My washing machine broke down this week — a small thing in the grand scheme, perhaps, but one that quickly becomes a big deal when laundry piles up like an avalanche waiting to happen. So today, I found myself at the laundromat, quarters clinking and strangers folding clothes around me. Funny how it's on days like these that you realise just what a blessing it is to have a working machine at home. That gentle hum in the background — once so easily ignored — suddenly feels like the sound of grace itself. Needless to say, I’ll be more than a little relieved when it's back up and running.

This evening brought a bright spot — pizza and pudding shared with Carrie and Hugh. It was good to laugh, to talk, to remember what it feels like to belong. But even as we caught up, I felt that tug. Time flies, doesn’t it? And with it, the little rituals that once grounded me — like my morning walks with Carrie. I miss those meandering chats, the ones where I could speak freely about things that my boys simply wouldn’t understand, not because they don’t care, but because they see the world through a different lens.

Lately, I’ve been feeling completely out of step — disconnected, weighed down, even depressed. And yet I can’t quite seem to let the feelings out. What I long for is a good, honest cry — the kind that unclogs the soul. But instead, I find myself swallowing it back, again and again, until it builds like steam in a kettle. One day, I fear, I might just boil over.

There’s a memory that haunts me — one I wish I could forget. I was just a child, crying in a moment of helplessness, and my mother, impatient with my tears, shoved my head under cold water to silence them. That moment etched itself into my nervous system. Even now, long after she’s gone, I still hesitate to let myself cry. Somewhere deep down, I still fear that showing emotion — especially in front of others — might invite rejection or disapproval.

And then there’s Jesse. This weekend he didn’t come home from a friend’s place — didn’t even let me know he wouldn’t. I try to remind myself he’s growing up, making his own choices. But worry has a way of clawing its way in when silence stretches too long. Clive, of course, takes a different stance. “He’s an adult,” he says. “You’ve got to let him go.” As if it’s that easy. As if letting go doesn’t feel like tearing off a part of your own skin. We've gone back and forth on this so many times that I’ve lost count. And if I’m honest, I’m outnumbered here.

The truth is, there are values in today’s world that simply don’t sit right with me — things that clash with the way I was raised, the way I see love and responsibility. That clash, that tension, has become the soundtrack of too many conversations lately. So instead of arguing, I bottle it up. I nod, stay quiet. But every now and then, the pressure wins. And I explode.

I’m learning — slowly, painfully — that it’s okay to feel what I feel. That maybe the act of holding it all together isn’t always strength. Sometimes, the braver thing is simply allowing myself to fall apart in safe spaces and trusting that the pieces will be met with love, not judgment.