Enough is Enough.

We've all seen that episode of Family Guy or at least the clip of Stewie Griffin repeating the word "Mom" in every way possible filter through our Facebook feed, a clip likely shared by a mom friend or just some person you aren't really friends with but you went to the high school in the next town over and you had like 43 mutual friends, so when Facebook suggested you should be friends, you sent the friend request after stalking her page to be sure she wasn't some level of crazy your mama may have warned you about when you were five and playing on the other side of the playground outside of her direct sight for the first time. You know nothing about her other than the fact that she shares way too many cheesy casserole recipes (you certainly don't hate her for this), she attended a wine festival last weekend, she likes coffee that isn't really coffee and those T-shirts with phrases on them, she has a tattoo on her wrist, she wears a size 9 shoe, has a kid who is allergic to peanuts, supports the local humane society, blood type is O positive, she had donuts for breakfast that she got for free with some 1-day only coupon on some app you've never heard of but is apparently all the rage, frequents the gym, likes pizza but not from the new restaurant down the street that apparently failed to deliver her cheesy bread (she really does like cheese), her political views, her other kid pooped in the potty yesterday... you get the drift. You know nothing about her.

Aside from the vast nothingness you know about this Facebook acquaintance, you know that she struggles with things you struggle with. She, too, feels constantly berated by the cascade of "MOM!" grenades being thrown her way. She probably doesn't talk about it much... aside from sarcastic laced passive aggressive posts that are often dulled with some cute emoji or lightened with a casual "LOL" at the end to make people think she, in that moment, is capable of laughing at herself. Ha. Ha. Ha No. Stop hiding this level of self-loss behind fake emojis. Unless you have botched up Botox, you are not smiling *THAT* much because your child just smeared a jar of peanut butter all over the kitchen floor, you're not just throwing your hands up because someone made a crude comment to you at the local Target (this is a holy land ... keep the dirty outside). I was her. Throw that highlight reel up on the good ol' newsfeed and let the people who see it think you've got it all together and live in the land of rainbows where sticks and stones may break your bones but words never hurt you. Lies. Some of you may actually live there, and I'm genuinely in my sincerest heart of hearts happy for you. I'm not there yet, and I don't feel like there is just golden ticket you can find in a chocolate bar (Seriously think this is why women turn to chocolate... look what it did for Charlie!) or buy from Stubhub to get there. No one way street or straight and narrow path. No one-size-fits-all (another lie) approach to the land of joy.

It's so easy to fall into a self-sacrificing way of life. Making three breakfasts but never making one for yourself. In fact, I had to make my son's breakfast twice while typing this because apparently leaving cinnamon toast in the oven for 15 minutes does not an edible breakfast make. Side note: Don't tell my husband. He will give me the speech about why they put timers on things. If the pizza box says 14 minutes, that Digiorno will be ready for delivery in 14 minutes. Half-melted cheese or not. And don't you even think about putting that thing in the oven before it's finished preheating. I, on the other hand, cook things until they're done... or my version of done. We won't talk about what that sometimes looks or smells like, and I will definitely throw those tater tots in the oven before it hits 425. Let 'em thaw out a little or.... something. Anyway, back to washing everyone's laundry while you've been wearing the same bra since last Tuesday. And you know you've been wearing those panties for two days because they're the last non-thong pair in the drawer and you've been too busy washing underwear with characters on them or skid marks in them that you haven't even had time to consider whether you can do sexy today.

We constantly give, and if you're anything like me, you give until you give out. And that's where you'll find me today. In an emotional puddle of hot mess in the poop closet of my bathroom. This would be the tiny toilet room inside the bigger bathroom. My children have lovingly dubbed it the "Poop closet". My messy bun isn't cute, and even my dry shampoo has called it quits. The toilet needs to be scrubbed, and I'm pretty sure I've heard "Mommy" 43 times in the approximately 2 minutes (not a timer girl, remember?) I've been here. This could be hallucinations, though. Am I the only mom who thinks they hear their kids calling for them but they really aren't? I'm tired. Not so much physically tired... it's more of an emotional and spiritual level of tired. Mom life is a tough life. Wife life is a tough life. And before you give me all the crap about you're "too blessed to be stressed", "other people have it worse", "you'll miss this"crap, just stop. Pump your brakes, Sally, because no, I will not allow some frivolous words from people around me belittle the fact that in this moment, I'm sad. I have every right to be sad. I have every right to mourn the fact that I let Erinn, that girl I used to be, get lost in the shuffle of chaos that puts others' needs before my own. I've given everything to everyone and have nothing left to give myself.

This is my journey to finding Erinn again. I'm not a therapist (I pay one of those!) or an expert in this field. I have no tried and true method to discovering self-worth or putting you on the right track to positive selfishness. Nope. I'm just a girl from Georgia who, in these 37 seconds of strength, decided I'm tired of living a life where I have no idea who I am anymore. I don't have to choose among mom, wife, employee, and Erinn. I'm going to keep it real. I'm going to curse. I'm going to show you how I fail. What rejection looks like. My weaknesses. How mental health affects me. My flaws. How I crumble under the pressure of everything this world puts on me --- how I crumble under the pressure of everything I put on me. It's going to real and raw and unapologetic. This is why "Team I Am Enough" came into existence. I don't even believe those words yet, but someone smarter than me said to write down your goals and breathe life into them. So, take a deep breath, girl, and breathe life into "I am enough" like you're blowing up a 6' inflatable whale for your kids at the pool. You had the breath to make that floating sea creature a reality for them. You probably huffed and puffed until you were blue in the face. So, if you can breathe life into that BPA-laced plastic mammal that wears a fake smile and your kids won't be able to even sit on anyway, then you can certainly find a minute to breathe some life into your journey. You don't have to believe it just yet, but say it with me, "I am enough."