Lea Morrison

The oldest is almost an adult and I still yelled “keep your hands to yourself” tonight. One of them still bit the other one’s head.

Motherhood doesn’t graduate. You don’t age out of the chaos, it just gets bigger shoes. (And eats more than 3 grown men at one time)

There was a season of don’t lick that, don’t touch that, keep your hands to yourself. 🤦🏻‍♀️ I legit thought I’d leave that behind as they got older.

Reader, I did not leave that behind.

But here’s what nobody warns you about: you will love someone so completely that you would set the world on fire to protect them. Even when they’re biting each other.

Especially then.

And just when you think you can’t take any more of the goodness that is parenting, your 11 year old writes you a poem. Draws a coffee cup on the card. And writes, in letters just small enough that his teacher wouldn’t notice:

“butiful f***n day.” 😂

My kid knows I appreciate a good curse word at the right time … and he delivered. 😂😂

It’s the most motherhood thing that’s ever happened to me.

If not for me, for them. I’d set the world on fire. 🔥

Happy Mother’s Day to every mom having a butiful f***n day. 💜

Someone always had it worse. We know. 🙄 We have been told our whole lives.

And somehow that became the reason to shut up, push through and be grateful instead of actually dealing with what happened in our bodies.

That is not perspective. That is a silencing technique with a kinder name.

Your nervous system does not give a damn about the comparison. It does not rank your experiences against someone else’s before deciding whether to respond. It just responds.

So the next time you catch yourself saying “I shouldn’t feel this way because at least I (they) didn’t ________ ” stop.

🛑 Full stop.

Your pain does not need a permission slip. It does not need to be the worst story in the room to be real. It does not need to be validated by someone who had it harder before you’re allowed to heal from it.

It just needs to be yours.
And it is.

Statistically, I should be dead.

I scored a 9 on the childhood ACEs scale. The scale goes to 10. I’m not telling you that because the number matters, I’m telling you because for a long time that score felt like a verdict.

It isn’t one.

What I have is a body that’s been through it, a counselling degree I graduated from with honours, and years of teaching trauma & stress education to people who’d rather understand themselves than be handed a label and sent home.

I teach from the inside out. Not from behind a desk. Not from a place of “I used to struggle but now I’ve arrived.” (Do we ever?!)

Just someone who’s lived a lot, studied the rest, and got tired of watching people be managed instead of informed.

No toxic positivity. No pretending healing looks the same for everyone or that it’s ever really finished.

Honest. Useful. Sometimes uncomfortable.

I have things to say.
Glad you’re here.