From Lavender Fuzzy Blankets to Irrational Fear and Life Lessons
I don’t actually remember falling asleep last night. One minute I was stretched out on a wooden platform, wrapped in a fuzzy, freshly washed lavender-scented blanket with two furry bodyguards at my side, and the next thing I knew—seven hours gone. No dreams, no tossing, no turning. Just pure blackout sleep.
When I woke, my hip and back immediately dialed customer service at Brain HQ to lodge a complaint. “Excuse me, who approved this sleeping arrangement?” they demanded. Sleeping on a hard surface might be fantastic for the spine—if you stay perfectly flat like a mummy. But the second you roll onto your side, it’s less yoga retreat and more medieval torture device.
Getting old sucks, I don’t care what the self-help books or TikTok wellness gurus say. Sure, you gain wisdom, stability, maybe even a bigger paycheck—blah blah blah. But nobody tells you about the random body noises, the joints that creak like haunted floorboards, or the mornings when your skeleton straight-up refuses to participate in life. And then lupus comes along like an uninvited raccoon at a picnic—digging through the potato salad and making everything worse. Shut up. That sucks. Period. End of rant.
I tried to sit up gracefully. Spoiler alert: there was nothing graceful about it. Picture a turtle flipped on its back trying to roll upright—that was me. My back ignored every polite request from my brain like a teenager refusing chores, so I latched onto the cabinet and yanked myself up with all the dignity of a walrus climbing onto a dock.
Of course, the dogs thought this was their cue for wiggles, tail-thrashing, and full-on cuddle ambush. Not what I asked for, but hey—free serotonin is free serotonin.
And then came the plot twist: my hands started throbbing, my elbows buzzing like they were dancing at a rave without me, and my body decided to audition for “America’s Got Malfunctions.” Why am I like this, I thought, rhetorically, because even my brain was laughing.
I thought my flare had packed its bags and left. Turns out it just went on a coffee break, sipping lattes in the corner, waiting for the perfect dramatic entrance. Yesterday’s stress must’ve been the invitation it needed for this unwanted encore.
I hobbled to my chair, determined to hit the snooze button on life. At 5 a.m., everything felt like a punishment for crimes I didn’t remember committing. I closed my eyes… and then boom—two needy dogs crash-landed on top of me, ready for round two of snuggles. Of course I obliged. Who needs circulation anyway? Snuggles first, then back to blissful sleep.
Two hours later, the alarm dragged all three of us awake. None of us were impressed. Dogs peeled off me, I staggered toward my espresso machine, my most loyal advisor, and begged her to roar to life. Dogs out—check. Coffee—check. Shower—double check. With zero time to dilly-dally, I dove into the morning race: today was payroll approvals.
Yesterday unearthed wounds I’d carefully boxed, labeled “Do Not Open, Ever,” and shoved into the closet of my mind. Anxiety meds tried to nail the door shut, but my thoughts still slipped through the cracks and spiraled. My therapist says the goal isn’t to ignore the past but to avoid allowing it permanent space in my thoughts. Easier said than done when my body insists on holding a housewarming party every time I get too close.
Marriage was something I never thought I’d do. My Mooma had been married three times, so I grew up seeing it less as a fairy tale and more as a sentence. But when I met him, he softened my heart. When I said “I do,” I meant forever—unless abuse or cheating occurred. I was willing to put in the work. But the truth is, we both stopped putting in the work.
Day by day, we slid into unhappy contentment—safe, unconnected, distracted by everything except each other. COVID, family issues, grief, work. Always assuming there’d be a “next time” to focus on us. Next time never came.
When I left, I told myself maybe someday we’d circle back, or at least remain friends. But really, that was just my heart tricking me into being brave enough to walk away. Leaving what is safe but unhappy is terrifying. You feel selfish, guilty, unsteady. But you do it anyway because staying feels like a slow death.
My therapist put it in perspective: everybody daydreams about Midlife Plot Twists, but most hit snooze on the idea forever. I didn’t. I actually jumped—and it made people uncomfortable, because it didn’t fit their script. He told me I was brave. Brave! Me—the woman who panics at low gas lights and refuses to watch horror movies alone. And for once, I didn’t argue, didn’t laugh it off. I let it land. And for the first time, I believed it. And I felt proud.
So where am I now? I can’t even picture another committed relationship. Not saying it’ll never happen, but right now, it doesn’t exist in my universe. Instead, I’m pouring every ounce of energy into the things that matter most—healing, forgiving, learning to love myself… and spoiling two bougie dogs who deserve a lifetime of happy days crammed into the short years they get. That’s my whole mission: them and me.
By the time I finished dissecting all of that before 10 a.m., my brain hurt. Quick pep talk: move forward, focus on work, let the meds do their thing.
The day blurred by in Teams calls and emails until it was time to drop the dogs off and head onsite. Which meant one sad fact: no gaming family time tonight, it was going to be a late night. And no Alien movie marathon, which—let’s be real—was tragic. I’ve got a backlog of horror movies to catch up on.
Here’s the thing: I love horror movies, but I am way too much of a chicken to watch them alone. The last time I did, I ended up crawling around my house on all fours, checking window locks, phone glued to my ear as I babbled to my best friend. She laughed; I nearly cried. In my defense, I was in my 20’s and it was a really scary movie. Judge me if you must.
The stop-and-go rhythm of traffic was oddly soothing, like a lullaby with road rage. Halsey screamed rebellion through the speakers, and I let my brain drift—already fried from too much morning introspection. The dogs, meanwhile, stared out the window with the joy of toddlers on Christmas morning, certain something magical awaited them. Their big surprise? A bath. Their favorite thing. Spoiler: it’s not.
We got to Auntie/Groomer/Boarder’s shop, snagged hugs from two of my favorite humans, and left my favorite animals behind for their spa day. Then I fired up the truck and instantly got the dreaded ding. Before I turned it off, the screen swore I had 56 miles left. Turned it back on—boom, 0 miles. Instant panic mode. Cue my irrational fear: stranded on the highway, starring in a low-budget horror film called Serial Trucker Strikes Again. I whispered a prayer to the universe and bee-lined for the nearest gas station. Of course, my perfectly timed schedule was wrecked, so I texted my partner-in-crime coworker to confess my lateness. Then I pumped an ungodly amount of gas into the tank and mourned my bank account.
Once at work, it was back-to-back meetings sprinkled with a little friendly chatter. By the time I clocked out, I was running on fumes but grateful it was after 7 p.m.—meaning I’d dodged the gladiator arena otherwise known as Houston rush hour. Honestly, driving here sometimes feels like gambling with your life while the universe deals the cards.
I rolled up to collect the dogs and had a long-overdue chat with my bestie/dog extraordinaire. She gave me the play-by-play: my bougie muffins tried to eat a sweet dog, then decided, “Eh, let’s just be friends,” and played instead. Classic. I reminded her the zap zap is important—it’s not mean, it’s just canine Morse code for “act right.” My dogs are sweet, but they’re also spoiled rotten, and yes, that’s 100% Mommy’s fault.
Then came the long hike home—two hours of “why did I do this to myself” thoughts. Luckily, the drive was dark, quiet, and oddly peaceful. I sank into my heated seat, flicked on the steering wheel warmer, and decided life was actually pretty glorious in that moment.
On the long drive home, I called my Auntie—she’s been sick with COVID and out of commission for over a week, so we had plenty to catch up on. I gave her the full scoop on all the drama and the movies she’d missed. She fired back with a few choice words about my soon-to-be ex–sister-in-law, which made me laugh and feel wrapped in love. She also reminded me not to be so hard on my sister for her fiery defense of me—loyalty runs deep in this family, even if it comes out sideways sometimes. We said our goodnights, and I finished the rest of the drive smiling in the dark, feeling lighter.
The dogs, worn out from their spa day, immediately collapsed in the back. By the time we got home, all they wanted was food and snuggles. Once they were tucked in (yes, tucked, and no, I don’t accept judgment), I finally sat down to write.
Life is messy, confusing, and a little terrifying. But it’s also beautiful, funny, and deeply special—if you pause long enough to notice. I’m still missing things all the time, but I’m learning to listen better….even when the universe whispers through two bougie dogs.
Lessons of the Day
Aging means waking up injured from absolutely nothing.
Free serotonin often arrives disguised as dog snuggles.
Lupus is basically a raccoon at a picnic: loud, messy, and uninvited.
Anxiety meds can slam the door shut, but spirals are sneaky little lock-pickers.
Midlife Plot Twists are scary, but sometimes being brave just means leaving the “safe.”
Heated seats and steering wheel warmers count as therapy. Don’t argue.
Dogs will betray you by trying to eat another dog—and then play like nothing happened.
Gas pumps can drain both your wallet and your soul at the same time.
Horror movies are best enjoyed with company—or you’ll end up crawling around checking window locks like a lunatic.
Life is messy and confusing, but it’s also stitched together with small, beautiful moments—especially if you pause long enough to notice.
