I wanted to create this video for social media — an ode to the beautiful, kind souls I’m privileged to go through life with.
As I was scrolling through selfie upon selfie from over the years — especially the last six — each picture sparked a memory. Some made me smile immediately. Some brought tears. In a few, I can literally see the pain behind my eyes. The dark circles from sleepless nights riddled with anxiety and uncertainty… and then… finally, joy.
It’s interesting how one memory can hold so much emotion.
I remember feeling like I was dragging my body through the day, trying to hold it together for my kids. Not able to focus on any one activity, let alone finish a sentence. A shell of myself. Empty inside.
I remember being afraid to drive too far because… if something happened, who in the world was I going to call?
I remember those first fragile steps toward freedom. Waking up with heaviness, but pushing through it anyway — just to get out of my space, out of my head. I was micro dosing “good feelings,” hoping joy would eventually feel normal again.
Being happy — truly joyful — is the most vulnerable feeling of all. And letting go of that constant expectation that something or someone is going to sabotage it — that “waiting for the other shoe to drop” feeling? It’s overrated.
If you’ve read my book Is It An Open Bar?, you know my struggle. And it’s not like it just evaporates into thin air. This is about building a foundation of all the good shit, so when the bad stuff comes, it doesn’t uproot you. It happens, and then it fades away. It’s a daily choice — a choice to feel good, to be intentional about who you allow in your life, how you spend your time, how you interact with the world. A choice to not be afraid.
I wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t for my kids — I can promise you that. They have been, and still are, my driving force in just about everything. It took losing everything to realize that.
I’ve learned that my most important job as a mother is to take care of myself so I can be present for them. And I’m not talking about facials and pedicures — I’m talking about the inside. The hard stuff. The healing. The truth. That work is mine to do — and it always will be.
It’s my responsibility to show my daughters how to love themselves for who they are, and everything they have to offer this world. To show my son how to treat all the women in his life with kindness, respect, and understanding.
Have you ever stared at something so long your eyes start to cross? And while your mind is screaming, “Look away, you’re not even focusing anymore,” you keep staring anyway?
I wonder if that’s how my mom felt, in those long moments of stillness. She was physically there, but… what was she feeling?
I’ve always been an introspective person — a thinker. I spent most of my youth with an inner dialogue that sounded a lot like Kevin Arnold from The Wonder Years. I write about this in my book, too — how I used to daydream out the car window, pulling up at red lights beside families who looked kind. I’d quietly hope they might want to take me with them.
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If you’ve made it this far, thank you. This is the real stuff. The inner struggle. The softest parts of my story. And I’m grateful you’re here for it.
We all want better for our kids.
I think that’s universal in just about all moms — this deep, unshakable desire to break cycles, to give them more than we had. But it’s the bullshit that holds us back. The guilt. The fear. The conditioning. The idea that we have to do it all perfectly or not at all.
We carry so much — unspoken expectations, unresolved trauma, outdated definitions of what a “good mother” looks like. And sometimes that weight gets so heavy, we forget to even ask what we want. Who we are. And what it might look like to give ourselves just a fraction of the grace we give everyone else.
But the truth is this: if we want better for our kids, it starts with us.
With how we care for ourselves. How we talk to ourselves. How we recover, repair, and rebuild — even when nobody sees it.
The most radical thing I’ve ever done for my children wasn’t surviving. It was healing.
Because now, when I look at those selfies — the ones that carry both pain and joy — I see a woman who didn’t give up. Who decided to stay. To fight for her peace. To choose a different path, even if it meant walking alone for a while.
So if you’re in a hard chapter right now — please know, it won’t last forever.
Joy is still in reach. Your story is still unfolding. And you, my love, are worth every ounce of the work.
XO,
Laura
