I haven’t been honest lately.

I haven’t been totally honest, at least, which is the same as being dishonest. I haven’t been honest here, which means I haven’t been honest with myself. When I write here, I try to let it all out: be open about the struggles I face, we all face, and describe them in their ugly and beautiful totality. This is therapeutic for me, because it’s real. Because it’s a process, getting to the end and pressing “Post,” and usually by that point I’m feeling a sense of relief at the journey having taken place: events and thoughts transcribed, grace observed.

The appeal of tying things up neatly is irresistible. Plus, no one wants to be a Debbie Downer. People talk about Debbie Downers (so I have been informed). And my penchant for order always pushes me in the direction of a tidy, if not happy, ending each week.

It’s just that that’s not always possible. More importantly, it’s not always true.

I’ve been overwhelmed by anxiety lately. And through conversations I’ve had and stories I’ve beheld, I know I’m not the only one. So consider this a pit stop, a bench to sit on together, if you’re anything like me: short of breath, an inch from losing your shit, taking it out on your partner and/or kids, full of regret, battling an eyelid twitch, suffering from insomnia, having the shakes, feeling…crazy.

And if that’s not you, chances are it’s someone you know and love. Life is unrelenting, in all the ways.

I developed my eyelid twitch (not to be confused with my actual eyeball twitch, #blessed) when I was living in New York and I had to quit a dicey job. Along with the twitch came some fun heart palpitations that sent me to the doctor, who in turn sent me out with an external heart monitor. Good times. After I shed myself of the job and its issues, the twitch and palpitations disappeared. But lately, my eyelid has gone haywire again. The other day, I was driving the boys to their respective schools while stuck in traffic. They were talking over each other in the backseat. I felt the old familiar feeling returning: panic, breathlessness, a need to escape what felt like drowning. I wanted to scream.

A couple of nights later, Little Brother fell asleep quickly but The Kid did…not. The Husband was out and I was all set for an hour or so of a TV movie with a glass of red. TK would not acquiesce to this plan. He was almost asleep and I got up to go when he awoke, asking where I was going.

I am not nice in moments like these. I very actively, in fact, end up hating myself for moments like these: my terse replies and emotional shutdown, my impatience and irritability with life not going according to my preordained plan. I brought TK upstairs with me and turned on Failure to Launch. It was not as good as I remembered it being in a theatre in New York with girlfriends. I turned it off and we went back downstairs. My teeth were gritted the whole time. My thoughts were dark. My skin pricked with rage and stress.

Last week, we had our Parent-Teacher meeting at TK’s school. His therapist had given me a heads-up of some of the things that might be discussed, which was a gift. Without that gift, I might have gone in expecting either the pleased surprise of his kindy teacher or the easily-discarded dumpster fire of last year. What we got was neither. What we got was a lot of truth.

That’s always the best. And the worst.

His teacher this year expects more of him, which means more is expected of us, which means there is no autopilot for parenting (how could I have forgotten?? But I did). We have been lulled by a series of successes into a resting-on-laurels state, an enjoyment of all that he’s proven himself capable of: dancing on stage, improving his handwriting, doing maths, coding like a mofo. But what used to be our main concern–his social interactions and behaviour–has both improved, and taken a backseat to the very real needs of academic and independence growth.

He learns differently, and we have to help him, and this is both hard and wonderful. I feel both suited for it and woefully inept. To put it another way: I was a star speller growing up, winning the state spelling bee in sixth grade. Spelling is not TK’s strong suit. How do I parent from a place so different to his, in this one example?

Well, last week I parented him to a nine out of ten on his spelling test, his highest score this year. This is not a brag, though, for if you had seen the carnage and screaming (his…mine) it took to get there, well…

Beauty on the other side of difficulty? I’m counting on it.

We’ve had an amazing couple of years, and now shit is getting real. Kids are getting older and new demands arise. How do we help them become who they’re meant to be? The pressure is overwhelming.

Hello, eye twitch.

TH, who is kinder than I deserve, took the boys off me for awhile this weekend and I finished my conference talk. I breathed. I walked, and ran. I used my new ALDI back massager, which is changing my life. I finished binging The OA.

But the best moment came once we were all together again, after a Sunday lunch, when we walked down to the beachfront and the boys settled into the sand. TH grabbed each of us a drink and we sat there, shaded in the afternoon sun, and we just were. Tears and laughter, anxiety and peace, all of it coexisting. Which is not to wrap things up neatly, but more to offer–to myself and anyone else who’d like to join–a port in the storm. Even when there isn’t one, overtly–some days the sun is shining and I’m wearing makeup and decent clothes–but life and weather are unrelenting. And this is grace, and love, this constant acceptance and fighting and figuring it out and messing it up, this grappling, together–facing the waves that both soothe and buffet us and remake the shoreline where we sit, day after day, nothing and everything changing all the time.