I’ve hit a wall

This brick wall tastes like Subway sandwiches. Stale bread, wilted vegetables, with a side of hydrogenated oil. A meager attempt at saving my children  from Type 2 diabetes while still wasting zero precious minutes on preparing, or even thinking about a meal.

This brick wall tastes like tear stained cheeks, unbrushed teeth, and utter disappointment that we’ll only read one book before bed tonight. It tastes like burned toast with a vitamin, served in the car for breakfast.

It sounds only of forced branches snapping. Muted laughter. Deflated excitement. A temper that may never be found again.

This is what this brick wall feels like.

Incomplete thoughts. Sidetracked conversations. Distracted promises.

It feels like aching eye sockets, longing for relief. Broken friendships and relationships that ended before they even began. It is the tugging of limbs in every direction, yet still having to place one foot confidently in front of the other toward the one place you don’t want to go.

It’s the feeling of my own hand being the only thing supporting the weight of my  head and the rest of the world.

It feels like streaming tears when you read the word “burnout” because you’ve forgotten that you  once were on fire.

It feels like absolute failure.


  • Meg, I don’t know what’s going on, but even in burnout your words are beautiful. Please know I’m thinking of you and cheering for you from a distance. If you need someone to objectively listen, you have my email.


    • Thank you Rachel. That is greatly appreciated. I’m sure I will find a door in this wall eventually, right? (Or flunk out of grad school in the meantime 😉


  • Oh, God Megan…I have red cowboy boots for you. And friendship, and faith and hope and whatever else you need your friends to pick up and carry for you.


  • Love you baby. Wish I were there to take the kiddos off your hands for a week straight. 😦


  • I can’t say much, except that I love you and am so proud of you for going to grad school. Advanced degrees are out of reach for a lot of us, single moms especially so, because it is SO much to take on. You are amazing, and no matter what I know things will be amazing for you eventually. Hang in there. We believe in you.

    If this helps at all – I do all of the things that you’ve described and I am not even in a degree program. Kalia knows all breakfasts must be car-friendly, and she goes to school frequently looking like a deranged hippy because I will not waste time arguing about clothes every morning. Wear what you like, and if they look at you funny, ah well. Honestly, Meg, none of us are pulling off this parenting gig perfectly.

    I hope you find what you need to feel peaceful. Hugs to you, and we love you.


  • Ugh. I am right there with you smacking my head against the wall in utter exhaustion.


  • On the one hand, I am so sorry that your life is like this right now, and wish there was something I could do to make it easier. But I so agree with Jenna, you are amazing, I love you, and I am proud of you. And on the other hand, I am always amazed at your ability to communicate with words, either written or spoken. You do have a gift.


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