Oh, hello there. It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? If you’re a regular around here at The Chaos Planner, you know my life has always been, well, a chaos planner’s dream. Well, that’s what I used to write about. In my last post I filled you in on the tea… the dream became a nightmare. Fast. Brutal. Without warning. Well, if I’m honest, there was a lot of warning that I refused to accept, until it just wasn’t acceptable any longer.
A few months ago, our family, the one I poured every ounce of my being into building, the one that was my pride and joy, was ripped apart. In the blink of an eye, it was just gone. Not gone from this earth, thank God, but gone from my daily life, from my arms, from our home.
I’m still reeling. I’m still gutted. It’s a physical ache, a constant phantom limb sensation where two of my sons used to be. The laughter, the noise, the sheer glorious chaos of five boys underfoot – it’s been replaced by a silence that screams. A silence punctuated by the cries I try to muffle into my pillow when MJ, Matthew, and Jack are asleep. So this is where the real comes in. Oh my fellow chaos planners, get ready for the feels, because I’m about to just get raw with it and tell you about the most painful period of my life and how I’ve been able to emerge out the other side, almost.
The 30-Day Bed Sentence
When the dust settled, or rather, when the earthquake finally subsided enough for me to assess the damage, I made myself a promise. A terrible, wonderful, necessary promise. I told myself, “You have 30 days.
Thirty days to lie in bed. Thirty days to cry until your eyes swell shut and your throat is raw. You have thirty days to mourn the death of the life you built.” The moment the boys were off to school, I’d retreat to my room, pull the covers over my head, and let the grief wash over me. I allowed myself to be utterly consumed. I let the tears come in torrents, for the lost moments, the stolen goodnights, the empty chairs at the dinner table. For the broken hearts of all my boys, including mine.
I thought, surely, after 30 days, I’d emerge. Like a phoenix from the ashes, or at least, like a moderately functional human from a very sad bed. But here’s the raw, ugly truth: months later, I still have those days. They’re less frequent, less all-consuming, but the need to just be with the pain, to let it soak into my bones, still hits. Sometimes, it’s a random song. Other times, it’s a picture that pops up in my Facebook memories. And sometimes, it’s just the quiet hum of the house, and the sudden, overwhelming realization of who isn’t here. And when those moments hit, I still, unapologetically, retreat.
Learning to Function (Again)
The early days, beyond the bed, were a blur of trying to remember how to breathe. How to eat. How to exist without the constant hum of my entire family around me. As an entrepreneur, I thrive on structure, on goals, on making things happen. But how do you plan for this kind of devastation? How do you schedule grief?
I used to be so good at eating well, fueled by the endless energy needed to chase five boys and run a business. But suddenly, food felt like ash in my mouth. I had to force myself. I’d set timers, just to remind myself to take a few bites. It felt utterly performative, like I was going through the motions of being alive, but the spark, the drive, the joy was gone.
And facing people? The thought alone sent shivers down my spine. I was sure everyone would see the gaping wound in my soul. I was convinced my life was over, that every dream I’d ever had, every travel plan, every family adventure was washed away, never to be seen again. My identity, so intricately woven with being a mom to five boys felt shattered. Who was I, without all that?
The Vow
But here’s the thing about being a mom, about being an entrepreneur, about being a woman who has always faced challenges head-on: you find a way. Especially when you look into the eyes of the children who are still with you. MJ, my thoughtful 11-year-old, grappling with a loss he can barely articulate. Matthew, my spirited 9-year-old, missing his playmates. And little Jack, my sweet 3-year-old, had to learn the sad back and forth between two homes lifestyle. Their world had been changed forever, and I vowed to give them everything they needed. Everything.
That vow, that fierce, unwavering love for my boys, became my anchor. It was the first thread I grabbed onto in the wreckage. I couldn’t control what had happened, but I could control how I moved forward for them.
The Pivot: Reclaiming Me
And that’s where the pivot began. Slowly, agonizingly, I started to shift my focus. From the overwhelming sorrow, I found a tiny flicker of determination. Not just for them, but for me. Because if I was going to be the mom they needed, I had to heal. I had to find myself again.
This wasn’t about quick fixes or pushing through. This was about deep, foundational work. I immersed myself in self-help. Books, podcasts, therapy – anything that offered a roadmap out of the abyss. I started to understand that this wasn’t just about the current pain, but about unearthing and healing past traumas that this devastating event had brutally illuminated. Old wounds, old insecurities, old beliefs about who I was and what I deserved, all bubbled to the surface. And for the first time in my life, I had to confront them, head-on.
It was messy and it was uncomfortable. It was often terrifying. But with each tear shed for a past hurt, with each small breakthrough in understanding myself, I felt a tiny bit lighter. I started to see patterns, to recognize my own resilience, and to finally, truly, find my own self-love. For so long, my identity was wrapped up in my roles – mom, partner, entrepreneur. Now, I was learning to be secure the actual person that I am, independent of those labels. It’s still a work in progress, but the foundation is there. I’m learning to trust my own instincts, to listen to my own needs, and to truly believe in my own worth.
Building a New Normal
And with that growing sense of self, a new kind of joy started to emerge. Not the boisterous, chaotic joy of our past, but a quieter, more profound joy. The joy of creating a new normal for MJ, Matthew, and Jack.
We’re finding our rhythm. There are movie nights where we cuddle close on the couch, just the four of us. There are adventures, scaled down a bit, but still filled with laughter – trips to the local park, exploring new parks and even a trip to the mountains of TN, with just a few less of us. Matthew and Jack still whine, MJ still rolls his eyes at me, and I still have to step on Legos in the dark. It’s different, but it’s ours. It’s imperfect, but it’s real.
I see the boys healing too, in their own ways. MJ, ever the responsible one, is stepping into a new role as the eldest brother with grace and a surprising maturity. Matthew, who missed Jasper and Mateo so fiercely, is finding new ways to play and connect, and his infectious giggle is returning. And little Jack, oblivious in some ways, but more aware than I often give him credit for, is thriving in the focused attention he’s now receiving. We’re building new traditions, new memories, new ways to be a family. We’re learning to navigate the quiet spaces, and to fill them with our own unique brand of love.
A Longing, A Conviction
The past. Oh, how I long for it sometimes. For the easy chaos, the complete family picture, the future I thought was ours. There are moments, still, when the ache for Jasper and Mateo is so overwhelming it takes my breath away. A sudden memory, a familiar scent, a dream – and I’m back there, in the vibrant, noisy, full-to-bursting life we had. And I let myself feel it, every bit of it. Because that longing, that grief, is a testament to the incredible love we shared. It was real. It was beautiful. And it shaped who I am.
But here’s my conviction: I will be different moving forward. This journey has cracked me open in ways I never thought possible, and in doing so, it has revealed a strength and a depth I didn’t know I possessed. I am still motivated, still hardworking, still career-driven. And I still love being a mom, more fiercely than ever. But now, I’m doing it from a place of radical self-acceptance, of profound resilience, and of a quiet, unshakable self-love. The chaos planner still lives within me, but she’s learned that sometimes, the most important plans are for healing, for self-discovery, and for creating a life that, while different, is still deeply, profoundly, ours.
Hope for the Future: The Life of Our Dreams
It may not be the life I dreamed of. That’s a hard truth to swallow. The dreams of a loud, bustling home with five boys, of family vacations filled with the laughter of seven, those dreams have shattered. But just because the dream changed doesn’t mean a new, beautiful dream can’t emerge from the rubble.
This can still be the life of my dreams. It can be a life filled with purpose, with love, with joy, even if it looks different than I’ve ever imagined. It’s about finding gratitude in the present, even with its imperfections and pain and recognizing my own strength and resilience. It’s about building something new, brick by brick, with the lessons I’ve learned and the love I still have.
For me, it’s about pouring into MJ, Matthew, and Jack. It’s about building a stable, loving, and joy-filled home for the three of us. It’s about showing them that even when life throws its hardest punches, even when you feel like there’s no surviving the pain, you can get back up. You can heal. You can find hope. And you can still create a life that feels authentic and fulfilling. Through this devastation, we’ve all learned that it’s ok to laugh again, to live again, and most importantly to love again.
Supporting Each Other: A Community of Strength
If you’re reading this, and you’re going through your own storm, please know you are not alone. Whether it’s a separation, a loss, a career upheaval, or simply the overwhelming weight of daily life, there are so many women struggling through similar hardships.
Here are some things that have helped me, and might help you too:
- Lean on your village: For me, it’s my faith community, my family, and a few close friends who have walked through fire with me. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, whether it’s for an ear to listen, a meal, or just someone to watch your kids for an hour so you can breathe.
- Prioritize self-care (even when it feels impossible): This is hard, especially when you’re pouring everything into your children and your work. But even 15 minutes of quiet time, a hot bath, or a walk can make a huge difference. You can’t pour from an empty cup.
- Find your anchors: What brings you peace? For me, it’s prayer, journaling, and traveling, specifically spending time in the mountains. Identify your own anchors and make time for them, even if it’s just a few minutes a day.
- Connect with others who understand: Sharing your story and hearing from others can be incredibly validating and comforting. You realize your struggles are not unique, and that shared experience creates an incredible bond.
- Practice radical self-compassion: You’re doing the best you can. There will be good days and bad days. Some days you’ll feel strong and capable, others you’ll just want to pull the covers over your head. Be kind to yourself. You are navigating immense change, and that takes incredible strength.
- Celebrate the small victories: Did you actually do your hair today? Did you manage to eat all three meals? Did you get one thing done on your to-do list? Celebrate it! Every step forward, no matter how small, is progress.
- Maintain boundaries: This is especially crucial during times of upheaval. Protect your energy, your time, and your peace. It’s okay to say no, and it’s okay to step away from situations that are draining you. And it’s completely ok to NOT be the friend everyone goes to for help during this time.
I will forever stand by my desire to “lead with love”. Only this time around, I’ve learned that in order to truly lead with love I have to love myself too.