Who I Am (Besides Tired)

Who I Am (Besides Tired)

I’m a Massachusetts-born, Virginia-weathered mom of three, living in a too-small apartment overflowing with love, laundry, and sensory overload. I’ve got ADHD, CPTSD, and a very loud inner voice that’s 99.9% sure I’m also on the autism spectrum. I’ve been through enough deep dives, online quizzes, and therapist side-eyes to know: this brain is wired differently, and I’m finally done apologizing for it.

I’m raising three brilliant, hilarious, deeply feeling, neurodivergent kids. They are so smart it’s sometimes terrifying — creative, curious, emotionally complex, and each in their own way a beautiful tornado. Every one of them is neurospicy. Every single one.

My youngest, a wild-hearted little boy with a brain that runs full throttle from the moment his eyes open, lives with me full-time. He came into the world with the Ultra ADHD Package: maximum energy, zero volume control, and questions that make my brain short-circuit before I’ve had coffee. Parenting him is a rollercoaster with no seatbelt — but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Thankfully, I’m not doing it alone. My husband — also neurodivergent and deep in the ADHD trenches with me — is the father of our youngest and my partner in barely-managed chaos. He’s got the energy of a Labrador retriever, the focus of a fruit fly, and a heart big enough to hold all of us through the meltdowns, messes, and middle-of-the-night musings.

My older two, from a previous marriage, are brilliant, thoughtful, and both have ADHD — just like their mom. They mostly live with their dad, which is a reality that still knocks the wind out of me. Losing primary custody wasn’t part of the plan, and it’s a wound I carry quietly and constantly. Their dad treats co-parenting like full-contact chess. It’s hard. It’s messy. But the love I have for them? That’s not up for negotiation. I show up how I can. I keep showing up.

I don’t write this blog because I have answers. I write because I need somewhere to put the hard stuff. Somewhere to tell the truth when everything feels too loud, too heavy, or too ridiculous to explain out loud. This space is my brain-dump, my battle cry, and sometimes my only form of therapy that doesn’t cost $150 an hour.

Who am I?

I’m a mom trying to raise good humans while reparenting my own inner child. I’m a woman trying to function with a brain that can’t decide if it’s in survival mode or stand-up comedy. I cry in parked cars, forget why I walked into rooms, and get emotionally attached to pens. I’m held together by caffeine, dry shampoo, dark humor, and unconditional love.

And no, I don’t have it all together. But I do have this space — and maybe that’s enough.