SeleneByMarialyn

I wrote the first half of this post five weeks ago.

I never published it.

At the time, I wasn’t sure I ever would. But I tucked it away, and when I came back to read it five weeks later, I realized something: maybe the fact that I don’t feel exactly the way I did when I wrote it is precisely why it’s worth sharing.

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What I Wrote Five Weeks Ago

This post will probably be one of the hardest ones for me to sit down and write, and I’m not even sure I’ll ever publish it. Some things feel too vulnerable.

I love my son dearly, but I am tired.

I spent the better part of a decade trying to co-parent another child whom I loved immensely, but who ultimately wounded me deeply. Now my sweet four-year-old is showing some of the same characteristics, and I find it devastating.

I remind myself constantly that they are different people with entirely different lives, experiences, and upbringings. I know that. But the parallels still leave me unnerved.

I find myself afraid of the same mistakes being made. Afraid of being powerless. Afraid of watching my heart break all over again.

Some days, it brings me to the brink of tears.

I’m writing this just minutes before I take my youngest for an evaluation. Hopeful for answers. Hopeful for help. Hopeful for a different outcome.

And yet my heart still aches for what I couldn’t provide my stepchild. For all the things I would have loved to do, but couldn’t, and no longer can.

Grief and hope tangled together.

My sweet boy has no idea how deeply worn I feel in my bones. It isn’t his burden to carry.

I don’t write this for pity. I write it as a declaration. As a reminder that duality exists. That conflicting emotions can live side by side because we are complex people, so why would our emotions be any different?

I can grieve what was while still fighting for what could be.

I am not what I feel. I am what I choose to do.

So I keep marching forward in search of answers. I keep showing up. I keep trying, every single day, to make things different.

And I keep loving fiercely.

Because, honestly, what else is there to do?

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Five Weeks Later

It’s so enlightening to sit down, pour my heart and thoughts onto paper, tuck them away, and then come back later to read what I wrote.

To see where my heart was. Where my thoughts were. Where all of my energy was going.

And to realize how differently I can feel five weeks later.

The intensity of those emotions has waned. It’s a testament to how fluid our emotions really are—ever changing, sometimes fleeting, but nevertheless completely consuming when we’re in the midst of them.

I feel more optimistic now than I did five short weeks ago. I feel empowered. Hopeful. More so than I did when I originally wrote those thoughts down.

Reading my own words now, I can sense the frustration underneath them. I can hear the fake it till you make it.

Because sometimes, if you say something enough, you can almost convince yourself it’s true.

I knew in my heart what I wanted my truth to be. I wanted to feel hopeful and capable. But underneath that was this helplessness I was fighting against with everything I had.

And now I get to come back with some positive news.

Occupational therapy is going well.

And while it certainly isn’t a cure-all, it has been incredibly validating. It has reassured me that I wasn’t allowing my past experiences to make me see something that wasn’t there. More importantly, it has been wonderful to watch my son begin incorporating some of the skills he is learning into his everyday life.

Life is by no means perfect. We haven’t worked out all the kinks, and maybe we never will.

But I don’t think that’s really the goal anymore.

As long as we are improving, learning, and continuing to work toward something better, that is all I can really ask for.

I am so proud of my son for being open to OT and for working as hard as he has. We still have hard days. That isn’t going to magically disappear.

But hard days don’t mean we aren’t making progress.

And if you are a parent who is currently in the thick of it with your child, I encourage you to ask for help. Keep searching for answers. Keep advocating. Keep showing up.

I know it’s hard.

So many of us are fighting battles that, to the outside world, don’t exist. That can feel incredibly isolating.

But somewhere, another parent is sitting with their grief, fighting a battle no one else can see, too.

I hope you find your answers. I hope you find the people who listen. I hope you find the support that makes things feel a little less heavy.

And most of all, I hope you get to look back—whether it be five weeks from now or five months or five years-and realize that somehow, somewhere along the way, things got better.