mental health

On knowing what matters…

/ micahdl / Leave a comment

I know the school year rhythm is finally starting to soften around me. The mornings don’t feel as chaotic, the afternoons feel more predictable. There’s some comfort in that. There are still crazy morning and busy afternoons, arguments with my kids, frustrations to manage, and relationships to help them navigate. But feeling a little more settled into the mundanity of the schedule feels…good.

I know I don’t have a crowd of yoga students yet, but the two I do have matter. Our connection feels real, like something worth building on. That’s a win. I know partnership is possible too — maybe even closer than I think. I know that I’m incredibly lucky to have the support of the chiropractor (and his family) that allows me to use his space for free to teach these two women. I feel fulfilled when I teach them, like I’m making a difference, like my words land in just the right place. Like what I’m teaching them will get them through childbirth and in to motherhood in a way that feels grounded and supported.

I know subbing is still waiting in the wings. I’m ready for it to start. I want that steadiness, that sense of purpose. I enjoy teaching (not enough to actually want to be a full time school teacher. Hard fucking pass on that in this country and big props to the people who do it and do it well).

I know money is still the sore spot. I want to contribute more, to carry weight in a way that feels visible — paying off a card, helping fund a trip, seeing the direct impact of my work.

I know hearing the words “just get a job” hurt more than maybe they should. They land right in the spot where I already question if I’m “enough.” I know there is value in what I offer our family — the availability, the presence, the volunteering — but I still crave more tangible proof of my worth.

I know I’m searching for purpose. For something that feels like mine, and also like it truly helps my family. Brick by brick.

That’s what I know right now.

On Not Counting Anything….

/ micahdl / 1 Comment

This is what I know after existing in France for a week.

I know I felt light there — in my bones, in my breath, in the way I moved through the world. Life felt easy.
Yes, I was there on vacation. I didn’t have to plan meals or manage my family’s routines. That’s an obvious reason why vacation feels better. But this was something deeper.

I know I woke up eager. I walked for miles. I ate food that didn’t hurt me. I felt safe. Unbothered. Free.

I didn’t worry about what I looked like to some imaginary audience of critics that, let’s be honest, doesn’t even exist.
I wore clothes that bared my belly. I left my makeup off — not out of laziness, but because it felt right. I tried on endless French outfits in sizes I assumed wouldn’t fit… but did.

I even learned that France has its own bra sizing system — and once I figured that out (a dumb story with roots 20 years deep), I discovered that French lingerie really is as magical as it sounds.

I know I remembered a version of myself that’s gone quiet back home.
She’s curious. She’s playful. She wears linen and doesn’t count steps (or calories).
She laughs loudly with her kids. She stays up til 1 a.m. drinking wine and eating cheese with her husband.
She doesn’t calculate the emotional cost of bread.
She just exists.

And that’s what makes it so hard to be back.

I know coming home felt like putting on a costume that no longer fits — itchy, rigid, too tight in the chest.
Like a cheap, ill-fitting bra that reminds you all day that you’re wearing the wrong thing for who you are now.

I feel heavier — not in my body, but in my spirit. It’s like my soul gained weight, and now my body is carrying that burden.

I know that living in a world void of walkable cities, communal daily life, and food that actually nourishes me is no longer manageable.

I know the systems here don’t support the version of me that came alive in France.

And I know — I know — there has to be a better way.

On when the magic fails…

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I know I showed up. Loudly. Boldly. I spoke my dreams into rooms and rituals. I spent money, took trainings, achieved certifications. I tried every angle.
I know I wanted it so badly to work—the hustle, the magic, the manifesting.
I know I did the vision boards and the moon circles and the candles. I did the gritty work, too—emails, contracts, networking, small business fairs, long nights, endless giving.
I know I believed in what I was doing. But it just didn’t happen the way I hoped.

I know that makes me feel silly sometimes. Small. Like I got fooled.
I know it stings that the rituals didn’t save me from the grind. That the big dreams didn’t catch fire in the way I was promised they would.
I know it hurts to stand here and say, “It didn’t work out.” I know it feels like quitting just because it got a little hard.
And yet—

I know staying because I “should” is worse.
I know staying because I “promised” is poison if my soul has moved on.
I know that sometimes, things are just hard and that they just don’t work out and that beating a dead horse is only going to make me sad and angry.
I know I don’t want to be my own cruel boss. Not anymore.

I know maybe this is the old programming still whispering: “You’re a failure if you don’t do something big, important, obituary-worthy.”
I know that voice is loud, but it isn’t the whole truth.

I know maybe the magic was never about making the hustle work—maybe the magic is that I finally know when to walk away.
I know I can choose softer. Quieter. Realer.
I know I can build small safe rooms instead of chasing big hollow stages. (Isn’t that what I’ve always wanted to do anyway? Create safe spaces?)
I know my worth isn’t measured in followers, bookings, or bright headlines.

I know I am allowed to rest now (even if that shitty programming tells me I’m wasting time or being lazy).
I know the magic is still mine—just different. Just enough.

That’s what I know right now.

On closing doors…

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This is what I know.

I know I don’t really want to do this anymore.
Not like this. Not here. Not in this shape that asks me to convince people that birth can be better or that I’m damn good at what I do, even if I don’t fit the mold so much of Texas asks of me.
I know I’m tired of explaining myself—my values, my beliefs, my right to not call myself something I’m not.
I know I don’t want to wear a label that doesn’t fit just to get hired.
I know Texas makes it harder than it needs to be. And I’m done fighting that uphill fight.

I know I don’t feel that spark for birth anymore.
I know I’m not bad or broken for feeling that way.
I know I have given enough—my nights, my weekends, my passion, my presence, my sleep.
I know I have two more births in me this year. After that, I’m reclaiming my time.

I know I’m afraid of messing up—of saying the wrong thing, of disappointing people, of a bad review.
I can’t count the times I’ve said something stupid or embarassing or even potentially offensive or harmful. I don’t mean to. But it’s happened. And I hate it.

I know I can’t please everyone. I know I’m human. I know my work is good, even if my mouth forgets the script sometimes.

I know I am exhausted.
I know closing this door will let my bones rest.
I know something else is waiting for me—quieter, freer, softer.
I don’t know what it is yet (though I have an idea and I’m hopeful).
But I know it’s not this anymore.

That’s what I know right now.

On leaving a mark…

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I know I want to be remembered.
I want a legacy, a community, a mark that says, I was here and I mattered.
I know I envy the people who build big circles around them—rooms full of students, loyal clients, familiar faces who show up again and again.
I know I want that too. Or at least, I think I do.

But who do I want to be remembered by? And why?
Do I want to be vaguely remembered by a student I had in a yoga class?
Or do I want my kids and their friends to remember that my house was a happy house, a house filled with cookies and crafts, a safe place to be a kid.

I also know that I’m tired.
I know sometimes I wonder if the wanting is mine, or just something I was taught:
A good life leaves a legacy. A good woman gives and gives until she’s emptied herself into everyone else’s cups. A good mother, a good guide, a good doula, a good teacher.
Sometimes (a lot of times recently), I wonder if the reason I want to “be a big deal” is because I was always taught (through religion and conditioning) that I’m “supposed” to leave a legacy.
Legacy is a big fucking word. It’s heavy. It’s not a word that a child can fully graps without a little guidance.
And so, I was left fumbling through that word, always wanting to be famous somehow…a singer, a writer, a doula, a yoga instructor.
That’s left a huge, gaping, wound in me that I fear will never heal.

I know I’m afraid I’ll never feel satisfied. That nothing will ever be enough. That no matter what I build, there will always be something more to chase.
And that thought breaks my heart a little.
The idea of never being happy and always wanting more? It’s so…exhausting. And overwhelming. And dumb.

I know I want to be productive—physically, mentally, financially.
I know I want to rest too.
I know I want a soft place to land where I can just be without feeling like I’m wasting something precious.

I know that legacy might not look like a crowded class or a packed calendar.
Maybe it’s quieter than that. Smaller. Softer.
A student who feels seen. A mom who finds her breath again.
A child who remembers me laughing in the kitchen.
A page of words that remind me: I am here. I am enough. Even when I’m not producing or proving or pleasing.

That’s what I know right now.

On knowing when to call it…

/ micahdl / 1 Comment

I’ve spent a long time hustling—pouring my heart into birth work, chasing some dream of making it matter enough. Make enough. Mean enough. Be enough.

But lately, I’m sitting with the truth that this version of it—this constant on-call, always-available, scraping-by energy—hasn’t been giving back to me. Not financially. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. I’m constantly frustrated with trying to make my business something it just isn’t, can’t, or won’t become. I’m tired all. the. time.

I almost feel like I keep going back to a shitty ex.

Like, the moments when I *do* get to do the work or I *do* get a consult request or I *do* get a nice review, I feel so excited and so proud of myself. So sure of the work that I’m doing.

But the in-between times? They’re frequent. And long. And I tend to place my value and my worth in whether or not I’m fully booked. Do people like me? Am I really actually good at this?

Constantly thinking about what to post about on social media or what to blog about for my website or how the fuck I’m going to pay for all the services I need just to keep my head above water…I hate it.

When I picture stepping away from it, I don’t feel panic.
I feel calm.
I feel free.

And that surprises me.
I thought I’d feel sad.
(And I do, a little. More than a little.)
But mostly? I feel relief.
Like my nervous system is exhaling after years of holding its breath.

There’s grief here, yes.
And there’s also wisdom.
I know now that I don’t have to keep beating a thing just because I once loved it.

I’m allowed to outgrow a role.
I’m allowed to want more.
And I don’t have to hustle for my worth.
I already have it.

On feeling things…

/ micahdl / Leave a comment

I’ve been trying to process through a lot of feelings and emotions lately. I partly blame my youngest daughter. She’s been having “big emotions” recently and is struggling to understand how to manage them, both in her head and in her body. It results in a lot of tears most of the time.

And I struggle to help her in the heat of the moment. Especially when her big emotion is “anger”.

In the midst of all of that, I’m also trying to understand what it means to “re-parent oneself”, because there are a lot of things I wish would have been different when I was growing up.

My immediate reaction when Mothra has her big emotions is to walk away. I think for the longest time, I’ve been telling myself that it’s better to walk away than to also get angry. But I think that’s an excuse. I think what’s really happening is that I don’t know how to help her because I was never really allowed to have big emotions.

I think that’s a common theme for us Xennials and Millennials.

Recently, I’ve noticed that when I walk away from Mothra’s big emotions, I end up finding her hiding in her closet, telling herself to “stop crying!” and “knock it off!” which is fucking heartbreaking.

I’ve ALWAYS wanted my kids to feel safe having big emotions at, near, or around me. Even because of me. And it turns out: one of my kids doesn’t feel safe doing that right now.

TIME FOR A COURSE CORRECTION!

I need to start reminding myself that the reason I’m so apt to walk away from her big emotions is because I didn’t have a safe space to experience my own big emotions. Maybe watching her go through them will help remind me that, yes, big emotions are real and necessary and common and ALLOWED. And of all the things they are, they are allowed to happen with me, in my presence, in my understanding, in my comfort. I need to remind myself to say to Mothra the things I wish would have been said to me.