Wildflower Views

[wildflowerviews]

Today was one of those days

I was awake until four in the morning because of period cramps. Every wave of pain made it impossible to get comfortable, impossible to sleep, impossible to feel like my body belonged to me. By the time morning came, I was already running on empty.

Then Mom came home early from work. Her wrist hurt so badly that she had called in on her way there and turned around to come home. My sister offered to take her to urgent care after getting off work at eleven, then headed out. I explained the plan to Mom and tried to disappear into my own little corner of the house, hoping to ride out the cramps in peace.

After the appointment, they came home, and I asked the obvious question.

“What did the doctor say?”

They told me the diagnosis, then explained that Mom needed to stop one of her medications and begin a new one for five days. The problem was that neither of them knew which medication she was supposed to stop. Mom takes a long list of medications, and neither of them could explain the treatment plan. Mom casually mentioned that she had told the doctor I handle all of her MyChart information anyway, so I would figure it out.

I logged into her MyChart expecting to find the visit summary.

Nothing.

No notes.

No after-visit summary.

No medication instructions.

I assumed the system simply hadn’t updated yet. It happens. I explained that to both of them, and they agreed it probably just needed some time.

About an hour later, Mom was panicking because I hadn’t checked MyChart again yet. She wanted answers immediately. Then she asked if I would go with my sister to pick up the prescription.

“I guess so,” I answered.

The truth was, I had been hiding downstairs, trying to take care of myself for once. Trying to find even a small amount of relief.

I came upstairs and stood at the bottom of the stairs waiting for my sister.

“Are we going?”

Before she could answer, Mom yelled across the house,

“Just forget it. If it was something for you, it would already be done.”

Right then, my sister walked through the door carrying the prescription.

I asked if she had at least asked the pharmacist which medication Mom was supposed to stop taking.

She told me the doctor had said it would all be in MyChart.

I just stared.

“You always get an after-visit summary when you leave the office.”

“It isn’t my fault the doctor can’t do their job.”

By that point, Mom was angry with me.

Meanwhile, I was sitting in front of her computer desperately searching every section of MyChart, hoping I had missed something.

Still nothing.

Eventually I saw that the new prescription was prednisone.

Drawing on what I remembered from working in a pharmacy, I started piecing everything together myself. Based on the medications she currently takes and why she had been seen, I concluded that the medication she was supposed to stop was meclizine.

Before I could even process that thought, Mom looked at me and said,

“You really need to consider whether you can handle this, or if I need to end up in assisted living because this is important.”

That sentence landed harder than she probably realizes.

For a moment, I just sat there fighting back tears, trying to keep myself together while another part of my mind screamed to say, “Fine. Then maybe I should just move out.”

Instead, I swallowed it.

I called the pharmacy.

They confirmed I was right.

It was meclizine.

I updated her pill organizer, made sure everything was correct, and quietly disappeared again.

I didn’t want to be seen.

I wanted to escape.

When my husband got home, I made up an excuse about needing to run to the post office. The moment the car doors closed, every emotion I had been holding in came pouring out. I unloaded every frustration, every hurt, every ounce of exhaustion that had been building throughout the day.

Then we drove home.

I walked back inside.

And I acted like none of it had ever happened.

That’s the part no one really sees.

They see the medication sorted correctly.

They see the problem solved.

They see someone who always figures it out.

What they don’t see is the woman who was awake until four in the morning in pain, who spent the entire day carrying everyone else’s worries while quietly trying to survive her own. They don’t see how every accusation, every expectation, every assumption that I’ll simply handle it takes another small piece out of me.

I love my mom, and I know dementia is changing so much about our lives. I know fear speaks louder than reason sometimes. But I am human too.

Some days, I don’t need someone to hand me another responsibility.

I just need someone to notice that I’m hurting, too.

[wildflowerviews]

I don’t remember the exact day

I stopped feeling like just a daughter.

There wasn’t some defining moment where everything changed. There was no announcement, no ceremony, no warning that the relationship I had always known was quietly slipping into something else. It happened one small moment at a time. One doctor’s appointment. One reminder. One favor. One “Can you help me?” until somewhere along the way, I realized I was no longer simply visiting my mom. I was managing parts of her life.

I love her more than words can explain.

That’s what makes this so painful.

People imagine caregiving as grand gestures. They picture holding someone’s hand through the hardest days. They don’t picture the thousands of invisible moments that slowly reshape a person. The repeated questions. The interruptions. The constant awareness that you can never fully relax because someone might need you in five minutes. They don’t talk about how your nervous system learns to stay on standby, even when you’re exhausted.

Some evenings, I find myself rushing through the bedtime routine. Not because I don’t want to spend time with her, but because I desperately need one hour where no one needs anything from me. Then the guilt arrives almost instantly. What kind of daughter counts down the minutes until her mom is asleep?

A daughter who is tired.

A daughter who still loves her.

Those two things can exist at the same time, even though admitting it feels like betrayal.

The hardest part isn’t the physical help. It’s the emotional weight. Every conversation feels like it’s balanced on a thread. A simple comment can become criticism. A neutral statement somehow becomes an argument. Negativity fills the spaces where peace used to live, and I find myself walking into each interaction wondering if this will be the one that drains the last bit of energy I have left for the day.

Sometimes I miss my mom while she’s sitting only a few feet away from me.

I miss laughing without feeling responsible.

I miss asking her for advice instead of wondering if she’s taken her medication or remembered to eat. I miss being able to share exciting news without bracing myself for the reasons it might not work out.

Most of all, I miss the simplicity of being someone’s child.

Instead, I have become the planner, the reminder, the chauffeur, the problem solver, the peacekeeper, and the emotional shock absorber.

The roles have quietly reversed.

No one teaches you how to mourn someone who is still alive.

No one tells you that grief can happen in slow motion.

What scares me most isn’t today.

It’s tomorrow.

Right now, she still has abilities she doesn’t always use because I’m there to step in. I tell myself it’s easier to do it than to argue, easier to help than to wait. But every time I take something off her shoulders, I place it onto my own. I wonder how many years I can keep doing that before the weight becomes too much.

If I feel this tired now, what happens when she truly needs everything?

Will I have anything left to give?

That question haunts me because I want to be there. I want to love her well. I want to be the daughter she deserves. But somewhere along this journey, I stopped asking whether I deserved anything too.

I deserve rest.

I deserve to laugh with my husband without feeling guilty.

I deserve evenings where my mind is quiet.

I deserve to be a wife, a friend, a woman with dreams and hobbies and moments that don’t revolve around caregiving.

Realizing that doesn’t make me selfish.

It makes me human.

I still see my mother when I look at her.

But sometimes the checklist gets so long that it blocks my view.

Maybe loving someone through this chapter isn’t about doing everything for them.

Maybe it’s about learning how to carry them without losing yourself in the process.

I hope one day I can believe that.

Because I don’t want my mother’s story to become the reason I forget how to live my own.

[wildflowerviews]

Protector of Hearts

In the eyes of the government, my title is Nanny. In the eyes of my family, it’s Daughter, Sister, and Wife.

But in my own eyes, my title has always been Protector of Hearts.

That role didn’t begin when I became a nanny. It started when I was a little girl.

As the only child of a single mother, you learn quickly that sometimes children become the emotional support system for the adults around them. You become the steady one. The dependable one. The rock. Later, when my sister came along, that responsibility only grew. While my mom was technically in a relationship, the reality was that she carried most of the weight herself, and in many ways, so did I.

My days became a cycle of responsibility long before I was old enough to understand what that meant. Wake up. Go to work. Attend school. Care for my sibling. Clean the house. Prepare for my mother’s return from work. Then repeat it all again the next day.

Protect. Care for. Hold everything together.

Those lessons became woven into the fabric of who I am.

Now, at 32 years old, I find myself living many of those same patterns.

My mother is only 57, yet she battles early memory issues and vertigo. My sister struggles with challenges of her own, and despite my concerns, she refuses to seek help. Every day feels like a balancing act between the two of them. Some days are peaceful. Other days feel like an emotional roller coaster that never stops moving.

If I’m being completely honest, there are moments when I find myself wondering what my life would look like if I didn’t carry so much responsibility. What choices would I make? Where would I go? Who would I be if I wasn’t constantly worrying about everyone else’s wellbeing?

Then the guilt creeps in.

I was raised with the belief that children should care for their parents as they age. Scripture speaks of honoring our fathers and mothers, and I believe deeply in showing up for the people we love. So when those thoughts of freedom surface, they’re often followed by shame for even having them.

But I think both things can be true.

I can love my family fiercely while also acknowledging that this weight is heavy.

I can be grateful for the opportunity to care for them while still mourning the parts of myself that have spent decades in survival mode.

And perhaps the thought that weighs on me most is wondering what life will look like when my mother is gone. There will undoubtedly be freedoms I don’t currently have, but I know they will come at a price I would never willingly pay.

Because despite the exhaustion, despite the sacrifices, despite the endless responsibilities, she is still my mom.

So I continue doing what I’ve always done.

I protect hearts.

Theirs.

And, on the days I remember to, my own.

[wildflowerviews]

Sowing Sisters

There’s a kind of sisterhood that words never quite seem to capture. I’ve been blessed with one sister in this life, and watching her spread her wings and step fully into the world has unlocked a whole new level of emotions I never expected.

When we were younger, life felt simpler. Crushes were cute, dreams were distant, and the future felt like something that would always be waiting for us. But now she’s stepping into real adulthood. Not the innocent kind of courting we used to giggle about, but genuine dating with intentions, hopes, risks, and the possibility of building a future with someone.

And if I’m being honest, it has my heart on edge.

Not because I don’t believe in her. Quite the opposite. I know how incredible, kind, resilient, and loving she is. I know she’s capable of writing a beautiful story for herself. But loving someone deeply means knowing how precious their heart is, and realizing you can’t shield them from every lesson, disappointment, triumph, or chapter life has in store.

So I stand here in that strange place only a sister can understand equal parts proud, excited, nervous, and hopeful. Watching from the sidelines, cheering her on, praying for her happiness, and trusting that the woman she’s becoming is more than capable of navigating whatever comes next.

No matter where life takes her, no matter who enters or exits her story, she will always be my little sister. And I will always be here, celebrating her victories, helping her through the hard days, and loving her through every chapter yet to be written.

[wildflowerviews]

Petal for your thoughts

What many people don’t know is that years ago, my husband and I did become pregnant. It was one of the happiest moments of our lives. We immediately started dreaming about the future, imagining what life would look like, and planning for a little person we already loved deeply. Unfortunately, that dream was cut short when the pregnancy stopped progressing. We were forced to make a heartbreaking medical decision that no hopeful parent ever wants to face.

During that process, I was offered a shot that I knew very little about. Wanting to understand exactly what I was agreeing to, I chose to hold off and do my research. Looking back now, I realize that decision may have affected future pregnancies in ways I never fully understood at the time. Hindsight is always clearer than the moment you’re standing in.

Because of that, pregnancy now comes with risks and complications that honestly scare me. The thought of going through months of uncertainty, treatments, and medical interventions is overwhelming. Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time considering other paths to parenthood. Adoption has always held a special place in my heart, and I’ve also considered other options that would allow us to build our family safely.

What many people also don’t know is that I have battled an eating disorder. At one point, it became severe enough that I was hospitalized. Recovery isn’t something that magically ends one day and never resurfaces. It’s something I continue to navigate and work through.

Pregnancy isn’t just carrying a baby for nine months. It requires physical changes, weight gain, hormonal changes, and an immense amount of trust in your body. For someone who has struggled with their relationship with food, weight, and body image, those realities can be incredibly challenging.

Right now, if I’m being honest, I don’t know that I’m mentally or physically in a place where I could carry that responsibility in a healthy way. That’s not me being selfish. That’s me being self aware. Bringing a child into the world deserves the healthiest version of me possible, and I think acknowledging where I’m at is far more responsible than pretending everything is fine simply because society expects me to have children.

Today my mom hit me with something that genuinely hurt.

“Don’t you feel like a failure as a wife? You know your husband wants children. It’s the greatest gift you could ever give him and his family after all he does for you.”

And honestly… no.

Do I wish things had happened differently? Absolutely.

Do I still carry grief from that loss? Every single day.

Do I sometimes wonder what life would look like if things had worked out differently? Of course.

But my value as a wife is not measured by my ability to have children.

My husband is an incredible man. He loves me through my highs and lows. He treats me with kindness, patience, understanding, and respect. We’ve had many conversations about our future, our dreams, and our options. Not only is he supportive, but his family has been as well. Never once have they made me feel like I was somehow less because life didn’t go according to plan.

What people often fail to see is everything I already give to the world around me.

I help care for my mother as she navigates early onset dementia. I help care for four dogs, three parrots, and a hamster. I nanny for three wonderful children. My days are filled with caregiving, responsibilities, appointments, emotional support, and making sure everyone around me is okay.

I spend so much of my life taking care of others that sometimes I forget to take care of myself.

Motherhood is beautiful, but nurturing, loving, protecting, and caring for others isn’t limited to giving birth.

Some days I’m exhausted.

Some days I’m overwhelmed.

Some days I cry behind closed doors because carrying so much responsibility gets heavy.

And some days, like today, someone’s words find the exact bruise they’re looking for.

But I’m reminding myself tonight that families are built in many different ways. Love is measured in far more than biology. Children are not trophies, and women are not failures because their journey looks different than someone else’s expectations.

My husband and I will build our future together in whatever way is right for us. Whether that includes adoption, another path to parenthood, or simply continuing to pour love into the people already in our lives, that choice belongs to us.

Tonight, I’m choosing grace over guilt.

I’m choosing healing over shame.

And I’m choosing to remember that my worth was never defined by my ability to have a child.

[wildflowerviews]

Behind brown eyes

that have seen 31 years of life before them soft yet steady, like dusk settling over a wildflower field. There’s depth in them, the kind that only time and tenderness can create. Eyes that have known laughter that shakes the soul and silence that echoes louder than words.

They’ve witnessed sunrises wrapped in hope and nights heavy with longing. They’ve looked into mirrors during moments of strength and self doubt alike. And with the gentle aid of glasses those quiet companions they’ve learned not just to see, but to perceive.

Each year has layered meaning into their gaze. Thirty one seasons of blooming and breaking, of stumbling and rising. Those brown eyes don’t just look at the world they understand it. And through them, her view unfiltered, unflinching, and beautifully hers invites others to pause, reflect, and maybe see life a little more clearly too.

These are the eyes where the views unfold, an this story begins to be told.

[wildflowerviews]

Eventually, every page blossomed

with the wild blooms of memories, soft thoughts, and tender feelings a garden of the soul pressed between worn pages. With time, the little diary began to show its weathering edges curled like petals kissed by summer winds, its cover softened by love and the gentle weight of truth whispered in it.

Sadly, the dear old diary could hold no more its pages full, its spine weary, yet her spirit still brimmed with words waiting to bloom. The urge to express, to share, to sow pieces of her heart remained wild and unwavering.

And so, she began Wildflower Views a digital garden where she could plant the seeds of her thoughts, dreams, hopes, and heartaches. Each post, a petal; each story, a stem reaching toward the sun.

Here, in this ever growing meadow of memory and meaning, she invites kindred souls to wander with her. To grow beside her. To witness the raw, radiant beauty of a life lived in bloom wild, free, and unapologetically real.

[wildflowerviews]

Words effortlessly began sprouting

across the pages, decorating them with a whimsical beauty and conveying a rarely seen viewpoint flourished by captivating resilience. Amidst the lush thorny rose bush of life, my delicate wildflower spirit bloomed defiantly through the writing.

[wildflowerviews]

Beneath the heart shaped lock

Rested a blank diary page that stretches out like a fresh canvas, its crisp, unblemished surface beckoning with the promise of limitless possibilities. Each line lies untouched, waiting to cradle my unspoken views with absence of judgement or expectation, sparking an exhilarating rush within me.

[wildflowerviews]

An so it begins

Surrendering to the primal urge that beacons me to write once more. Succumbing to the relentless rattling from my brain begging to be unleashed. That gateway was opened by a tiny floral diary bestowed to me by my mother at a young age. Who would have guessed behind its flimsy heart shaped lock would hold such a powerful euphoric feeling, that I’d relentlessly spend my life chasing or hiding from.