CUPCAKES & SPRINKLES....(BUT NOT REALLY)

We were only five minutes behind, but thanks to parking issues and the delicate art of wrangling a toddler out of a car seat, my daughter and I ended up walking into music class a full ten minutes after it had started. I carried her in quietly, hoping to slip in unnoticed and find a place to sit without drawing attention. I’d gotten us dressed, fed, and out the door—a quiet victory in itself.

All I wanted was to settle in and take a breath. But the moment we walked in, my daughter started crying almost instantly, throwing herself into my lap as I sat on the floor in my summer dress, trying to soothe her while the room filled with soft singing and the clatter of shaky eggs. Meanwhile, the Blue Bottle espressos had me wired—heart racing, thoughts speeding, everything a little too loud. I felt overstimulated and was holding back tears, but I couldn’t allow myself to cry. I had to hold it together. Then came the tight chest. The shallow breath. That familiar, creeping wave of panic. I knew it well.

Quietly, I excused myself and stepped outside. I just needed air. I just needed space. I stood there, breathing through it. I stared at the grass, the sky, and at my daughter—now cheerful, tossing handfuls of rocks into the air. I stood at the edge of the rock garden while she played, throwing stones and laughing. I picked them up. She threw them again. I picked them up again. It was repetitive and quiet. Uneventful in the most pleasant sense. There was something calming about it—a rhythm that asked nothing of me except presence. And for a little while, that was enough.

Fifteen minutes passed. I breathed. I paced. I reminded myself that I was okay, even if I didn’t feel okay. When we returned, the class had moved on. My daughter had settled. I rejoined the circle as if nothing had happened. But something had. And that’s motherhood. Showing up in shared spaces, trying to hold it together while your insides are unraveling. Doing what you need to do without having to explain why. Meeting your child’s needs while maintaining your own stability.

I’ve stopped expecting every day to feel "magical." Some days just ask you to breathe through them—and that has to be enough.

—Jamie