Life. *Insert exasperated sigh*.

I work full-time evenings, and between four hockey schedules, cheer, dance, and gymnastics, my calendar looks like a Crayon just threw up all over it. (I attempted to colour-code and massively failed because things just keep getting added) Thank God for my superhero husband and his ability to go with my chaotic vibe and flow, but the man just used to manage his son’s one schedule. Now? I’ve handed him five extra calendars and said, “Good luck, babe, hope you stretch first.”

But here’s the truth bomb: I miss out on so much. I’ll scroll Instagram and see other parents at every goal, every flip, every awards ceremony, smiling like they’re the team mascots and cheers-ing their grid-worthy champagne flutes. Meanwhile, I’m sitting in my car ugly-crying into my work shirt. I’m jealous. I’m sad. I’m exhausted. And to be honest, I sometimes choose the 3rd period of a hockey game instead of folding laundry, only to realize later that nobody has clean underwear and I want to shoot myself in the foot. #ParentingWin

The guilt is loud. The stress is louder. My brain won’t stop spinning with “what else can I do to make money without missing everything?” The ideas range from sensible (side hustles) to slightly unhinged (selling feet pics). JK JK. (Unless…?)

And the stress doesn’t just hang around, it builds. I spiral into anxiety, and suddenly I’m living in a cycle of “cry, work, cheer practice, hockey rink, repeat.” But this fall? This fall is different. I’m declaring it: The Fall I Turned Fit. Mentally and physically. Because if I don’t, the spiral is going to eat me alive.

So here’s the plan: take the anxiety meds (instead of stubbornly pretending I don’t need them), move my body (even if it’s just dancing in the kitchen between meal preps), write things down (because otherwise my head is just a hamster wheel of chaos), clean my space (goodbye doom piles of laundry), and eat like an adult (leftover chicken nuggets don’t count).

The hardest part? Discipline. My work hours make waking up early feel like torture, and quality sleep is a joke when it comes to my perimenopausal age (with a side of high cortisol). But I have to try. Not for perfection… just for survival.

Because at the end of the day, I may be running this marathon with no socks and with unwashed hair, but at least I’m still running- metaphorically. And if I can keep showing up (even if it’s just for the 3rd period) I’ll call that a win.