There is a very specific exhaustion that comes from scheduling your life in fifteen-minute blocks and still being late. It smells like rink air and sounds like dance music played one count too loud. It looks like a calendar, full of colour-coded messes (think toddler-style scribbling in ALL the colours) that has given up on you entirely.

Lately, I have noticed something unsettling but efficient. When people ask who I am, I do not hesitate.

I am a mum.

Just a mum. Well, a busy mum. Like, professionally busy. Olympic-level busy. 🏒🩰☕️

Not a woman with hobbies. Not a woman who “finds time.” A mum who moves people from place to place with (un)precision and a running internal monologue that says, “We are absolutely forgetting something.” Spoiler: we are. Always. 👟❓

Most days involve a tight loop. Dance studio. Hockey rink. School pickup. School drop-off again because transportation is delayed and no one is sure why. Work happens in between, usually while someone is asking where their other shoe is. Or why they need a jacket. Or why they cannot, in fact, eat a granola bar that is still in my purse.

Hobbies are theoretical. Like Bigfoot. Or a clean minivan. 👀

The gym is a figment of my imagination. A mirage. A whispered rumor passed between people who own matching athleisure sets and somehow know what a “lateral raise” is. The idea that I would calmly arrive at a deep-stretch hot yoga class or Pilates with my favorite instructor ever (miss you, T!) feels about as realistic as me casually driving to New Zealand. No traffic plan. No gas stops. Just vibes, denial, and the quiet acceptance that my body is currently stretching exactly nowhere. 🧘‍♀️

My other hobbies include packing bags in under two minutes and talking to my teenage daughter, Jaidyn, about her driving skills on the way to lessons. I say supportive things. She believes them. I grip the door handle and practice controlled breathing like I am also in a yoga class.

My social circle is my community. You know who you are. The parents who live in arenas and studios. The ones who can decode a look from across the rink that says, “Is this your kid or mine?” The ones who celebrate small wins loudly because they understand the effort required just to arrive. Friendships built between puck drops and costume changes hit different. I would not trade you for anything. 🫶🥅

The boys, ALL the boys, require six a.m. practices. This means I physically remove them from their beds while they argue that time is a social construct. Greyson insists he cannot function this early while actively functioning. Kristian stares into the distance like he has been personally wronged by the sun. Ryan is the exact opposite and wakes up cheerful, agreeable, and perfect, which feels suspicious but we accept it.

(Reminder. Set the alarm. Again.) ⏰

Somewhere along the way, the things I want to do quietly disappeared. Not dramatically. Just politely stepped aside while I tied skates and zipped costumes and said, “After this season.” Which is a lie we all tell ourselves.

Could I go to the gym? Possibly. But when you have one free hour and the drive there and back takes half of it, the math becomes insulting. I could wake up at four a.m., but we are middle-aged and sleep is required for basic survival and mood regulation. Science. 🧠💤

This is the trade-off. I accept it. I even choose it.

That does not mean I do not notice the loss.

There is a woman in me who would like to stretch without checking the time. She would like to take a Pilates class and finish it. She exists. She is patient. She is waiting. Probably hydrating.

Chris sees her.

He is aggressively supportive. He would rearrange schedules, move mountains, and insist I leave the house. Sometimes I do not go anyway. Not because I cannot, but because being needed constantly is its own kind of fatigue. Rest looks different when your name is called all day. ❤️

We survive because we do not do this alone.

Between my parents, my sister, Chris, and me, we coordinate. We divide. We arrive at different locations and then race to another one so someone is always cheering. Sometimes we are late. Sometimes we miss the beginning. We never miss the support. Ever. 📣

This is teamwork.

These kids have a loud, committed cheering section. It follows them everywhere, armed with snacks, spare gear, spare gloves, and unconditional belief. Briar is always ready. Hair done. Bag packed. Shoes accounted for. The calm in the chaos, watching the rest of us spiral with grace. 

One day, the schedule will loosen. The gear will collect dust. I will rediscover hobbies that involve me.

Maybe one day, Chris will get back into a men’s hockey league. Or we will accidentally become world pickleball champions after showing up “just to try it” once. Or maybe we will achieve the true dream: a bi-weekly date night where we watch an entire movie together instead of falling asleep before the opening credits finish. For now, our date nights look like me prepping dinner while Chris cleans the disastrous mess I leave behind, followed by us sprinting off in two completely opposite directions like feral raccoons with calendars. Deeply romantic. Highly functional.

Until then, I am here. Somewhere between the dance studio and the hockey rink. Probably tired. Definitely caffeinated. Still showing up. And if that makes me a busy mum, then yes. I am a busy mum. And I cherish the life, the friendships, and the chaos that made me one. ☕️💙