Tag Archives: Motherhood

When Parenting Overwhelm Makes You Want to Escape: What Helped Me Stay Sober

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Here’s the thing: I was so livid after what I heard that I wanted to break something. I wanted to scream louder than I ever have.

But I had eight teenage eyes watching me. My brain decided that the little-bit-better solution would be a stiff gin and tonic. I mean a beverage is better than broken pieces, right?!

Except it had been 549 days without one. I could smell the lime being squeezed. I could taste the gin hitting my tongue. I could feel the instant relaxation going down my throat, sip by sip by sip.

And I could see what would come moments later: an empty glass held by a person filled with disappointment, shame, and regret that she had let herself down. That she hadn’t kept her promise not to drink.

So I didn’t make the drink. The decision Was. Not. Easy. One would think that going 549 days without alcohol would make it easier. Kinda like how people say to parents with young kids, “Don’t worry, it will get easier!” As a parent to teens, 20 years later, I can assure you…it has NOT gotten easier. It has simply changed. Some days are easier than they used to be. Some days are harder. The same goes for my journey not to drink.

I can go weeks or months without thinking twice about alcohol, and then BAM—the struggle is so real it hurts. The double hurt is that in those moments, when I feel so crappy that a drink seems like it will wash away all my pain and bring me back to a better place—it won’t—it becomes abundantly clear that I’m doing the right thing by choosing not to drink. It becomes as clear as gin that my relationship with alcohol is no good.

And I didn’t even drink *that* much. But I saw the intake creeping up. I saw the craving increasing. I saw my desire, my enjoyment of one drink… become a need for one drink.

And that is very hard to swallow. Because it means this journey is about more than making it through the day. It means making this choice every day for years and years to come. And I’m not gonna lie. I miss alcohol. I miss the taste and the rituals (not what alcohol supposedly did for me, I’ve found good enough substitutions).

But oh how I love a good margarita by the pool. A glass of red wine by the fire at Christmas. Champagne to celebrate. The substitutions for these just aren’t the same or even good enough.

And I know me. Sips of the real thing won’t stay sips. So I will keep doing what I did that day when I wanted to break something, but pouring a stiff drink wasn’t a choice I was willing to make either. I’ll ask myself: What do I really want to feel? What feeling am I chasing? What need do I have? That day, I put on my sneakers and went for a walk around my neighborhood. In my wet bathing suit. If you want to know whether it was an awesome look, the answer is totally not.

Rest assured though, it was a skirt bottom so it wasn’t totally awful. And I felt less awful afterward. I called a friend while I walked. I shared my frustration about life. Then I did a second lap.

And I got back to life. I made it to bedtime without a drink. Today is day 559. The last ten days have had their moments too—moments when gin told me it would make life better. That it would be the sugar to make the medicine go down, so to speak. I didn’t listen. I found other orange to help me carry the gray. If there is one thing that has become even more clear during my journey of not drinking—and during The Orange Rhino Journey Part 2—it is this: When gray happens, which it will, it doesn’t just poof! disappear.

Drinking certainly didn’t make it go away. It usually made it heavier. Not drinking doesn’t magically make the gray lighter either.

But it makes it easier for me to manage. So does acknowledging the gray. It keeps it from taking up every inch of space in my mind. I can’t make the gray disappear.

And I don’t think carrying it will magically become easy. But every day I don’t drink, I get a little better at carrying it without adding more weight. And isn’t that what so many of us are doing? The heavy, non-disappearing, perhaps permanent gray may not get lighter.

But we get better. And somehow, that makes it feel lighter to carry. Sending warmth to you today, especially if this post hit too close to home. Solidarity my friend.

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

When Family Traditions Change as Kids Grow Up

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I’m shaking as I type, and I haven’t even had my coffee. For the first time in fourteen years, I didn’t buy my sons the matching Old Navy 4th of July T-shirts.

And it’s hitting harder than I expected. I know. They’re T-shirts. Basic, silly T-shirts. Except they were never basic to me. They were the one thing that stayed consistent, no matter how much our 4th of July changed.

And it turns out, there are several other changes today I didn’t plan for…so yeah, I’m wishing I had the shirts. And yeah, I’m wishing change wasn’t happening…again. July 4, 2023 was Change 1.0. The experienced moms told me it would be okay. There would be new memories. They were right. And also, here I am. Change 2.0 is happening today, and once again, I’m feeling every bit of it. I feel it in my bones. Literally.

I’m jittery. I’m anxious. My body knows something is changing even as my rational brain keeps saying, “Sheila, not everything is changing. At least ALL your boys are here, together. That wasn’t even the plan a few days ago!” But still…. The back story. My boys and I used to go to Stone Harbor Beach every July 4th week. For years. First as a family of six, with my ex-husband. Then one year with him even though we were separated.

I can laugh now. We must have each had our own internal fireworks. We came home, went to couples therapy and promptly decided, yep, divorce is the right thing to do. Then I went to the beach with just my boys, then with my fiancé and his kids.

And then, in 2023, it stopped. My boys had jobs. The week was no longer an option. A three-day weekend didn’t always happen. It was heart-wrenching. I love traditions. I love the stability they offer in a world full of chaos. The knowing. The having something to look forward to. The ability to take the same picture year after year and pretend, for one second, that nothing is changing as fast as it actually is. (Did I mention I’m sentimental too?!) I did my best to make new traditions at home in NJ.

I mean, after all, we still had the annual Old Navy 4th of July shirts, right? At least I had the picture and the bickering to go with it?! Everything turned out okay. We were together. Laughing. Eating hot dogs. Doing sparklers. Fireworks in the local park didn’t compare to those over the ocean—and basically overhead—but I survived. It wasn’t the end of the world like I imagined. Anxiety sure can create the worst-case scenario. Then last year, a three-day weekend aligned and we made it back to Stone Harbor.

Oh, how my heart filled. And my pocket emptied! This year, another three-day weekend presented itself. So did my rational self. I decided it wasn’t worth the price. The boys had outgrown the hotel pool since we have one now. And since they are six feet tall, the small beds also weren’t working so well.

So we are home, again. I thought I was okay with that. We’d been home before. And Change 1.0 wasn’t actually so horrific.

But then I realized: for the first time in fourteen years, I hadn’t bought the shirts. A small detail. A massive impact. That is the thing about traditions. To everyone else, it can look like a shirt, a meal, a picture or a silly little ritual. –> But sometimes that tiny thing is what holds every memory over the years together; holds everyone together, BRINGS everyone together. At first, I was okay. I was even proud of myself for all the “self-growth” of being able to just roll with it.

I may or may not have high-fived myself. Then yesterday some conversations started popping up in the house and my pride turned into a little bit of panic. I had a vision for tonight: a family bbq like always, my boys and our picture. Apparently, my boys had their own vision: friends, more friends and a few people I haven’t met yet. Times have changed. The tide has changed. As it should. I know it will change again.

As tides do. But today? Right now? It’s a hard adjustment. And I know it will be okay. I really do. But knowing it will be okay doesn’t mean it feels okay right now. Right now? It feels blech.

And I need to let it feel blech for a minute so it doesn’t follow me into the fun later today. I’m just wishing I had the shirts to at least hold onto….one thing to bring me back to the past, ya know? And honestly, I don’t want to share the day I pictured as ours, with others. I could say no. I’ve been practicing that more and more. But my heart also wants to say yes. It wants to see my boys happy just as much as it wants to hold onto the version of today that would make me happy.

And if that ain’t motherhood. So I said yes. Seeing them happy will make me happy. Just in a different way than I planned. I will still get a picture before everyone arrives. Maybe I’ll make them hold up paper that says “Red Old Navy Shirt 2026” or “Blue Old Navy Shirt 2026.” There will probably be eye rolls. There will definitely be bickering.

But there will also be laughter. It will be a different memory…and it will still count. And actually, I think it will probably be a better, funnier picture.

Now that I think of it, I’m scared about what my boys will write on their pieces of paper. Maybe I should just find colored paper to give them and cut it out in the shape of a t-shirt?!

Today is definitely not gonna go as envisioned. No beach. No t-shirts. A little extra heavy on some emotions today. And also. Extra people. Which will bring extra laughter, extra joy and all that jazz. Both/And. Gray/Orange. Sending warmth to you today, especially if something is different today, a tradition is missing, maybe someone you love. I get it. I’m right there with ya. 

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Someone Else Has It Worse — and Your Pain Still Counts

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Do you ever have those days where you feel like your pain, your struggle, isn’t worth sharing because someone else has it worse? Have you ever been told not to complain because, guaranteed, someone else has it worse? And have you ever been in the middle of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day… wondering how you’ll make it to bedtime without collapsing… when the doorbell rings?

And there’s a delivery. And it’s for you. And for one small second, something in you shifts as a small smile spreads on your face. Not everything. And not completely.

But enough. Enough to make your struggle feel a little lighter. Enough to make you feel seen. Enough to remind you that you might actually make it through this moment. I have. This was me two days ago. Laying on the couch. Feeling crappy and crappy for myself. The doorbell rang. It was a flower delivery. I was confused. Mother’s Day had passed. The note simply said: “Congratulations.” I didn’t even know what the congratulations could be for.

I called the florist to ask who it was from. The flowers were from my fiancé. “Thanks for the flowers,” I said. “Um… what’s the congrats for?” “Congrats on making your new nonprofit official.” You read that right. Nonprofit. I’ve been dreaming of creating this for as long as my heart can remember. And it’s one step closer to happening. This happened last week. Even signed a contract for an office.

So more than one step closer actually. In all the preparation for my procedure, I lost sight of these very exciting milestones.

And then the recovery took over fast and furiously. The flowers? They didn’t fix my day, my mood, or my wound(ed heart.) They didn’t erase the hard. They didn’t make everything suddenly okay. They didn’t magically turn me into a glowing, productive human. But I didn’t go back to the couch. The flowers gave me just enough strength. Just enough energy. Just enough oomph to do a little work. They gave me just enough warmth and oomph to not lose the entire day to the couch.

They brought me back to life a little. Made me feel a little less sorry for myself. A little more seen. A little more able. Simply stated, they interrupted the gray. They brought in a little orange.

And that? Oh, the irony. Because what that moment did to me? That feeling. That pause. That tiny shift in the middle of a gray moment? That is all I’m going to say for now. Except this: It reminded me exactly why I’m building what I’m building. Why I’m so excited. Why I believe it’s needed. Why I cannot WAIT to share more.

My only wish? That I had 48 hours in a day, a team of 100 people, and fewer gray moments interrupting the progress. But alas. We build anyway. One step at a time. As Orange Rhinos do.

Sending my warmth and a little oomph.

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Someone Else Has It Worse — and Your Pain Still Counts

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Do you ever have those days where you feel like your pain, your struggle, isn’t worth sharing because someone else has it worse? Have you ever been told not to complain because, guaranteed, someone else has it worse? And have you ever been in the middle of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day… wondering how you’ll make it to bedtime without collapsing… when the doorbell rings?

And there’s a delivery. And it’s for you. And for one small second, something in you shifts as a small smile spreads on your face. Not everything. And not completely.

But enough. Enough to make your struggle feel a little lighter. Enough to make you feel seen. Enough to remind you that you might actually make it through this moment. I have. This was me two days ago. Laying on the couch. Feeling crappy and crappy for myself. The doorbell rang. It was a flower delivery. I was confused. Mother’s Day had passed. The note simply said: “Congratulations.” I didn’t even know what the congratulations could be for.

I called the florist to ask who it was from. The flowers were from my fiancé. “Thanks for the flowers,” I said. “Um… what’s the congrats for?” “Congrats on making your new nonprofit official.” You read that right. Nonprofit. I’ve been dreaming of creating this for as long as my heart can remember. And it’s one step closer to happening. This happened last week. Even signed a contract for an office.

So more than one step closer actually. In all the preparation for my procedure, I lost sight of these very exciting milestones.

And then the recovery took over fast and furiously. The flowers? They didn’t fix my day, my mood, or my wound(ed heart.) They didn’t erase the hard. They didn’t make everything suddenly okay. They didn’t magically turn me into a glowing, productive human. But I didn’t go back to the couch. The flowers gave me just enough strength. Just enough energy. Just enough oomph to do a little work. They gave me just enough warmth and oomph to not lose the entire day to the couch.

They brought me back to life a little. Made me feel a little less sorry for myself. A little more seen. A little more able. Simply stated, they interrupted the gray. They brought in a little orange.

And that? Oh, the irony. Because what that moment did to me? That feeling. That pause. That tiny shift in the middle of a gray moment? That is all I’m going to say for now. Except this: It reminded me exactly why I’m building what I’m building. Why I’m so excited. Why I believe it’s needed. Why I cannot WAIT to share more.

My only wish? That I had 48 hours in a day, a team of 100 people, and fewer gray moments interrupting the progress. But alas. We build anyway. One step at a time. As Orange Rhinos do.

Sending my warmth and a little oomph.
xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

When Your College Kid Calls Upset: How to Listen Without Fixing Everything

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Your college kid calls upset. You hear their voice on the phone. And you hear all the other voices in your head. The voices reminding you of how you’re supposed to respond. Let them vent. Let them share. Let them be. Let them fly. The voices in your head remind you this is their chance to grow. To learn. That’s it’s okay to hurt. That they will heal and come out stronger, wiser. As you listen, you hear it. You hear their hurt.

You hear their frustration. You hear their fear. And oh, do you feel it. You feel it so very deeply. And you want to give them advice. You really do.

Because you see the path to feeling better. Faster. Easier. With so much less pain. But you know that easing their pain today, right now, can just create more pain in the future. You know that letting them figure things out now, even though it hurts, might actually help them hurt less later. And so you bite your tongue. And you fight like heck to hide your own pain. To sound confident in their ability to figure things out.

To not sound concerned. And you struggle right along with them because this is not easy. In the moment, their pain is your pain. You hurt with them. Oh, do you ever. And you worry right alongside them.

But you don’t offer advice. And you don’t ask leading questions. And you don’t dig for more hard stuff. You offer love. You offer a soft landing place. You offer “uh huhs” and “oh, that’s hard” and “I’m here for you.” And then you offer to make homemade chocolate chip cookies even though you simply do not have the time.

Because that is all you can do to make them actually feel better. And then you think, not to them or of them, but to yourself: Who is making me chocolate chip cookies to help me feel better? Because this stage of parenting? Honestly? It can be brutal. He is okay, to be clear. This wasn’t a crisis. Just one of those tough, emotional, figure-it-out moments that comes with being away at college. Having our college-aged kids, especially our freshmen, far away from us, struggling, and not knowing which adults in their life are there to support them, guide them, help them find the answers they need? B.R.U.T.A.L. The letting go here is an incredible act of strength.

Of course I will lean in when I have to. But I will also let my kiddo fumble a little. I have to. It is part of this stage. This journey. His journey. And also? My kiddo wants to. He is in his independent era. We have returned to the “I do” phase. Except now it’s a more complete sentence, not that of a toddler. It’s: “I got it, Mom.” I know you do, kiddo. I know you do.

He sent me this text last night: “Good night. Love you. Thanks for the support (even though I keep denying I need it or want it. When I’m ready I’ll ask for it. Let me know when the cookies are coming.)” Ooof. That hit hard and heavy in a wonderful way. That’s the whole ache of this stage. Being needed in a whole new way. A quieter way. A farther away way. Not to fix. Not to solve. Just to stay close enough that they know you’re still there. Sending my warmth and a little oomph to you all this Monday morning.

You are all loved and appreciated, near and far.

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino