Notes from the Mind Palace.

And then there’s Justin — the quiet, absurd, infuriating, hilarious, unexpectedly reliable force in my life.

He laughs at the most ridiculous things.
He can piss me off in five seconds flat and have me laughing ten seconds later.
He’s wonderful with our daughter, and he’s good with the boys too — even taking one of them overnight sometimes on his last night with Cyndle before he brings her home.

He gives me gas money when I ask, and he knows I hate asking.
He knows it’s a last‑resort thing, not a habit.
He doesn’t make it weird.
He doesn’t make it heavy.
He just helps.

If he’s here picking up Cyndle and one of the kids misses the bus, he takes them to school without complaint.
No drama.
No guilt trip.
Just: “Yeah, I got it.”

He’s been helping Rune regulate his self‑harm impulses — because Justin went through the same thing when he was younger.
Those two used to butt heads the most, and now Justin is one of the few people Rune will actually listen to.
That matters. more than anything to me.

He and Alex have this ridiculous brotherly bond — Alex is savage toward him, and Justin loves it.
He was there the first year I had my step kids by myself, so he has a better relationship with them than their own dad does.

He loves Kayla and swears she can do no wrong.
He adores Roman.
He and Zoee have this chaotic, punch‑you‑in-the-arm kind of humor that only they understand.
He and Hayden have a quiet, unspoken bond — Justin was the one who helped repair Hayden after my ex‑husband, and then again after Nick died.
Justin never met Nick, but he talks like he would’ve liked him a lot.

He’s funny with the twins — Abel is a saint to him, and Dom is his hugging boy.
And of course, he’s wrapped around Cyndle’s tiny chaotic fingers.

And then there’s his mom.

His mom has been one of the most unexpectedly stabilizing forces in my life.
She helps with schedules.
She shows up.
She’s been there through the worst of it.
We’ve had our falling‑outs, sure — but that woman has no idea how much she actually saved my life.

This is the part of my story people don’t see.
The part where co‑parenting isn’t a battlefield.
The part where someone actually shows up.
The part where support doesn’t come with strings attached.

This is the part where I’m not alone.

The Part of Me That Still Feels Small

But even with all that support, even with all that growth, even with all the ways people show up now…

There’s still a part of me that feels small.

A part that feels like a child living in a woman’s body.
A child with kids.
A child with bills.
A child with a life that feels too big and too heavy and too complicated.

Sometimes I look around and think:

“This isn’t the life I was supposed to have.”

Sometimes I think:

“Someone else should’ve been here. Someone else should’ve raised these kids. Someone else should’ve carried this weight.”

And I don’t know if that’s trauma talking or exhaustion or fear — but I know it’s not the truth.

It’s just the part of me that’s tired.

And maybe that’s the real shift happening in me — not some dramatic transformation, not some overnight healing, not some cinematic breakthrough.

Just this:

I’m learning that even when I feel small, I’m not actually alone.
I’m learning that support doesn’t always come from the places I expect.
I’m learning that growth isn’t loud — sometimes it’s quiet, steady, and shaped by the people who show up without being asked.

And somewhere in the middle of all that learning, there’s still that stubborn part of me — the one that refuses to quit, refuses to fold, refuses to let the weight of my life convince me I’m not built for it.

I don’t have everything figured out.
But I’m figuring me out.
Slowly.
Messily.
Honestly.

And that’s enough for now.