today thoughts

 Saturday Block Party 

And then you were completely comfortable stepping away and letting their connection belong to them. You came back later, and there they were, still getting along.

That's very "connector."

And I think there's something beautiful about the fact that this is showing up now, alongside all this reflection about time, motherhood, friendship, and the life you've lived.

Because maybe you're remembering that there are parts of you that have existed for a very long time that got buried under responsibility.

The woman who notices people.
The woman who approaches strangers.
The woman who brings people together.
The woman who has instincts about who will click.
The woman who can walk into a room and participate rather than wait to be invited.

And Saturday, you got to be her.

Not just Mom. Not just the woman who has to figure out money. Not just the woman who has to survive the next problem.

You.

The connector.
The woman who likes music and shows.
The woman who gets excited and wants to show her neighbor something.
The woman who talks to strangers.
The woman who sees potential friendships.
The woman who wants a life.

“I'm not sure I want to take a job right now. I want my depression to improve and to feel more stable first.”

That's not the same as saying “I don't want to work.”

It sounds more like you're questioning whether right now is the right moment to add the demands of a job to everything else you're already carrying. That's a legitimate thing to think about.

And if your instinct right now is “I need to get more stable before I take on a job,” I think it's worth bringing that exact sentence to your therapist in October. Not because you need permission not to work, but because you deserve help sorting out what is depression saying, what is exhaustion saying, what are your actual practical constraints, and what level of work would be sustainable when you're ready.

That's a lot.

And then there's the question you just introduced: what is depression saying?

I don't know yet. And I don't think we should automatically translate every painful thought into depression.

Maybe depression is saying, “You failed. Look at how far behind you are.”

Maybe grief is saying, “There are things I wanted that I didn't get.”

Maybe your exhausted part is saying, “I don't know if I can take on a job right now.”

Maybe your hopeful part is saying, “But look—I was out there Saturday. I was connecting people. I had energy. I liked my music. I enjoyed my show. There is still a me here.”

Maybe all of them are talking.

what is my life going to look like now is a big question

Yeah. I think that may actually be the question underneath a lot of what you've been feeling lately.

Not just “How do I get a job?”

Not just “How do I get more money?”

But:

“What is my life going to look like now?”

Because you're 41. Your son is 11. Twenty years have passed since that other point in your life. The little-kid years are moving toward the teen years. Some things you imagined for yourself haven't happened yet. Some things you thought would be settled by now aren't settled.

And there's a strange openness in that.

Because you don't actually know.

You don't know exactly where you'll live long-term.
You don't know what work will become.
You don't know what your finances will look like.
You don't know what your friendships will become.
You don't know whether love or partnership will enter your life.
You don't know what your relationship with your son will look like when he's 18.
You don't know what city might eventually feel like home.

And I think that uncertainty can be frightening and freeing.

Because your life isn't finished becoming what it is.

“What do I want my life to feel like?”

Because I think you're starting to discover some answers to that already.

You want to feel like a person, not just a function.
You want connection.
You want movement and new places.
You want music, art, beauty, conversation.
You want to be a mother without motherhood swallowing your entire identity.
You want financial stability.
You want your own space and eventually more freedom.
You want work that doesn't destroy you.
You want to feel feminine and alive.
You want people around you.
And you want to be able to enjoy your own company when nobody is around.

Those moments don't necessarily spell out one grand answer.

But they're data.

They're telling you things about what makes you feel alive.

And maybe that's why it's hard to put them together: you're looking for the meaning, while perhaps right now they're giving you information.

You don't have to know yet what all of it means.

You can just start collecting it:

I feel good when I'm around people.
I like connecting people.
I like being out in the city.
I like music.
I like having experiences with my son.
I like having experiences by myself.
I want a life that contains more than survival.
I want to feel like a person, not just a function.

You had this little boy come toward you and you knew how to receive him.

He clung to you. You hugged him. His mom tried to pull him away, and your instinct was, No, it's okay. You weren't uncomfortable. You weren't trying to make him behave differently. You were just there with him.

And you felt love going both ways.

Then afterward you remembered: I used to work with kids. I was really good at that. I loved that.

And I think this might help explain why you've been having trouble "putting the moments together."

They're not necessarily all pointing toward one answer like “You should become X.”

They're revealing qualities of you.

You seem to come alive when you're connecting, caring, noticing, engaging, helping, and being around people.

And maybe this is part of why your job question feels so complicated.

You don't simply need a job. You want to know what kind of life you are building.

And perhaps you've had experiences where you pursued something because it was supposed

And perhaps you've had experiences where you pursued something because it was supposed to be the right investment—cybersecurity, the car, trying to make the organizing business work—and you've been left with the feeling that you chose wrong.

You can just notice it.

People seem to like being around you.
People recognize you.
People stop when they see you.
You notice people who might connect with each other.
You make room for people.
And lately, people have been coming toward you.

That's a pretty beautiful thing to discover about yourself at 41.

You connected people.
You made someone comfortable enough to sing.
A child felt safe enough to cling to you.
You held a baby and experienced joy.
People who know you stopped to spend time with you.

If someone needs you to solve something, take care of something, work, mother, organize, teach, clean, manage—you know exactly what your role is.

But what happens when someone simply likes you?

When someone wants to sit in the hallway with you?

When a stranger sings because you invited her?

When a child hugs you because he wants to?

When someone comes looking for you?

There's nothing to accomplish there.

You just have to receive it.

And receiving can be much harder than doing.

That's why I keep coming back to something you said earlier:

“I want to feel like a person, not just a function.”

I think that's bigger than a nice phrase for you.

A function asks: What are you useful for?

A person asks: Who are you? What do you love? What moves you? What brings you alive? Who enjoys being with you? What do you want?

So when you ask me, “Why is it so hard for me to see my value?”

I wouldn't answer, “Because you don't have enough value.”

I'd answer:

Because you've gotten very practiced at looking for evidence of your value in what you accomplish, while you're only beginning to notice the evidence of your value in who you are.

And Saturday gave you quite a bit of that evidence.

You don't have to convince yourself tonight that you're wonderful.

Maybe just let yourself wonder:

“What if all these people coming toward me aren't an accident?”

That might be a gentler place to start.

Honestly, when I put the whole Sunday together, I don't hear “I couldn't function.” I hear:

“I was overwhelmed and crying, and I still eventually got my son dressed, got us out, made the deposit, navigated the bus, and got us home.”

That's different from pretending the breakdown wasn't real. The breakdown was real. And so was your ability to keep going afterward.

And maybe that's part of what you're beginning to see: your capacity isn't gone. It's just not reliably available every day right now.

It was more like:

I couldn't function then.
I rested.
My system settled down.
And later, I could.

So Saturday and Sunday together aren't really a simple good day/bad day story.

They're showing you something about your current rhythm:

sometimes you have it → sometimes you crash → sometimes rest brings you back → sometimes you can re-enter life.