Phone Calls, Panic, and Power Struggles

Date: January 27, 2022

Tonight was another exhausting glimpse into how hard it is to co-parent when your children are caught in the middle of ongoing chaos and emotional strain.

Around 8:30 PM, Aurora called Nick from Autumn’s phone to say goodnight. I was nearby, as always, listening in, trying to support him while he did his best to be present for his daughters. When Nick asked to speak to Autumn, Aurora froze. She wouldn’t pass the phone and acted scared and confused. Eventually, Nick offered to call the house phone instead.

He finally got Autumn on the phone. I could hear Katie and Autumn going back and forth in the background—Autumn asking for privacy, Katie refusing. It was painful to hear. Nick did manage to have a short conversation with Autumn. She told him she wasn’t okay, but she was excited about Andrew visiting school the next day. (Andrew had been homeschooling with me after struggling post-COVID with remote learning and needed a gentle transition back to in-person school. This visit was a big deal.)

Autumn and Andrew talked briefly and made plans for school. But Katie began yelling again, saying Autumn had made Aurora cry. Autumn denied it, explaining she hadn’t even talked to her. Katie insisted otherwise.

Autumn asked for just one minute to say goodbye. Katie allowed it—barely. Autumn quickly said goodbye, but as the call was ending, she whispered, "I’m going to get screamed at now." Katie jumped back on the line, suddenly calm, saying, “No, you're not,” then added that Aurora wanted to talk.

Aurora got on the phone. I could still hear yelling in the background. I gently encouraged her to go to another room. She said she was tired and didn’t want to talk much. I made a few jokes to lighten the mood, and she laughed a little.

Then she said it: “Autumn scares me.”

We asked gently what about Autumn scared her. Aurora said it was when Autumn yelled at Mom and told her she wished she would die. She said yelling always scares her. We validated her feelings and reassured her it wasn’t her fault. We also reminded her that we had been talking to Autumn and hadn’t heard her yell—so we asked if something else had happened. Aurora just said, “She always scares me,” but didn’t explain further.

She seemed uncomfortable. I asked if she’d talked to Ms. Mack (the school counselor), but she said Ms. Mack wasn’t at school today. I gently reminded her that if things at home aren’t okay, that doesn’t mean it’s her fault, and she’s not alone.

Then Katie suddenly interrupted, said something quickly, and hung up. A minute later, Aurora called back just to say goodnight. We reminded her we loved her and told her she could always talk to us. She said goodnight and hung up.

I wish I could explain the heartbreak of hearing a child say they’re scared and having no real way to help. It is so hard to parent children who are being repeatedly traumatized by the other parent—and no one seems to want to help. These kids’ struggles are not their fault. They’re not the result of bad parenting on our end. They are a reflection of pain, confusion, and survival in an environment where the adults are supposed to protect them but so often fail to do so.

We keep showing up. But it never feels like enough.

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Labels: co-parenting, trauma recovery, parenting through crisis, high-conflict custody, sibling dynamics, emotional abuse, child safety, family court, blended family struggles

Unheard Warnings

January 27, 2022 — Unheard Warnings

Tonight was another heartbreaking reminder of how unsupported our family has felt—how the harmful patterns were so obvious, and yet nothing ever changed. I don’t write this to blame or shame. I write this because the truth matters, and our girls deserved better.

Aurora called from Autumn’s phone around 8:30 PM to say goodnight. I talked to her briefly and asked if I could speak to Autumn. But Aurora froze—scared and confused—and wouldn’t hand over the phone. I offered to just call the house phone instead.

When I did, I finally got to speak with Autumn. She wasn’t okay. We talked about how her brother Andrew was visiting her school tomorrow. At the time, we had been homeschooling Andrew—he’d needed extra support transitioning from remote learning back into a school environment after COVID. Autumn was excited to see him, and for a moment she sounded like a typical kid again. She and Andrew talked briefly and even set some silly “rules” for their day together. It was a small, good moment.

But that moment was short-lived. Katie started yelling for Autumn to get off the phone. Autumn tried to say goodnight, but was interrupted repeatedly. I asked what happened at school, and Autumn hesitated before saying she had met with a police officer. Then she paused and said, “I can’t talk about that here anyway.” It was clear she didn’t feel safe.

The yelling escalated. Katie accused Autumn of making Aurora cry. Autumn insisted she hadn’t even spoken to her. Katie refused to believe her. Autumn asked to say goodbye without being interrupted and warned us she’d get screamed at. And she did.

Katie jumped back on the phone, saying Aurora had something to talk about. I could hear both of them yelling in the background. I gently asked Aurora to go into another room so we could talk privately.

She was quiet and withdrawn. After some gentle jokes and encouragement, she finally said: “Autumn scares me.”

I asked what scared her. She said, “When Autumn yells at Mom and says ‘I wish you would die.’”

We told her that kind of language is not okay and asked her what scared her the most. She said, “The yelling. Yelling always scares me.” I validated that for her and apologized she had to experience it.

I tried to understand more about what had happened on the phone between her and Autumn, but Aurora didn’t offer much detail. She just said Autumn yells a lot and it makes her feel scared. When I asked if she was upset about losing her laptop (as Autumn had suggested), she shrugged and said “kinda but not really.”

I asked if she’d been able to talk to Ms. Mack, her school counselor. She said no—Ms. Mack wasn’t in that day. Before we could finish our conversation, Katie jumped in and hung up the phone.

Aurora called back a few minutes later. I told her, “Whatever is going on is not your fault, okay? We love you.” And we said goodnight.

But I couldn’t sleep. We were doing everything we could to stay calm, document everything, and keep the lines of communication open. But watching this happen again and again—seeing the fear in our daughters’ eyes, hearing it in their voices—it felt like screaming into the void.

We said goodnight. But nothing about it felt okay.

When No One Seems to Care: Parenting Through Fear and Failing Systems

When No One Seems to Care: Parenting Through Fear and Failing Systems

Late January 2022 was one of the hardest emotional stretches I can remember. Not because something big happened, but because everything kept happening. Again and again. And no one seemed to care.

On January 25th, Aurora had a panic attack after I calmly reminded the kids about helping with chores. She bolted, apologizing rapidly, over and over, and then walked straight into a wall. I found her trying to calm down in the bathroom, and when I gently asked what was wrong, she told me she got scared because she thought she was “in really big trouble.” This wasn’t about chores. This was about fear. Deep-rooted fear.

I called her GI doctor that same day to schedule the breath test she needed. We kept up with her medical care because, honestly, it felt like no one else would.

But it was the very next day, January 26th, when everything really hit me. Autumn called us around 4 PM, panicking and yelling back and forth with her mom. Nick told them to call back when things had calmed down. Instead, a few minutes later, Aurora called asking about her watch, but Katie was interrupting her constantly—talking over her, barely letting her speak. The phone was passed back and forth like a game, but no one was listening to the children.

At 9 PM, Autumn called back. This time she was scared. Really scared.

She said she was being blackmailed.

She started to talk, but we heard yelling in the background. Autumn told us Katie was about to unplug the house phone—and then the call cut off. Just like that. Gone. Nick tried to call back, but Katie refused to let Autumn speak. Eventually, he convinced her to plug the phone back in.

And that’s when Autumn shared what was going on.

She was in the shower earlier, and Katie wouldn’t leave the bathroom while she was naked—then yelled at her for locking the door. Autumn said that if she didn’t lie to her principal and say she wanted to leave her social issues class, her mom had made the following threats:

• I’m switching your schools.
• I’ll make sure you never talk to Trever again.
• You’re never getting your phone back.
• I’ll pull you from the class anyway.
• I’ll make sure you’re never with your friends.
• I’m taking your Chromebook and you’re not getting it back.

Then Autumn said the part that still echoes in my chest:

“I’m so afraid of the verbal abuse from Mom that I would rather die, but I don’t really want to.”
“I can’t go back to Mom’s. I won’t survive five days there.”

She said she was going to threaten suicide—just to avoid being sent back. Even if she had to lie, or half-lie, to get help.

We begged her not to lie. We told her we would write to the school ourselves. Nick and I did write—to the teachers, the counselor, the admin. We told them she was planning to come in tomorrow and talk, and we asked them to please hear her. And not forget Aurora either—our sweet, sensitive girl who gets so easily overlooked in the chaos.

But even with that… nothing happened.

No calls from DCF. No safety planning. No therapist outreach. No protective steps. No accountability. Just silence.

And we just kept surviving. Again.

Trying to Stay Steady in a Storm: Parenting When Nothing Feels Predictable

Trying to Stay Steady in a Storm: Parenting When Nothing Feels Predictable

The second half of January 2022 was a blur of tension, tenderness, and emotional exhaustion. I felt like I was trying to steer a boat through a storm, holding the wheel steady while the wind kept shifting direction.

On January 15th, the morning phone call started hostile. Katie was interrupting the girls constantly, correcting everything they said. Aurora, my gentle and bright child, sounded defeated. Autumn was clearly angry and exhausted. She wasn't being rude exactly—just...done. She was still upset about the night before, especially after Katie had acted afraid of her and told Aurora to stay away from her. It was heartbreaking to hear. No child should have to tiptoe around their parent's emotional volatility.

By January 21st, both girls seemed to be in a bit better spirits. Aurora mentioned that her mom and Autumn had been fighting a lot again. We gently reminded her that it’s okay to take space when things get hard. We encouraged her to talk to her school counselor, Keryth, or any trusted adult if she felt overwhelmed or scared. She could always call me, Nick, or any family member when she needed support. She didn’t have any schoolwork—grades had closed for the term—and I tried to keep the atmosphere light, even though everything felt heavy.

I called and was able to get Autumn a physical therapy appointment set up for the following Thursday. That felt like a small win in the middle of a long week.

Then came January 24th.

Autumn told us Katie broke her phone and said she couldn’t use OFW (Our Family Wizard). Katie ended up messaging Aurora’s nutritionist on MyChart instead, which was frustrating given the ongoing communication issues. Autumn didn’t have any homework. Aurora played Prodigy and read for a bit. She took her medicine in the morning and at night without issue.

But something she said caught me off guard—again. Aurora told us she was scared to go to school. That it was all too much. And then she told us that she wanted to be a boy named Alexander.

It wasn’t said with fanfare or urgency—just a quiet, matter-of-fact vulnerability. Like she needed someone to hold her identity for a moment, without questions or corrections. I didn’t know what to say, so I just told her I heard her. And that it was okay to explore. That we would support her no matter what.

It’s moments like that that make everything else fade for a second. The co-parenting chaos, the broken phones, the daily battles—they all fall away. Because what matters most is making sure our kids feel safe, heard, and loved. That’s all I ever wanted.

A Phone, a Panic, and a Pattern: Co-Parenting at Its Worst

A Phone, a Panic, and a Pattern: Co-Parenting at Its Worst

Autumn had a really hard day yesterday. It was Friday, and we were still picking up the pieces from Wednesday night. She had a really rough time at her mom's, and communication had completely shut down. Katie even took away her phone mid-week, preventing her from reaching out—even to her dad.

Then yesterday, I heard that DCF had been contacted again. I’m pretty sure it was the school who made the report, though I haven’t gotten full confirmation yet.

By the time Friday rolled around, Katie claimed Autumn had "turned things around" and gave her the phone back. But the damage had already been done. The emotional rollercoaster of going from silenced and punished to suddenly "better" is exhausting—for all of us.

To add to the chaos, Nick’s stepfather Ray called asking if he could cancel Autumn's phone line because they were tight on money and worried about losing service. I get it—we’ve all been stretched thin. Nick asked him to hold off until Monday. I thought that was fair. I suggested we ask Autumn what kind of phone she’d want if we switched her to our plan—rather than just choosing something for her. She’s older now. She deserves to feel included in decisions that affect her.

So I texted Autumn, trying to keep it light and positive. I framed it like all the parents were working together to pick something safe and sustainable. But apparently, Katie took that the wrong way. I also mentioned that buying a new iPhone outright wasn’t financially feasible on top of everything else we’re dealing with. Nick chimed in too, saying flat out that an iPhone isn’t even an option. It all spiraled quickly.

Autumn misunderstood and thought we were taking the phone away from her permanently—or giving it to another kid we trusted more. She spiraled into panic. She said her life was over. I could see the fear and heartbreak in her eyes, and it shattered me.

We tried to explain that Nick needed a device for work, and that the iPhone wasn’t ideal anyway because it's hard to supervise. We tried to redirect her into picking a new phone that would arrive Monday so she wouldn't be without one for long. But before we could get her calm, Katie jumped in again—clearly frustrated. She said we had set Autumn up to fail, accused us of misrepresenting her position, and was furious that I spoke up.

I apologized immediately. I really thought Katie was as frustrated as we were about the iPhone’s lack of parental controls. I never meant to overstep. I just wanted to make this transition as smooth as possible for Autumn. But instead of working together, Katie talked over me for so long that I eventually said, "Are you done lecturing us? Because we’d like to have a conversation like adults." I didn’t even realize she had already hung up.

Later, around 7 p.m., Nick tried to check in with the girls—especially Aurora, just to see how she was holding up. No answer. Not from Autumn’s phone. Not the house phone. Not even Aurora's tablet. We tried again later. Still nothing.

Finally, at 9:30 p.m., Autumn called. She was very upset. Her mom had deleted CaptuA—the app she'd been using to work on a school project. This was especially frustrating because earlier that afternoon, Katie had actually asked for the parental PIN so Autumn could access that very same app for school.

We tried to calm her down. I offered to help her recreate her project. Nick tried to reassure her it was going to be okay. But the chaos just kept mounting. Katie interrupted again, there was more arguing—mostly between her and Autumn. I honestly couldn’t even keep track of everything that was said. I started recording the call just so I could review it later. I was that overwhelmed.

I got hung up on. We called back. More yelling. More chaos. I tried again. No answer.

Worried about Aurora, I called the house phone. Katie answered but kept talking over me. I asked repeatedly to talk to Aurora. I was calm. Polite. But it felt like she was purposely ignoring me. At one point, I said, "If I don’t hear from Aurora, I’m calling in a wellness check." That’s when Katie suddenly changed her tone: "Oh well, of course! You could’ve just asked."

When Aurora finally got on the phone, she gave her usual sweet response—that she was fine, having an okay day, getting ready to watch a movie with mom. But when I asked about Autumn, she said, "Autumn has been being mean to mom all day. But I’m used to it. It’s normal there." That part haunted me.

We ended on a soft note—talking about her basketball sneakers and trying to sing her bedtime song, "Tomorrow" from Annie. I held back tears.

I called back to say goodnight to Autumn. Katie answered again. She said Autumn could talk, but only if she didn’t touch the phone. The yelling between Katie and Autumn continued. Aurora was told to stay away from her sister. Eventually, Katie let Autumn talk—but only from the table and still screaming at her not to touch the phone.

Autumn asked if we could video call so we could see that she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was shaking. I tried to reassure her. We both did. I told her she needed rest, and that tomorrow might feel better. Katie interrupted again. I tried to wrap things up with love and reassurance. Katie said something about the sneakers. I don’t even remember.

I ended the call by saying, "Please, if you need anything tonight with Autumn, just call me." Katie replied, "Well, she was fine before she talked to you. And don’t threaten to call the police on me."

I hung up.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not because of anything she said. But because my kids were hurting, and all I could do was keep showing up, no matter how hard Katie tried to shut us out.

When Kids Carry Too Much: Notes From the Other End of the Phone

When Kids Carry Too Much: Notes From the Other End of the Phone

01.10.2022
Tonight, I caught Autumn on her phone after 8:30. Curious, I checked the settings—and realized the parental controls were gone. I wasn’t surprised. About a week ago, Katie had asked Nick for the PIN, saying Autumn wanted to add a new contact. I meant to check her phone as soon as she got home but forgot.

When I brought it up, Autumn was upset. She kept saying everyone hates her and that we don't care. She still did all her responsibilities—though moody and complaining—but did them. At one point, I asked her to take a break upstairs when she was being short and rude. Just a reset. That helped.

01.11.2022
Aurora got off the bus at her mom’s house today. It was just a mix-up—Dad put the wrong address in the agenda. At dinner, Autumn was more irritable than usual. When she snapped at me, I sent her upstairs to chill for five minutes. Before bed, Nick and I told them we'd miss them over the next five days and that when they get back, we want to be more consistent. We asked what they'd like for dinner next week. Autumn said chicken broccoli alfredo and pasta with meat sauce. Aurora wanted ice cream and pizza.

01.12.2022
Katie sent a message through OFW about some concerns and said she'd allow Autumn to talk to us for 15 minutes max. When the house phone rang, I was surprised it was Aurora. Her voice was small. I asked how she was doing, and she said, “I’m scared.” She mentioned a family meeting had just happened and said, “Autumn is mean. She told Mom that she wishes she were dead.” She was scared because they’d been arguing for a while.

We tried to ask more, but Aurora said she was tired. She passed the phone to Autumn. In the background, we heard Katie yelling at Autumn: “Get away from me.” Autumn shouted back, “I don’t want to be near you, I just want to talk to Dad.” She asked to take the call in the bathroom for privacy. Katie said no—Autumn couldn’t be trusted. We could hear Katie say, “Everything you did was recorded. I’m recording this. This conversation will be recorded.”

Autumn finally said hi, sounding breathless and like she was hyperventilating. I froze, but managed a soft “Hey, what’s up?” Katie was still in the background, saying things we couldn’t quite make out. My anxiety kicked in, so I handed the call over to Tashena.

Tashena gently asked what happened. Autumn cried and said, “Mom was yelling and swearing. She kicked a laundry basket at me.” When asked if she felt physically unsafe, Autumn said, “I don’t think so. I just want to go to sleep.” She didn’t think she’d be able to go to school tomorrow without crying.

We told her to think on it overnight. Sometimes things feel more intense in the moment. If she was still feeling too overwhelmed tomorrow, she could go to the counselor or the nurse. She told us Mom had said, “No one will ever believe you. You lie all the time.” We reminded her that wasn’t true. She restated it: “No one will believe me.”

I just wanted to reach through the phone and hug her. We reminded her she could always come to us, and that what she feels matters—even if someone else says otherwise.

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Parenting through trauma, from the sidelines of control, is one of the hardest paths we’ve ever walked. But we keep walking it. For them.

When Sensory Overload Meets Meltdown: Navigating Big Emotions as a Neurodivergent Parent

January 9, 2022
Today was hard. I was upstairs cleaning the little boys’ room while the kids were doing chores downstairs. Maddy came up to tell me Aurora had done something—what it was, I can’t even remember now. Aurora shouted upstairs at Maddy, “Don’t lie,” and Maddy screamed back, “I’m not lying, YOU are the liar!”

I immediately told them both to stop and that I’d talk to them in a minute. When I came down about 10 minutes later, Aurora was in the bathroom, just staring at the wall. I gently told her, “Hey, you’re not going to get video game time just sitting in here.” She told me she was scared of Maddy because Maddy had yelled. I reassured her that Maddy isn’t scary—she was just frustrated and I would talk to her about it.

I went to talk to Maddy and started to explain that yelling isn’t okay, especially when it makes someone else feel unsafe. Just as I was mid-sentence, Aurora walked out of the bathroom. I said, “Hey, perfect timing…” but she shrieked, like she had seen a ghost, and ran right back in.

I followed her and told her calmly, “You can’t do that. If you needed more space, you could’ve just stayed away from Maddy instead of acting like you were in danger.” Aurora started crying and saying she really was scared. I asked her to calm down so I could understand, but she started making loud squeaky sounds—sounds that hit every nerve in my body. White noise, certain pitches—I struggle a lot with sensory sensitivity.

I asked her to go upstairs to calm down. She refused, saying upstairs was scary. Her volume got louder and louder, and my brain started to fog from the overload. I told her again she needed to go calm down. She said she didn’t care about losing privileges because it was better than being scared all the time.

I stayed calm until this point, but her volume and the sound escalated. I raised my voice—not to yell, but just to be heard. She told me I was yelling. I told her I wasn’t yelling, I just couldn’t hear myself think. Then she repeated, “Stop yelling.”

That’s when I cracked. I shouted. I didn’t want to, but the sound and the chaos tipped me over the edge. I mimicked the squeaky noise loudly and begged her to go upstairs. Aurora ran upstairs. I was a wreck.

Nick called me just as I was about to call him. He talked to her first and calmed her down, then I talked to her too. I apologized. I told her it’s not okay for me to yell, even if I’m overwhelmed. I shared that I have anxiety and sensory issues, and sometimes the noise gets too much. I also asked her to please stop making that specific noise when she’s upset, and she knew exactly which one I meant. She hasn’t made it since.

She finished her chores and was okay the rest of the day—and even the rest of the week. Few to no meltdowns after that.

Parenting neurodivergent kids while being neurodivergent myself is an emotional tightrope. Some days are messy. But even in the mess, there’s space for repair, learning, and love.

The Reality of New Year’s & Tax Season: A Personal Shift in Perspective

The Reality of New Year’s & Tax Season: A Personal Shift in Perspective

Every year, right after Christmas, my brain shifts immediately to two things:

Taxes and New Year’s.

Let’s start with taxes. We’re what I like to call “upper-lower-class”—a family with three kids, living paycheck to paycheck, with just enough income to owe nothing, but not enough to keep up without that refund. So yes, tax season matters.

We always need our refund yesterday. Something always comes up.

This year? Work slowed down, like it always does around the holidays. Then my husband got sick and couldn’t work for a week—no PTO left. Then one of the kids got sick and, of course, our insurance decided this was the perfect time to stop working properly. Three doctor’s appointments and a round of medication later, we were using credit cards just to keep things moving.

So yeah—taxes. We rely on that refund to clean up the financial mess the holiday season leaves behind, especially when you’re living on a budget that already has no wiggle room. (And let’s be honest, who doesn’t end up using credit cards for Christmas?)

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Now let’s talk New Year’s…

Every year, people post resolutions:

• ✨ Lose weight
• ✨ Save money
• ✨ Be better
• ✨ Do more
• ✨ Fix your life

It’s a lot.

But last year? For the first time ever, I didn’t make a New Year’s resolution.

I used to vow to be a better person every January. I’d tell myself I needed to volunteer more, give more, help more, heal more. Basically… be “more” of everything. But here’s what I realized:

I was already trying. I didn’t need a fresh resolution. I needed rest. I needed to stop trying to prove myself through perfectionism.

So I quit.

Not life, not growing, not caring—I just quit the pressure of assigning it all to the first of January.

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Now? I measure my growth in moments, not milestones.

In how I respond when life throws curveballs.

In how I show up for my kids when we’re all running on fumes.

In how I let myself rest when I need to.

If you’re feeling the pressure this season—whether it’s financial, emotional, or spiritual—you’re not alone. And if resolutions work for you, that’s beautiful. But if they don’t? That’s okay too.

Sometimes, surviving is the resolution.
Sometimes, loving yourself as you are is enough.
Sometimes, the biggest change you can make is choosing peace.

Wela’lioq,
—Tashena

Documenting the Timeline: Health, Communication, and Parenting Through the Gaps

January 4, 2022
This morning, Autumn was sent home from school for feeling dizzy and nauseous. We suspected it was likely because she hadn’t eaten breakfast, and after a quick bite at home, she bounced back quickly. She asked to call her mom to ask for some of her things. On the phone, Katie said she’d drop the stuff off—but only if Dad messaged her via email. This has been an ongoing boundary issue, as we no longer use email for communication with her. We explained gently to Autumn that it probably wasn’t going to happen today. She was only staying one more night before heading back to her mom’s, and her things should come back with her on Friday anyway. Meanwhile, Aurora told us she hasn’t been taking her Miralax or following her elimination diet regularly while at her mom’s. We’re trying to balance honoring their voices and keeping their health consistent, but it’s tough when the communication isn’t consistent across homes.

December 24, 2021
Aurora had a nutritionist appointment today. She openly discussed what she’s been eating at our house, but when asked about food at her mom’s, she became nervous. Her responses included things like, “Shouldn’t you ask Mom?” or “Why do you want to know?” or “I don’t remember.” The nutritionist emailed us afterward and strongly recommended continuing the elimination diet, noting that it could help with both her physical symptoms and sense of routine. Aurora’s been struggling with gut health and dietary inconsistencies, so we’re doing what we can to follow through from our end.

December 20, 2021
Aurora had a severe stomach ache tonight. It hit hard around dinner. She couldn’t sit still and instead laid face-down on the bench, saying her stomach hurt too much to move. We called the nurse line, and after hearing about Aurora’s recent increase in dairy intake and lack of normal bowel movements, they recommended Miralax tonight, a possible laxative tomorrow, and a doctor’s visit if symptoms didn’t improve. If things worsened overnight, we were told to bring her to the ER. We’re trying to document not just for our own reference but because timelines matter. When co-parenting gets complicated and communication breaks down, keeping track becomes an act of care—not just for the kids, but for our own clarity and peace of mind.

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Wela'lioq for making space to read and remember—because the little things are often the biggest pieces of the puzzle.

2021 Year in Review: Showing Up Through the Storm
Date: Jan 3, 2022

2021 was a year that felt like it lasted forever—but somehow flew by too fast. It was hard, chaotic, painful, and exhausting. But we survived. Despite the inconsistencies. Despite the unknowns. Despite the challenges of co-parenting, school transitions, and complex trauma—we made it through.

We saw everything from DCF reports to mental health crises, school emergencies, and police calls during visits at their mom’s house. But through every storm, we kept showing up. Whether it was appointments, teacher meetings, IEPs, ER visits, or just making sure there was enough love to go around—we kept going.

We didn’t mind that the girls were with us more than 50% of the time, even though it went far beyond the court agreement. What broke our hearts was how difficult every transition back to their mom’s house became. Each one left the kids more anxious, more guarded, and struggling to feel safe. It felt like we were rebuilding from scratch after every visit.

But despite all of that—we had beautiful moments too. We saw the kids grow. We held space for their stories. We got through birthdays, holidays, sports, and remote learning. We created a home where they could just be kids, even for a little while. And through it all, we stayed rooted in love, healing, and hope.

This isn’t a year we’d ever want to repeat—but it is a year we’re proud we survived. And that counts for something.

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Labels: 2021 reflection, parenting, trauma, resilience, advocacy, blended family, co-parenting, autism parenting