

    Try again later.

  • EBRAI: The Balls That Actually Work

    CENSORED — WOMEN ONLY
    by Josie Mac

    Any moms with boys out there?
    Because listen.
    Dude. I had boys.
    I grew balls too.
    Only apparently, I know how to handle them.
    Men love to tell us we’re:

    • too sensitive
    • too emotional
    • too much
      Uh… what? Yeah, we can be. But let’s take a step back here.
      I’ve grown balls — unlike half the men I’ve dealt with.
      And the difference?
      Mine actually WORK.
      Not the fragile kind. Not the performative kind. Not the “I talk big until things get hard” kind.
      We haven’t been partnered with “men.”
      I’ve been partnered with adult-sized toddlers who:
    • throw tantrums when confronted
    • weaponize your vulnerabilities
    • can’t regulate emotions
    • expect mothering, not partnership
    • use deflection as communication
    • cling to kids to fill their own voids
    • need constant reassurance
    • can’t tolerate accountability
    • collapse the second you stop carrying their weight.
      That’s not a partner. That’s a project with facial hair.
      And I’m DONE being someone’s emotional babysitter. Honestly? It’s past time.
      Meanwhile… these men? What have they got?
    • Stress marbles
    • Deflection marbles
    • Feelings grapes
      And somehow they think we’re the emotional ones?
      Meanwhile, we’re handling:
    • the kids
    • sometimes their kids
    • crises
    • trauma
    • regulation
    • survival
      All while keeping ourselves afloat.
      And these dudes fall apart because we “explained something.”
      Boy, please.
      Here’s the part no one says out loud:
      I didn’t just grow balls.
      I grew EBRAI — the kind that actually function.
      EBRAI (pronounced ee-BRYE)
      The balls that actually work.
      E — Emotional balls: Facing hard shit head-on instead of running.
      B — Boundary balls: Saying “no” without explaining myself for 40 minutes.
      R — Resilience balls: Surviving storms grown men crumble under.
      A — Accountability balls: Owning my shit instead of flipping out.
      I — “I’ll handle it myself” balls: Running more than a household — court cases, medical chaos, trauma,
      LIFE.
      Men tally. Men pause. Men age out of accountability.
      Women build EBRAI.
      And once you have it? You don’t argue your worth — you operate from it.
      I grew a whole titanium set — strong enough to hold the damn family up if needed.
      Meanwhile, you’re still searching for yours.
      Let me be crystal clear:
      You’ve been the one with:
    • strength
    • stability
    • follow-through
    • and actual functioning emotional hardware
      If they had to do what you do? Their power evaporates.
      So don’t ever let someone tell you that YOU are too much.
      You’re not fragile. You’re not dramatic. You’re not the problem.
      You’re a woman who’s been forced to do the heavy lifting while men with weak-ass emotional kneecaps
      fold under pressure.
      And yeah… you might be “too much.”
      For someone who doesn’t know how to handle a woman with depth, backbone, and standards.
      That’s not your flaw. That’s their limitation.

  • Five Year Mark

    Five years ago today, it was finalized.

    After five relentless years of courtroom proceedings,

    of counselors digging through trauma,

    of social workers changing like the seasons,

    of lawyers speaking on behalf of children too young to speak for themselves.

    Five years of being in the courthouse more than I was in my own home.

    And on this day, five years ago—I finally walked into court not with fear, but with fire.

    I didn’t know what peace would feel like. But I was ready to find out.

    Fostering isn’t for the faint of heart.

    People love to say how noble it is, how brave foster parents must be.

    But the truth is far more complicated than the glossy headlines and the well-meaning thank-yous.

    Because these are kids from another mother.

    Kids who didn’t ask for you to step up.

    They’re pulled in every direction—tugged by trauma, by loyalty, by survival.

    And while everyone rightfully focuses on the children’s needs,

    very few talk about what it does to you as the foster parent.

    The invisible toll it takes.

    The way their scars become part of your story.

    The way you learn to flinch at words like “visitation,” “reunification,” and “termination”—

    because you’ve seen firsthand how systems can fail, stall, or shatter someone you love.

    No manual prepares you for this.

    You’re trained to make safety plans and follow guidelines.

    But there’s no training for:

    • The look in their eyes when they call someone else “Mom.”
    • The nights they cry for someone who never showed up.
    • The guilt you carry when you start to feel like they’re yours,
      knowing at any moment, someone could say otherwise.

    And there’s definitely no training for what it does to your own heart.

    You give everything—and still feel like it’s never enough.

    You advocate, attend meetings, juggle appointments, deal with caseworkers, and somehow manage the emotional wreckage quietly at home.

    It’s not just parenting.

    It’s parenting inside a storm you didn’t create,

    with rules that shift like sand beneath your feet.

    They told me it would be hard.

    They didn’t tell me it would change me.

    That I’d never look at birthdays the same again,

    because I’d remember the one we celebrated with a cake no one came to eat.

    That I’d never look at school pickup the same,

    because I remember when their mom showed up high—and I had to explain why they couldn’t go home with her.

    That I’d never feel fully relaxed again,

    because part of me is always braced for the next call, the next crisis, the next goodbye.

    And yet… we keep showing up.

    Because love isn’t about biology. It’s about presence.

    It’s about holding space when they rage.

    It’s about being the calm in their chaos.

    It’s about showing them—over and over again—that they matter.

    That they are more than their file.

    More than the trauma.

    More than the broken promises left behind.

    Five years ago today, it all became final.

    The paperwork ended.

    But the journey—the healing, the learning, the loving—continues.

    If I could go back and tell that version of me anything,

    I’d tell her she’s not crazy. She’s just exhausted.

    I’d tell her she’s not failing. She’s fighting—for someone who may never say thank you, but will always carry a piece of her love.

    And I’d tell her this:

    You’re not alone.

    And what you’re doing matters more than you know.

    To every foster parent in the thick of it:

    I see you.

    I was you.

    And I promise—your love leaves a legacy, even if no one ever puts it in writing

  • Parentified

    PARENTIFIED

    There are things we do because we’re taught to.

    And then there are things we do because we never learned another way.

    For me, it began long before I ever understood the meaning of boundaries, identity, or self-worth. I was raised as a parentified daughter—trained to step into responsibilities that belonged to adults, to hold emotions that were too heavy for my small hands, and to keep the peace in rooms where the adults should have been the anchors.

    By the time I realized it, I had already become what the world needed… not who I was becoming.

    I learned to survive by disappearing.

    Not physically—emotionally.

    I blended myself into other people’s needs, their moods, their storms, their expectations. I learned to read a room faster than I could read a book. I felt the pain of others so intensely that it rooted itself in my bones. Their heartbreak became my responsibility. Their disappointment felt like my failure. Their silence felt like something I needed to fix.

    Nurturing wasn’t just what I did—

    it was who I was allowed to be.

    And yet, it was never enough.

    I pushed people to accomplish things, hoping their growth would validate my existence. I poured into them with everything I had because giving was the only way I knew to feel valuable.

    I filled the empty spaces inside me with other people’s desires. I mirrored their personalities, their hopes, their versions of “love,” trying to be what they needed so they wouldn’t leave—so I wouldn’t feel the ache of being unnecessary.

    What I didn’t understand then was that every time I mirrored someone else, I lost a little more of myself.

    Piece by piece.

    Layer by layer.

    Smile by smile.

    Until one day, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Not because she was broken, but because she had been built out of everyone else’s pieces.

    I wasn’t living.

    I was performing.

    I was surviving on scraps of identity that were never mine.

    But here’s the truth I didn’t know back then:

    You can only disappear for so long before your soul starts whispering, “Come find me.”

    This book is about that search.

    About unlearning the patterns that shaped me.

    About reclaiming the pieces, I gave away.

    About finding the girl I abandoned while trying to be everything for everyone else.

    This is the story of how I stopped surviving…

    and learned how to come home to myself.

  • BRAKES… Damn, It’s a Girl

    Life shifts constantly. One minute you’re flying down backroads at 90 mph with Bon Jovi screaming through the speakers, the scent of Aqua Net hanging in the air like fog in your car. You feel untouchable. Immortal. Like nothing and no one can stop you.

    I was sixteen.

    Working two jobs.

    Going to high school.

    Planning my debut in Nashville.

    (Hey, a girl can dream, right?)

    Just casually mapping out my rise to stardom somewhere between high school drama and closing shifts.

    And then I graduated.

    Cap on, lashes done, hair teased like a lioness with ambition.

    I walked that damn stage.

    And then…

    WHOOP—there it is.

    Reality.

    Not during high school.

    Not instead of it.

    Nine months later.

    While everyone else was delivering college assignments…

    I was delivering.

    Literal.

    ONLY IT CAME IN A…

    Pink.

    Screaming.

    Wiggly.

    Wrinkled.

    PERFECT.

    Baby.

    Suddenly, I was no longer the wild teen with the lead foot and the big attitude—I was someone’s mother.

    And not just a mother.

    A girl mom.

    The kind of title that comes with glitter, opinions, drama, heart, humor… and the sobering realization that you’ve been handed a mirror to your past, your insecurities, and your strength.

    At first it was dresses and pink frills—thank God she was more spirited like her momma.

    Jeans and overalls quickly became her favorite. Climbing trees? Absolutely.

    But don’t ask her to play in the dirt. And brace yourself for a full-body meltdown if a single drip of water splashed her way.

    Motherhood didn’t knock.

    It kicked the door in like it owned the place.

    No script.

    No warm-up.

    No stage lighting.

    Just me, a baby, and the burning question:

    “Now what?”

    And the answer?

    I figured it out.

    With no filter, no guidebook, and zero applause.

    Just grit, grace (on good days), and gallons of coffee.

    They don’t tell you this part.

    They don’t tell you how motherhood crashes into your life like an uninvited guest, flinging open the door with a suitcase full of chaos, beauty, identity crises, and moments so raw they leave you breathless.

    They don’t tell you that raising a girl means raising yourself, too.

    Your invincibility turns into vulnerability.

    Your confidence grows teeth—sharp ones.

    Your fear becomes fire.

    And your hardest job becomes guiding her through the very things you barely survived… while trying not to pass down your scars disguised as wisdom.

    But damn if she doesn’t light a fire under you.

    Being a girl mom made me fierce. Protective.

    Soft where it matters, and strong where it counts.

    I learned how to hold space, draw lines, wipe tears, and stand taller than I ever did in stilettos or defiance.

    So yeah—BRAKES.

    But not a crash.

    A course correction.

    And if you ask me now?

    I’d still take that wild ride—but this time, I’d do it with her in the passenger seat.

    Hair teased.

    ‘80s blaring.

    Showing her exactly what power looks like when it comes with love, truth, and unapologetic presence.

    Because life doesn’t stop.

    But it sure as hell shifts.

  • Mr. Flippin’ Winter

    Seasons, Snow Globes and Surviving Mr. Winter… (I have a few names but…)

    I live in an area where we allegedly get to experience all four seasons—Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter.

    Well… kinda.

    Lately, it’s been mostly Spring, also known as mud-flinging season. You know the one: slop everywhere, rain that can’t decide if it wants to sprinkle or unleash its inner waterfall, a quick pop of flowers, and then—SURPRISE!!! …more rain. Then it’s, “Hurry! Plant the seeds before the sky notices!” We get a tiny little summer teaser—those magical 80-degree days—but don’t get too excited. It’s going to rain again. (Jazz hands. Obviously.)

    But honestly? I love the rain. It’s like water for my soul. When my kids were little, I’d suit them up and send them out to splash around like happy, feral ducks… and they still do this, by the way. Possibly still feral, but they’re adults now, so I’ve stopped fighting it. Dancing in it? Therapeutic. Cleansing. Freeing. If you haven’t tried it, put it on your list right between “drink more water” (or whatever your pleasure) and “stop letting weird psychos stress you out.”

    When I was a little girl, my grandfather would take me outside when it rained. He’d turn the music up in the garage and say, “Someday you’ll find someone who will dance with you in the rain.” As a kid, I was like, “Okay Grandpa, but can we get a coffee after?” (Which was really just a splash of coffee drowned in hot water, milk, and sugar.) Now I realize he meant: Life’s going to hit you with storms. Learn to dance in them. And find someone who won’t melt next to you. Or let you take all the lightning zaps while they wander off somewhere dry.

    Then comes Fall—my favorite season of all time. The colors! The cozy sweaters! The crisp air that smells like apples and hope (except those farms using liquid fertilizer… which smells like the opposite of hope). Pumpkin patches, harvest time, leaves crunching under your feet like nature’s bubble wrap.

    And sure, I complain about raking. But it counts as cardio—(count those steps… 1, 2, 3, now switch sides because we don’t want to be unbalanced)—so honestly, I’m winning.

    Then…

    Here comes Mr. Winter, stomping in like he owns the place. And here? He does—for six FLIPPING MONTHS. Sorry. He and I go way back, and it hasn’t gotten any better. I’m working on it… really I am.

    The first snowfall? Magical. Gorgeous. Postcard-worthy. He sprinkles that white dust on the trees and dresses them up like they’re heading to a gala. But then… something happens. Something about Winter and a bad relationship vibe. Maybe that’s just my analogy. Maybe it’s not.

    I do like it for Christmas, though. I’m a northern girl—snow is required by emotional law. A green Christmas feels like someone forgot to finish the assignment. But then when the assignment has a due date? Winter just keeps adding pages no one asked for.

    No. Absolutely not.

    Six months of winter is disrespectful.

    It’s rude.

    Nobody needs that much cold unless they’re a penguin or trying to keep food frozen during a power outage.

    And the ice? Really? I can only watch Frosty get decapitated by a snowplow so many times before I start losing my holiday spirit and my will to shovel.

    …Well. Nope. I’ll keep that thought to myself.

    As for Mr. Winter? Joke’s on him. I don’t plan on sticking around to shovel his crap—I mean snow. In a few years, I’ll be sitting in the sun while he moves on to make someone else’s life miserable.

    But really… isn’t that how life works?

    We have our seasons—the ones we celebrate, the ones we suffer through, and the ones where we’re like, “Okay I’m tapping out… who do I speak to about a refund?”

    There’s always something shaking the snow globe, messing with our peace.

    But eventually… we have to ask:

    Is it someone else doing the shaking?

    Or are we just handing them the snow globe?

    For a long time, I lived in a dysfunctional freeze.

    Stuck. Foggy. Tired.

    Detached like my soul hit the “close tab” button.

    Half the time I felt like I was floating outside my body, watching myself function like some kind of half-charged robot.

    Why do I feel like this?

    Why am I numb?

    Why am I exhausted even after sleeping?

    Why does life feel like it’s happening around me, not with me?

    I spent years there.

    But here’s what I’m learning now:

    I don’t have to feel like this.

    You don’t have to feel like this.

    We don’t have to feel like this.

    Sometimes, waking up starts with one tiny thought:

    “What if there’s more for me than surviving winter forever?”

    I live in a place where winter lasts six months, the rain has commitment issues, and life keeps shaking my snow globe. Somewhere between dancing in storms and cussing out Mr. Winter, I finally learned the big lesson: stop giving people the snow globe if you don’t want them shaking it.

    Sidebar: Shake Your Own Snow Globe

    Seasons are a lot like relationships:

    Winter—cold and miserable A.F.

    Rain—indecisive and moody, definitely has commitment issues.

    The way I see it, we have two options:

    • Keep recycling that chaos…
      Or…

    Throw on your superhero gear (sippy cup and beverage of choice in hand)

    Take a deep breath

    Buckle up, embrace the chaos, and stop handing out your snow globe

    Shake it however you want—yup, even if you look like a lunatic!

    Make it fun, and let everyone else figure out their own mess.