This week is monumental for me. Not because of some achievement or award (don’t worry, no humblebrags here 😉), but because—for the first time in 16.5 years—I have five consecutive days to myself. No caregiving. No rushing from one in-person meeting to the next. Just… me.
It’s the first time since before my children were born that I’ve had this kind of space. And while I’m not sure exactly what I’m feeling, I know it’s significant.
Let me be clear: I love my kids. If you’ve spent any time with me, you already know that. My decisions and my actions leave no doubt. I’m the mom who picked them up from school every day, drove four hours roundtrip for a charter school that better met their needs, became a tutor when no one else could help, and fought to keep my autistic daughter with me instead of sending her to a group home. Not because I had to—but because I wanted to. Because I believe no one else will show them the grace, patience, and unwavering love I can. I remember what it felt like to want time with my dad instead of his assistants. No amount of comfort or help replaces connection. Presence matters—and I knew that if I didn’t give that to my kids, no one else would.
Even my mother-in-law tells me I should “love myself more” and be more selfish. And if you’ve ever had a mother-in-law, you know how much that says. But here’s the thing—I do love myself. This is my version of loving myself. I’m living the life I choose. For me, loving myself looks like showing up for my kids, even when it’s inconvenient or unglamorous.
This isn’t a judgment on anyone else’s path. It’s simply mine.
And yet, I’m tired. I’m desperate—for a system that doesn’t make this so hard. I need my daughter’s favorite special education teachers to stay in the field. I need the therapists she finally connects with to not burn out and disappear. I need school districts to be able to fill their 1:1 aide positions before I have to quit my own work—again—and become her aide. I need kids (and adults) to grow up kind, inclusive, and emotionally intelligent so I don’t always have to be on alert—advocating, explaining, protecting—just to keep my kids safe and sane.
I don’t think I’m alone in this.
Maybe you don’t have a child with special needs. Maybe you make less than I do—or billions more. But if anything I said resonated, it’s probably because we do all need each other. Our struggles may look different, but the emotional weight? That’s universal.
I didn’t go to the ASU+GSV Summit this week to network or pitch funders. And no, I’m not on vacation either—curaJOY has the Tools Competition finals, a new pilot launching, and the next round with NewSchools Venture Fund next week. But I am working from home, quietly. Because even with everything I’m feeling—or maybe especially because of it—I’m reminded of why curaJOY exists. The emotional weight that so many families carry can’t be solved by one program, one expert, or one conference.
Our work is making a difference. We’re connecting the dots between mental health, education, behavioral health, youth development, and parent training—because real, lasting change has to happen at the system level. That’s the kind of change my family needs. That’s the kind of change we’re building, and it’s what keeps me going.
So today, I’m savoring these last few hours. I’ll take a walk on the beach after work. I still don’t have all the words for what I’m feeling—but that’s okay. Not everything needs to be named immediately. Sometimes, just noticing that something feels big—that it matters—is enough. These in-between moments deserve attention too. That’s why I’m glad we’re doing the Tapestry of Emotions project—because we all deserve time to just sit with our feelings, even the vague, mixed-up ones.
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