Yesterday was one of those days where nothing feels right, where every word cuts and every look hurts. It started with our kid refusing to touch the fruit I put on their plate. “Come on, just one piece,” I said for what felt like the thousandth time. I got a glare that could slice through steel, followed by a slow, deliberate move to the fridge. They opened it, pulled out the ketchup, and, still glaring at me, drowned their eggs and fruit in it, seething with silent “I hate yous.”

Deep breaths, keep breathing, I told myself. This kid is only 10, but the way they looked at me? It hurt. It cut. Why do I take this so personally? Why does it sting so much? Parenting is supposed to be about patience and wisdom, but sometimes it just feels like I’m standing here, raw and vulnerable, taking shots I didn’t see coming. So, I did what I always do: I laced up my running shoes and headed out to clear my head.

For the first three miles, I fought with them in my mind. Oh, I had the perfect comebacks ready. I ran through all the things I could have said, each one sharper than the last, letting myself feel righteous. Then it hit me: I was literally coming up with comebacks for a 10-year-old. A kid I adore, no less. Oh my god.

Somewhere around mile four, I started to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, using all this energy to stew in my hurt rather than understanding where it was coming from. And in that space, I started to see it for what it was—my pain layered on top of theirs, their anger masking their own hurt and confusion. I let it go, or at least tried to.

Then, as we all gathered for dinner that night, something shifted. We decided on a family reset. Out went the sugar—straight to the trash. Out went the screens—all of them, every last one, banished to the shed. We stocked up on fresh fruits, veggies, and every color you can imagine. It was time to strip things down and spend time on what really matters: each other, our health, and the things we love.

The dinner plates still sat on the table, the kitchen a mess, and the last threads of the day fraying. Then, as if on cue, Alexa started playing the music from Wicked. Our kid, defiant and fierce, jumped up from the table and burst into a dance, their own quirky choreography. No, they didn’t ask to be excused. But I’ll let that one go.

And somehow, in the middle of the mess, the light came back. We clapped, laughed, joined in for a few awkward dance moves. The dogs bounced around, barking along.

This is us, right here, right now—a family learning to show up through the mess. Not because we always know how to do it gracefully, but because somehow, together, we’re figuring it out. It’s raw, it’s imperfect, and it’s messy as hell. But it’s real, and it’s home

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