Hot Mess, High hope: Rock Bottom to the Top.

 In the whirlwind of my early motherhood years, I was unstoppable. Picture this: a hardworking mom clocking 40+ hours a week, juggling the chaos of raising kids, running errands, and squeezing in time to be there for my mom. Somehow, amid the frenzy, I found pockets of joy—those stolen moments after school at the park, the laughter and bonding over shared adventures. Then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I’d return home, roll up my sleeves, and create a meal that brought smiles and warmth to everyone’s faces. And it didn’t stop there. Hosting dinners was my ritual—a chance to connect, to laugh over good food, and to revel in meaningful conversation (even if my husband wasn't a real people person I still did it haha). I thrived in the hustle, pulling off miracles I never even thought possible. Life had rhythm, energy, and purpose. I didn’t just live—I thrived.  But Rheumatoid Arthritis has a way of rewriting the story. It’s not an immediate, earth-shattering rewrite—it’s s...

Picture this: I walk into the doctor’s office, unsuspecting, probably wishing I were anywhere else. But nope! Instead of a pat on the back and a “You’re all good!” I get smacked with the news that I’m pregnant. AGAIN. For the seventh time. But wait—it gets better. Not just one baby, oh no, this time I’m having twin girls. TWINS. For the second time, because apparently the universe likes to keep things spicy. Now, let’s talk logistics. Tubal ligation? Doesn't matter, says the baby gods. They went ahead and rerouted the package, and now I’m left staring at the doctor like, "Excuse me, I didn’t order this! Please put it back on the shelf. I’ve been thoroughly satisfied with the prior editions of this product, thank you very much." Meanwhile, my husband—who swears up and down that he’s firmly on the no-new-babies train—is practically throwing confetti, excited for more kids. Really, dude? I’d like to see him carry twins again after already dealing with five kiddos, because at...

  Just some bullet points of my journey to "Grabbing life by the balls and living!" Losing my mom wasn’t just losing a parent—it was losing the anchor in my storm. It felt like my world fell apart, piece by piece, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever find solid ground again. I wasn’t just drowning in grief—I was pouring it into a glass, one sip at a time, hoping it would wash away the pain. Spoiler alert: It didn’t.  When she was diagnosed with cancer, I thought I had time. Time to prepare, time to say everything I wanted to say. But time is cruel, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone, taking parts of me with her I didn’t know how to live without.  I was drowning in the weight of motherhood, grief, and pain. I didn’t know how to balance it all—being a mom, carrying the loss of my own, and fighting a body that felt like it was turning against me. Some nights, I thought I was failing my kids just as much as I was failing myself. Alcohol became my escape. Then my prison. One ...

—My Story, No Filters— I never thought I’d be here—writing this, sharing my life, laying it all out without sugarcoating the ugly parts. But here I am, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that silence doesn’t serve survival. My life has been anything but simple. I’ve walked through fire—sometimes stumbling, sometimes crawling. Alcoholism? Been there. Recovery? Conquered it. And when I say I barely made it out alive, I mean that literally. I was drowning in the bottle, using it to numb the pain—physical, emotional, all of it. And it almost cost me everything. Losing my mom to cancer shattered me. Learning how to walk again after doctors dismissed my suffering as nothing more than the consequences of addiction broke me in ways I can’t describe. I spent a year sober, hoping for relief, only to be diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis—proof that my pain was real all along. Life doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just happens. And in between working as a waitress, juggling fi...