I’m Not Going… And Maybe That’s Okay

There’s a birthday happening this weekend—four hours away.
A sweet little girl I love like my own. A celebration that should have me packing a gift bag and plotting snacks for the road.

But I’m not going.

And it’s not because I forgot, or didn’t want to.
It’s because… I’m tired.

The kind of tired you don’t really talk about in group chats or on FaceTime.
The kind where the idea of dressing up, smiling, and driving for hours makes your heart feel heavier than your suitcase.

It’s also Mother's Day this weekend.
And for once, I want to be the one who doesn’t do.
Not the planner, not the driver, not the fixer, not the one carrying the whole vibe in her tote bag.

This year, I just want to be.

Eat something that wasn't microwaved twice.
Lie down and hear silence instead of snacks rustling.
Maybe wear something soft and unnecessary.
Maybe even cry a little and not have to explain it.

In another life, I would have made the trip anyway.
I would’ve borrowed strength from somewhere, plastered on “cheerful,” and pushed myself into the passenger seat of someone else’s expectations.

But in this version of me—the slower, softer, faceless one—I’m choosing stillness.
Even if it comes with guilt. Even if I miss the cake.
Even if I have to text “I wish I could be there” instead of saying it in person.

Because maybe this is the Mother's Day where I mother myself too.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s worth celebrating.