Let me be real with you for a second, as if I’m ever anything else. This and the next post are the kind that make me pause before hitting publish. These are the kind I used to write in 2009 – the kind that terrifies me with its vulnerability but, at the same time, lets me know, in my gut, that I’ve got something to say that might be important to someone going through the same things.

I’ve been very sick the past few days. Like, actually bedridden-all-week sick and incapacitated. But I can’t escape the ongoing horror that is continuing to happen across America and beyond to our girls and women. Even when I’m flat on my back with the flu, I can’t stop thinking about what happened at Cornell University. What happens to girls and women every single day, everywhere. It’s never been a matter of if, but when. We’ve lived our whole lives waiting for something terrible to happen to us because we know it will.

And here’s the thing that makes me so fucking angry I want to scream:

I’ve written this post before. Many times. Literally.

So have you. Maybe not literally, but you know what I’m talking about. You’ve said this to your friends. You’ve thought it. You’ve lived it. You survived it. Most of us did; some of us didn’t. None of us deserved what happened to us. It’s still happening to our daughters, their friends, our nieces, our sisters, and yes, still, even to ourselves.

This isn’t new. This will never be new. And that’s exactly what’s killing me. If we know it’s wrong, why do we keep allowing it? Why aren’t there stronger deterrents?

We All Know What This Is

We, the people with vaginas, know that dicks are weapons. We’ve always known this. Ask any woman – it’s as lethal as any gun or knife could ever dream of being.

You can use a weapon to protect. You can use it with love. But you can also use it to hurt. To dominate. To violate. To take something that isn’t yours. To take a life because that is what happens when someone rapes you – they steal the part of you that felt safe, the part of you that trusted others, the part of you that lets you be “you.”

And that’s what seven men did to Jane Doe at Cornell. They used their bodies as weapons and they raped her.

But here’s what I can’t stop thinking about: 50 other men got a message in a group chat. “Free pussy upstairs.“

FIFTY. Men. Monsters.

And do you know what they did? Some went upstairs. Not to stop it. Not to protect her. To watch. To participate. To be part of it. They made a choice. She had none.

And when I say “be part of it,” I don’t just mean the ones who participated in the assault. I mean the ones who just stood there. The ones who did nothing to help. The ones who watched. They are just as culpable. This is why women teach little girls that if you’re ever being raped, yell “FIRE” and not “rape.”

Women know never to scream “rape” because most people don’t care enough to get involved and help a woman being raped. After all, it doesn’t affect them. “Help” doesn’t work unless it affects the onlookers directly. Most women know to yell “FIRE” because then people care because they might get burned too. But rape? That’s our problem, not theirs.

Because doing nothing? That’s a choice. That’s complicity. And it makes you just as guilty.

The Cornell Rape Case: What Actually Happened

October 19, 2024 — Seven men raped a woman at Cornell University’s Chi Phi fraternity house.

Approximately 50 other men got a message in a group chat: “Free pussy upstairs.”

50 men. Not one of them stopped it. Not one of them called for help. They went upstairs. They watched. They participated in the violation.

The Aftermath — The woman, now known as Jane Doe, went to the police and reported the assault. She told investigators that she was raped.

But the District Attorney, Matthew Van Houten, decided there wasn’t enough evidence. He declined to prosecute.

Later, it came out that Van Houten allegedly never even read the full police interview transcript. He made a decision that would allow seven rapists to walk free without ever reviewing all the evidence against them.

October 1- 2, 2026 — Jane Doe’s case gained national attention. Gov. Hochul removed the case from Van Houten’s office. Special Prosecutor Letitia James took over.

The investigation was reopened, and Jane Doe’s allegations are now before a grand jury for consideration.

The Reality — Seven men are accused of rape. Approximately 50 men watched. The system initially tried to protect the rapists. And somewhere right now, another woman is deciding whether to report her assault or bury it, as so many of us have done, are doing, and will do.

Why This Matters

I have two daughters at a major college campus. A good one. Private. Catholic. Prestigious. The kind of place where you’re supposed to feel the safest.

They receive sexual assault alerts at least twice a month; sometimes more. Sometimes twice a week.

Those are just the reported incidents. Those are the ones that made it through all the barriers to reporting – the shame, the fear, the knowing that nothing will happen anyway. How many unreported assaults happen on that campus in a month? How many women go home, shower, and pretend it never happened?

I know that’s what I did.

But we never forget. With each passing assault, we become more suspicious and jaded, less trusting and more afraid of men.

My Assaults

I, like most women, was assaulted multiple times. These are just a few. I never reported any of them.

The Basketball Player – I Was the Girl at the Bar

There was a guy at a bar. You know the type – the guy everyone knows, the star athlete, 6’11” basketball player – the one who thinks the rules don’t apply to him. He grabbed me by my ass and lifted me around his waist like a rag doll. He tried to kiss me.

I was terrified. I fought to break free of his grip; an entire bar full of people watched, and nobody helped.

Nobody did anything. People just watched. But when a ‘friend’ finally found me outside, shaking and scared, you know what she said? “Don’t you know who that was?”

Not “are you okay?” Not “that was wrong.” But “don’t you know who that was?” – like his status somehow made what he did acceptable.

It didn’t.

The Frat Party – I Was the Girl at the Frat Party

Then there was the frat party. I was 18, a freshman in college and a little sister at the fraternity – comfortable there, or so I thought. That’s what made it worse.

There was this cute guy, a walkout from Ann Arbor. We were flirting. The vibe was there, mutual. And then, in the middle of a room full of people (mostly men), he pushed my head into his lap.

Just like that. No warning. No consent. Just took my head and pushed it toward his crotch.

I was drinking but aware enough to feel the violation of it. I felt vulnerable. Threatened. Angry. Scared.

The president of the frat saw the whole thing and kicked the guy out of the house. I should have felt protected, right?

But then he spent the rest of the night “comforting” me. And that comfort turned into his own advances. I let him because I felt like I owed him. He had helped me, so somehow that meant I had to allow him access to my body.

That’s what this does to us. It makes us trade one violation for another because at least the second one feels safer – less unpredictable and less violent.

I Woke Up to Hands on Me – I Was the Girl Who Woke Up to Hands on My Body

I was 19, visiting a friend at school. Met a guy who was visiting her boyfriend. Nice enough guy; seemed ‘normal’. We all hung out, drank, and had a good time – as college kids do.

I went to sleep.

And I woke up to his hands on me. His lips on me. He was kissing me, pressing up against me, touching my body while I was asleep and couldn’t consent.

I pushed him off immediately. But by the time I woke up, he had already been there. I don’t know for how long. I’ll never know how much he touched me while I was unconscious.

And you know what I did? Nothing. I didn’t report it. I didn’t even tell my friend what happened. I told no one until years later. I just pushed him off and tried to pretend it wasn’t that bad.

But it was that bad. Waking up to someone’s hands on you without your permission is assault. Not knowing what they did to you while you were incapacitated is terrifying.

The Married Man – I Was Threatened by a Cop

I was 21 at a cop party. A married guy didn’t care that he was married. I did. He made advances anyway.

I said no.

He then told me I should think twice about driving alone in ‘his city’ ever again because he could pull me over. Late at night on a dark road. And it wouldn’t matter if I was interested or not.

He threatened to sexually assault me. A man with a badge and a gun. A man with power and access.

He said it at a party. In front of a room full of people – other cops. Like it was funny.

And nobody did anything.

On the Sales Floor – I Was Locked in a Room by Grown Men

I was 20 years old, on the sales floor at work at a big-box store. Two grown men – security guards – called me to the back. I thought they needed a female employee as a witness for a female shoplifter. That’s protocol.

Instead, they locked the door behind me.

And they started making comments about how I looked in my uniform. They told me they liked watching me on the cameras. And then they looked me in the eyes and said: “You know we could do anything we wanted to you in here and no one would even hear us.”

I was trembling. I was terrified. They had just threatened to rape me.

Two grown men in positions of authority. With keys. With isolation. With power.

When I told my boss what happened, the response was basically: “Well, don’t go back there alone.”

Not “those men are predators and should be arrested.” Not “that’s sexual harassment and they should lose their jobs.” But “you need to protect yourself better.”

The burden was on me to avoid being raped. Not on them not to rape.

There were several more instances, starting when I was a child. I never reported any of it.

Not because I thought I was to blame. I knew I wasn’t. These men made the choice to violate me. That’s on them.

But I knew what would happen if I reported it. I knew I’d be questioned. I knew people would ask what I was wearing, what I was drinking, why I was there, what I did to invite it. Society would make me feel like I somehow allowed this to happen. Somehow, I would become the villain.

So I stayed quiet.

I could go on for pages listing all the different times I’ve been accosted to one degree or another. The catcalls on the street. The unwanted groping at bars, public transit, and anywhere men are. The coworkers who touched my body without permission. The dates that didn’t stop when I said stop. The times I froze instead of fighting back because my body was too terrified to move. The times I said yes when I meant no because saying no felt even more dangerous. The times I let someone do things to my body that I didn’t want because the alternative felt worse.

All of this. All of it. Is my life as a woman.

And I am FURIOUS that this is normal.

That this is expected.

That we’ve all just accepted that this is the price of being born with a vagina.

This Is Not About Cornell Alone

This is about EVERY CAMPUS where fraternity brothers rape women and face no consequences.

This is about EVERY POLICE DEPARTMENT that fails to investigate properly.

This is about EVERY DA who declines to prosecute because the victim didn’t say “no” loud enough or fight hard enough or remember every detail while being drugged.

This is about EVERY JUDGE who sentences rapists to 6 months like Brock Turner.

This is about EVERY SYSTEM designed to protect rapists and punish victims for having the audacity to report.

This is about EVERY MAN who thinks your body is negotiable.

This is about EVERY MAN who says “your body, my choice.”

FUCK. ALL. OF. YOU!!!

This Is Our Reality

You already know what I’m about to say. You’ve lived it. You’re living it.

Women navigate the world in constant fear from childhood. When you’re five, adults touch your body without asking. By twelve, grown men make comments about your body. By high school, you learn that your existence is inherently sexual and that somehow you’re responsible for the reactions it creates. You get groped in hallways like it’s normal. Boys will be boys, right?

By college, you’re calculating safety at every turn. What are you wearing? Is it attracting the wrong kind of attention? Who are you with? Can they be trusted? How much are you drinking? Can you trust the people around you? Will you make it home okay? Will you be safe in your own dorm room?

And even when you do everything right. Even when you’re careful. Even when you follow every rule. Seven men can still rape you, and “approximately” 50 men might watch like your victimization is a Pay-per-View sporting event.

We All Hide It

Most of the women in your life have been assaulted. And most of us never told anyone because society makes us feel like we’re the ones who carry the shame, the guilt, the dirtiness and the burden of proof.

We went to work the next day. We smiled. We pretended. We buried it.

We don’t talk about it because society makes us feel ashamed. Not because we think we’re actually to blame – we know we’re not. But because the world tells us we are. Because the burden gets placed on us to explain ourselves, to defend ourselves, to prove we didn’t somehow ask for it.

That message is loud enough to make us stay silent.

The System Doesn’t Care

Society tells you: report it. Go to the police. Get justice.

So Jane Doe did what she was supposed to do.

She told investigators she was raped. Clearly. Directly. With 100% confidence.

And the District Attorney said there wasn’t enough evidence based on her initial statement. He declined to prosecute.

He never even read the full police transcript where she described everything.

He made a decision to let a rapist walk free without reviewing all the evidence.

He claimed he reviewed her statement but based his decision on what she described at the time. When her civil lawsuit revealed different or additional allegations, the case was reopened.

Did he apologize? No. He got defensive. He tried to explain why his incomplete decision was actually correct.

The Governor had to step in. A Special Prosecutor had to take over because the system failed so spectacularly that nobody could pretend it was okay anymore.

The problem is that 50 other guys allegedly watched the assault and did nothing. The problem is that authorities decided initially that their legal interpretation and comfort mattered more than her justice. The problem is systemic and cultural. We’ve normalized this so much that nobody blinks.

A woman says she was raped and we question her. What was she wearing? How much had she drunk? Did she say no loud enough? Did she fight hard enough?

NEVER do we ask the man: Why did you think you could do that? Why did you think her body was yours to take?

Don’t Think Your Daughter Is Safe

Don’t think for a minute that if your kid goes to a prestigious school, a private school, a Catholic school, an Ivy League school, or even an all-girls campus, they’re safe. They’re not.

The system is broken at every level. It’s broken everywhere.

People say: “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The truth is she just had the misfortune of being born with a vagina instead of a penis.

As if being raped is like being caught in bad traffic. As if there’s a right time and place to not be violated.

There isn’t. I’ve had friends raped while they slept in their beds in their locked apartment. There is no wrong place and no wrong time. There’s just wrong. There’s just a man deciding your body is his to take. That’s the only factor that matters.

Not where she was. Not what she was wearing. Not what she was drinking. Not whether she was high.

Just the fact that someone decided your body wasn’t yours anymore.

This Is Personal

I hate what happened at Cornell. I hate that 50 men watched. I hate that the District Attorney tried to protect the rapists. I hate that Jane Doe had to have her trauma validated by a Governor stepping in.

I hate that my daughters get sexual assault alerts at least twice a month on their college campus.

I hate that I never reported my own assaults. The basketball player who grabbed me and lifted me up like I was nothing. He went on to the NBA. The frat boy who pushed my head into his lap in front of everyone. Networked himself into a Fortune 500 company. The man who touched me while I was asleep and unconscious. Still free and, probably, unbothered. The cop who threatened to sexually assault me if I didn’t give him what he wanted. He’s still on the job. The security guards who locked me in a room and told me they could do anything they wanted to me. They’re still living their lives like it never happened.

They’re out there living their lives. They faced nothing.

And I carried it. All of it. Every single thing.

But I’m not carrying it alone anymore. And neither are you.

So What Now?

We’re done being quiet. We’re done being polite. We’re done asking for permission or waiting for the system to protect us.

I’m tired of being told to be careful. I’m tired of modifying my behavior so I don’t get raped. I’m tired of changing my clothes, my route, my plans, my very existence to accommodate men’s violence. I’m tired of “not all men” when we’re talking about systematic violence against women. I’m tired of being told to report it when the system doesn’t prosecute. I’m tired of victim-blaming disguised as “safety tips.” I’m tired of raising my daughters to live in fear. I’m tired of teaching them to smile and be polite even when someone violates their boundaries. I’m tired of telling them their safety is their responsibility.

I’m tired of a world that asks women: “What were you wearing?” instead of asking men: “Why did you think you could do that?”

I’m tired of being told I was “asking for it” because I went to a party. Because I wore a certain outfit. Because I smiled at someone. Because I existed.

I’m tired of men who think they have a right to my body.

I’m tired of a culture that treats women’s bodies like they’re public property.

I’m tired of “your body, my choice.”

And I’m done accepting it.

That’s why I started something. Read about #ChastityByChoice in the next post and how you can join us.

If you need help, RAINN has a 24/7 confidential hotline: 1-800-656-4673. You can also text HOME to 741741 to reach the Crisis Text Line.

P.S. – To my daughters and every young woman at every college campus: I see you. I know you’re scared. I know some of you have already been violated. I know most of you won’t report it. I know because I didn’t either. But I want you to know that it’s not your fault. Not one bit. Not your clothes, not your choices, not where you were or what you were doing. None of it. We’re coming for the system that failed you. And we’re doing it for you.

Please share this post with every woman you love and want to keep safe.

The post We Are ALL Jane Doe: Why This Cornell Case Matters to Every Woman appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.

Key Takeaways

• The transition to college brings emotional challenges, particularly for parents facing the reality of letting go.
• Buying tuition insurance can safeguard against unexpected setbacks, especially concerning mental health.
• Letting go is harder than giving birth; it’s a continuous process that parents must navigate throughout their children’s lives.
• Despite the pain, watching children grow into their own person is both beautiful and bittersweet.
• As parents, our ultimate goal is to launch our children into independence, knowing it will break our hearts yet fill us with pride.
•  

FEATURED INSIGHT

This is the hardest thing you will ever do as a parent. And it’s also the most beautiful. You’re not prepared for either.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen (but I’m mostly talking to you, moms).

Here, come in closer. It’s “Oh Shit August,” and I’m here to tell you: buckle in for a bumpy ride, especially if your kids are leaving for college. I’m not going to lie to you – this part really sucks. Like it really sucks. And it doesn’t always go according to plan. In fact, it never does. If one thing goes right, you can bet three are going to go wrong. You’re already going to be an emotional mess, and if you’re like me, there will be some devastatingly powerful panic attacks. I know because I just took a Xanax to stop today’s.

You’re Not Alone In This Ocean

You may have never been through a true “Oh Shit It’s August” at this level, but if you have children, you’ve been in this ocean before – just not the same boat. So ladies and gentlemen: KEEP SWIMMING. If you don’t, you’re all going to drown.

This makes May (or Maycember, if you’re juggling multiple milestones) seem like a holiday in Turks and Caicos. Don’t laugh – this isn’t hyperbole. This part hurts worse than my pitocin-induced, no-pain-medication Bella birth. If you’ve been here from the beginning, you know.

Today is Wednesday, August 12, 2026. I’ve been in denial that my youngest is leaving all summer. Because, lucky for me, I’ve only got a first and a last, so every time we do any milestone, it’s fucking GINORMOUS. Our recovery time between girls is only two years. Bella took a gap year (the lore I’ve got for you will have to wait for the next post because OMG), and now it’s Gabi’s turn. I only got a year to recover. Wait! What?

@deborahacruz

The only thing you need to know but no one ever tells you about college drop off. Just dropped my daughter off at college and it was not what I expected! Nobody warned me. I cried my face off. #genz #collegedropoff #college #momlife #genx #momsoftiktok #momsover30 #bestgenerationever #girlmom #collegirl #fypシ゚viral #fyp #thetruthaboutmotherhood

♬ original sound – Deborah

Letting go is hard for them and for us. Truly, probably harder for us – but still fucking hard for them.

Remember, they are still practically brand new in the world. And for as much as our beloved Gen Z babies would like to believe they know everything, they mostly don’t know shit about the real human things yet. The things you have to experience to believe. Those are the unknowns that knock us off balance when we least expect them. We can’t prepare mentally for these situations. Sometimes they come back. So again – buy the insurance. NO, this is not an insurance-sponsored post. This is a one-mom-to-another-mom cautionary tale that will save you thousands of dollars. Learn from my mistakes, friends. I’m no gatekeeper.

REAL TALK: THIS AUGUST REALITY

Harder Than Giving Birth

But let me explain something, aside from all the jokes.

You’ve all been here for nearly all of my children’s lives. You’ve been through a lot with us. Well, I’m here to tell you: this part – this is harder than giving birth. Letting go from your body is so much easier than letting go from your arms. Because we know this is the hardest part of our story. Just remember, it’s one of the hardest but most fulfilling parts of theirs.

The Brutal Honesty

I’m not saying this to scare you. I’m telling you this to prepare you. Get your Xanax now. Maybe you’ll be one of those parent-child combos who just gets it right and everything’s easy. I hope you are. I hope every single one of you goes to drop off and it’s uneventful – everybody good with just a tinge of melancholy at parting ways.

But for others, it’s not going to be so predictable or soft.

It’s going to be full-on feral. You’ll feel like you all just spent a week in the ring with some indestructible MMA fighter. You’ll be weak, weary, and feel like you’ve had your ass kicked. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. And you will most definitely be getting your ass kicked. You’ll come out the other end bruised – physically and emotionally.

I’m not sugar-coating it: IT’S REALLY FUCKING HARD. It’s the hardest part (so far) of being a parent.

I just have to keep reminding myself that the price I pay for the privilege of raising my girls – and all of this magical, unconditional love I get to give and receive – is worth the panic attacks, the tears, and the absolute beating my mama heart takes in this letting-go process.

But I’ve been here before. It’s Gabi’s first time. It was Bella’s first time. We’re all experiencing it differently – but the weight of this milestone is like a boulder on your heart. At times, it feels like it will crush us all. But it won’t. It just feels that way.

Just keep reminding yourself: this is not a punishment. This is what you and they’ve worked all this time for – to feel the least afraid to let the other one go (even if it’s just physically, temporarily). We know, as parents, that this is where they become them fully. Our job is to get out of the way. Stand on the sidelines and show them we are still there – even when we’re not actually there.

LESSON FROM YEAR ONE: BUY THE TUITION INSURANCE

This single decision saved me thousands of dollars and endless stress.

I’ve been trying to stay strong. This is my third year doing this dance. The first year, I learned to always buy the tuition insurance. Write that part down – it’s only $120, but heaven forbid your child experiences something and realizes it’s too much for them to handle for whatever reason.

There are a lot of kids with mental health diagnoses these days (there are a lot of adults too – probably should be more). Sometimes the mental health distress is more than a temporary hiccup, or the distance is just not worth the toll on your child’s emotional and mental well-being. The bottom line is: as parents, we should always be trying to do what’s best for our children – no matter if it looks like what you expected or completely out of character and unexpected.

Remember, the goal has never changed since we began this journey into motherhood: do your best, love them unconditionally, and raise good human beings. There is no right way to be a parent as long as you’re doing what is best for you and your child.

The Summer of Everything

I think I did my job too well because letting go is nearly killing all of us.

It’s been the summer of blow-ups, never-ending cuddles, late nights, deep discussions, hurting one another to protect our own hearts, and a little bit of disbelief. Disbelief that the reward for fulfilling this purpose is watching your child take flight with trepidation and enthusiasm as you remain firmly on the ground, ready to catch them when they fall – occasionally losing sight of their whereabouts but remembering they are always in your heart.

See, there it is – you feel it. It fucking hurts.

My girls haven’t even left yet, and my heart is already aching because I know what’s coming. I know it’s my time to win my Oscar because no matter how shit I feel about losing them (only in distance, but I know that also means in all the ways because I will no longer be the one they have the private jokes with or the first one they turn to).

I am becoming the side character as they take their rightful place as the main character in their story.

And I’m so excited for them.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel them pull away. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel myself being left behind. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like a motherfucker.

And as the person who made the happy choice to dedicate a big chunk of my life to raising, investing in, and loving them – I hear the echo of my own silence, and it’s terrifying.

Who Am I Now?

Who the fuck am I?

I mean, I sort of remember who I was when I wasn’t in charge of keeping human beings alive. But fuck, to be honest, I was just getting started. I was still figuring out who I was when I had to evolve into a mom. Which, if you ask me in all honesty, is the tippy top of the food chain. Apex predator? Have you seen what happens to the motherfuckers that mess with our kids? Give us ten minutes alone in a room with them, and we’ll teach them the motherfucking manners their mamas forgot to teach.

My point is – what is my point? You see, I’m already spiraling.

Because I know it’s only five more days until we start moving them in.

The Silver Lining: They Won’t Be Alone

Then they come home for a few more days, and they go back to school, and we go too because it’s Gabi’s first year there. Did I forget to mention both girls chose the same university? Yes, the dream is alive. They are going together, and I am beyond pleased about that fact. Because even when I can’t be there for the big moments when they need a hug or a hand held, a shoulder to cry on, or just a pep talk (the kind only a mom or sister can give), or someone to validate their feelings – and other times shake them into reality – you can only send a sister to step in for the mom.

I’m just happy they’ll have a piece of home with them to comfort and support them when I’m not there.

College is also where my girls finally learn to start to self-soothe. You all know I’ve got a problem letting the girls fail. I’m always trying to be the mom I needed to them.

AUGUST REALITY CHECK: WHAT TO EXPECT

The Beautiful & Difficult Truth

But here’s the thing they don’t tell you: watching your child become the main character in their own story is simultaneously the most beautiful and most devastating thing you will ever experience as a parent.

You spend eighteen-plus years building them. Protecting them. Being everything they need. And then one day, you realize the goal was never to keep them – it was to launch them. To make them so capable, so strong, so sure of themselves that they don’t need you anymore. Not in the everyday way. Not in the way that defined your entire adult existence.

And when you finally succeed at that – when you see them ready to take flight – it breaks your heart into a million pieces while simultaneously making you so proud you could burst.

This is the paradox of good parenting. This is the price we pay for doing it right.

The beautiful part is watching them step into their power. Seeing them discover who they really are without you standing there telling them who to be. Watching them fail and get back up. Watching them build their own life, their own identity, their own story where they are unequivocally, unapologetically the main character.

The difficult part is everything else.

It’s the quiet house. It’s the phone calls that will never be as frequent as you want them to be. It’s missing the small moments – the inside jokes, the late-night conversations, being the first person they turn to. It’s being demoted from center stage to the wings, even though you know that’s exactly what should happen.

It’s the hardest thing a parent will ever do.

Because unlike giving birth, which ends, the letting go never really stops. It’s a skill you’ll have to practice over and over again as they move through life – leaving for college, graduating, getting their first apartment, falling in love with someone who becomes their primary person, building a life that doesn’t have you in it every single day.

And every single time, it will hurt.

The First Week Alone: What Nobody Prepares You For

After drop-off, you’ll have approximately three to five days before the reality truly hits. Here’s what that looks like:

Days 1-2: You’ll be running on adrenaline and tasks. The house feels busy even though it’s empty because you’re still in logistics mode.

Day 3: This is when it hits. Hard. The silence becomes deafening. You’ll walk past their room. You’ll set the table for the wrong number of people. You’ll hear a song and think “I should send this to them.” This is when the grief gets real.

Days 4-5: You’ll oscillate between crushing sadness and unexpected moments of lightness. You might laugh at something and feel guilty for laughing. This is normal.

What to do:

• Don’t rearrange their room immediately
• Expect the silence to hurt more on Day 3 than Day 1
• Set communication expectations together (you’ve already done this, but remember: they need to adjust too)
• Let them initiate contact (this helps them adjust and gain confidence)
• Your job is being the stable, loving backup – not the constant check-in

They’re figuring out who they are without you. That’s the whole point. Even though it fucking kills you.

Anyways, Here’s What I Know

Anyways, buy the tuition insurance. You’ll be thanking your stars you only spent a couple hundred dollars versus an entire semester’s worth of tuition at a private college that your child attended for five days.

And anyways, I love you, ladies. Thank you for being here since day one in 2009 and helping me survive this madness called motherhood. We might be entering our first true “Me” era since our twenties, and I don’t know about you, but I am here for it.

But first, let’s get these beautiful babies of ours moved into college.

And then give me another Xanax because, betches, the next two weeks are going to be bumpy ones.

But they’re going to be worth it.

Because that’s what we do.

We let them go.

And we somehow learn to be okay with it.

Even though it breaks us.

Even though it makes us.

Even though it’s the hardest, most beautiful, most devastating thing we will ever do, it feels like our kids are doing the monkey bars over the Grand Canyon, and I’m still trying to catch them if they fall.

XX

You’re Not Alone In This

If you’re reading this and you’re in August hell right now, I want you to know something: what you’re feeling is valid. All of it. The joy and the devastation. The pride and the panic. The excitement for them and the terror for yourself.

This is real. This is hard. And you’re doing it exactly right – even though it doesn’t feel like it.

Resources & Support

If you’re struggling more than you expected:

• Psychology Today Therapist Finder: Find a therapist specializing in life transitions and identity shifts: psychologytoday.com
• SAMHSA National Helpline: Free, confidential support 24/7: 1-800-662-4357
• Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
• The Gottman Institute: Relationship and family resources for major transitions

For your college-bound student:

• Many universities offer free counseling services (utilize these)
• Encourage them to find their people in first two weeks
• Connection is what helps them adjust – let them figure this out

For you:

• This identity shift is legitimate. Therapy isn’t weakness; it’s wisdom.
• Find your people – other launching pad moms who GET it
• Reconnect with who you were before motherhood (you’re still in there)
• This “Me” era isn’t selfish; it’s necessary

Pin This: August Survival Checklist

✓ Buy tuition insurance ($120)
✓ Schedule therapy (for you or them or both)
✓ Prepare for emotional chaos
✓ Practice letting go (it’s a skill)
✓ Set communication expectations
✓ Get your Xanax prescription filled
✓ Plan something for yourself post-drop-off
✓ Remember: this is the goal you’ve been working toward
✓ Know that it’s okay to grieve and celebrate simultaneously
✓ Trust that they’re more ready than you are
✓ Trust that you’ll be okay (eventually)

Share this with a mom who’s in August hell. She needs to know she’s not alone.

The post Oh Shit-It’s August: What Nobody Tells You About Letting Go of Your Kids Going to College appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.

I knew this day was coming.

For months, I’ve been surviving on prayers and hope, the way you survive anything you can’t quite bear to think about. You hold onto the maybe, the possible, the not-yet. You wake up each morning and tell yourself that today might be different, that she might beat this thing, that she’s Jill Smokler for God’s sake and if anyone could defy the odds it would be her.

But Jill was doing all the hard work and heavy lifting until the rest of us could accept what she already had.

That’s who she was. Brave first. Everything else second.

I met Jill way back in 2009, though I didn’t know I was meeting her at the time. I was writing into the void on a little blog called The TRUTH about Motherhood, pouring out my heart about babies and loneliness and the gap between who I thought I’d be as a mother and who I actually was. I was feeling out of touch, out of sorts and left behind. I was lonely. I was writing because I didn’t know what else to do with the feeling that something inside me was dying. I write to process.

And then Jill reached out.

I’d like to think she read something I wrote and recognized something that resonated with her. That she saw herself in my words the way I saw myself in hers. That moment of recognition, when you realize you’re not the only one thinking the things everyone’s too scared to say out loud. Once we started talking you couldn’t stop it. We got each other in a way that many couldn’t because they weren’t living the same truth we were, or at least they weren’t allowing themselves to admit it yet.

We were the same kind of honest.

The Girl Who Changed Everything

Late night conversations about babies and content. Deep conversations in conference lounges when we should have been sleeping. Sitting by a pool under warm Florida nights talking about all the good and bad and ugly of life. The way she’d text me something devastating and then immediately text something hilarious because that was how we both survived: by finding the laugh in the darkness. By refusing to pretend.

Jill built something massive. Over 100 million people found her words, found themselves in her stories, found permission to stop performing perfection. She wrote about the scared parts of motherhood when everyone else was writing about how much they loved it. She built community out of honesty at a time when the whole internet was performing. She changed how mothers talk about motherhood. She changed how we talk about ourselves.

But here’s what I’ll remember most: she was exactly the same in real life as she was on the page. Honestly, maybe even better. If that’s possible. Yep, she was even fucking better in person.

Funny. Real. Generous. Completely herself. No filters, no performance, no version of Jill that was better than the actual Jill. What you read was what you got, and what you got was a woman who understood the trenches of motherhood so deeply that she could make you laugh about them while also holding you while you cried.

She didn’t just write for other mothers and women. She loved them. She fed families on Thanksgiving when they had nothing. She built a nonprofit. She showed up. She was present. Even when miles and months separated us, every time we connected it was like no time at all had passed. We’d pick up exactly where we left off because that’s what happens when you really get someone. Time doesn’t matter. Distance doesn’t matter. The connection is just there, waiting.

I knew she was one of my favorite people from very early on. I just didn’t know how much she’d come to mean to me. There really is no one like Jill.

I will miss her until the day I die because that’s just the kind of impact Jill made on everyone she knew. And times that by a million and you’ll get a sense of the impact she made on her friends and those who loved her. On the mothers she gave permission to be unapologetically themselves. On the community she built. On the world she changed.

I’m not ready to let go of her yet. I’m not deleting the texts. I’m not ready for the silence where her voice used to be. I’m still processing the girl who made it okay to be messy and real and full of contradictions getting taken from us by something so brutally unfair.

But I’m grateful. I’m so grateful I got to know her. I’m grateful we found each other in the early days of motherhood when we were both lonely and looking for someone who understood. I’m grateful for every late-night conversation, every laugh by the pool, but mostly for every moment we got to be completely ourselves with each other.

Until we meet again my friend: you, me, Snoop and Willie finally having that sesh we talked about.

Thank you for being unapologetically you. Thank you for sharing your light with the rest of us. Thank you for showing us that the truth matters more than perfection.

Thank you for getting me when I needed to be gotten.

I love you so much.

XX

The post My Friend Jill Smokler: She Made Millions of Moms Feel Less Alone —And I Was One of Them appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.

A life story of lies, deception and trauma.

Reborn, reparented and healing in process.

I am more… I am as much as I want, need or choose to be. I am everything all at once and almost nothing at the exact same time.

I am stubborn and angry. My temper boils fast and runs hot.

But I love big. Completely. With my everything. 

“People say I’m too much but I’ve never felt like  I’m enough.”

There’s an insatiable hole inside of me—always wanting just a little bit more. Never feeling like I quite belonged anywhere.

Always trying harder but never fitting in. Nothing is ever good enough—and I think it goes back to never feeling seen or heard at home. I had to make a spectacle and roar just to get a seat at the table.

The Emptiness No One talks About When You’re Healing from Childhood Trauma

I still feel ‘empty’ sometimes. Like something’s missing and I can’t name it.

I try to fill the emptiness with noise and things and too much of everything—but it’s never the thing I need. It’s never enough because it’s never full acceptance. Just the pretty edges and shiny bits.

No one’s ever listening because they’re too busy talking over me. Explaining to me what I’m supposed to think, feel, and be. They set the standard based on stereotypes they’ve made up, and I’ve spent my entire life—masking, shrinking, and contorting—trying to fit into a world that was never designed for people like me.

A world built for people who never really knew me. Never cared to.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, I handed them the power to make me feel like not enough.

“I gave them the power. Well, I’m taking it all back.”

What Reparenting Yourself Actually Looks Like From the Inside

The work of reparenting yourself isn’t pretty or easy. There’s no pastel journal for this. No aesthetic morning routine.

It looks like trauma bombs going off when you least expect it or being triggered because your daughter paces and it sends you into a panic. Because when you were just a little girl, your dad would tower over you when he came home drunk and angry at the world.

Reparenting yourself looks like sitting inside your own discomfort long enough to ask—whose voice is that? And then realizing, it was never yours to begin with.

It looks like being as loud or quiet as you want to be. Not performing for a single person in the room.

It looks like spectacling in all of your own spectacular glory with zero apology or shame.

The journey of reparenting yourself is the decision—and it is a decision—that you are the only one who gets to decide if you are enough.

Only you can love yourself back to you.

I forgot that.

For so long, I was so busy taking care of everyone else’s needs that I nearly completely disappeared from my own life. I’ve let myself shrink to fit. I quieted myself for other people’s comfort. I went invisible to stay safe.

No more.

Stop Shrinking Yourself: You Were Never Too Much

I am not too much.

I never was.

I am just enough because there is only one me—and however I choose to show up is exactly right.

No, I don’t fit your expectations or mold.

Fuck your mold! I broke that bitch.

You are the one and only you who will ever exist on this earth. You are the expert in you. You are the main character in your own story and, don’t you ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Write it down. Put it on your mirror. Tattoo it on the insides of your eyelids if you have to.

Reclaiming Your Power When the World Has Tried to Take It

Be who you want to be. Not who others expect you to be.

Their expectations are cinder blocks around our necks and we’re drowning fast under the weight.

Let it go. Let them think whatever they want.

This is what reparenting yourself comes down to, at the very end of everything: the radical, terrifying, liberating act of deciding that their version of you is not the final word.

You are enough.

You are more than enough.

You always have been.

“You never needed their permission to take up space. You only ever needed yours.”

You Found This Page for a Reason

If you are somewhere in the middle of your own reparenting yourself journey—the messy, nonlinear , “why is this taking so long” part—you are in exactly the right place.

The TRUTH about Motherhood is where we talk about the things nobody else will say out loud. Subscribe now and never miss a post.

The post I Spent 50 Years Shrinking To Fit a World That Was Never Made for Me—I’m Done appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.

Estimated reading time: 8 minutes

Remember when you taught your child to ride a bike? That moment when you knew they were ready, but your hands still gripped the seat a little too tightly? That’s exactly where I found myself as a mother—not with a bicycle, but with life itself. There was no new mother or parenting book for that, so I’ve been winging it by the seat of my pants since 2005.

For years, I hovered. I anticipated. I solved problems before they even happened. I was the quintessential helicopter mom, and I wore that badge with pride. After all, wasn’t that what good moms did? Protect, guide, cushion every fall?

Then my daughters started growing up, and I realized something profound: I was so busy being their ‘safety net’ that I forgot to teach them how to land. Yeah, ‘Oh fuck’ is right! I overcorrected. Yes, therapy has been teaching me some things. Blowing my mind actually.

Imagine a little girl who never had enough of anything, including attention, righting every perceived wrong ever done to her. I was so busy trying to heal the child in me by making my own daughters’ lives as close to ideal as possible. I was trying to heal myself by preventing anything bad from ever happening to them because no one protected me. Well, not to the degree I needed anyway.

What Is Training Wheels Parenting?

Training wheels parenting is the revolutionary middle ground between helicopter parenting and complete independence. It’s the art of being present without being overbearing, of offering support without suffocating autonomy. It’s not easy but it’s what’s best for my daughters.

Think about actual training wheels. They don’t prevent your child from riding—they stabilize them while they learn balance. They’re adjustable. As your child gains confidence, you gradually raise them until one day, they’re barely touching the ground. Eventually, they come off entirely, but not before your child has built the skills and confidence they need.

That’s what we need to do as mothers in this complicated world; at least, that’s what I needed to do. We need to provide structure and support that gradually decreases as our children’s competence increases. We need to be mentors, not managers. And in my case, we’re friends. I raised two of the best fucking humans I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting and that’s just facts.

The Evolution From Helicopter to Mentor to Friend

The helicopter mom culture taught us that good parenting meant total involvement. We scheduled every activity, monitored every friendship, intervened on their behalf in every difficult moment.

Good Lord, the playdate moms I endured and who were forced to endure me ( I’m a lot…I’m sorry because I’m even more when I’m stressed and boy, being a mom has always stressed me out because the stakes are too high). Don’t get me wrong, I’d loved all the moments when I wasn’t crying

We believed that our constant presence equaled love and protection. But here’s what nobody tells you about helicopter parenting: it robs our children of something essential—the ability to fail safely, to problem-solve independently, to build resilience through experience.

This is not to make anybody feel bad or shameful but girls, I did and I do. I was just not capable of watching my children suffer. Honestly, and I’m not just saying this, it fucking hurts me more to watch them suffer than it does for me to just take that suffering on myself. 

When my oldest daughter faced her first major disappointment—not getting the part in the Nutcracker she’d worked so hard for—my instinct was to march into that ballet and demand answers (or change minds because you know me). The point is that I wanted to fix it, to make the hurt go away, to challenge the director’s decision. I had tunnel vision and the only thing that mattered was that my girl was hurting and I wanted to make it all better like I’d done all of her life. I had to put her needs above my inability to watch her fail or struggle. 

Instead, I sat with her discomfort. I listened. It was hard. I asked questions that helped her process her emotions and identify what she could control. I didn’t rescue her from the pain ( though believe me I wanted to and I have in the past)—I equipped her to navigate it. That’s training wheels parenting.

Why This Model Matters Now More Than Ever

Our children are growing up in a world we couldn’t have imagined. Social media scrutiny, political polarization, economic uncertainty, global pandemics—the challenges they face require more than our protection. They require preparation and education. 

Training wheels parenting acknowledges that we can’t shield our kids from everything, nor should we try. Instead, we focus on building their capacity to handle whatever comes their way. We teach critical thinking, emotional intelligence, problem-solving, and self-advocacy. 

This doesn’t mean we abandon them. We give them unconditional love and support. It means we redefine support. We’re not hovering overhead, ready to swoop in at the first sign of struggle. We’re standing beside them, providing guidance when asked, offering perspective when needed, and cheering from the sidelines as they navigate their own paths. With a few bumps on the way and a learning curve that left something to be desired, this is how my parents parented. I’ve just made it my own ( with a little anxiety and a few more gray hairs for me) and worked out most of the Boomer kinks.

The Core Principles of Training Wheels Parenting

Progressive independence is fundamental. We gradually increase responsibilities and freedoms as our children demonstrate readiness. A fifteen-year-old gets different training wheels than an eight-year-old, and that’s exactly as it should be.

Natural consequences become teachers. When my daughter forgot her phone for the third time, I didn’t rush to school with it. She felt disconnected and out of sorts that day, and she never forgot her phone again. Obviously, that was after years of stopping, dropping and rolling anytime they forgot a homework assignment or lunch on many occasions for many years prior. I’m a work in progress, ladies. But, the phone lesson stuck because she owned the consequence.

Open communication replaces surveillance. Instead of monitoring every text message, we have ongoing conversations about healthy relationships, digital citizenship, and personal boundaries. We talk about and through everything. We build trust through dialogue, not control. Love is unconditional and built on respect for one another, honesty and trust, not fear.

Emotional coaching supersedes problem-solving. We validate feelings while empowering our children to find their own solutions. We ask, ‘What do you think you should do?’ instead of immediately telling them what to do. We learn to just be quiet and listen. It’s so fucking hard. Then, we ask,” Do you want to be heard? Held? Helped?” Let them decide how little or much they need your help.

Maintaining Connection While Letting Go

The fear that keeps many of us hovering is the fear of disconnection. We worry that if we step back, we’ll lose our place in our children’s lives. But training wheels parenting actually strengthens our bonds because it’s built on mutual respect rather than dependency.

My relationship with my daughters has deepened since I embraced this approach. They come to me not because they have to, but because they want to. They share not because I’m monitoring, but because they trust me to listen without judgment or immediate intervention. They’ve taught me to learn to listen and be fully present before trying to fix it. Sometimes they just want us to support them. That was a hard truth to be told and I still have to work at this because I’m a fixer.

Connection doesn’t require constant proximity. It requires presence when it matters, wisdom when it’s needed, and the courage to let them stumble while you’re still close enough to catch them if they truly fall.

The Hardest Part: Trusting the Process

Let me be honest—training wheels parenting is harder than it sounds but it is what came most naturally for us. It requires restraint when every fiber of your being wants to intervene. It demands patience when quick fixes seem easier. It means accepting that your child might make different choices than you would, and those choices might lead to mistakes. But those mistakes? They’re not failures—they’re ‘wisdom’ loading. Every stumble teaches balance, every challenge builds strength, every disappointment develops resilience.

As parents, we need to trust that all those years of guidance, all those conversations, all that modeling of values—they took root. Our children absorbed more than we realize. When we step back, they step up. I can say this because both girls are adults now and I’ve seen the process succeed in real life. 

Moving Forward

Training wheels parenting isn’t about being less involved—it’s about being involved differently. It’s about transitioning from director to consultant, from protector to guide, from problem-solver to confidence-builder.

Our children don’t need us to clear every obstacle from their path. They need us to teach them how to navigate obstacles themselves. They don’t need us to shield them from every disappointment. They need us to help them process disappointment and grow from it.

So today, I challenge you to examine where you might be hovering when you could be mentoring. Where could you raise those training wheels just a little higher? What opportunity for growth are you inadvertently preventing by preventing struggle? The goal isn’t perfect parenting—it’s raising humans who can ride through life confidently, knowing you taught them how to balance, how to pedal, and how to get back up when they fall. That’s the gift of training wheels parenting, and our children deserve nothing less.

• It’s Official, I am a Helicopter Parent
• How to Survive Potty Training
• Hell on Wheels in Taffeta and a Pink Helmet
• My Daughter Turned 18 and Graduated – Now What?
• Road Tripping with Toddlers or Hell on Wheels

The post The Training Wheels Mom: A New Parenting Model appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.

Happy Throat Punch Thursday to all who celebrate (shhh! I know there’s a lot of you.I saw your DMs)! I’m here to announce that Throat Punch Thursday is coming back, baby! This Maycember shit is for the birds and personally, I’m glad it’s just about over. But, bitches I was harshly and disrespectfully scathed. The past week has been a gut punch to my mama heart and that was hard but expected. But, ladies, the last 24 hours feels like the universe punched me in my throat. By the way, I can tell you from my perspective, I’d prefer to go through my mom life transition without the side of empty nest syndrome. Anyways, now that my very important PSA is out of the way, I’ve got even bigger news.

June is for new beginnings and I’m rebranding. Not the SOSDD (same old shit, different day) superficial update. I’m reinventing the blog ( mine, not the concept). 

Sadly, as of 8:38 PM on Wednesday, May 21st, in the year of our Lord and Savior 2025 I can no longer officially hold my title of “mom to a child”. She is de facto an adult.

GASP* ( I fucking hate it here sometimes)

Go ahead and be shocked. I am. I might throw up. Maybe I already did. Maybe that was the Mounjaro. Maybe it’s my allergies. Maybe it’s my Sunday Sads on a random Throat Punch Thursday. Girl, maybe it’s Maybelline. I don’t know. I just know that my eyes have been leaking a lot lately.

My baby girl, Gabs, turned 18-years-old (tbh, in a Latina household “adulthood” doesn’t mean anything but more responsibility. We’re not so good with the “letting go” parts of parenthood and forget about this whole empty nest syndrome shit. I’m not about it -training wheels, rememba? In fact, as a culture, we welcome our kids to live with us for as long as they want so…girls, you have it here in writing. If this is what empty nest syndrome is all about- that’s a hard fuckin pass. I tried it. I’m not sure I like it. I prefer to think of it as launching adult children. I’ve always been a training wheels mom but I feel my inner launch pad mom begrudgingly making her way to the front.

Then, on May 23rd, just to make the point crystal clear, she had the friggin ( why do I always imagine myself to sound like Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny when I say that word) AUDACITY to graduate from high school (that’s a different post for another day when I can get my shit together long enough to not be a verklempt cry baby. For now, I’m just going to bite my lip, turn my trauma into comedy gold and vagina the fuck up! YEEHAW Mothafuckas!)  

Yeah, I said “AUDACITY” ( I also said a lot of other out of pocket words in the previous sentence..oopsie #NSFW). Guess what else? All of this motherhood business is going too fast and I’m not ready for retirement so I’m gonna do what every ADHD woman, man and child knows to do….

PIIVVVOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!! (IYKYK)

I’m not going to give away all the goodies right here, right now…you know I’m a blog tease. J/K I’m a little touchy feely at times but I’m no tease. I always deliver with my whole ass in it. 

My children and I were raised right here, on this blog. They grew up. I evolved from a brand spanking new wife and “mommy” into this seasoned warrior mama bruh bear. I don’t often wear a cape but when it comes to my girls, there’s not much I can’t or won’t do. Leap tall buildings, lift semis, do TikToks in matching pajamas ( in public ) just because they wanted to. Y’all didn’t think I was just born a (neuro) spicy, Latina Trad wife from Chicago, did you?

I feel like I’ve graduated to the next level of motherhood. You guys, I raised really good human beings and I am no longer “mommy” on most days. I’m so proud of who my girls are becoming and more importantly, they are chasing their dreams.

Let me reintroduce you to myself, “ Hi, my name is Brah”, ( my girls think that joke is UBER funny because 1. They made it up. 2. This one time a cast member at Disney World asked me “Why do they call all Deborah’s Deb? Why not just Brah?” Cue hysterical tween laughter and here we are years later, left behind – like the discarded “brah” I am.

Let’s just say we’re going to be The TRUTH about Motherhood 2.0 Life perspective through mom goggles from conception to college and beyond. Because, ladies, ( come in closer so you can hear this) its. Not.just.about.them! YOU MATTER TOO! This is going to be my ME Era.

What does that mean for the blog? We’re shifting towards sharing more about where we are now ( a mother fucking motherhood cross roads, in case you’re wondering.) Who am I? Where am I? What in the ever loving shit am I supposed to do with all this motherhood to give and no “children” who need mothered? 

It feels like I’ve been sent to the benches— by my own kids, no less ( the fruit of my womb). Retired. Expired. 

What am I supposed to do with all of this fucking “me” time? I haven’t had “me” time since 2005! Wait, no, that’s wrong. I haven’t had “Me time” since that 1 month in 1997 when I was single and lived alone. 

ONE WHOLE MONTH. 

This is my mom life transition and I’ve chosen growth and evolution because apparently, revolting is frowned upon. Unfortunately, that may be easier said than done because I don’t believe that my ADHD brain was built for boredom ( or letting go). I wish people would stop talking to me about empty nest syndrome. Hopefully, my object permanence swoops in and saves the day.

Ladies, we’re still young. I’ve got at least 53 more lives to live. I need a new purpose and to get back to ME ( the unfiltered original — yes, believe it or not, I have been using my inside voice all of these years) the woman I was before the Big Guy and our girls came along. Where the fawk is she? What happened to her? Did I leave her at Purdue? Maybe I lost her somewhere on vacation? Nope, I’m still here buried beneath the rubble of years of martyrdom and servitude. 

I set the bar so high for myself in everything I did in life that I only ever felt like I was failing. I realize now that I wasn’t failing; I was doing my best ( and according to my husband, that’s better than most). 

It only took 26 years of marriage, 20 years of motherhood, perimenopause, my impending induction into the “coolest mom ever”( according to my teenager who wanted Starbys) parenting hall of shame, zero fucks left to be given and my headfirst deep dive into my dreaded season of letting go. 

I can see the headlines now, “Training Wheels Mom Exchanges Her Wheels for a Launching Pad, Dies in the Process”

Oopsie, I guess today’s Throat Punch Thursday post will be going live later today. Stay tuned. And, now that I’m back, remember to subscribe for more straight up truths about navigating this next beautiful season of motherhood/ womanhood/sisterhood. Time to step into our power, bruh! We ride at dawn.

The post My Daughter Turned 18 and Graduated – Now What? appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.

A Historic Building with Modern Vibes

Housed in a National Historic Landmark building in Chicago’s vibrant Loop district, StayPineapple seamlessly blends old-world charm with contemporary flair. The moment you step into the bustling lobby, you’re transported to what feels like the city’s coolest gathering (minus any awkward drunk uncles asking you weird questions). The old-school door keys add to the vintage appeal, though fair warning—losing one will cost you a $50 fee!

During my recent stay celebrating my daughter’s 20th birthday with tickets to Moulin Rouge at the nearby Cadillac Theatre, I was immediately struck by the Instagram-worthy elevator area and the building’s authentic Chicago character. As a native Chicagoan who’s experienced many hotels in my beloved city, the historic architecture combined with playful modern design creates an atmosphere that feels distinctively Chicago without any of the cookie-cutter hotel vibes.

Location, Location, Location

For travelers wanting to experience the best of Chicago, you simply can’t beat StayPineapple’s prime location. Situated in the heart of the Loop, you’re literally steps away from:

• The Theatre District (perfect for Broadway show enthusiasts)

• Millennium Park (hello, Bean selfies!)

• The Art Institute of Chicago

• The glamorous boutiques of the Magnificent Mile

• The architecturally stunning Rookery Building

• Lakeshore East Park (ideal for those traveling with pets)

From my room, I fell asleep gazing at the iconic Chicago Theatre marquee and the twinkling city lights. For shoppers, Primark is nearby, and coffee lovers will appreciate being within walking distance of the Chicago Starbucks Reserve. The central location means you can reach practically any major Chicago attraction within minutes.

The Naked Experience: Sleep Like You’ve Never Slept Before

Let’s talk about what StayPineapple calls “The Naked Experience”—quite possibly the most comfortable hotel beds on the planet. As someone who had unfortunately received both MMR and pneumonia vaccines right before our trip, I can personally attest that StayPineapple’s heavenly bedding saved our vacation.

Each room features:

• Ultra-plush, cloud-like mattresses that make your bed at home seem like a park bench

• Individual European-style duvets that eliminate the dreaded cover-stealing midnight tug-of-war

• Incredibly soft pineapple-embroidered robes that you’ll be tempted to smuggle home

• Minimalist room design with just the right touch of quirky pineapple accents

I’ve stayed in luxury hotels worldwide, but I’ve never experienced bedding that comes close to the comfort level at StayPineapple. I’m still trying to figure out how to recreate this sleep experience at home!

Officially the Most Pet-Friendly Hotel Brand in America

If you travel with furry family members, StayPineapple isn’t just pet-friendly—they’re downright pet-obsessed. They’ve been recognized with numerous awards including being listed as one of the Best Pet-Friendly Hotels in Newsweek’s 2025 Readers’ Choice Awards and ranked #1 in BringFido.com’s list of Top Dog-Friendly Hotel Chains.

Your four-legged companions receive:

• A special Staypineapple dog bed for use during your stay

• A Staypineapple treat tin (afternoon delight for dogs!)

• A collapsible water bowl to keep

• Walk-friendly waste bags in a yellow holder

Unlike many hotels that claim to welcome pets but make it difficult to actually enjoy your stay with them, StayPineapple truly accommodates your entire family—fur members included. They even let you leave your pet in the room while you explore the city (just use their special door hangers to let staff know).

The Little Touches That Make All the Difference

What sets StayPineapple apart are the thoughtful details that show they’ve genuinely considered what travelers need:

• Complimentary yellow umbrellas for unexpected Chicago downpours

• Bicycles available for exploring the city

• Afternoon treats and coffee in the lobby

• Friendly staff who seem genuinely happy to assist with any request

• Unique pineapple-shaped cookies that taste as good as they look

The team at StayPineapple has clearly put thought into creating not just comfortable accommodations but a memorable experience. Their “Everything People” approach means that every staff member is empowered to make your stay special.

Worth Every Single Penny

While StayPineapple isn’t the cheapest option in Chicago, the value you receive far exceeds the price tag. From the unparalleled comfort of their beds ( I cannot put a finer point on how damn comfy these beds are) to the prime location and exceptional service, you’re investing in an experience that elevates your entire Chicago trip.

As a mom who values both comfort and creating special memories for my family, I can honestly say I’ve found my new favorite Chicago hotel. There’s something refreshing about a boutique hotel brand that maintains its personality while delivering five-star comfort. Whether you’re a Gen-Z traveler looking for Instagram-worthy moments, a family celebrating a special occasion, or anyone who appreciates the perfect blend of luxury, comfort, and playfulness, StayPineapple Chicago delivers an experience that will have you planning your return visit before you’ve even checked out. Believe me, I’m just trying to decide on a city! South Boston StayPineapple, I’m coming for you! We’ve always stayed at the Hyatt Regency Boston and love it. It’s amazing but I’m not sure the beds can compete with StayPineapple.

And isn’t that what we’re all looking for? Not just a place to stay, but a place that makes us want to staypineapple.

If you want to see how awesome StayPineapple Chicago really is be sure to stop by my Instagram over the weekend. I promise you’ll be glad you did!

What’s your favorite go to hotel when traveling?

The post I Found Chicago’s Best-Kept Secret: Why StayPineapple Is the Dog-Friendly Hotel That Will Ruin Your Own Bed Forever appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.

Every year, I dread this day because I never know how I’m going to feel. Am I going to be functional? Am I going to be in the fetal position? Will I feel a certain type of way? Or Will I cry? Will I break shit? Will the day pass nonchalantly? I think that’s the one I fear more than even completely forgetting… being able to go on with my life like nothing’s missing. Existing while pushing down the miscarriage anniversary grief that is always just a hair away from bubbling to the surface.

Maybe it’s because the baby I lost would be turning 13 years old this year (and that’s a huge milestone)? Or maybe it’s because my youngest daughter is graduating from high school and turning 18 years old this month? Maybe it’s because my oldest daughter, my closest friend, is going away for college in the fall? Maybe it’s the state of the world? Or maybe it’s feeling helpless, hopeless and overwhelmed. Maybe it’s all the forced change and letting go with no way to stop it. No one asked me.

I just know that today, I feel like someone gashed open my scarred-over wound and left me bleeding and broken on the ground. It fucking hurts.

When will it stop hurting? How can anyone ever get over this kind of loss? It lingers with me daily; like a ghost of a memory that never fully existed in this world. It’s believing without ever truly knowing. It’s desperately missing what you never got to hold. How can I miss someone so heartbrokenly who I never even got to lay eyes on him beyond a sonogram?

It’s been 13 years since I heard those words, “ I’m sorry, I can’t find a heartbeat”. 13 years since my entire world imploded and changed me forever. It seems like yesterday ( the pain is still so fresh in my heart), but then again, it feels like it happened a lifetime ago, to someone else. But that’s only because the wound has long scarred over. The underlying pain, throbbing right beneath the surface, fickle and erratic, ready to go from 3 to 10 with the whisper of the wrong word or the thought of a memory that will never exist. How do you love someone so much and go on living without them? Is that even living?

Miscarriage anniversary grief is very real and seldom spoke of because everyone just wants to forget it happened.

But what about the mother’s with empty arms and overflowing hearts. What are we supposed to do with all of this love? Our grief is the proof that our children existed. 

It is living, but it’s only a semblance of the life you were evolving into; the trauma and pain of losing your child changes you in ways that only another mother can comprehend because a mother’s love is unlike any other love in the world. A mother is the one person in this world who will love you no matter what. She will defend you with her life because without you, she is unwhole.

So here I sit, in my bed, still in my pajamas at 2:17 p.m. mourning and remembering a child that I loved more than myself but never had the privilege of holding in my arms. It may seem weird to hold so tight but sometimes it feels like he never existed. I have to be his legacy. 

The thing is I’m no quitter. I’ve never quit a thing in my life. It’s just not how I’m built but, honestly, I feel like my body failed my baby and I can never pay that debt. It lingers in my heart that maybe my uncertainty and hesitation about being a mom at 39, maybe it was some cosmic punishment for not being as enthusiastic at our unexpected blessing? I have grief from the loss mixed with guilt for my body failing my child. I’ll carry that weight until the day I die. I’ll always feel responsible for lacking.

But, that’s all I can do for atonement is live with guilt. I can’t do anything to bring my baby back and I never could. Sometimes things just don’t work out, for no reason at all; no matter how much you wanted it. No matter how much you loved it. No matter how scared or unsure you were. None of it mattered. It just wasn’t meant to be and I have to learn to live with that. 

Miscarriage Anniversary Grief

It never goes away. No matter how I wish none of it were true and you, my sweet baby, were here with me. I never got the chance to hold you in my arms and read these lines to you, my sweet baby, but today…I feel it’s time to say the words I never could to you…

“ I’ll love you forever

I’ll like you for always

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be”

XOXO, Mommy

The post I Never Held You, But I’ll Always Love You appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.

The Measles Comeback: Why It Matters to Your Family

Measles isn’t just another childhood illness. It’s incredibly contagious – capable of lingering in the air for hours after an infected person has left the room. One person with measles can infect up to 90% of unprotected people around them. And while most recover, the complications can be devastating – pneumonia, brain swelling (encephalitis), and even death.

According to Harvard Health Publishing, Dr. Michelle Chan, an infectious disease physician at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, puts it clearly: “We worry about the outbreaks because measles is a highly contagious infection. Individuals who have not been immunized, children too young for the vaccine, and those who are immunocompromised can become very ill from measles.”

Are You in a Vulnerability Gap? Check Your Birth Year

Here’s the reality many of us missed: your childhood vaccines might not be giving you complete protection anymore. The CDC has identified several key groups who should check their immunity status immediately:

• Born between 1963-1967? You may have received an inactivated (killed) version of the measles vaccine that proved less effective. Medical records from this era are spotty at best, so if you were vaccinated during this window, doctors recommend getting one to two doses of the current MMR vaccine.
• Born between 1968-1989? You likely received just one dose of the MMR vaccine, as two doses didn’t become standard until 1989. One dose provides about 93% protection, but two doses boost that to 97%. That 4% difference might not sound huge until you consider how contagious measles is.
• Healthcare workers, international travelers, or those who have close contact with immunocompromised individuals should ensure complete vaccination regardless of age, as these positions put you at higher risk of exposure or transmission.

You may need an adult measles booster shot

What about those born before 1957? You’re generally considered immune because measles was so widespread during your childhood that you likely were exposed and developed natural immunity. However, if you’re in a high-risk profession or situation, testing or vaccination might still be recommended.

When Protection Isn’t Just Personal

I’ll be honest – I was frustrated about needing another MMR vaccine as an adult. As I told my doctor while rolling up my sleeve, “It’s ridiculous that I have to get an MMR as an adult, but I don’t want to catch measles and possibly die.”

But then I remembered: this isn’t just about me. It’s about community protection – what medical experts call “herd immunity.” Some people genuinely cannot receive vaccines for medical reasons – babies too young for vaccination, people undergoing cancer treatment, or those with certain immune disorders. My immunity helps protect them. I’m not a selfish person by nature and I definitely don’t want to be responsible for infecting someone else.

I believe in personal choice, but not when those choices put vulnerable people at risk. If parents choose not to vaccinate their children, they should at least keep unvaccinated children home when ill and inform others of potential exposure so families can make informed decisions.

Checking Your Immunity: Simpler Than You Think

The good news? Determining if you need a booster is simple:

1. Check your vaccination records if available
2. Talk to your doctor about your specific situation
3. Consider a blood test that can check your immunity levels
4. When in doubt, get vaccinated – receiving an additional MMR dose is completely safe even if you’re already immune

As Dr. Chan reassures patients, “If you are unsure, you can choose to take a dose of the vaccine. It is very safe and not harmful if you happen to receive an additional dose.”

My Family’s Protection Plan includes an adult measles booster shot

At the end of the day, I’m going to do what’s best to protect my family. For me, that meant getting my second MMR vaccine last week. For you, it might mean checking your records or scheduling an appointment with your doctor.

As parents, we make thousands of decisions for our families. This is one where the science is clear: ensuring proper measles immunity through vaccination isn’t just about protecting ourselves – it’s about protecting our entire community, especially those who can’t protect themselves.

As Dr. Chan emphasizes, “It all comes back to vaccines. This is our most effective method of preventing measles infection and resurgence.”

Have you checked your family’s measles immunity status lately? Did you discover you needed a booster? Share your experience in the comments below.

The post Born Between 1957-1989? Your Measles Immunity Might Need a Boost appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.

As the daughter of an immigrant and a mom, watching Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents conduct so-called “welfare checks” on unaccompanied immigrant children makes my blood boil. What’s presented as concern for child safety is revealed through internal documents to be something far more sinister: a coordinated effort to deport vulnerable children and criminalize the family members legally caring for them. ICE targeting immigrant children is wrong on every level. They’re children; regardless of color or race, it’s our responsibility to care for children.

The Truth Behind ICE’s “Welfare Checks”

Recent reports have confirmed that ICE is actively seeking out unaccompanied immigrant children in nationwide operations. While the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) claims these visits are benevolent “welfare checks” meant to “ensure that they are safe and not being exploited,” an internal ICE document obtained by the National Immigration Project tells a different story.

The document explicitly shows that ICE officials are gathering intelligence to determine whether these children are “flight risks” or “threats to public safety.” Evaluating deportation possibilities, and looking for ways to pursue criminal cases against both the children and their sponsors. This isn’t protection—it’s persecution.

Michelle Méndez, director of legal resources and training for the National Immigration Project, called it what it is: “backdoor family separation.” The government is weaponizing these children’s vulnerability to target entire immigrant communities.

ICE targeting immigrant children for deportation is fucking bullshit. People are not “illegal,” especially in a country stolen from the indigenous and built on the backs of brown and black people.

Let’s be crystal clear about what’s happening: this administration is deliberately traumatizing children who have already endured unimaginable hardships. Many of these kids fled violence, poverty, and persecution, traveling thousands of dangerous miles alone in search of safety. They’ve been processed through our immigration system. Placed with vetted sponsors (often family members), and are working through their legal cases as required by our laws.

Now, ICE agents are showing up at their homes, terrifying them with threats of deportation or criminal charges. A 16-year-old girl in Washington state was so frightened during one of these “welfare checks” that she desperately messaged her legal representative, afraid her life would be “flipped upside down.” This isn’t protecting children—it’s traumatizing them.

Systemic Attacks on Vulnerable Communities

These operations don’t exist in isolation. They’re part of a broader pattern of attacks on immigrant communities:

1. Legal services for unaccompanied minors have been slashed, despite court intervention
2. The Office of Refugee Resettlement (ORR) has resumed sharing sensitive data about children and their sponsors with ICE
3. The current acting director of ORR is Angie Salazar, a former ICE agent
4. Children with alleged “gang ties” are being targeted using flimsy evidence under the rarely-used 1798 Alien Enemies Act

The concept of “backdoor family separation” is just a way to use immigrant people’s love for their children to threaten them. No Latino is ever leaving their child behind. These are human beings, and the U.S. government is treating them like property, completely dehumanizing these parents and their children in order for fellow Americans to condone this mass deportation of brown people. It’s a crime against humanity. Americans, we need to do what’s right even when its hard.

The Human Impact

For families caring for these children, these operations create an atmosphere of constant fear. Sponsors who went through extensive background checks and vetting processes to legally care for these children now face potential arrest and deportation for doing exactly what the government asked them to do. WTF? It feels like a trap and serves as a threat to others; stand down or you too might get illegally deported.

Shaina Aber, executive director of the Acacia Center for Justice, expressed her distress: “The amount of trauma that this administration seems willing to put kids through is really upsetting.”

Samuel Smith, director of immigrant legal aid at Manzanita House, described the terrified 16-year-old girl who contacted him during an ICE visit: “Both the text messages sent and the tone of communication when talking on the phone, was of a child who was incredibly scared. She had no idea what was going on and was worried that her life would be flipped upside down.”

A Personal Perspective

As someone who grew up watching my immigrant parent navigate this country’s complicated and often hostile systems, I understand the constant fear that comes with being seen as “other.” The worry that a knock on the door might mean your family being torn apart. The vigilance required to survive in a system designed to exclude you. In this political climate, even when you’ve done everything right and are here with proper paperwork, you still carry with you that feeling of being vulnerable and scared.

These children have done nothing wrong. They are following the legal processes established by our own government. Their sponsors—often family members who simply want to provide a safe home—are being criminalized for acts of love.

There’s a particular cruelty in targeting children. They are the most vulnerable and the least able to advocate for themselves. They’re the most likely to suffer lasting trauma from these experiences. ICE is deliberately exploiting this vulnerability.

What This Really Means

Let’s be honest about what’s happening here ICE is targeting immigrant children. This isn’t about protecting children. If it were, we’d be investing in their legal representation and their education. We’d care about their mental health services, and their successful integration into communities.

Instead, this administration has cut legal services and appointed former ICE officials to lead the agency responsible for these children’s care. The intent is clear: to use fear as a deterrent. They want to make examples of these children. Advancing a political agenda that views certain immigrants as inherently undesirable.

As Americans, we must ask ourselves: Is this who we want to be? A nation that terrorizes children? That separates families? That punishes acts of love and compassion?

For the daughter of an immigrant watching this unfold, the answer is a resounding “hell no”. We must be and do better than this. These children deserve better than this. Our shared humanity demands it.

The post The Cruel Reality: ICE Targeting Immigrant Children for Deportation Under the Guise of “Welfare” appeared first on The TRUTH About Motherhood.