Before you judge me, you should probably hear the whole story.
Welcome to I probably shouldn’t tell you this…
Well, fuck it. Here we are.
I’ve officially reached the point in my life where I’ve decided that instead of keeping my questionable decisions, emotional breakdowns, unsolicited opinions and absolute circus of a life to myself, I’m going to put them on the internet.
Because apparently, I haven’t embarrassed myself enough in 33 years.
Welcome to my blog. Lord help us all.
First things first. I’m Kristen. I’m 33 years old, a mother of four, a full time working woman and quite possibly the most emotionally complicated person you’ll ever meet.
I have a big heart, a smart mouth, a terrible habit of overthinking and an impressive ability to turn a minor inconvenience into a full blown investigation. The FBI could honestly learn a thing or two from me.
I’ve been told I’m intimidating. I’ve been told I’m hilarious. I’ve been told I’m too much.
Too emotional. Too outspoken. Too stubborn. Too independent. Too sensitive.
Well, damn. Pick a struggle.
I’m also the woman who will give someone fourteen chances, write a paragraph explaining why I’m hurt and then get pissed off because they didn’t respond to the paragraph correctly.
Self awareness is a bitch.
I have four children. FOUR. And before you ask, yes, I know how that happens.
All their names start with A, which seemed like an adorable idea until I realized I would spend the rest of my life yelling through an entire alphabet before getting to the correct child.
They’re my greatest accomplishments, my biggest blessings and the reason I occasionally fantasize about checking into a hotel just to sit in silence and eat something without having to share it.
Motherhood is beautiful. It’s also ghetto sometimes.
I have been humbled, roasted, interrupted, financially drained, emotionally blackmailed over snacks and recently informed by a seven year old that my stomach looks weird.
Sir. YOU HELPED CREATE THIS SITUATION.
The audacity.
But those four kids? They’re the reason I kept going during some of the darkest moments of my life. When I didn’t have the strength to fight for myself, I found it somewhere for them.
And believe me, there were days I had to dig pretty damn deep.
Now, before this starts sounding like a sweet little mommy blog where we bake cookies, coordinate outfits and discuss the magical wonders of parenting, let me stop you right there.
I am not that woman.
I’m the woman who can get everybody dressed, fed, and out the door, handle an entire workday, solve seventeen other people’s problems and then come home and wonder why the hell I have to make dinner.
My brain has approximately 47 tabs open, 12 are frozen and somewhere in the background Reba McEntire is always playing.
And that’s on a good day.
But here’s where shit gets a little deeper.
I’ve lived a life that I wouldn’t wish on anyone in certain chapters.
I’ve loved people who nearly destroyed me. I’ve stayed in situations that should’ve sent me running. I’ve experienced things behind closed doors that people who knew me would’ve never imagined.
I’ve been scared in places where I should’ve felt safe.
I’ve watched pieces of myself disappear while trying to hold everything and everyone else together.
I’ve buried my brother. I’ve grieved people, relationships, dreams and versions of myself that I’ll never get back.
And I’ve had to wake up the next morning, get dressed, be a mother, go to work, answer the phone, smile and pretend the entire world wasn’t falling apart inside me.
That’s the thing nobody really tells you about being an adult.
The world doesn’t stop because yours did.
Bills still come. Children still need breakfast. Work still expects you to show up. And apparently, crying in your car doesn’t qualify as paid time off.
Rude as hell, if you ask me.
There were times I didn’t recognize myself. Times I was ashamed of what I’d allowed, what I’d accepted and the decisions I’d made.
And let me make something perfectly clear: I am not the innocent victim in every single story I’m going to tell.
I’ve lied. I’ve fucked up. I’ve hurt people’s feelings. I’ve made impulsive decisions, ignored advice and gone right back to situations I had already cried myself to sleep over.
I’ve also apologized when I shouldn’t have and refused to apologize when I probably should’ve.
Growth, apparently, is a lengthy process.
But I refuse to spend the rest of my life pretending I haven’t made mistakes just so people will think I’m a better woman.
I’m a real woman.
One who has loved with everything she had, even when she should’ve saved a little of that love for herself.
And speaking of love…
Jesus Christ, where do I even begin?
I believe in love. Real love. The kind that makes you feel safe. The kind where you’re somebody’s first choice, not their favorite option when it’s convenient.
I want the husband. The partnership. The laughter in the kitchen. The Sunday mornings. The soft place to land.
Which is honestly hilarious considering some of my romantic decisions.
If red flags were frequent flyer miles, I’d own an airline.
I’ve mistaken potential for character, attention for intention and chemistry for compatibility.
I’ve written messages longer than the Declaration of Independence trying to explain feelings to grown men who probably could’ve understood me the first time.
And somehow, despite all that, I’m still a hopeless romantic.
Somebody come get me.
But I don’t want to become bitter. I don’t want the things I’ve survived to turn me into a woman who can’t recognize something good when it finally comes along.
I want to be soft without being stupid. Loving without losing myself. Understanding without making excuses for behavior that hurts me.
And I want peace.
Actual peace.
Not the kind where everything is quiet because I’m afraid to speak up. The kind where my heart can finally rest.
Recently, I’ve also found myself trying to get closer to God.
Now, before anybody gets excited, I am very much a work in progress.
I love Jesus. I also cuss, get irritated in traffic, hold imaginary arguments in the shower and occasionally have thoughts that probably require immediate prayer.
God and I have some things to work through.
But I’m trying.
I’m trying to understand why I feel the need to fix everyone. Why I carry guilt that doesn’t belong to me. Why I can forgive someone a hundred times but struggle to forgive myself once.
I’m learning that forgiveness doesn’t always mean reconciliation, that setting boundaries doesn’t make me cruel and that just because I love somebody doesn’t mean they’re entitled to unlimited access to my life.
That last one? Whew.
Anyway, here’s the real reason I’m starting this blog.
I’m tired of being reduced to whatever chapter of my life somebody happened to witness.
I’m more than the relationship that broke me. More than the mistakes I’ve made. More than the mother who holds everything together. More than the woman who smiles and says she’s fine.
I’m funny. I’m loud. I’m sensitive. I’m passionate. I’m dramatic sometimes and yes, occasionally the drama is entirely self inflicted.
I laugh at inappropriate times. I cry when I’m angry. I want to be loved but hate feeling vulnerable. I can give excellent advice and then turn around and do the exact opposite.
And sometimes I just want somebody to take care of me for once.
Not because I can’t do it myself.
Because I’m tired of always having to.
This blog is going to be about ALL of it.
The hilarious parenting disasters. The love stories. The heartbreaks. The grief. The things that happened behind closed doors. The rebuilding. The faith. The embarrassing decisions. The lessons I learned and the ones I apparently need to learn seventeen more times.
Some stories are going to make you laugh your ass off.
Some might make you cry.
Some might make you wonder whether I should be telling the internet any of this.
And trust me, I’ll probably wonder the same thing approximately three seconds after hitting publish.
But I’ve spent too much of my life worrying about what other people think.
I’m not doing that here.
I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. Hell, some days I’m not even my own.
I’m not going to pretend I have life figured out because if I did, I certainly wouldn’t have enough material for a blog.
What I can promise is that I’ll tell my stories with humor, heart and the kind of truth that isn’t always comfortable.
Because sometimes the most beautiful stories start with some really ugly chapters.
And sometimes the woman who laughs the loudest is the same woman who’s cried harder than anyone will ever know.
Both can be true.
So, if you’ve ever loved the wrong person, lost yourself trying to save somebody else, cried in your car, questioned God, started over from absolutely nothing or wondered how the actual fuck your life turned into this…
Pull up a chair.
We’re probably going to get along just fine.
I’m Kristen. I have four kids. A soft heart. A complicated past. And Absolutely no idea what the next chapter looks like.
But for once in my life, I’m not going to let somebody else write it.
And if you’re wondering whether I should really be telling you all of this?
I probably shouldn’t.
But since you’re here…
We might as well get into the good shit.
-Kristen
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