If you’ve ever tried to write something meaningful while a teenager yells “What’s for dinner?” through the door, this one’s for you. Spoiler: I don’t have the secret to balance. I just have chaos and caffeine.
My kid’s complaining about what’s for dinner, my phone has twelve alarms going off at once, and I’m on deadline pretending I have something profound to say about the human condition.
I don’t. I have caffeine and trauma.
Everyone keeps asking how I balance writing and parenting.
The answer? I don’t. I let both burn while I survive the flames.
Because balance is a fucking illusion.
The Myth of Balance
“Balance” is something productivity bros and Pinterest moms invented to sell planners. In real life, it’s triage. Someone’s always bleeding—you just decide who gets the Band-Aid first.
I’m physically disabled, neurodivergent, and a queer mom. I have three kids between fifteen and twenty-two. And just because the older two are off on their own doesn’t mean they don’t still need me. There are phone calls about budgets, medical care, financial aid, heartbreak, and housing. The phone never stops ringing.
And when you live with chronic illness and limited spoons, there’s no such thing as a “day off.” There’s just a rotation of priorities—whatever screams loudest gets the attention.
The Burnout Reality
You have no idea how many times I sit down to write, only to realize I don’t have time to finish between doctor’s appointments, IEP meetings, helping my oldest fill out forms, and doing my middle kid’s taxes because—well—it’s their first time and they have no clue what they’re doing.
I’ve snapped at my fifteen-year-old for interrupting me over something simple while I was mid-sentence, because as soon as my hand comes off the keyboard, the rhythm dies. That thought is gone forever. I hate that version of me. But she’s real.
Every win comes with a cost.
I gained a dozen followers on Medium—but I missed a homework deadline.
I had a wildly productive week—but then the fibro flare hit and I was useless for three days.
And the cycle doesn’t end. It just loops. Over and over again.
The Reframe
Sometimes the bravest thing we do isn’t balance the fire—it’s walk through it.
Sometimes the only thing we have left is not giving up.
The art, the parenting, the body—they all demand more than we have. But we show up anyway. Half-broken. Still burning. Still here.
Maybe balance isn’t peace.
Maybe it’s learning how to stand in the middle of the smoke and keep breathing.
Because sometimes there really is beauty in the chaos.
My house is loud.
My drafts are messy.
My brain’s a war zone.
But I’m still here—writing in the ashes, parenting in the ruins, loving in the wreckage.
That’s not balance.
That’s survival.
And honestly? That’s enough.
💭 Lisa’s Note
If you’re here, you probably get it. You’ve burned out, rebuilt, and still found your way back to something that matters. This one’s for all of us who create from the wreckage and love from the chaos.