Kate Didd

Day: 110

My mind is starting to split again.

Not in the way it used to, where everything shattered and I disappeared inside it but in that familiar pressure of too much. Like a browser with a million tabs open, all playing noise at once, and I can’t even figure out which one is the main screen. Everything matters. Everything is urgent. And somehow… none of it can fully hold my focus.

This is the busiest my life has ever been. The most layered. The most overwhelming.

And here’s the part that would’ve broken the old version of me, I’m stacking debt right now. Heavy. Fast. And I don’t see it as failure. I see it as capacity. I see it as proof that somewhere, someone trusts that I will figure it out. That I will pay it back. That I’m not the woman I was five… seven years ago.

That part? That’s wild to me.

Because the truth is, I’ve always lived split lives.

Two childhoods. Two realities.

One filled with confusion, conflict, and survival.
The other quiet, steady love from my grandparents. They taught me how to cook, how to move through the world, how to pray, how to create discipline. I didn’t realize it then, but they were building the woman I would need to become in my 40s.

What a gift. What a delayed inheritance.

And now here I am, raising my kids in a completely different reality.

We’re in our “build confidence” era. Swim lessons, reschedules, chaos that somehow works. My younger ones hesitate, look back at me for reassurance and I don’t give it the way they expect. I don’t jump in. I don’t save them.

“You don’t need to look at me. Look at your teacher.”

And I let go.

Because this is their time. Not mine.

They’re learning to trust themselves, and I’m learning to stand still long enough to let them.

Meanwhile, I’m juggling everything else. Planning, moving pieces, solving problems from my phone while sitting on the sidelines of their growth. That’s motherhood at this level, you’re everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And then, because life has a sense of humor, my car blows up.

My little Ford Fusion. The one I bought with 10 miles on it when I was a single mom trying to prove something to myself.

Gone.

And I laugh.

Because of course it did.

We finish swim lessons. We go to the house we’re remodeling. I look at the situation and mentally file it away: not a today problem. It goes into that category of life where things exist just to be evaluated later.

Add it to the list.

Another expense. Another puzzle.

And here’s the honest truth, I don’t love this kind of puzzle. But I am getting better at playing the game.

So we get to work.

Two carpeted closets, no cuts, full removal. If you’ve ever worked carpet, you know, that’s not beginner level. That’s controlled force, patience, understanding how things move without destroying them.

Meanwhile, my husband is cutting subfloor in the bathroom. We’re both exhausted, both a little fried from the morning chaos. He gets stuck in his head for a minute, so I step in, not to take over, but to steady him. And when it clicks, you can see it on him.

Pride.

We finish what we can. Patch holes. Fix trim. Make progress.

Real progress.

And by the time we’re done, I’m not thinking about the car. Or the debt. Or the million tabs still open in my mind.

I’m thinking about my son’s face when he floated on his back for the first time.
The giggles from my youngest when he paddled on his own.
My daughter, who somehow turned into someone even cooler than I imagined, singing in the car with me like we’re at our own private concert.

That’s what sticks.

We pile into the car, kids fighting because they’re tired, hungry, human. It almost gets to me but not in the way it used to. No tears this time. Just awareness.

We get home to a clean apartment. Not perfect, intentional. Because we’ve built habits as a family. Everything has a place.

The kids scatter. My husband heads back out for groceries.

And I stand there for a second and realize…

This life?
The one that looks chaotic from the outside?
The one stacked with problems and pressure and constant movement?

It’s mine.

I built it.

And as overwhelming as it is… it’s also as good as it sounds.