Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Raspberry Identity

    Up to now, when someone says, “Tell me a little about yourself,” the explanation has been very cut and dried.

    I’m a Christian. A wife. A mom. A paralegal. Daughter. Sister. Friend.

    These roles, and others, have shaped my days, my priorities, and the way other people understand me.

    But recently I started asking myself – on the prompting of my therapist – who am I if these titles are taken away?

    And the uncomfortable truth is…I’m not entirely sure.

    Life naturally gives us roles. Some we choose. Some we grow into. And some we carry with deep love and responsibility.

    Many of those roles become so central that they start to feel like the whole story, so that when someone asks who we are, we reach for the nearest label: Mom. Spouse. Professional. Believer.

    Those things are true. But they’re also…partial. They describe what I do and where I belong. But they don’t reveal who I am at my core.

    For people who have spent years caring for others or meeting expectations, the question, “Who am I?” can be surprisingly difficult to answer.

    I can tell you things I like – books, movies, hobbies that relax me.

    But preferences aren’t identity. Liking a certain kind of music or enjoying a specific activity doesn’t answer the deeper question.

    What kind of person am I when no one is asking anything from me?

    That takes time to uncover. And discovering who I am outside of my roles has yet to be a lightning-bolt moment. It’s been slow. It has required reflection – sometimes reflection that makes me sad. It has required brutal honesty. It has required letting go of versions of myself that were shaped mostly by someone else’s standards.

    For people who are used to serving others, it can feel selfish at first. But it’s not. It’s foundational. When I finally figure out who I am, my roles will stop consuming me and start expressing me.

    I don’t have the full answer yet. But I have started asking better questions. And these are a few things that have helped me begin:

    1. I have identified my core values. Those go deeper than hobbies or preferences. They’re the principles that guide how I want to live. Honesty. Integrity. Kindness. Faith. Stability. Growth. Responsibility. When I started listing the values that mattered most to me, I began seeing a clearer picture of the kind of person I aspire to be. And more than that, I figured out that my most regretful moments occurred during times when I abandoned these core values. Roles may change, but values tend to stay. And conviction tends to come when my choices do not align with those values.
    2. I pay attention to what energizes me. Not just what I enjoy, but what gives me a sense of meaning. Conversations, kinds of work, the ways I help people. Those moments reveal pieces of who I am even when I’m not satisfying a role. For example, I know, now, that being an introvert is part of my identity, because I have carefully considered and concluded that my energy comes from quiet solitude. Crowds drain me. But spending time alone allows for reflection, rest, and re-centering.
    3. I notice what bothers me. Frustrations can be clues, and sometimes what irritates me the most point directly at a core value being violated. Being excluded and shut out bothers me very deeply – so I know that forgiveness is one of my core values. Self-knowledge often hides in our reactions.
    4. I reflect on patterns in my life. Instead of asking, “What do I do?” I started asking, “What do I return to repeatedly? What kind of problems do I care about solving? What kind of people do I naturally gravitate toward?” If I like the answers to those questions, I create a tab in my brain. If I don’t, I create a separate tab titled, “Needs Improvement.” Patterns reveal more than the labels we all too often slap on ourselves.
    5. I accept that the answer may evolve. Identity is not a fixed destination. I will never be finished with the work. Who I am now isn’t even who I was 6 months ago, let alone 6 years ago, let alone 20 years ago. What matters most is not necessarily having a perfectly defined answer, but rather, being willing to explore the question.

    I’m beginning to realize that my roles have never defined me. They express parts of me.

    Being a mother reflects my capacity to nurture. Being a paralegal reflects my attention to detail and structure. Being a Christian reflects the faith that guides my decisions now.

    But underneath those roles is something much simpler: A person still learning, growing, and discovering what kind of human being she wants to be, even if I’m not there yet.

    Maybe we’re not supposed to have a perfect answer when someone asks us who we are. Maybe the real work is learning to live that question thoughtfully.

    Roles will change. Seasons will shift.

    But the process of becoming someone grounded in values, honesty and self-awareness – that’s something I can carry with me throughout every stage of my life, from here on out.

    And maybe that’s where identity actually lives.

  • Raspbeggy

    “The Egg”

    Once, I was whole.

    A quiet oval of possibility
    resting in a carton among others
    who had not yet been asked
    what they might become.

    I could have been
    sunny-side up—
    bright and uncomplicated.

    Or scrambled—
    loud and scattered with laughter.

    I might have chosen to harden,
    to become something boiled and stoic,
    firm against the world.

    Perhaps I would have been folded
    into egg salad—
    soft, seasoned, nourishing.

    Or dissolved quietly
    into the golden chemistry of a cake,
    becoming something sweet enough
    to celebrate.

    When you are whole,
    possibility is an open refrigerator door.

    But somewhere along the way
    the egg fell.

    I do not know whose hands were full
    or whose attention wandered.

    Maybe the egg was fragile.
    Maybe the floor was patient.
    Maybe the carton had one space too many
    and someone thought
    this one could be spared.

    There was no villain in the room
    when the shell gave way.

    Just gravity.

    Just a sound
    small enough to ignore.

    And suddenly I was everywhere.

    Clear and yellow spreading across tile,
    a fragile architecture of shell
    shattered into moons and commas.

    No one asks a broken egg
    what it hoped to become,
    and a broken egg is not a dream anymore—
    it is a problem.

    Something to step around.
    Something to wipe away.
    Something to replace
    without ceremony.

    No one worries about the egg,
    only the mess.

    So I learned early
    to walk carefully –
    to step between fragments of myself
    without making the floor worse,
    to tiptoe so no one would slip,
    so no one would blame the mess
    for the fall.

    Living this way takes practice—
    walking on eggshells
    that were once your own bones.

    And still
    I tripped.

    Not out of cruelty
    or carelessness.

    Just the simple human act
    of losing balance.

    My foot slid through the thin albumen,
    shells collapsing under pressure
    that was never meant to be carried.

    And suddenly the room was louder
    about the mess.

    No one asked
    if I fell.

    Only how it got worse.

    And because I was there,
    and because I was capable of kneeling,
    the mess became mine.

    So I cleaned it.
    Napkins, spray, careful hands.

    For a while I sat there
    watching the stubborn shine of yolk
    cling to the floor
    thinking about how eggs,
    once broken,
    do not get second chances.

    They do not become whole again.

    They go to the trash.

    And so did I.

    Folded quietly into a bag
    with coffee grounds
    and wilted lettuce
    and yesterday’s forgotten bread.

    A place for things
    that had failed their original purpose.

    I thought that was the end of it.

    But the strange mercy of the world
    is that no one’s story ends in the trash.

    The bag was lifted.

    The truck arrived.

    The city carried us away
    to a wide and patient, freshly-planted field
    where broken things
    have permission to become something else.

    There, beneath sun and rain
    and the quiet labor of time,
    the mess softened.

    The shell crumbled into powder.
    The yolk surrendered its gold.
    The stench of failure
    turned slowly into soil.

    And I realized something
    no kitchen ever teaches an egg:

    We are not meant
    to stay whole forever.

    Even broken,
    even discarded,
    even misunderstood—

    I was still part of the work of growing.

    Not breakfast.

    Not dessert.

    Something larger than either.

    Because somewhere above that dark earth
    roots are drinking
    what my brokenness can provide.

    And the strange truth of it is this:

    Nothing grows
    without something first
    being broken open.

  • Judged Raspberry

    There is a strange moment in any mom’s life for which no one prepares us.

    I’m a mom. And for me, that moment happened quietly, but quickly. Not overnight – but it’s like I blinked – and then my oldest child became an adult.

    And somewhere along the way, she began forming her own conclusions about the kind of parent I was. In some ways, those conclusions have been generous. But usually? Not so much.

    Here’s the truth: There is no such thing as a perfect parent.

    Every parent makes mistakes. Some small. Some larger than we wish they were.

    Parenting is thousands and thousands of decisions made while tired, overwhelmed, and trying to do the best we can with the tools we have at any given time. There is no manual. No how-to video. Just love, instinct, and a lot of trial and error.

    What became especially painful was when my now-adult child began to define her entire childhood through a small set of memories that were pivotal for her, or at least central to her narrative. Some mistakes I made. Some moments where I handled something poorly. Times when I was human instead of perfect. Times when I allowed my “feelings” to call the shots. Times when patterns that resurfaced throughout my adult life because I was sad, insecure, struggling with my worth.

    And those moments suddenly became the entire story.

    And when that happened, the million quiet things I did right – things for which I have never required recognition or rewards – the endless and constant sacrifices, the sleepless nights, the worry, forking over $20.00 bills like they were Jolly Ranchers, folding countless loads of laundry, sitting in 100 degree heat for ballgames, eating what was left on her dinner plate because there wasn’t enough Hamburger Helper for everyone to get a full serving, skipping lunch because the $7 I had wouldn’t cover that and a field trip, buying my own clothes from Walmart because the On Clouds were “just so cool” – faded into the background.

    Additionally, bigger things – like the unprecedented, immeasurable support I provided, the numerous times I defended a child everyone said was “using me,” the never-ending grace and forgiveness I offered (because – just like moms – kids also are imperfect) – those things seem to not matter anymore either.

    It’s likely that she doesn’t even know about certain things in this laundry list of sacrifices, because I did not want her to know I was struggling and deeply hurting on the inside. It’s also possible that she has conveniently forgotten some of them because her nervous system is trying to keep her safe, and repression goes along with that. And even more than that, it’s possible that she won’t see the good I tried to do because she hasn’t raised her own teenager yet, and the black-and-white world she anticipates having when she does? Well, that doesn’t exist.

    Few experiences are as isolating as feeling like your own child had reduced you to your worst moments, especially when you know the fuller, more truthful story, and especially when you remember the years you spent trying your very best.

    Parents carry an invisible grief when that happens, because the relationship(s) that once defined your existence suddenly feel(s) distant, complicated, and fragile.

    And I have over-analyzed it – all of it – to the point of actually becoming physically ill. What if I had handled that differently? What if I had said something else? What if one decision changed everything? Those questions can haunt a parent for years. And honestly, there are, of course, so many things I would change if given the opportunity.

    But that’s the thing about time – we don’t get it back. And we don’t get redos.

    This has become a huge source of shame for me, in part, because the stigma around “no contact” is so widely misconstrued by society as a whole.

    In recent years, across various social media platforms, in the middle of “pop culture TikTok therapy,” boundaries and “protecting your peace” have become common themes, which can be good, in many ways – people should be able to set healthy boundaries, and no one should be forced to tolerate abuse.

    But sometimes those ideas are simplified such that any relationship, no matter how deep or complicated, is very easy to discard. And family relationships are rarely that simple. Most families are made of of imperfect people who loved each other imperfectly.

    In my opinion, we, as a society, need to be very careful not to slap a label on something (or someone) without knowing the true meaning of that label.

    A few opinions of my own (because this is my forum and I can say what I want):

    • “Narcissistic Personality Disorder” is a true, clinical, mental health diagnosis. In order to be diagnosed with NPD, you have to be formally evaluated by a mental health clinician, and during that evaluation, certain criteria must be met. People who do things differently than you are not narcissists. People who disagree with you are not narcissists. Parents who enforce rules are not narcissists. Parents who discipline are not narcissists. People who are selfish or careless are not necessarily narcissists. Liars and cheaters are not necessarily narcissists.
    • Insisting that your boundaries be honored while ignoring someone else’s – your parent’s included – is not appropriate behavior.
    • Over-generalizing and then globally defining someone by his/her worst moments to fit your narrative is neither wholly accurate nor beneficial.
    • If you’re “protecting your peace” by completely cutting someone else off, you’re doing it wrong.
    • “Trauma” is not the appropriate term to use when your feelings get hurt.
    • “Abuse” is a subjective term, but we need to practice caution when calling people “abusive.” I know that many things are open to interpretation, but to be true “abuse,” some type of repeated negligence and/or violence would need to occur. I really don’t care what TikTok says – parents who enforce curfews are not abusive. Parents who monitor screentime are not abusive. Parents who track your location before the age of 18 are not abusive. Parents who exercise their authority over you – because they’re the adult and you’re the child – are not abusive. Parents who don’t disclose every facet of their lives with you are not abusive. Parents who don’t ask for your consent before making a decision are not abusive.
    • It is impractical, immature, and self-centered to assume that your feelings are more valid than your parents’.
    • “Mutual respect” is overrated. Kids and young adults these days like to say that “respect goes two ways,” while simultaneously stomping on their parents’ feelings, breaking their rules, manipulating…what’s “mutual” about that? Kids want a say in lives they haven’t fully lived yet. Parents are owed respect simply because they’re older and have more experience. If you’ve never had to choose between buying diapers or a new onesie, if you’ve never had to negotiate a payment plan with the electric company so that you could buy new soccer cleats, if you’ve never paid your own cell phone bill, if you’ve never taken a cold shower because your child used all the hot water – then it’d really be better if you kept your mouth shut. Respect isn’t earned just by what kids choose to acknowledge. That’s like saying, “I’ll praise the Lord for all of his blessings, but I refuse to worship Him just because He’s God.” Huh???
    • Your “mental health” is never fully protected, and cutting ties, building walls, etc., does not improve your mental health. In fact, it will take a significant dip.
    • Asking your parents to take accountability for an action you perceive as “wrong,” while refusing to acknowledge your own mistakes is – by definition – hypocritical.

    If you’re a young adult reading this, please understand that cutting someone out entirely can leave wounds on both sides. I beg of each of you – please stop validating your opinions using quotes and captions on social media. Use your own brain and do your own research.

    No one – NO ONE – is going to be able to bend to your every whim, not even your parents. No parent is always going to adhere to your preferences 100% of the time. No mom is going to come away from parenting not feeling a certain amount of inadequacy in her own voice.

    Healthy boundaries leave room for openness.
    “This behavior isn’t okay.”
    “This is what I need moving forward.”
    “This is how we can have a relationship safely.”

    Total cutoffs are absolute.
    “There is no path forward.”

    And sometimes distance is necessary in truly harmful situations. If you’re an adult who was abused – or if you were severely neglected – you have (1) my empathy; (2) my support; and (3) my prayers, and I mean that.

    But in cases like mine, and in many families, that’s not what has happened. What’s needed most is an honest conversation and mutual growth. Not permanent silence. The idea that a young adult would deactivate half of who he/she is? That is very strange to me. The idea that someone can see all bad and no good? Outside of pedophiles and serial killers, that’s not realistic. Even some of Jeffrey Dahmer’s neighbors have gone on record saying that he was a nice guy.

    If you are a mom carrying this pain – if you feel like the narrative and subsequent judgments of your adult child are not truthful or merited, there are a few things worth remembering:

    1. You are one of so many parents experiencing this. Most of us carry our grief in silence because of the shame I mentioned earlier. It’s just not something talked about very often. But it is a widespread trend. And even though that doesn’t take away from our own stories, we should find some amount of solace in knowing that “cut off culture” has a lot less to do with us, and a lot more to do with a general mindset of entitlement, lack of empathy/understanding, and just straight up stubbornness.
    2. The bad chapters of your life as a mom do not definitively make up the mom you were, even if other parties only choose to focus on what you “didn’t do right.” Yes, your mistakes matter. But so do the thousands of loving, unselfish things you did that rarely are mentioned/remembered. The whole concept of “you’re a parent so you’re supposed to [insert trivial sacrifice here]…” That’s just simply not the case, no matter another’s refusal to see it. Since there is no rulebook associated with parenting, there are different interpretations of what is required of a parent. When I was young, it was just understood that food, clothing, and shelter made up the entire list. I tried (and still try with my youngest) to do more. I bent to their preferences. I valued their opinions. I gave them a voice. I was [probably too] honest with them about certain struggles that come with being an adult, in an attempt to help them understand that life is incredibly messy. It was all in vain.
    3. Regret does not always equal failure. Looking back and wishing you had done something differently is part of being human, and that doesn’t go away just because you’re a mom. It also doesn’t erase the love that existed. On really sad days, when I am hyper-fixating on these regrets, I wallow in those shoulda/coulda/wouldas. But it doesn’t do anything for me now – it just prolongs the sadness.
    4. Your identity is bigger than motherhood. I have such a hard time with this one, because I found out I was pregnant for the first time 10 months into adulthood. And I have spent my entire adult life finding my sense of purpose inside my kids, so that when one of those relationships essentially disappeared, I felt like I was losing myself. But part of healing is rediscovering who you are beyond that role, and making peace with the forfeiture of that particular role. I have learned so much about myself recently. And even if I’m not 100% thrilled with the content of that education, I am doing the hard work – and that does matter.
    5. Peace does not come from endless punishment. It is natural to replay the past. But living in “what ifs” forever will not repair the relationship. Neither will constant acknowledgement of their “truth,” meaningful sincere apologies, constantly reaching out, bending until you almost break, or validating someone else’s feelings while relinquishing your own narrative. None of those things will allow you to actually heal.

    Some parents and adult children eventually find their way back to each other. Some take years. Some never fully repair. And that uncertainty is incredibly difficult to live with.

    But one thing remains true, no matter what: You can continue growing, reflecting, and becoming a better version of yourself – whether or not someone else – even your own child – recognizes that growth.

    The mistakes I made were real doozies, and I offer no excuses for my lapses in judgment. I will not defend my poor choices to anyone, ever, especially my kids.

    No parent gets everything right. Not the ones we admire. Not the ones we criticize.

    We all raise our children while we – ourselves – are still learning how to be human. And sometimes the most compassionate thing a mom can do – after years of loving imperfectly – is to extend a little bit of that compassion to herself. So I encourage all moms to do that today. You’re worth it.

  • Likable Raspberry

    For a good portion of my life, I have struggled with trying to be loved.

    Not only questioning whether or not I actually am loved by someone, but also the push-pull between, “Do they love me because I’m not really being me?” and “What do I need to change, right now, that would make them love me more?”

    I recognize who I am at my core. Like…I get it.

    And one of my biggest issues is the need for control.

    So there’s a quiet contradiction there – on one hand, I want to be loved without having to perform for it and without earning it constantly. I don’t want to feel pressured to reshape myself depending on the person or group of people. And on the other hand, I am definitely not what anyone would describe as low maintenance. Not emotionally. Not logistically. Not personality-wise.

    And I’ve been sitting with that tension (and confusion) for longer that I’ve probably realized.

    For most of my life, my emotions have been loud. Not necessarily noisy, but internally powerful enough to steer decisions. If something “felt” good, I leaned in. And if something “felt” unbearable, I ran.

    That instinct led to choices that – looking back – weren’t thoughtful. They were reactive.

    These days, I am trying to slow down that process. I don’t ignore my feelings, but I also don’t let them drive without supervision anymore.

    Have you guys ever heard of an RBF? I have one of those. I have never been one of those people who could make her emotions, and my moods tend to show up before my words do. Irritation, lack of comfort, excitement, joy, anger. Right there, on my dumb face, even when I try to soften it. And that means people know what’s happening inside my head – whether I intend to share it or not.

    I like having options. I don’t enjoy the feeling of being boxed in – on someone’s else’s watch, or based on someone else’s list. I prefer autonomy. Choice. The ability to decide what I’m doing and why. If I find myself deferring to someone else’s preferences, something inside me starts pushing back. Sometimes that pushback is quiet, but sometimes it’s not, and while I might go along with something in the moment, resentment has a way of sneaking in, especially if I conclude that I am simply giving up too much agency.

    Last night, I went to the movies with my son. He wanted to watch Hoppers, the new Pixar animated deal. I watched the preview. I looked up movie times to ensure that we could have dinner first. I paid for the tickets, the popcorn, his blue Powerade and Buncha Crunch…

    And then I spent the entire movie wondering why we couldn’t see the movie I wanted to see (Bride).

    Don’t get me wrong – I enjoyed the movie. I like going to the movies anyway. And I know there will be plenty of other opportunities to see Bride…so why did I get that ache of, “I’m buying dinner, I’m buying tickets, I’m buying the snacks…why couldn’t I put my foot down and just say, unilaterally, that we’re watching a movie I wanted to see?”

    And that’s just one example – and a silly one at that. The bottom line, in that scenario, is that I wanted to have fun with my son – and we did have fun. Mission accomplished.

    If I’m honest, I have control instincts. I like knowing what’s happening. I like managing my environment. I like having influence over outcomes. That control is something I’m working on, especially in areas where control isn’t realistic – like when coparenting or when something very indirectly affects me otherwise.

    But in spaces I can control, like my home, my routines, my daily environment – I tend to hold on tightly. Probably tighter than necessary.

    When my choices affect other people, that’s hard for me. Most people don’t mind my day-to-day preferences. But some of the bigger choices I’ve made in the past – things driven by impulse, emotion or escape – those things have cost me whole relationships. And that’s a reality I’ve had to face, because it raises a difficult question: If I value connection, why do I sometimes protect control more?

    And I’ve overthought it until I’ve nearly panicked – over and over again. Why do I sometimes prioritize autonomy – even when it risks connection?

    And here’s what I’ve deduced:

    Part of the answer, I think, is fear. Control feels like safety for me. If I’m in charge of my choices, then at least I know where I stand. Connection, on the other hand, requires compromise, and that can be difficult to do, especially now, as I am trying to separate my own preferences from the preferences of people who want me to be a certain way, or possess a certain number of qualities.

    Now, it seems like – upon figuring out that I like something or prefer something – I put a stamp on it, and refuse to compromise it.

    I tri-fold – not bi-fold – my towels. To me, that is the right way. I don’t care if other people bi-fold their towels. That’s not for me to decide. But don’t come at me with a sermon about how bi-folding is better. I literally won’t hear you. And if you push, I’ll argue. And if you keep pushing, you’ll end up cutting off our friendship, because I’ll die on my tri-folded hill.

    (Another stupid example, but again, I’m trying to make a point here.)

    Compromise requires vulnerability, shared decision-making, and letting someone else influence my world. And since I’ve kind of closed myself off while I’m trying to figure out who I am at my core – and then measure that against who I want to be and who I want to work toward – that makes me feel a little unsettled. I like steering my own ship.

    But I’ve sort of figured out that wanting love without performing for it doesn’t mean that I’m refusing to grow. I recognize my own tendencies – control, emotion-driven decisions, a need for independence – and that’s not the same as accepting them without question.

    It just means I can see them more clearly now. And once you see something clearly, you can start asking better questions about it.

    The bottom line? I no longer believe that being easy is the goal. I think it’s about being honest – honest about the parts of me that are strong and honest about the parts that still need work.

    I want connection, yes. And I’m slowly learning that connection – the good kind – should not require me to erase my personality – but it does require me to understand it better. Especially the parts that make relationships harder than they need to be.

    So maybe the goal isn’t (or shouldn’t be) to become “low maintenance.” Maybe it’s about becoming self-aware enough to know when my instincts are helping me…and when they’re quietly costing me the relationships I care about the most.

    That feels like a better place to start.

  • Conflicted Raspberry

    Sometimes it feels like there are two versions of me living in the same body.

    My heart.
    And my head.

    They both want the best for me.
    They just disagree as to how to get there.

    Heart: Why do you have to think about everything so much? Sometimes you should just feel it. Trust it. Follow what feels right.
    Head: Because feelings can be misleading. I’ve seen what happens when we move too quickly – we mistake intensity for truth. Thinking protects us.
    Heart: But you don’t just think. You analyze. Dissect. You replay conversations in your head like evidence in a trial. You call that projection, but sometimes it’s just fear.
    Head: And you call your impulses wisdom. You rush toward connection. You trust too quickly. You hope deeply. And that’s beautiful. But that’s what gets us hurt.
    Heart: Being hurt isn’t the worst thing that can happen. Becoming cold could be worse.
    Head: I’m not trying to make you cold. I’m trying to keep you safe.
    Heart: Safety without openness becomes loneliness.

    (dramatic pause)

    Head: Maybe we’ve been doing our jobs too aggressively.
    Heart: Maybe. You’ve been guarding every door.
    Head: And you’ve been leaving them all unlocked.
    Heart: So what’s the balance?
    Head: You lead with compassion. I check for patterns.
    Heart: You make sure we don’t ignore red flags.
    Head: And you make sure we don’t assume the worst.
    Heart: You remind us to pause.
    Head: And you remind us why connection is worth the risk.

    (another pause)

    Heart: Maybe we’re not supposed to compete with each other.
    Head: Maybe we’re supposed to work together.

    For a long time, I thought I had to choose between listening to my head or trusting my heart.

    But the healthiest version of me doesn’t silence either one.

    My heart keeps me human. My head keeps me grounded. And somewhere in the quiet space where the two finally agree…I find clarity.

  • Raspberry Motherhood

    I’m a mom. A divorced (and remarried) one.

    Before you’re in it, coparenting sounds like a logistical arrangement. A schedule. An agreement. Two homes working toward the same goal.

    And sometimes it is that simple. It used to be for me.

    But for the last few years, it’s been much more complicated than a calendar. There are emotional layers that no one really prepared me for.

    1. I second guess myself constantly. Because I am misunderstood and judged constantly. Even on good days, I wonder if I’m too strict, too lenient, too emotional, or too stoic. When another household exists, it’s easy to wonder how I’m being interpreted, and that self-doubt can be exhausting.
    2. The kids figured out how to play both sides. Man, oh, man my kids are smart. Resourceful. They figured out that different homes meant different dynamics, and they have often used that to their advantage. They’re trying to navigate two different worlds, too, and I know that can’t be easy. I wish I had caught on sooner – before I made a few decisions that affected my family pretty harshly. This tug-of-war can make you feel like you’re constantly being compared, and that’s not fun.
    3. I feel more judged than I ever anticipated. Not just by the other household, but by family, friends, and other parents. My choices have been discussed in rooms in which I have never been present, and learning to live with that reality takes much thicker skin that I thought. Newsflash – I don’t have thick skin.
    4. I can’t control the environment my kids experience half of the time. I don’t hear conversations, see the discipline, see the routines. I just have to blindly trust that someone else is doing the right thing – or at least their best – when I might have chosen something differently. That lack of control terrified me at first.
    5. Financial disagreements can be stressful. Raising children costs money. Clothes. Activities. School. Medical treatment. When both parents see those things the same way, it’s manageable. When they don’t, though, tiny decisions turn into negotiation, which adds another layer to an already complex dynamic.
    6. I miss my kids in a way that’s hard to explain. The empty rooms. The absence of routine. When the kids aren’t home, the quiet feels enormous. I would crucify myself for those little people, and I don’t begrudge them relationships with their other loved ones. But even knowing they’re happy doesn’t stop the ache of their absence.
    7. I have learned emotional restraint I never knew I had. There are so many things I have wanted to say that I didn’t. There are conversations from which I have stepped away, moments I’ve swallowed my own frustration because the situation called for calm. No one will never know that. Coparenting requires a level of emotional discipline that most people never have to practice.
    8. My kids’ well-being is the north star. For 18 years, that focus has helped me show up, even when I didn’t want to. I’ve been tired for all of my adult life.

    So it’s not easy. Coparenting has asked me to share something incredibly important with someone whose decisions I do not fully control. It has asked me to be patient, thoughtful, and steady – when I really felt uncertain. Most of my effort happens quietly. And I have failed in many, many ways.

    But I am doing my best to love my kids, even in complicated circumstances, and I hope that effort matters.

  • Introverted Raspberry

    I feel like I was a completely different person 20 years ago. Outgoing. Spontaneous. A friend to many. The life of any party. Loud.

    Now, not so much. I’m quiet in crowds. I can function in small groups, but I never want to “go first,” and I’m always paranoid I’ll say or do the wrong things. That builds up anxiety – a lot of it – so I usually just prefer to stay at home. By myself.

    How I switched from extraverted to introverted I may never understand. But as life has happened, so did that.

    And when I see someone who knew me “back then,” I can’t seem to meet their expectations.

    People tend to misunderstand introverts, partly because introversion is defined by what isn’t.

    Not loud. Not constantly social. Not energized by crowds.

    But despite my failures to meet the expectations of a few, being introverted isn’t a flaw. It’s not a limitation. And I don’t need to be fixed, at least not in that way. I just interact with the world a little differently now – so much though that I think people have certain misconceptions about that change.

    Some people think that introverts:

    1. Don’t like people. That’s probably the biggest myth I’ve encountered. I like people just fine. I just don’t love constant interaction without breaks. I need those breaks to recharge. I need to pace myself.
    2. Are shy. I’m not shy. Shyness, to me, is about fear of judgment. Introversion is about energy. I am socially capable. I just prefer smaller conversations over loud rooms.
    3. Don’t enjoy socializing. I do. I just do it differently. I enjoy meaningful conversations and one-on-one time. Depth over volume.
    4. Are quiet because we have nothing to say. I like to think before I speak. I listen and process first. If I’m quiet, it’s not because I am not thinking. In fact, it’s the opposite.
    5. Can’t be leaders. I disagree. We listen carefully, reflect before reacting, and consider multiple perspectives. Leadership is not about volume – it’s about clarity and making good judgment calls. And I’m probably better at that now than I’ve ever been.
    6. Need to be fixed. Introversion isn’t something I need to overcome. I’ve grown into this actually.
    7. Don’t enjoy fun. That’s not true – I just might not enjoy your kind of fun. I have a lot of hobbies, and I spend meaningful time with lots of people. It’s still fun. Just quiet.
    8. Don’t like attention. I don’t seek attention. But I can handle it. I can handle a phone call, give a presentation, and even speak publicly. I just need down time afterward.
    9. Live inside our heads. That’s only true in part. I do spend a lot of time reflecting, thinking and processing internally. But doing helps me draw out creativity, insight, and empathy. It’s not isolation, no matter how it looks. It’s observation.
    10. Are judgmental. I am one of the least judgmental people on the planet. My silence and solitude are often misread, and other people tend to perceive it as a skewed sense of superiority. It’s not that. I’m not better than anyone. I just want my responses to be valuable. How can I offer that if I don’t hear your whole story?

    I have so many weaknesses, but introversion isn’t one of them. I just march to a different rhythm – one that reflects depth and meaningful connection. And in a world that often rewards constant noise and activity, I can offer something different – the ability to pause, listen, and think before speaking. Sometimes the quietest voices are the most thoughtful ones.

  • Raspberry on Repeat

    There is a particular kind of shame that comes with repeating a mistake.

    Not once. Not accidentally. But knowingly. Again.

    And there is something humbling about realizing I wasn’t blindsided. I didn’t even really lack self control. I was patterned.

    For a long time, I thought insight would be enough. If I understood why I did something, or felt bad enough afterward, or apologized sincerely, surely that counted as growth.

    But it didn’t.

    I think we fail, sometimes, to learn necessary lessons after one mistake because – while consequences hurt – they don’t transform.

    Pain alone does not rewire patterns. Pain is just pain. And if anything, it stunts your ability to see things clearly so that necessary digging can be done.

    When a behavior is rooted more deeply than logic – when it’s tied to validation, fear, loneliness, ego, survival – awareness itself can’t compete with all of that. So while I recognized my initial offenses as sinful, I still reached for it again. That’s the part I don’t love admitting.

    And after those mistakes, I’d set my eyes on the “bandaid phase,” the phase where I would apologize, patch what I broke, promise differently, and feel sincerely remorseful. And then I would quietly return to the same coping strategy once the internal discomfort resurfaced.

    What I mean is…my behavior wasn’t random. It was soothing something.

    And until I addressed those things, the behavior remained available.

    The turning point wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t public fallout. It wasn’t even fear of losing everything.

    It was loneliness. Not the dramatic kind – the internal kind. And the moment I figured that out, I realized that I was the common denominator, which feels more isolating than empowering.

    And now I can’t just fix the external circumstances. Now I have to sit with myself.

    Feelings of regret say, “I wish I hadn’t done that,” and focuses on the mistake itself. It’s reactive.

    But reconstruction asks, “What part of me keeps reaching for this?” Reconstruction focuses on the wiring more than the mistake. It’s surgical. And surgery isn’t comfortable.

    These days, I don’t attempt to resolve loneliness. I sit in it, as gut-wrenching as it is sometimes.

    I forced my patterns to come to a screeching halt, but I didn’t immediately feel strong – I felt exposed. When the coping strategy was removed from office – when the distraction disappeared – and when temporary relief was no longer an option – the only thing left was the original ache. The ache that I hurt other people, over and over. The ache of the emptiness. The ache that it took me so long to even get here.

    I have had to learn to just exist with unmet needs, insecurity, the fear of not measuring up and the fear of being too much…

    …without outsourcing that pain or seeking any kind of relief.

    And that kind of healing is loud in my own head, but externally quiet. Incredibly lonely. Without encouraging applause. Just me, choosing differently. And no one even knows.

    I figured out that we repeat mistakes because the lessons we learn from those mistakes aren’t intellectual. They’re structural.

    We don’t stop destructive behavior when we feel bad enough. We stop when we value integrity more than relief. We stop when staying the same costs more than changing. And we stop when we’re ready to embrace the discomfort we tend to love to avoid.

    Change at the surface is fragile. Change at the core is slow.

    But once that core shifts – once I learn how to regulate, tolerate loneliness, and meet my own needs without self-sabotage, the repetition no longer controls the narrative. The temptation might not ever disappear. But I can fight it, because I won’t need to try to escape myself.

    I used to think, even as recently as a few weeks ago, that repeating mistakes meant I was broken. Now I think it means I have focused on white-knuckling the habit when I should’ve been focused on healing. Living a life of any kind, when unhealed, isn’t satisfying.

    And as painful as it is, I am putting in that work by myself, with honesty and without shortcuts. And I’m doing it for me – no one else. And for the first time, I finally learned the lesson.

  • Rejected Raspberry

    There is a very specific brand of grief that comes with changing. Not because the work is hard (even though it totally is), but because not everyone stays long enough to see said change.

    The reality is that some people will not forgive us for the mistakes we’ve made. Some people will not trust that our growth is genuine.

    And in my experience, people have pinpointed and analyzed the worst things I’ve ever done, tallied them up, and then framed those mistakes as the truest things about me.

    And the painful part? They’re allowed to do that.

    It is the hardest lesson I have ever learned.

    Forgiveness, unfortunately, cannot be demanded. It can’t be negotiated, argued for, or evidence-based into existence.

    I can, and have, apologized sincerely, taken full ownership, and taken intentional, consistent steps to switch directions…

    …and some people still decided that they’re done.

    But that does not mean that the work I’ve done, and continue to do, is not real or sincere. It means that forgiveness belongs to them.

    On the flip-side, however, self-forgiveness belongs to me.

    Sometimes the consequence of betrayal, harm or repeated transgressions is distance. And unfortunately, that distance can become permanent.

    That kind of hurt is unlike any hurt I have ever experienced. Even though I can understand why it happened, it still feels so unfair.

    I know I’m not the same person. I recognize the internal work, because I am doing it. And when I reflect on that work, I notice changes, both small and large.

    When safety is fractured, though, it doesn’t restore itself on my timeline. The fact of the matter is that I cannot control whether or not someone trusts my evolution. I can only live in it.

    Many people in my life seem to have frozen my character in time, as if taking a snapshot of my worst season defines who I am.

    No updates. No revisions. No footnotes. Just labels.

    And because I have made so many mistakes I have a lot of experience with being written off. And my knee-jerk reaction used to be to over-explain, over-perform, and metaphorically gather witnesses who would testify that I’d changed.

    But I cannot prove transformation by arguing it. I have to prove it by living differently, quietly, consistently, and over time, whether they see it or not.

    Accountability’s narrative is, “I did these things and they were wrong.” Permanent shame invites our mistakes into our identity – “This is who I am.“

    The former is honest. The latter is not.

    I am responsible for my behavior. But I am not required to live forever inside its shadow.

    The work I have done in the last 7 months is valuable, but I’m nowhere close to crossing any finish line, and in fact, I don’t think we really ever finish growing. But I have learned a few things during this excruciating process.

    Forgiving myself when others haven’t feels instinctively disloyal right now. Like I’m excusing the harm I have caused.

    But I know, objectively, that self-forgiveness isn’t erasure. It’s integration. And I don’t escape consequences by forgiving myself – I just have to choose to stop sentencing myself over and over.

    Sometimes transformation happens offstage, without applause, reconciliation or restored trust.

    This process has been lonely. It’s just me, choosing differently, again and again, even though no one is watching, and even though no one is returning. And that’s okay, because genuine growth – genuine transformation – is not performative.

    In trying to reframe my mindset, I have to force myself to refrain from defending my humanity. I have to actively avoid chasing redemption through perfection. I have to curb my desire to collapse into self-hatred when I reflect on my errors. I can neither rewrite history nor live inside it. And I have to accept that some relationships – ones I truly cherish – ones I thought I couldn’t live without – may never again feel the same – but decide to put the work in anyway.

    The bottom line is that I cannot force another person to relinquish the labels they assign to me. The only thing I can really do is take responsibility without becoming a permanent villain in my own story.

    Forgiving myself does not mean the damage I caused isn’t real. Forgiving myself does mean, though, that I do not have to accept that the worst chapters of my are more valuable than the rest of the book.

    I am grieving what I have lost while becoming someone new. That is, in equal measure, exceptionally painful, brave, and necessary.

    May the bravery continue without relapse…

  • Guarded Raspberry

    This new generation loves to talk about boundaries.

    A healthy idea, in theory, except I’ve observed so many misconceptions around the topic.

    Establishing healthy boundaries versus building metaphorical walls. They’re not synonyms.

    Yes, both create distance. Both protect us. Both change how other people can access us.

    But boundaries keep us safe while still allowing connection. And walls keep us safe by eliminating connection altogether.

    Walls appear after pain. After betrayal, disappointment, or the realization that being open exposes us to hurt.

    So we close the door. We stop sharing, stop trusting, stop letting other people close enough to affect us.

    Walls reaffirm that if no one gets close, then no one can cause damage. Ever again. And in some seasons, walls feel necessary. Walls give us breaking room and a chance to rest and recover.

    But walls create another thing too: Isolation.

    Isolation isn’t healthy.

    Boundaries are different.

    They don’t eliminate connection. They just regulate it.

    Boundaries, when set properly, provide a different narrative: You can come this close. You cannot cross this line. This is how I expect to be treated. And this is what I will do if that doesn’t happen.

    Boundaries protect our well-being without requiring us to completely disappear.

    They allow opportunities for closeness, just not chaos.

    Walls are built from a place of fear. Boundaries are built from a place of clarity.

    Walls are very black-and-white. “No one gets access.” But boundaries say, “Access requires respect.”

    Walls shut out the world, but boundaries invite the right people in.

    Walls tend to feel safer at times but they require less vulnerability. Walls mean we don’t have to trust anyone or risk being misunderstood. Walls don’t make us explain ourselves.

    But walls also prevent the very thing for which human being are wired – connection. It’s true that you can’t be hurt behind a wall. But the price of not hurting is not being fully known.

    On the other hand, boundaries require us to stay open. We have to communicate clearly, tolerate disagreement, and enforce consequences calmly. And that’s a lot harder than disappearing.

    At various times throughout my life, I exercised both options. I’ve built walls when I felt wounded and unsafe. And as I’ve slowly learned to trust my own discernment, I have replaced those walls with boundaries.

    My goal isn’t to never protect myself. It’s to protect myself without losing my ability to connect.

    Walls are about survival. Boundaries are about healthy living.

    And the longer I do this work – the deeper I dig – the more I realize that safety doesn’t truly come from shutting the world out. It comes from knowing where my lines are, and then trusting myself to hold them.