There’s something I need to say. To my inner child. To my weary adult. To my hurting back. To my kid, Leo. To my wife, Kelly. To anyone who’s ever tried to keep the world spinning with one exhausted hand:

I’m tired of being the lifeguard.
I want to swim.

It started small—me getting irritated at the TV. Leo tossing a backpack on the floor. Me feeling like no one saw how much I do. I’d tell myself I was just being fair: I made you lunch, you could be a little grateful.
But underneath that… was something old.
Something deep.

What I’ve come to see is this:
I made a vow when I was sixteen and my brother Ben died.
I had said no to him that day—chose myself for one moment. And then he was gone. And a part of me whispered: Never again. Never say no. Never put yourself first. Stay alert. Keep everyone safe. Or you might lose everything.

And I have.
For decades I’ve stayed in the lifeguard chair. I’ve watched the emotional waters of my family like someone on duty, constantly bracing for impact. I’ve worked so hard to protect everyone that I forgot how to be with them. Or with myself.

When Leo is carefree, it triggers me. Not because they’re doing something wrong—but because I didn’t get that.
I never got to throw my backpack down and be done for the day.
I never got to trust that someone else had it covered.
I became the peacemaker, the protector, the one holding it all—and I learned to avoid me by doing for others.

Even now, I delay joy. I wait to play guitar. I put off drawing or getting in the hot tub. I do laundry, answer emails, take care of everything… and then quietly resent the people I love for feeling left out. But the truth?

I’m the one leaving myself out.
And I don’t want to live like that anymore.

To my back that burns: I hear you. Thank you for holding this for so long. You don’t have to anymore.
To my weary soul: You deserve to rest before the crash.
To my inner child: I’m so sorry I’ve made you carry this. You didn’t cause Ben’s death. You are allowed to play.
To Kelly: I’ve been trying to carry everything. I want to share the weight. I want to begin again.
To Leo: I love you. If I get sharp sometimes, it’s not about you—it’s about the little girl inside me who didn’t get to be carefree. I’m working on that.
To anyone who can relate: You’re not alone. You are not broken. You are not lazy for needing rest. You’re not selfish for craving joy. You’re probably just tired of being the lifeguard, too.

I don’t have it all figured out. But I’ve decided to start my days with me. Not as a reward, but as a right. Here’s my new ritual. Maybe it will help you, too.

🌅 Molly’s Morning Ritual (30 min daily)

1. Light the space (2 min)
A candle, a window cracked, a lamp on. Something simple to mark this time as mine.

2. Body check-in (3–5 min)
Hands on heart or belly. “What do I need today?” Breathe into the low back. Maybe stretch. Maybe just notice.

3. Joy touchstone (10–15 min)
Pick one:
🎸 Strum guitar with no agenda
🎨 Doodle or color
📖 Read a chapter
🛁 Sit in the hot tub
🧸 Play with an ‘80s toy (yes, I collect them)
☕ Sit quietly with coffee and no plan

4. Anchor word (1 min)
Whisper something like:
“There is space for me.”
“I choose joy before the list.”
“Today, I swim.”

5. Reentry (5–10 min)
Make tea. Say good morning to the world. Come back to the family not as a lifeguard, but as Molly—present, rooted, real.

I want to stop bracing.
I want to stop surviving.
I want to live.

And it starts small. With me. With mornings. With choosing myself in ways that don’t punish anyone else—but finally include me.

If you’re still reading this and feeling that low back burn, or the tears behind your eyes, or the familiar ache of always holding it together…
This love letter is for you, too.

Let’s climb down from the lifeguard chair.
Let’s swim.

—

With tenderness,
Molly