She wears Golden Retriever slippers, and she spends too long in the shower. She sends me TikToks I don’t understand and gets irrationally angry when the Wi-Fi lags. She’s still figuring out who she is. And she gets to do that safely.
And every time I watch her be fifteen—I mean really be fifteen—I feel a little something inside me break for myself.
Because when I was fifteen, I was already exhausted. And I was already pretending I was okay. I was already in too deep.
When I was 14, my boyfriend moved into my parent’s house.
Not “stayed over” sometimes.
Not “had dinner with the family on weekends.”
No. He. Lived. With. Us.
We played house. We argued like a married couple.
And the adults in our lives—mine especially—acted like this was normal. Like I wasn’t a child. Like I didn’t need protection, but a partner.
I look back now and think:
What in the actual fuck?
Dear Reader: I have a fifteen-year-old now, and never could I ever imagine handing her over to a boy and saying, “Here, play house. Good luck.”
At the time, I didn’t question it, though. I thought I was cool and in love. I thought that was freedom.
What I didn’t know is that it was the start of a pattern—
Of being too responsible, too soon. Of being put in adult roles before I’d even finished being a kid. Of thinking love meant losing myself. Of thinking approval was love. Of thinking pain was proof I was doing it right.
Because when the people who are supposed to protect you don’t—
When they actually make it worse—
You start to believe that abandonment is just part of the deal.
That being loved means being used.
That your needs will always come last.
And let me tell you something: Unlearning that? That’s the real love story.
And you know what’s wild?
No one stopped it.
Not my mom. Not my dad. Not a teacher. Not a neighbor. Not a single grown-up in my life stepped in and said, “This isn’t okay.”
Instead, they let it happen.
Some even encouraged it. My dad treated my boyfriend like a son. Took him places. Laughed with him. Bonded.
He didn’t ask how I was feeling.
He asked if my boyfriend wanted to borrow his tools.
And so there I was, a 14-year-old girl playing wife in a house where I still needed permission to go to the mall with my girlfriends.
I wasn’t even old enough to drive. But I was old enough, apparently, to cohabitate with my boyfriend.
Old enough to play maid, emotional support, therapist, and live-in girlfriend—while still trying to figure out geometry and how to survive high school.
And when that relationship started to get toxic—and oh, it did—guess who got blamed?
Me.
For being dramatic. For being emotional. For not “handling things better.”
As if any 14-year-old is equipped to handle manipulation, gaslighting, and heartbreak with grace.
As if I was supposed to know how to navigate love and abuse in the same breath.
But I did what I always did back then: I kept it quiet. I made excuses. I tried to be good enough, calm enough, enough, enough, enough to make it all okay.
Because deep down, I thought it was my job.
I had already learned how to shrink myself. How to make room for other people’s chaos.
How to keep my needs small enough to survive.
That relationship was just the first chapter of that story.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
It took me years to realize I wasn’t crazy—I was conditioned. Conditioned to carry more than I should’ve. To confuse love with labor. To mistake silence for strength.
And the truth is? I’m still unlearning it. Still figuring out where I end, and someone else’s expectations begin. Still rewriting the story that started way too damn early.
If you’ve been there—if you are there—I see you. You weren’t wrong for needing more. You weren’t too much. You were too young to be holding the weight of other people’s bullshit, and none of it was your fault.
This isn’t just a memory. It’s a reclamation.
And if reading this stirred something in you—if it helped you feel a little less alone, or cracked open a memory you’re finally ready to look at—consider supporting the blog.
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By now, if you’ve read my last post, you know that a wedding program—and a snarky Facebook comment—dragged me back to blogging after fifteen years of silence. So here we are again. Writing. Processing. Living the dream in yet another hospital room while Keith undergoes yet another procedure. I’m sitting in a too-cold chair, sipping cafeteria iced coffee, and wondering, for the millionth time, how hospitals have become the accidental backdrop to every major milestone in my life.
Hospitals and I—we go way back. We’re in a long-term, codependent relationship built on trauma, low lighting, and the relentless ho-hum of machines. I’ve cried in their parking lots. I’ve tried to sleep in vinyl recliners that recline in theory only. I’ve yelled in waiting rooms. I’ve made peace in quiet hallways at 3 a.m. when the only thing louder than the beeping IVs was my own heartbeat trying to make sense of all the grief, fear, and exhaustion I felt.
One of the most memorable hospital stays of my life was when I had my daughter. I was 22 and thought I was dying. I had pregnancy hydronephrosis—a condition so rare and obscure that even the doctors didn’t seem to know what was going on at first. They told me it was just a kidney infection. I told them kidney infections don’t switch sides every time the baby moves. The pain was unbearable. I kept begging them to help me. They finally did—ten days in, with an emergency c-section at 36 weeks. She came out fierce and perfect, already ready to fight the world with me, little Leo that she is.
There was one night, in that same hospital stay, that will live in infamy: they gave me Ambien. I got up out of bed, and I hallucinated that the IV pole was something I was supposed to grab onto. And then I just… started peeing. Everywhere. My mom, also slightly dazed and exhausted from being at the hospital nonstop, genuinely thought we were at home under the skylights and it was raining. When she realized what was really happening, she stood up to stop me, but I looked her dead in the eye and said, completely seriously: “What? At least I’m not peeing the bed.” To this day, I stand by that logic.
I was also in a hospital when my mom died. It was Trump’s inauguration day—rainy, gray, and surreal in every possible way. People were fighting in the waiting room. Loudly. It was too much. I completely snapped. I screamed at everyone to shut the fuck up. Loudly. They moved our family to a private room after that. That’s the thing about grief. Sometimes, you cry. Sometimes, you scream. Sometimes, you become that daughter, and honestly, sometimes, that’s the only way people take you seriously.
There have been countless other visits. Some for me. Most for Keith. ERs. ICUs. Recovery rooms. Check-ins. Check-outs. Procedures. Follow-ups. We’ve become regulars, the kind where nurses remember your name, and the front desk doesn’t even ask how to spell it anymore. And every time, I bring my armor—laptop, coffee, chargers, chapstick, and a strange sense of humor that refuses to die, even in the worst of moments.
This post isn’t just about hospitals, though. It’s about the way life keeps bringing me back to the places that broke me—so I can see how much stronger I am now. It’s about remembering that the wedding I’m planning isn’t just about love and flowers and playlists. It’s about survival. It’s about two people who have been through the unthinkable and still show up for each other. It’s about telling the truth, even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.
This isn’t our first rodeo with love. But it’s the one that’s going to stick. We’ve built this love in waiting rooms and hospital beds, between diagnoses and discharge paperwork, while holding each other’s hands through fear and frustration and fucking T1D hallucinations. This love wasn’t born under twinkle lights and Pinterest boards—it was forged in chaos, tested by life, and chosen over and over again when everything felt impossible. And somehow, we still laugh. We still believe. We still show up.
So yeah. Maybe I’m just a woman in another hospital room, writing her guts out again. Maybe you’re someone who needed to read this today. Either way—we’re here. Still standing. Still finding the story in the chaos. And if this post meant something to you… well, here’s the part where I do the thing that makes me slightly cringe but is also real life:
Times are tough.
This blog is free. My life—surprise!—is very much not.
If you felt something reading this, if you saw yourself in any of it, or if you just want to help keep the writing (and the iced hospital coffee) going, here’s where you can throw a few bucks my way:
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How a Wedding Program—and a Facebook Comment—Brought Me Back to Myself
The Silence That Came Before
I didn’t expect this to be the thing that brought me back to blogging. Not after fifteen years of silence. Not after all the shrinking, the censoring, the trying-to-be-professional-enough-for-LinkedIn dance I’ve done for over a decade. But here I am. Writing again. Because of a wedding program. And one comment that felt like every silencing moment I’ve ever swallowed… condensed into four words: “Nobody cares that much.”
Let me back up.
Retreat, Interrupted
A few weeks ago, I came home early from a writing retreat with Cheryl Strayed. It was my birthday. Keith was sick—again. I couldn’t relax. Couldn’t focus. My body was in one place, but my nervous system was somewhere else entirely. So I packed up my notebooks and left the woods early, trading reflection and quiet for Keith’s hallucinations and what would very dramatically turn into yet another hospitalization.
I had gone to that retreat hoping for clarity, peace, maybe even inspiration to at least start writing things down on paper again. What I got instead was another reminder that sometimes, healing doesn’t look like journaling overlooking a scenic mountain. Sometimes, it looks like triage in a hospital room and making the impossible choice to leave something sacred because someone you love needs you more.
But before I left, I did get to go up on stage and look at the goddess of Wild herself in the eye. Cheryl Strayed. A woman whose words have been stitched into the seams of my survival for years. Whose books I’ve dog-eared, underlined, cried over. Whose voice has felt like a compass when I didn’t know which way to go.
I’ve carried her writing like a life raft—because sometimes, when you’re drowning, someone else’s truth is the only thing that keeps your head above water.
So yeah. Meeting her meant something.
It meant everything.
I had waited so long to be there.
Saved for it. Cleared my schedule. Told myself, this is it—you get to just be a writer for a few days.
And when I stepped up to that stage, and she looked me in the eye and smiled—steady, knowing—and said “Happy birthday,” I wanted to feel it crack me open in the best way. It should have been the moment. The one I play on repeat in my mind. The one I tuck into a journal and write about for years. But I barely remember it. Because I wasn’t in my body anymore. I was in survival mode. Dissociating. Bracing. Already halfway gone.
And isn’t that the cruelest trick of trauma? That even when you finally get the thing you longed for—the peace, the presence, the chance to meet someone who changed your life—your nervous system says, nope. Hijacks the joy before it can land. Builds a wall between you and the moment you so deeply wanted to feel. And you’re left watching your dream unfold like a movie someone else is starring in.
Risk Being Too Much
Still, I wrote something down that day. Just one line scrawled sideways in the margin of my notebook like a flare:
“Risk being too much.”
It stared back at me like a dare I wasn’t ready to take. But something about it stuck—like it was daring me not just to write it down, but to live it out loud. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why it wouldn’t leave me alone.
I didn’t know that line would wedge itself in my chest like a match. That it would spark something I’d been trying very much to ignore. That it would follow me home, louder than the fear, louder than the silence, louder than the guilt of leaving early.
A Canva Spiral, But Make It Sacred
The wedding program was supposed to be a simple project. Four pages. The Wedding Party. A few quotes. A timeline. Something small and sweet. But that’s not how it went. The more I designed, the more relaxed I was, and I enjoyed myself and let myself play. The more I wrote, the more I let go. And somewhere between the fonts and formatting… I cracked open.
It was like muscle memory—like slipping into the same kind of hyper-focused creative zone I used to escape into as a kid. Back when Mom and Dad were fighting again and I needed somewhere—anywhere—to disappear to. Back then, it was MS Paint and Print Shop Deluxe. I would sit at that clunky desktop computer for hours, designing birthday cards no one asked for, fake magazines starring me, pixelated masterpieces made with a mouse and sheer willpower. It was the only place I felt like I had control. Like I mattered.
This time was no different. Canva became my refuge. A sandbox. A lifeline to pick up when my brain needed a break between Zoom calls that could have been emails. I wasn’t just creating a wedding program anymore—I was building a love letter, an homage. To Keith. To our story. To the people who’ve walked with us through it all. To the version of me that stopped writing years ago because someone once said, “You’re too much.” So yes, it turned into 24 pages. And it turned into something that felt alive.
Enter: The Internet (and the Trolls)
So, I shared it in one of those massive Facebook groups for brides. Not to show off. Not to go viral. Mostly just to keep it off my personal feed—because, let’s be real, even I am tired of hearing myself talk about the damn wedding sometimes. I captioned it something like: “Anyone else spiral over their wedding program? Or am I doing the absolute most? 😂” Some people laughed along with me. Some praised me. Some said it inspired them to even make a program in the first place or rethink the way they were doing theirs currently. And then came the negative comments. Not just one. A few. Enough to hit that old bruise:
“What the fresh hell?” “Nobody cares that much.” “It’s way too much.” “People are just going to throw it away.” “Why would you include all that?”
The Echo of Old Wounds
Each comment echoed like a familiar ghost. Not surprising. Still cutting. And somehow, always timed when you’re most open, most raw, most real.
And maybe they weren’t trying to be cruel. But they didn’t have to be. Because the tone was familiar. And the message was the same one I’ve heard in a hundred different ways:
You talk too much. You feel too much. You overshare. You make people uncomfortable. You’re too intense. Too emotional. Too loud. Too honest. Too everything.
And that list? It becomes a rulebook. A script. A muzzle. And over time, we internalize it—not as commentary, but as truth.
And when you hear those things enough times—at meetings, in relationships, in silence that stretches a little too long after you say something real—you start to believe them. Not all at once. Slowly. Quietly. Like erosion. You start shrinking your sentences. Swallowing your stories. Smiling through discomfort because you’ve learned that authenticity is risky and dilution is safer. You stop writing the way you feel, and start writing the way you think you’re supposed to.
The Long Game of Shrinking
It’s true that I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to make myself smaller. Especially in tech. Especially in marketing. Especially as a woman with a story and a background that doesn’t fit neatly into a professional bio. I know how to shape myself into what people want. Polished. Strategic. Quiet enough to be agreeable, loud enough to seem confident. I know how to sell a brand, grow a funnel, speak in KPIs—and never, ever mention what it is costing me to survive. I make myself palatable. I soften my rage. I edit my grief. I write about products, pipelines, and personas while secretly navigating trauma, court schedules, and sobriety. I’ve learned how to cry silently between Zoom calls and then unmute with a smile and say, “Great question.”
My dad used to say, “You’re going to ruin your career in tech with that mouth of yours.” And I used to believe him. I believed that telling the truth was dangerous. That feeling deeply made me weak. That being seen made me a target. So I stopped writing. Not just on a blog. Not just online. I stopped writing as me. I abandoned the one place I had ever felt fully known. And when I did, I stopped recognizing myself. Not all at once. Just a little more each day. Until I became a professional version of myself—tidied up, curated, impressive on paper, and hollow in all the places that used to hold my fire.
The Fire Doesn’t Die—It Waits
But the fire never really goes out, does it? It just smolders. Quiet. Patient. Flickering in the background while you fake smiles, meet deadlines, and answer emails like nothing inside you is screaming. It waits. Through the years you bite your tongue in meetings. Through the conversations you rewrite in your head at 2 a.m. Through every time you water yourself down to fit someone else’s comfort level. It waits.
You start calling it “burnout” or “exhaustion” or “just a rough patch.” But deep down, you know. That fire is still there—rage, grief, brilliance, and truth—coiled and ready, just waiting for you to stop pretending it isn’t.
And all it takes is one spark. One comment. One moment where your body says enough.
For me, it came from Canva and a couple of strangers on Facebook. Not exactly what the movies would script, but it was real. And it was mine. Because underneath the spiral of fonts and formatting, that fire flared back to life. It said:
You never stopped being a writer. You just got really good at hiding.
It said:
You’re not too much—you’re just surrounded by people who settle for too little.
It said:
They don’t have to understand it. You just have to say it.
That smolder? It became a spark. That spark? Became this post. This voice. This version of me that refuses to be silenced one more damn time.
If This Risks My Career… Good
And yeah—I know this blog could change things for me again. I know the risks of being this honest in public. People Google. Hiring managers scroll. HR flags “oversharing” like it’s contagious.
This kind of writing? It might get me passed over. Labeled. Misunderstood. Whispered about in Slack channels behind muted cameras. But here’s what I’ve realized:
If reclaiming my voice threatens my career… then maybe it’s not the career I want to protect.
Because what’s the alternative?
Another year of smiling through Zoom calls while my soul whispers this isn’t it?
Another job where I shrink a little more to fit in?
Another quarter of pretending KPIs matter more than integrity?
No. I’ve done that. I’ve mastered it. The shape-shifting. The self-editing. The “being cool with it” when I absolutely wasn’t. I know how to make myself palatable. And I am so fucking tired of pretending that’s a strength.
Silence isn’t professionalism. It’s survival mode in a pencil skirt. It’s an erasure of everything that makes me powerful, creative, and real. And I’m done offering up pieces of myself on the altar of likability.
So yeah—this post might cost me something. But staying small has cost me more. And between my career and my voice?
I’m choosing my voice.
Storytelling Is My Home
This wedding program changed everything.
Not just because it was 24 pages of beautifully unhinged Type-A spiral.
Not just because it was funny or sweet or weird or “too much.”
But because in making it, I remembered something:
I tell stories for a living. But the most important one I ever stopped telling… was my own.
And that hit me like a gut punch.
I’ve spent so long helping other people craft their narratives—startups, founders, clients, brands, podcasts. I’ve shaped voice and tone for people who didn’t even know what they wanted to say yet. I’ve built trust, community, connection—for everyone else.
But I left my own story in draft mode. Because I didn’t think it mattered. Because I was afraid it was too messy. Too intense. Too personal. Too feminine. Too much.
But here’s what I’m learning:
Your story doesn’t have to be polished to be powerful.
It doesn’t have to follow a perfect arc or have a clear CTA. It just has to be true. And mine? It’s messy and loud and sometimes heartbreaking. It’s also brilliant and weird and funny as hell.
It’s mine.
And telling it again—raw and real and out loud—feels like coming home.
Not to a house.
Not to a brand.
To myself.
Yes, I Made a 24-Page Wedding Program
So when someone on Facebook says, “nobody cares that much”? They were wrong. Because 350+ people have viewed that program now. And Canva—bless her—actually tells me which pages they’re spending the most time on, too. It’s not the menu. It’s not the timeline. It’s the deeply personal shit—the stuff I was told to leave out. It’s the stuff I included “Just For Fun.” It’s the astrology. Turns out… people do care. They care about the messy, mystical, meaningful parts. The parts that make us human. And I’m done pretending they don’t.
And for the record? No, I don’t care if people throw it in the trash after the ceremony. Spoiler alert: Your cheap-ass but expensive wedding favors aren’t getting kept either. This program wasn’t made to be kept by everyone. It was made to be understood and appreciated in the moment by the people who are showing up to be there for me and Keith.
Too Much Is Where the Fire Lives
And you know what? Cheryl is right.
“Risk being too much.”
Because too much is honest. Too much is alive. Too much is where the fire is.
I feel like that line followed me home from the retreat like a dare. A whisper. A challenge from the part of me that still believes in something bigger than survival. And maybe this wedding program isn’t just an over-the-top project I spiraled into on Canva. Maybe it was the first time in a long time I let myself be fully seen again—unfiltered, emotional, extra as hell, and exactly who I am.
So no, I won’t be shrinking.
Not for strangers on Facebook.
Not for algorithms.
Not for an industry that rewards silence and calls it professionalism.
I’m here. I’m too much. And I’m writing again.
Welcome to ExHotMess.net
This blog? It won’t be perfect. It won’t be optimized for SEO or filtered through a personal brand lens. It’ll be messy. Honest. Sometimes funny. Sometimes devastating. It’ll be full of the stories that never made it into the scrapbook. Because if all of this has taught me anything—it’s that I still have something to say. And I’m done waiting for permission to say it.
Welcome to ExHotMess.net. This is what my reclamation era looks like.
P.S. Wanna see the wedding program that started it all? Here’s the infamous 24-pager. It’s got ceremony info, vendor credits, a timeline, and a whole lot of heart.
Fair warning: it also has spoilers. So if you’re coming to the wedding and want to be surprised… maybe scroll with caution.
Will I edit it down or change it altogether before November? Maybe.But this version? This is the one that brought me home to myself.
And if you’re still clutching your pearls over the fact that I made a 24-page wedding program?
Well.
Then what the fresh hell are you even doing here? 💁🏻♀️
Support This Work
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If this post cracked something open, made you feel less alone, or just reminded you that you’re not the only one holding it all together with duct tape and memes—consider tossing a few bucks my way.
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