It’s been a while since my last blog, and it’s not because I forgot about it or lost the excitement for writing. Quite the opposite, actually. Life has been handing me ideas left and right. Almost every day I’d think, “That would make a great blog topic.” Sometimes I’d make a mental note, other times I’d write it down before I forgot.
But today, I’m not writing about any of those.
Today, I want to shift the focus to me.
As the days have gone by and life has continued to throw both beautiful and difficult moments my way, I’ve had to remind myself of something I often encourage others to remember:
I am a person too.
I have emotions too.
And I need to take care of myself just as much as I encourage others to take care of themselves.
Fair warning—this blog is a little different from my usual ones. While my previous blogs have leaned more into my role as a clinical social worker, the next few blogs will reflect the experiences that filled the time I’ve been away. Sometimes the therapist needs to step aside for a moment so the human can speak.
Let’s start with my state board exam.
I’ve always been that person who somehow made it through school without studying. To this day, I honestly couldn’t tell you how I managed it. In grade school, I somehow earned some of the highest grades without ever opening a study guide. Looking back… I still have questions.
Graduate school humbled me a little. I actually had to study and apply myself.
But this board exam?
This exam said, “Nice to meet you. Sit down.”
Anyone preparing for licensure knows this isn’t just another test. It’s known for being difficult. Many people fail the first time, and some have taken it multiple times before passing—including clinicians with far more experience than I have.
Meanwhile, I’m over here thinking…
“I graduated in December 2024. I’ve been working in inpatient psychiatry since January 2025. What exactly am I doing?”
Naturally, I did what many of us do—I psyched myself out.
So I created a study schedule.
And then attempted to fit that schedule into a life that already included a full-time job, a full-time parenting job, private practice clients, exercise, social commitments, and everything else adulthood likes to casually throw our way.
Because apparently I thought there were 30 hours in a day.
Then life decided to add another chapter.
My son’s psychological testing came back with additional diagnoses that I wasn’t mentally or emotionally prepared for.
Everything changed.
His treatment plan suddenly looked different, and I immediately shifted into “case manager mode.”
Appointments.
Phone calls.
Emails.
Insurance.
Referrals.
Services.
Repeat.
There wasn’t really time to process what I was feeling because I was too busy figuring out what needed to happen next.
You’d think being a clinical social worker would make this easier.
In some ways, it did.
I knew where to start.
I knew who to call.
I understood the system.
But here’s something I’ve learned:
The human in me doesn’t always listen to the therapist in me.
And despite what my profession might suggest… I certainly don’t know everything.
For the first time, I found myself seeing the system through the eyes of so many parents I’ve worked with over the years—parents who know very little about mental health, disabilities, or where to even begin.
It’s overwhelming.
It’s exhausting.
And it’s scary.
To add to everything else, I also experienced an unexpected termination with the therapist who had been supporting me as a parent.
That one hit me harder than I expected.
Not because of anything the therapist did, but because my plate already felt full, and suddenly I had another task to complete—finding someone new, starting over, and navigating the always delightful (yes, that’s sarcasm) world of insurance authorizations.
Thankfully, everything came together within about a week.
But emotionally?
That week felt much longer.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, life became…
Loud.
Really loud.
So loud that my body finally spoke up before I did.
For the first time in my life, my blood pressure spiked.
Twice.
That was my wake-up call.
Who knows how many other days it had been elevated while I kept telling myself I was “fine.”
Funny how quickly we tell ourselves to push through when our bodies are asking us to slow down.
So… I finally listened.
Not by quitting everything.
Not by studying less.
Not by working less.
But by becoming much more intentional with my time.
Weekends stopped starting before sunrise.
No more racing to a 7:00 a.m. workout class because somehow I convinced myself that waking up before the sun made me more productive.
Now?
If there’s a workout class after 10:00 a.m., great.
If there isn’t…
There’s always next weekend.
I started paying attention to what I was eating too.
That was an adventure considering I don’t cook.
Apparently adulthood eventually catches all of us.
Meal prepping.
Cooking.
Actually remembering to eat.
Who knew?
At work, I also learned to take my foot off the gas a little.
I stopped trying to fix every problem that wasn’t mine to solve.
I reminded myself that doing my best doesn’t require carrying the weight of every outcome.
Although… I do have to laugh.
One of our hospital slogans is “Miracle Workers.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I don’t have life figured out.
Not even close.
But life is finally getting quieter.
And I didn’t realize how much I needed quiet until I found it again.
These days I’m resting more.
Sleeping in on weekends.
Making room for slower mornings.
I’m also getting the full experience of this parenting thing.
My son’s grandparents have been away for the summer, which means I’m handling the school pickups, drop-offs, meals, appointments—you name it.
Ironically, what I thought would completely overwhelm me has become one of the most meaningful parts of this season.
My son seems happier.
He’s more active.
He actually wants to come to events with me now—something he rarely did before.
We’ve found a rhythm together.
And watching him smile a little more has brought me a kind of peace I didn’t realize I was searching for.
Now…
I would appreciate it if he could stop eating every single grocery in the house within 48 hours.
I’m still working on that one.
If there’s one thing this season has reminded me, it’s that self-care isn’t always glamorous.
Sometimes it isn’t a spa day.
Sometimes it looks like saying no.
Sleeping an extra hour.
Accepting that you can’t do everything.
Asking for help.
Or finally listening when your body whispers before it has to scream.
I’m still learning.
I’m still growing.
And I’m still figuring things out as I go.
I can’t promise I’ll be back to posting every week while I’m preparing for my state board exam and juggling everything else life has in store.
But I can promise this:
I’ll keep showing up.
Maybe not perfectly.
Maybe not every week.
But authentically.
…. And once those letters (LCSW) are officially behind my name, I’ll be back with plenty more stories to tell.
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