I've been there. The "I'm drowning in laundry, dishes, and guilt". The "If one more person asks me what's for dinner, I might scream".

Now? I'm in a place of peace. Peace with myself, my mess, and my process.

Back then, I was running on fumes. I'd stay up late, wired with overwhelm-scrolling, scrubbing, or just lying there while my mind raced. I'd wake up already behind, and the smallest thing (like shoes in the hallway) could send me over the edge.

I yelled at my kids about things I didn't even care about-not because I was a bad mom, but because I was an exhausted one.

What I didn't know was that I was carrying more than a messy house. I was carrying generational patterns. Trying to live up to my mom's perfect order while wrestling with my own messy, creative, neurospicy brain. The voices in my head telling me what a "good" home and "good" mother should be? They weren't even mine.

Once I started spotting my defaults-the knee-jerk habits, the inherited beliefs, the survival strategies that had long expired-I could finally see the link between my inner wounds and my outer chaos.

And here's the magic: when you heal the inside, your home shifts too. You make space for growth, joy, and the life you've been craving. And this time, you actually get to live in it.