Saturday and Sunday were both a whirlwind, with not nearly enough time to recover and find my way back to calm.
I was still carrying every ounce of exhaustion from Thursday and Friday. The Body Dysmorphia was still lingering. The RSD was still lingering. The emotional hangover from spending days questioning myself, my worth, my body, and every insecurity that managed to claw its way to the surface hadn’t magically disappeared just because the calendar rolled over to the weekend.
Still, Saturday was nice.
A few of the kids came over for a cookout, and I cherish any opportunity I get to spend even a few minutes with them. The older they get, the harder it becomes to get everyone together. They have jobs, responsibilities, relationships, children of their own, and lives they are building, which is exactly what they should be doing. Still, it doesn’t stop me from missing the days when gathering everyone together was as simple as calling them in for dinner.
These beautiful humans wrap their arms around me and pour their love into me simply through their presence. Their quick-witted humor definitely did not come from their mother, sadly, but I will gladly claim their loving and giving hearts. That, above all else, is what I am most proud of.
Of course, I spent half the afternoon gushing over Mia and her adorable little bell-bottom pants and ruffled shirt that made her look like a radiant ray of sunshine. Liam, my sweet boy, melted my heart every time he wrapped his little arms around me and said, “Mimi, I love you.” He notices everything, which is fascinating to watch. Nothing gets past him.
For a few hours, life felt lighter. It’s not fixed and certainly not healed, but lighter.
By the time evening rolled around, though, the exhaustion settled back in. When it came time for bed, I crashed, but, as on previous nights, sleep didn’t stay. I found myself awake long after I should have been, lying in bed reading through my book on preparing for confession.
The closer confession got, the heavier my heart seemed to become. It wasn’t the priest I was afraid of. It wasn’t even confession itself. It was seeing everything laid out in front of me with nowhere left to hide from it. The things I had done. The people I had hurt. The ways I had justified things I shouldn’t have. The things that had been done to me. The mistakes, regrets, failures, and wounds that have followed me through different seasons of my life. It felt like every version of myself I wasn’t particularly proud of had decided to sit down beside me in bed that night.
Eventually, I reached out to Caleb because there are some people in your life whose faith never seems to waver, and he is one of those people. I apologized ahead of time for the weight I was about to unload on him and told him he could read it as my son, my friend, or whatever role would have him judge me the least.
My children know my story. They know the beautiful parts and the ugly parts. They know about the traumas, the mistakes, the things that happened to me, and the things I created myself. Most of us have always had that kind of relationship. Sometimes I wonder if that openness was a gift or another wound I unknowingly passed down to them. Maybe exposing them to my struggles helped teach them not to be ashamed of their own. Maybe it gave them permission to talk about the things they were carrying. Maybe it burdened them in ways I still don’t fully understand.
Truthfully, I don’t know.
What I do know is that his response was exactly what I needed to hear. He reminded me that priests have heard thousands of confessions and that chances are pretty high they’ve heard every sin I was about to confess and probably much worse. He reminded me that during confession, I wasn’t really talking to the priest as a person. He was acting through Christ’s authority to forgive sins, not to judge them. He reminded me that nobody is sinless, but not everyone is willing to honestly recognize their sins and bring them into the light. What stayed with me most was when he told me to take all of my worries, heartaches, guilt, and fears and lay them before God and let Him take care of the rest.
I sat there staring at those words, with tears, for a long time before grabbing my notebook and a pen. What followed was three and a half pages (that was trimmed way back) of mortal sins, mistakes, regrets, failures, choices, and moments I wish I could take back. Putting a number beside some of them felt awful. Seeing them all laid out in front of me felt awful. There was no hiding from them anymore. No minimizing them. No justifying them. No explaining them away. There they were, sitting in front of me in black ink, three and a half quickly summed-up pages of my humanity.
Sunday morning, I attended Mass and Grama scootched over so I was sandwiched between her and Grandpa. It is hard to explain how comforting that felt when my heart had been so heavy for days. Looking around the parish, I saw so many women who have quietly supported and encouraged me over the last several months. Most of them are old enough to be my grandmothers, but age has never meant much to me. It never has and it never will. I care far more about the kind of person someone is than the number of years they have been alive. There is something beautiful about being surrounded by people who love you without needing anything from you.
After Mass, Father walked me through confession. I asked if I could read what I had written, and he quietly sat there and listened. Look, I know some people have strong feelings about Catholicism, and that is okay. Some people don’t believe at all, and that is okay too. I am not here to convince anyone to believe what I believe. Just be a decent human being, and we’re good.
I also know some people struggle with the idea of confessing to another person. In Catholicism, that isn’t really how we view it in that moment. After several pauses, more than a few tears, and having to stop occasionally just to gather myself, I finally finished.
If I’m being completely honest, I expected something different. I thought I would walk out and feel lighter. I thought the guilt would disappear. I thought my chest would suddenly feel less heavy and my heart would finally feel free.
Story bust. That didn’t happen.
What I felt was harder to define. There was relief in finally saying the words out loud. There was pride in doing something I had been afraid to do. There was gratitude for having the courage to walk through it. But there wasn’t the immediate freedom I expected, and I think that is because the forgiveness I struggle with most has never really been God’s. It has always been my own.
I can accept grace more easily than I can offer it to myself. I can understand why other people deserve compassion while somehow believing I should have known better, done better, or been better. That is a heavy thing to carry, and it isn’t something that disappears simply because I sat in a confessional and read three and a half pages of mistakes. I am still working through that part.
Afterward, I went home to decompress, soak up a little sunshine, and try to quiet my mind. The exhaustion was still there. I couldn’t seem to catch up on it. No matter how much I rested, it felt like my mind and body were still trying to recover from the previous few days.
Later that evening, we met Jacob and Natalie for dinner. I have always loved being in Jacob’s space. His hugs are a place of comfort. He isn’t quick to let go. He doesn’t rush it. Most importantly, he has never cared who was watching. I know some men become uncomfortable with public displays of affection, especially when it comes to their mothers, but not Jacob. Never Jacob. I have always appreciated that about him. I think I needed that hug as much as he did.
As I look back over the weekend, I think that is what stands out to me the most. Over the last several days, while I was drowning in Body Dysmorphia, RSD, guilt, shame, exhaustion, and self-doubt, people kept showing up for me. Caleb showed up when I needed someone to remind me that God’s grace is bigger than my mistakes. Grama and Grandpa showed up by simply loving me the way they always have. Father showed up by quietly listening while I worked through something that terrified me. Jacob showed up with a hug that reminded me I was loved when my own mind was trying to convince me otherwise. James kept his presence steady. Other presences that were in the perfect place at the perfect times. Even though I felt alone, I guess I never really was.
None of them fixed it. None of them made the Body Dysmorphia disappear or silenced the RSD. None of them magically handed me forgiveness toward myself or erased the things I am still struggling to carry. What they did do was remind me that while my brain was busy convincing me I wasn’t enough, the people who love me never seemed to question it.
The Body Dysmorphia isn’t going away. The RSD isn’t going away. There will be other Thursdays, other spirals, other triggers, and other moments when the darkness comes creeping out of the shadows, trying to convince me that it deserves permanent residence in my life. But it doesn’t.
My resilience has never wavered. No matter how many times life knocks me down or how badly something wrecks me in the moment, I always find my way back. That is my place. Not stuck in the dark. I refuse to stay there when there is so much beauty surrounding me.
Sometimes that beauty is monumental. Sometimes it is found in my grandchildren’s laughter, in the arms of my children, or in the kindness of people who quietly stand beside me when I need them most. Other times it is much smaller. A bumblebee carrying pollen on its fuzzy little butt. One stopping for a much-needed rest on a flower. Sunshine on my face after a difficult day. Ice cream with people I love.
Those things may seem insignificant to some people, but when everything else feels like it is crumbling, they feel like monumental wins.
Today, Monday morning, I feel a tiny sparkle of peace. Not enough to call it healing and certainly not enough to say I have everything figured out, but enough to notice it. For now, that’s enough.
I’m just waiting for that tiny sparkle to open up like a glitter bomb that sprinkles itself across my mind, heart, and soul.
Until next time…
Perfectly Imperfect 
Express Yourself!