Why We Don't Go Out Anymore

Today I want to talk about what our life really looks like when no one else is watching. When it's just us, behind closed doors, and all the noise from the outside world finally goes quiet.

So many of you have messaged me asking why we don't really go out much. And I get it. From the outside it might look like we're isolating. But today I want to actually explain why.

The honest truth is, just leaving the house with two kids by myself is a whole production.

And I do it while living with polyarticular rheumatoid arthritis. I don't talk about it a lot, but there are mornings when my hands hurt so badly I can't even brush my own hair. My joints are stiff, swollen, and every little movement feels like I'm fighting my own body. It's not that I'm lazy. It's not that I don't want to go out and do all the things other families are doing. It's that some days, my body literally won't let me. I want to, but I can't.

But that's not even the only reason we stay in.

Sometimes, staying home is just... safer. Emotionally safer.

Because outside, there are the stares. You know the ones I'm talking about. The stares that feel like they pierce right through you. And the comments. Sometimes whispered, sometimes said loud enough for you to hear. Comments that stick with you long after you've left.

The hardest part for me, the part that keeps me up at night and that terrifies me more than anything else. It’s when Kai runs.

He doesn't run like other kids run. He bolts. He elopes. Zero warning, zero sense of danger. He doesn't see the car backing out of the driveway. He doesn't see the busy street. He doesn't see the crowd. In a blink, he's gone.

And I have to be honest with you: there are days when, because of my arthritis, I physically cannot chase him. I want to sprint. My heart is sprinting. My brain is screaming at my legs to move faster. But my body won't do it. That feeling, that fear of losing sight of your child, of not being able to keep him safe, it paralyzes me. It takes my breath away.

And to feel that terror, and then look up and see someone rolling their eyes at you, or hearing someone mutter about "bad behavior" or "a lack of discipline" — that's a different kind of pain. Because it wasn't a tantrum. It wasn't bad parenting. It was my son's neurology, and it was my disability colliding in the most frightening way.

Alexia is different, but it's hard in its own way.

When she locks onto something, like a doll at the store that costs way more than we can spend right now, there's no reasoning with her. There's no "not today, sweetie" that makes sense in her world in that moment. And yes, I know every child has tantrums. This is totally age-appropriate. I know that.

But out in public, it doesn't feel age-appropriate. It feels like a trial. It feels like every eye in the store is on you, silently judging you. Silently saying, "Control your kid. You're not doing this right. You're failing as a mom."

And that hurts. God, it hurts. It gets under your skin.

So yeah. That's why a lot of days, we choose to stay right here. In our safe space. At home.

Don't get me wrong, home isn't always easy either. I don't want to romanticize it.

We have really, really hard days here too. Days filled with so much resistance. Where something as simple as getting dressed or washing hands turns into a two-hour marathon of patience, of co-regulating, of taking deep breaths in the hallway so I don't lose it. Days where the exhaustion isn't just physical, it's in your bones, in your soul. It sits heavy on your shoulders.

But it's also here. And only here, in this quiet, safe, judgment-free bubble we've created, that the real magic happens. The magic no one else gets to see.

It's here that I get the out-of-nowhere "Momma, I love you" when I was absolutely convinced today was not going to be a day for words. It's here that I get the surprise hug from behind that almost knocks me over. It's those tiny, gummy, mischievous smiles that come out of nowhere and somehow save the entire day. They make every hard moment worth it.

On this journey of extreme highs and extreme lows, our home is the one place where my kids get to be 100% themselves. No masking. No performing. No trying to be smaller or quieter or more "acceptable" for the outside world. Kai can flap and run and be loud. Alexia can feel her big feelings big, and we can work through them together in her own time.

And we get to be their safe harbor. Their soft place to land. No matter what.

So if you don't see us out much, please know it's not because we've given up. It's because we're protecting our peace. We're choosing regulation over dysregulation. We're choosing connection.

How about you? How do you spend your Sundays? How do you rest and recharge when the world feels like too much? Tell me in the comments. I really do read every single one.