Don’t Make it Mean Something

making mistakes + loving ourselves through it

Photography by Allie Lucas, The Heritage Lens

There was a particular session in counseling that I will never forget. I was deep-diving into a pool of self-doubt and sorrow about how I reacted as a parent. I can’t remember the exact scenario, but genuine fear stood on the edge of my unspoken question: “Is this the time I super-screwed up the kids?”

I fear messing “it” up with my kids, my spouse, my friends, and myself. And when I mess up, I’m not quick to forgive. Others, yes. Myself? No. It’s far easier for me to drag myself across a hotbed of retribution than to think mistakes happen.

My counselor said, “I hear you. But I think you are making something mean something it doesn’t.”

Wow. Talk about a bold newsflash packed with freedom.

Also, there is a little confusion.

As a writer, I look for meaning. Finding that finely tuned metaphor and helping it sing, noticing life’s details, and pulling them together to create a great story are all my superpowers. How can I figure out when something means something and when it doesn’t? Is it merely convenience that I choose what matters? Is there more peace to be had if I learned to shrug a little more of life off?

On a mundane Monday, my daughter Evelyn was struggling with long division. Heck, I’m struggling with long division. But amid her anger at a particular problem, she stomped to the kitchen for a glass of water. I heard her digging through the kid-kitchen bin of plates and cups. More stomps to the fridge. And then, I listened to the sputtering of the water coming out too fast from the temperamental fridge spigot, followed by her huff of frustration.

It was time to lend a hand and see if there was something to gain from this moment beyond irritation. I found her smacking a towel against the wet puddle on the floor. “Hey, it’s okay,” I said. Her eyes looked up at me with the beginning of tears. She told me how she didn’t feel like she could do this math. She wasn’t getting it. I wondered if there were other questions like Does it mean I’m not smart? Not good enough? That’s what I would be thinking.

We cleaned up in silence. After all the water had been sopped up, I asked, “Do you want a hug?” “Yeah,” she said and crawled over to me. I pulled her onto my lap and held her close. “Let’s try again,” I said. She nodded.

We refilled the cups without a mess, and I pulled down the sign on the side of the fridge. “You’re going to make me say that, aren’t you?” she asked, gleefully annoyed.

“Yup!” I winked.

We said it aloud: “When I make a mistake, I know what it means. My brain is ready to grow and learn hard things. When I make a mistake, I cheer; there’s no frown. I know I’ll get better the next time around.”

I printed the sign for the kids, but it’s also for me. After a few deep breaths, we’re back in action—a reset and a restart.

So much of raising kids feels like teaching them skills I haven’t mastered. Perhaps that is the point: for me to grow up more alongside them. I see them shine a light on my weaknesses and human failings, and I think I either acknowledge them and start the hard work or bury them deeper and darker and don’t address them. Which choice is easier in the short term? What does more damage in the long run?

In the fall of 2024, I drove to my parents’ house. They had offered to keep the kiddos for a “fall camp” while I headed to a conference to promote my book, network, and interview for some editorial positions. We leave at 4 AM, and I have everything stacked in front of the door. Ryan wakes up with me and helps me pack the car. We buckle in, kiss him goodbye, and hit the pitch-black road. The ten and a half hour drive goes well. The kids and I shoot straws at one another with belly giggles at a Chick-fil-A, and we repeat our normal road trip cycle of listening to one soundtrack, one set of audiobook chapters together, and then kindle free time until the next pit stop.

I pull the car into my parents' wooded drive, and it is still light out. Giant hugs and smiles are exchanged, and I’m floating on cloud nine. I still have it. I can still flex those hard-won military spouse skills of getting us where we need to be as solo parents. As it nears 7 PM, Mom and I go downstairs for pajamas and toothbrushes. But as we hit the basement landing, a chill washes over me.

“Mom, I don’t remember bringing the kid’s stuff in,” I say as I stop and scan the landing.

“You know, I thought what came in looked a little slim,” She replied.

I dash upstairs and unlock the car. In my mind, I’m cursing. The back of the trunk pops. Nope. Empty. I frantically dial Ryan. “Babe! Where are the kids' clothes??!!” I explained they were packed near the door in two laundry baskets. I always do laundry baskets instead of suitcases for family visits because it’s easier on my parents to dig through and find what they need. But Ryan thought they were merely laundry baskets with folded, clean clothes. I hung up in frustration.

Mom comes up behind me. “Okay, what are we going to do?” The kids are inside, not worried about anything, and playing with my dad. I scroll through my phone. “Your Walmart is open for one more hour,” I say. “Let’s roll!” Mom says. We’re out the door after giving my dad a fair warning. He cheers us on.

During the drive to the store, a million thoughts rotate through my mind—wave after wave, crashing against my reserves. How stupid! Am I that selfish that I only thought about myself? What does it say about me as their mom that I would leave ALL of their things behind? They don’t even have a sock to wear.

“I can’t believe I did this,” I said. Mom pats my leg. She tells me it happened. “You got everyone here safely. You brought your things for the conference, which was most important,” she follows up with how this will be an easy fix. We can do this. I can make mistakes. By the time we reached the store, I had breathed and started to shrug this off. I laugh with Mom when we get to the aisles and start loading up on undies and outfits. I leave with a week’s updated wardrobe for each kid.

In the morning, Evelyn looks through her items and smiles. “You should forget our clothes every time, Mom.” Instead of the old shame wave, I laugh. I laugh so hard that tears come to my eyes. I think they are tears of relief. The counselor’s words ring in my ears. Forgetting the kids' clothing doesn’t mean I’m a bad mom. It does mean this folly is now a great family story. It does mean I’m starting to choose kindness over beratement.

The spring of 2025 is packed—not with the usual kid frenzy but with Ryan attempting to finish his bachelor's, my book launch, and planning a retirement ceremony and party for Ryan as he wraps twenty-one years in active-duty Marine Corps. It’s a heavy but exciting atmosphere that moves through our house. We’re doing big things, but we are doing them together.

Since we’re still homeschooling, I've taken April off to support our nervous systems. I want the kids to see us enjoying chasing our dreams and not crumbling under too much to do. There will be plenty of days to make up lessons in the heat of Texas summer.

I do worry that this means I’m letting the kids down. I’m forgoing their all-important education. And yet, Evelyn sits with me, counting and organizing book plates to go to the publisher. Hunter wakes early as usual, but he learns to play for an hour himself with an audiobook while I write.

We’re learning something and gaining something at this time. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but I see us all growing even without our typical life happening.

I know the simplicity I’ve chosen this season, the step back from trying to keep all the balls in the air, is serving us. I’m still working to recover from emotionally tying myself to everything, but I can tell there’s a shift happening within. I’m building trust to ride this time out to the finish line.

I forgot to make dinner on a weeknight after a particularly harried day of tasks. I forgot even to pick up the groceries. I stand at the marbled kitchen countertop and breathe in. I look at Ryan and tell him to grab the picnic mat. We sat under a tree in the backyard and ate a mixture of leftovers from the fridge. We laugh, and listen to one another, and I note that while there are still thoughts of anxiety, each small recalibration I make helps me to choose the path to recovery.

I sit under our tree, plates and crumbs scattered across the picnic mat. Hunter places his head upon my lap. I bend down to kiss his tender blonde curls. I let the warmth of the evening sun shine upon my face. Forgiving myself for not being some put-together picture I have in my mind of what I and my life should look like is far from simple; it is packed with nuance. But I continue to bring the statement to my mind: don’t make it mean something it doesn’t. It’s getting easier to think that thought. It’s starting to sink in.

As the lesson drifts down my mind and into my heart, it covers my tense body, and all parts of me surrender. I am deserving of this work. I am deserving of love and making mistakes. May I continue to fight for both, and let that be the meaning I look for and focus on.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Simple."