The Reason I’m Awake

For four nights, I have woken somewhere between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m.

At first, I thought it was my never-ending to-do list.

The business.

The money.

The things I haven't finished.

The things I know I could be doing if I had more capacity, more resources, more time.

I thought maybe I was awake because I'm not where I want to be yet.

Because I can see what is possible, and I know how to get there, but right now my capacity is smaller than the ask.

I'm spread thin.

I'm tired.

And there is a part of me that still believes I should somehow be able to do more.

So I kept assuming the thing waking me up was responsibility.

This morning, somewhere in the quiet, I finally asked myself a different question.

Why am I really awake?

And the answer came like a heavy wave of grief.

It isn't the attorney fees.

It isn't the money.

It isn't the upcoming court date.

It isn't even the business.

It's my daughter.

I am afraid for her.

Not because I believe she is without love.

Not because I believe she is without resources.

But because I am deeply afraid of the things children learn to carry when the adults around them don't have the capacity to carry them.

For the last three weeks, I have had my daughter with me consecutively.

Three weeks.

A seemingly ordinary amount of time that, for us, feels extraordinary.

It is the longest stretch of uninterrupted time we have had together since I left my marriage more than a year and a half ago.

And I have watched her soften.

I've watched her settle.

Her sleep has become more consistent.

She's taking care of herself.

She's eating regular meals.

She's engaged.

She's independent.

She's happy.

There is a calmness in her that I can feel.

And perhaps the most heartbreaking part is that I know this isn't simply about having a "good three weeks."

It's about watching what happens when a child doesn't feel like she has to carry the emotional weight of the room.

When she gets to be a kid.

When she doesn't have to anticipate what an adult needs.

When she doesn't have to solve problems that aren't hers.

When she doesn't have to be the little boss of the house.

When she doesn't have to worry about things that belong in the adult category.

This is the part that breaks my heart.

Because I know that Monday will come.

And with it, another transition.

Another handoff.

Another moment where I have to trust a system, trust circumstances I cannot control, and trust that my child will navigate whatever comes next.

And that is a particular kind of grief.

Because I know how to help her when she comes home.

I know how to sit beside her.

I know how to listen.

I know how to help her regulate.

I know how to make food, create routine, hold boundaries, offer softness, and give her a safe place to land.

I know how to love her through the aftermath.

But knowing how to help your child recover from something is not the same as wanting them to have to recover from it.

I don't want my daughter to become resilient because she had to.

I want her to become resilient because she was supported.

There is a difference.

And I think about that distinction a lot.

Because parenting, to me, is so much more than a title.

Being a mother or a father is a biological relationship.

Being a parent is a responsibility.

It is the willingness to put the needs of a child above your own when that is what the moment requires.

It is creating safety.

It is creating stability.

It is providing the basic foundation from which a child can grow: food, shelter, connection, consistency, emotional safety, and the freedom to simply be a child.

And sometimes the hardest thing about loving your child is recognizing the things you cannot control.

I cannot control another adult.

I cannot control the decisions other people make.

I cannot control the legal system.

I cannot control the timeline.

I cannot control what happens when my daughter is not with me.

And I cannot fight every battle publicly simply because my heart is screaming for someone to understand.

So I am learning another kind of strength.

The strength to document.

The strength to advocate.

The strength to tell the truth in the places where truth belongs.

And the strength to be quiet when speaking publicly would serve my anger more than it would serve my child.

Because this isn't about winning.

It isn't about revenge.

It isn't even about money.

I don't want more money.

I want my daughter to sleep peacefully.

I want her to eat without worrying about whether there will be a meal.

I want her to know that the adults around her are responsible for being adults.

I want her to have the freedom to grow up without believing that love means managing someone else's emotions.

I want her to know that she doesn't have to earn safety by being useful.

And perhaps that is why I am awake.

Because underneath all of the business plans and legal bills and responsibilities and dreams is a mother who loves her child so fiercely that sometimes the grief feels bigger than her body can hold.

And then there is the other layer.

The one I almost don't want to admit.

I am aware of my privilege.

My daughter is not homeless.

She has food.

She has a bed.

She has people who love her.

She is not living through the kinds of circumstances that so many children in this world are forced to survive.

And somehow, instead of making me feel better, that awareness makes me ache more.

Because I know there are parents fighting battles far more dire than mine.

Parents who don't have resources.

Parents who don't have attorneys.

Parents who don't have a voice.

Parents who know something is wrong and don't have the ability to change it.

Parents whose children are navigating unimaginable things.

So I sit here at 2:00 in the morning, grieving my own situation while also feeling the weight of every person who has ever looked at a broken system and thought:

How can this be happening when everyone can see that something is wrong?

Maybe that is part of the responsibility of being a coach.

A leader.

A healer.

A mother.

To let our own pain open our eyes wider without allowing it to consume us.

I have spent years healing.

I have learned how to come home to myself.

I have learned how to regulate my nervous system.

I have learned how to sit with grief without letting it become my identity.

And now I am learning something else:

Sometimes healing doesn't mean making peace with what happened.

Sometimes healing means deciding what you will do with what happened next.

So for now, I am taking one breath.

One day.

One foot in front of the other.

I will keep advocating.

I will keep documenting.

I will keep loving my daughter.

I will keep creating a home where she gets to be a child.

And when the time is right, I will use everything I have learned—not to destroy anyone, but to help build something better.

Because I don't want to spend my life fighting people.

I want to spend my life fighting the things that make people believe they have no choice.

And maybe that is the real reason I'm awake.

Not because I am failing.

Not because I haven't done enough.

Not because I am behind.

But because there is something in me that still believes we can do better.

For our children.

For ourselves.

For the people who have been failed by systems that were supposed to protect them.

And tonight, when I go to bed, I am going to remind myself of something I sometimes forget:

I don't have to solve the whole world tonight.

My job is simply to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

And to make sure the little girl I love knows, every single day, that she gets to be a little girl.

That is enough for today.