Kate Didd

There’s this lie we tell ourselves that transformation is soft.

That it arrives like a scented candle and a Pinterest quote.

It doesn’t.

Resetting my roar did not come slightly. It came like a woman standing in her own kitchen, staring at the mess of her own patterns and whispering, “Yeah… no. I don’t want it like this anymore.”

Because life is hard.

But here’s the kicker no one likes to embroider on a throw pillow:

You just have to choose your hard.

Laziness is hard.

Avoidance is hard.

Pretending you don’t know better is hard.

Complaining while doing absolutely nothing is hard.

And don’t worry, I can say that because I’ve lived it. I have worn the T-shirt. I have cried in the parking lot.

But one day, somewhere between folding laundry and folding my own ego, I decided I wanted a different hard.

I wanted whimsical.

I wanted true.

I wanted authentic.

I wanted to know who the hell I was trying to be.

And then, in the most romcom way possible, I asked myself a question that changed everything:

When I’m a grandma… how do I want people to describe me?

Because nobody messed with my grandmother.

She was soft and strong at the same time.

Not reckless with her emotions.

Not ruled by them either.

She didn’t have to roar loudly, her presence did it for her.

Wisdom had come to her the honest way: through living.

She passed away before I was old enough to steal all her secrets. And my mother, bless her heart, didn’t gatekeep them on purpose… she just hadn’t quite mastered them yet.

So there I was, a grown woman realizing that life is messy and we are all just… spawned here.

We don’t choose the bodies.

We don’t choose the circumstances.

We don’t know what we’ll tolerate.

We don’t know what we’ll allow.

It’s chance and chaos and childhood and coping mechanisms all thrown into a blender.

But how we perceive it?

Oh baby.

That’s a class act.

Coming home from my recent adventures, flying far to see myself more clearly, I realized something almost annoyingly simple:

My disciplines are exactly who I am.

I’m the woman who puts things away the next morning.

Who does the laundry.

Who picks up the slack.

Who sees the invisible weight of single parenthood and says, “Let me help carry that.”

Because I know how heavy it is.

So with an extra day off before work, I decided maybe I could reset too.

So when he comes home, he doesn’t have to worry about anything but me.

And mommy needs attention.

Yes. That kind.

Reset means reset.

Now let’s cue the romcom soundtrack.

I’m descending the escalator at the airport, emotionally dramatic as usual, when I see him.

There he is.

My name glowing on an iPad like the hottest damn chauffeur to ever exist.

I start giggling. Full-on teenage nonsense giggling.

My son sees it, sees this childhood sparkle come alive in me and I realize I don’t think I’ve ever giggled like that before in my life.

Not a laugh.

A giggle.

The kind that erupts from whimsy.

From safety.

From being chosen.

I run to him. I roll my little heart right into his chest and crawl into his arms and say, loud enough for strangers to enjoy the show:

“Okay, I’m done being in charge. Tag, you’re it.”

The people around us start laughing because it’s ridiculous and beautiful and so obviously two people in love.

Later, I look at him like he’s been hiding classified information from me.

“Why didn’t you tell me boys are so FUN?”

I went zip-lining.

I rode a sky ride.

We watched a light show that felt like it was designed by brilliant ADHD teenagers with fireworks, lasers, drones, fire cannons, I’m still not sure what dimension I entered.

He turns to me and asks, “Did you have fun?”

And this girl, this light, sparkly, thirteen-year-old girl comes across my face.

“Yeah. I had a blast. But I’m ready to be a girl again. Thanks.”

The temperature was 50 degrees colder than where I’d just left.

He put my coat on me.

Grabbed my bag in one hand.

My hand in the other.

Led me to a car that was already warmed up, blanket folded, pillow waiting.

When we got home at one in the morning, he brushed my hair out.

Tucked me into bed.

Kissed me goodnight.

In the morning?

Coffee.

Morning kiss.

And just like that, the reset began.

So why wouldn’t I choose discipline?

Why wouldn’t I build a life where I am loved without begging?

Where care is expected and deserved?

Where I’m not confused about why I’m here?

I’m here because I asked for it.

I’m here because he’s here.

We’re here because we’re present and showing up for each other.

Life is messy.

But this, this simplicity?

It’s intentional.

I was able to get away.

Repair relationships I didn’t even know were aching.

Grow in places I thought were already healed.

Because if the world is chaotic, and it is, I can still choose how I show up inside it.

I can choose my hard.

And right now?

I’m choosing the hard of growth.

The hard of discipline.

The hard of softness with strength.

I’m choosing to reset my roar, not by screaming louder but by becoming the kind of woman my grandmother would nod at quietly and say,

“There she is.”

Now excuse me while I process an incredible weekend of adventure and growth with my thirteen-year-old son.

And maybe take a nap.

Because even lions need rest after they remember who they are.