Unnested

Warning label: It will take 390 minutes to read. This is only because you’ll laugh, cry, and spiral. Grab a quick snack!

Before we really get started here’s a tidbit on my work-life circus.
I work from home, 8am to 5pm. I’m extremely grateful for this. Still, let’s be honest… it’s turned me into a full-blown weekday hermit. My social life now includes talking to my plants. I anxiously await the mail person. Sometimes, I shout at the dog for barking at the just wind. Occasionally, it’s a random Mylar balloon that crosses our 30 acre pasture at 6:30am.

Meanwhile, my husband works the night shift — 5pm to 5am. We’re like two ships passing in the night/day, I don’t know. I guess it’s more like one ship is chugging coffee (AKA a crisp Dr. P) and popping midlife medications. The other is just trying to hold his eyelids open with toothpicks. My morning voice grinds his gears like nails on a chalkboard. All to say, I usually see him in the morning just as I’m starting my day. He’s ending his, and he yells at me to get up and going. Who can be late for work when they work at home? Foreshadowing, the answer is me!. Then we have another brief exchange mid my afternoon break for important updates like:

• “Did you pay the water bill?”
• “The girls called: no more llama llama red pajama just guy drama, girl drama, life drama, Oh mama!”
• “I think the cat is plotting something evil.”

all the Mon-Fri buzz, weekends are an entirely other routine beast.

He sleeps while I work. We reconvene during my afternoon breaks for all the glamorous adult responsibilities. These include paying said bills, deeper parenting huddles, and deciding what leftovers are safe to eat. Speaking of leftovers, cooking for only 2 is nearly impossible for me to grasp. But that is a whole other episode…stay tuned.

Are you still with me? Here we go.
Let’s jump into that next sacred moment of the day. The computer shuts down, and the office lights go dark. The workday skin begins to shed like a lizard escaping corporate captivity. The evening stretches out before me — 390 minutes of space, solitude, and self.

Sounds refreshing, right? Especially to the mom rocking spit-up as a fashion statement, whose hair is on day… well, let’s just say it’s somewhere between “dry shampoo” and “Jesus take the wheel.” If you manage to leave the house this morning with matching shoes, congratulations — you’re basically winning at life. (And yes, sarcasm is my love language.)

1. Minutes 1–30: The Transition
2. The workday ends. I shut the laptop with the same dramatic flair as a soap opera exit. The office lights go off. I start the sacred ritual of shedding my Sales Rep skin. Goodbye professional voice. Hello, country bumpkin Cassie, who says “y’all” with conviction.
3. Shoes come off. Mail gets checked (mostly bills and coupons I’ll never use). I wander into the kitchen like I’m starring in a documentary called “Fridge: The Final Frontier.” I now fully understand why my kids used to stand there with the door wide open. They stared into the abyss as if it was going to magically offer a five-star meal. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
4. So I do what any grown woman with questionable dinner motivation does. I eat five pizza rolls and a handful of Doritos. My meal plan is giving strong college dorm energy. And yes, I did eye that emergency pack of Ramen I keep on standby. Foreshadowing: I ate it last night. Verdict? Ramen hits different in your mid-forties. And not in a good way.

• Minutes 31–120: The Echoes Creep In

This is when the quiet starts to hum a little louder.

I think of the girls — the laughter, the chaos, the dinner table debates. Most of which ended with someone storming off and someone else asking if we had dessert. I’ll catch myself mid-thought, ready to shout something funny or random down the hall… only to remember they’re not here. They are in class, at practice, out with friends — or having their own shed moments. And I don’t want to interrupt that. So, I sit with the thought and let it pass like a little ghost of motherhood.

The house feels… big. Like, unnecessarily big. Like, “why do we have this many forks?” big. I start fantasizing about becoming a traveling gypsy. Trust me, I’ve watched enough RV TikTok to know I absolutely can live in 200 square feet with fairy lights. I’m unsure about the composting toilet part but I’d be thriving.

A light moment of grief tiptoes in. I try to distract myself. I stare at the clock. I hope one of the girls will call or text. That anticipation is like emotional caffeine — it keeps me going, keeps my mind from wandering too far. But I also know better than to get too excited. The call doesn’t come. And suddenly, the quiet feels heavier.

I spiral a little. Not dramatically. It’s just enough that one tiny thing will trigger me. A sad commercial or the dog sighing too deeply can set off a full-blown emotional TED Talk. Topics…motherhood, aging, and why Ramen should come with a warning label for women over 40.

• Minutes 121–240: The Rediscovery (Kind of)

This is the part of the evening where I try to rediscover myself. I dabble in pickleball (when the knees allow), music, prayer, documentaries, stand-up comedy, and bit of Jesus. Or my latest venture, a blog wink wink. Cheaper than therapy! Just me me, my keyboard and a whole lot of feelings that I pretend are jokes. Oh and of course you, if your out there reading. Next, chores sneak in like uninvited guests — ew.

Shuffle, repeat.

I’m glad to report I;ve picked up a few new hobbies… or maybe just recycled old ones. Phone games have entered the chat. Yes, my forties are here and they brought Block Match with them (an upscale Tetris for you 80’s babies). And listen — I hate games. Always have. Okay self-reflection: It’s not the games, it’s me. I hyper fixate (thanks, ADHD), and suddenly I’m in a vortex where time, space, and self-control no longer exist. There, I said it. Block Match is my nemesis. Honestly, I need to review the minute groups of this post. That game has taken more time than I want to admit.

Then there’s a sprinkle of joy for choosing for myself — which, oddly at the same time, feels… wrong? Like I’m breaking some unwritten mom code. I’ll sit down to do whatever I please. Instantly, I feel like I should be folding something. I think I should be checking on someone. Or, I feel I should be solving a crisis. Is it the lifetime conditioning we get as women to always put others first?

And here’s the kicker: we moms can be unknowingly cruel to ourselves — self-included. We judge, we compare, we soften the guilt with vague phrases like “that’s just life!” But is it?

I’m trying to be gentle with myself. To remind myself that rediscovery doesn’t have to be productive. It can be messy, slow, and full of pizza rolls and binge trash tv. And that’s okay.

Minutes 241–390: The Quiet Glory (Or So They Say)

Now we’re getting to the good stuff. Set a scene for the wind-down. You get the call — the one you’ve been low-key manifesting all day. It’s exciting. You soak it all in. They talk with their friends and include you. Bless. They update you on milestones, drama, wins, and losses. You even have a chance to be the wise sounding board. You’re in it. You’re thriving.

And then… it happens. The dreaded moment.
The “Okay, I gotta go” or “Talk later, love you!”
You hold it together. You say your loves and prayers. My short and sweet goes something like: “You are amazing no matter what. I love you. Be safe. Make good choices!”
You hover your pointer finger over that glowing red circle on your phone. It feels like it’s the launch button for emotional instability. You don’t want to be the one to disconnect. But click — silence.

Okay, Peace. Your cue. Come on in.
I inhale. I exhale. I prepare to start a favorite show, maybe read a book, take a bath… and then BAM!! — allergies. Water mysteriously appears in my eyes. It pools on my cheeks. Weird, right? Definitely allergies. Definitely not feelings.

Internal me yelling into a dark abyss: Peace? Hello? Where you going?…….
Wait peace was just here. I swear I felt the temperature change.
I’m laying in bed with my pillow now damp (thanks, “allergies”). I cuddle my emotional support cat. He is clearly over my drama, but he is to overcome by his own separation anxiety to leave my side.

And then I remember:

These 390 minutes of my day aren’t empty.
They’re full of possibility.
They’re mine.
And they’re sacred.

They are a medal for success — the kind you pray for, cry over, and sometimes grieve. The ache I feel? It’s proof I got to be part of something extraordinary. A small sliver of a big win.

I know some will read this who are still waiting for their moment. They are struggling to become a mom. They have been told they can’t biologically. Or they are just trying to survive the chaos of it all. The value of the opportunity I have been allowed is not lost on me. I promise.

It’s a lot like shedding spiritually. You don’t become someone new overnight.
It’s about letting go of what no longer fits. I need to release the expectations, the roles, and the noise. This way, you can breathe a little deeper and hear God a little clearer.

Even if acceptance keeps ghosting us like a bad Tinder date, we wake up. The Good Lord willing, and do it all again tomorrow.
It doesn’t get easier.
We just learn to manage it.

And if we are lucky, one day they’ll ask us how to get through these seasons.
And we’ll have more than “told ya so” to say in return.

Your Friend, Cassie