As I ascend to cruising altitude, it strikes me that I am in dire need of rest. The past two weeks have been particularly challenging, and to be honest, the last two years have taken their toll. With endless school functions, vendor interviews, tutoring sessions, therapy appointments, and swim practices, I find myself utterly exhausted. That creeping sensation of being stretched too thin has been building for a while.
Then I learned what true exhaustion feels like.
I sat attentively as the oncologist detailed the tumors in my mother’s right lung. After processing the information with my siblings, I did my own research, convincing myself that everything would be fine. Then the tears came.
I’m not usually one to cry; I’m typically the one who takes action. While others may wallow in their misfortunes, I prefer to tackle issues head-on. I’ve been a “research mom” long before I embraced motherhood. Infertility treatments, adoption, speech therapy, fundraising—nothing in my life has escaped the scrutiny of my endless research.
Just as I was gearing up for a full-frontal assault on my mother’s cancer (mind you, I’m not a physician), I found myself sitting in front of another pair of specialists. They were careful to explain that our son has more than just “quirks.” “He is on the autism spectrum,” they said.
I’m determined to learn everything necessary to help him navigate social cues, sensory processing issues, and more. Ten years from now, when he’s working at NASA, no one will remember the diagnosis. The only hitch in this grand plan is my current state of fatigue. Between evaluations, meetings, late-night research, and emotional conversations, I’m simply worn out. I long for my mom.
Somewhere over Utah, it dawns on me that, at this moment in my life, I need to nurture myself. Perhaps the geographical distance from my family has forced me to turn my focus inward.
Focusing on myself is uncomfortable, but as the gentle vibrations of the plane lull me to sleep, I realize this is the first real rest I’ve had in months. There’s no internet, no obligations—just the opportunity to unwind. It’s both strange and refreshing.
I awaken near Dallas, thoughts of my family flooding back. The kids are at school. Mia has a report due Wednesday, and I forgot to help Alex prepare his note cards for his family tree presentation. His handwriting is barely legible, even to him. A quick mental note: contact Jake to see if he can assist with the last few cards.
There I go again.
I’ve often heard that our role as parents is to make ourselves obsolete, but I struggle with even the smallest details. I don’t want to step back! There’s something about being a mom that makes me feel essential. Perhaps we, as mothers, subconsciously find ways to ensure our significance to avoid being replaced by peers, partners, or in-laws. If I don’t teach them to do their own laundry, they will always rely on me.
Of course, I don’t want to be doing their laundry forever, but I also dread the thought of being pushed aside. I want to be their mom for eternity. When my preteen sang along to “Halfway Gone” on the radio, it hit me: she is halfway to adulthood.
Even at 42, I recognize that my own mother is irreplaceable. This realization hits particularly hard. I recall a time when our family contracted H1N1, and in that moment, I needed my mom. I distinctly remember calling for her, but she was half an hour away. Did she hear me? Just because you are a mother doesn’t mean you ever stop needing your own.
I reflect on my mom and the daunting journey we’re embarking on together. How could I leave when she needs me most? Yet, deep down, I understand the necessity of recharging my spirit for the challenges ahead.
I also think about my son. While a diagnosis—reflected in a 22-page report—does not define who he is, it may alter his trajectory. I need to process this. I still envision him as an astronaut or the next tech innovator. I refuse to abandon my lofty aspirations.
This trip feels timely. Life constantly forces us to adjust our expectations. Rarely do people look back and say, “This is precisely how I envisioned things.” Life has a way of throwing curveballs to keep us alert. Change is inevitable, and right now, I can’t prepare, research, or anticipate the next challenge. All this adjustment requires energy.
For now, I surrender to the inevitability of change and allow myself to sleep.