Yesterday, was only day two. And somehow, it already feels like I’ve been doing this for years.
This morning, I asked Jon if he wanted anything specific for dinner. He gave me that look again—the one that says, What’s the catch? I let it pass. No expectations. Just a question.
The day was nonstop. Errands, work, trying to stay ahead of everything. The dull pressure in my head had been lingering since morning, stretching into its second week now. It wasn’t unbearable—just there, hovering.
By late afternoon, I parked the van near the grocery store to squeeze in a little more work before picking up food for dinner. I wrapped up a task, felt good about how quickly I turned it around—then the pressure in my head shifted. Like someone was steadily inflating a balloon inside my skull, pressing against my temples, squeezing the space behind my eyes. My face and neck felt hot.
The migraine was back. Full force.
I was close to urgent care, so I made an appointment. Thirty minutes later, I sat with a doctor. A shot. Double the meds. A prescription, just in case none of it worked.
Back to the van. A few more time-sensitive tasks to clear before the day ended. I forced myself to ask, What actually needs to get done today? and let the rest go. Then I grabbed groceries and headed home.
When I walked in, Jon and Luca were playing airplane. He never looked up. Never looked at me.
I made dinner while Luca played, staying quiet, moving through the motions. When the food was ready, I set some aside for Jon and told him it was there if he wanted it. No response. He grabbed a plate a little later but didn’t say a word.
My head was still pounding.
After dinner, I sat with Luca in bed, letting him watch Netflix on my phone—something I hate doing, but I just needed a moment of stillness. I picked up a book and read next to him.
At 6:30pm, I tried to get him in the shower. He threw a fit. A bad one. Jon heard it, saw it, but stayed on the sidelines. Just told Luca, Go shower with Mama.
My head was on fire.
I could feel myself breaking. I forced his clothes off and got him into the shower as quickly as I could. He screamed at first. Then, suddenly, he wasn’t fighting me anymore. Afterward, he curled into me, calm.
And just like that, my heart hurt more than my head.
Back to bed, back to the phone. We watched trash truck videos for 30 minutes. Before putting him down, I sat in the beanbag a little longer, letting his tiny hands trace my face.
I whispered, Night night, I love you, and walked out.
I still had one more 45-minute workout left for 75 HARD. I was too exhausted to change. Socks and sweatpants would have to do.
I climbed onto the Peloton and started a ride. My head throbbed with every tiny motion. My chest felt tight.
And I cried.
For 45 minutes, I let the exhaustion, the frustration, the loneliness, the migraine—all of it—spill out in silence.
Jon said nothing. Did nothing.
But that’s okay.
I’m not doing this with expectations.
He drank another bottle of wine.
I finished my workout. Showered. Went to bed.
This is hard.