Both Sides of The Fence

Both Sides of the Fence

It was my birthday this week.

We were at the beach, the sun was bright, and my kids were all in the same place—which these days feels like a miracle in itself. We laughed, we ate too much, we let the waves wash away the worries, at least for a while. My kids gave me the most thoughtful gifts, and you know what? I loved it.

There were porch chats, sandy toes, and slow mornings that made me feel rich in all the right ways.

But while my feet were in the sand, my heart was juggling a lot more than sunscreen and beach towels.

There was a hard conversation with a friend—one of those that leaves a sting and a swirl of questions you can't quite untangle. There were worries about my aging mom and the complicated decisions that keep surfacing with no easy answers. And there were moments, in the middle of all that laughter, when I could feel the tension just beneath the joy. Holding space for both.

And honestly? That’s the dance of real life, isn’t it?

We want birthdays to be simple and sweet. Tied up in a bow. But sometimes they come wrapped in a little mess, too. And I’m learning—slowly—that it’s okay for both to exist at once.

The Sweet and the Strained

There’s a part of me that wants to fix things. To smooth over hurt feelings, to explain myself perfectly, to hold the emotions of the people around me like precious glass.

But here’s the hard truth I’m facing:
I can only be responsible for my own heart.
Not how others interpret it. Not how they choose to carry it. Not what they expect from me or need me to undo.

That’s heavy for a recovering people-pleaser.

But it’s also freeing.

There’s peace in saying: I will show up with grace. I will speak honestly. I will own my part. And then I will let go. I will have agency over my own feelings and thoughts.

Letting go doesn’t mean you stop caring.
It means you stop carrying what was never yours to hold.

Living on the Other Side

Maybe this is what it means to live on the other side of the picket fence.

We thought life would be neat and pretty and well-painted. But here? It's real. It’s chipped in places. It creaks when the wind blows. But it’s honest. And it’s full of joy when you stop pretending it has to be perfect.

This week reminded me that I can laugh and cry in the same day.

That I can be the birthday girl and the one who’s carrying something heavy in the quiet corners of her heart.

That I can sit on a beach chair holding a glass of sparkling wine and hold space for the ones I love who are struggling.

It’s not either-or. It’s both-and.

And that, my friend, is sacred ground.

Wherever you are today—on the joyful side of the fence, the painful side, or somewhere right in between—I hope you know there’s space for you here.