To the Mom Who Doesn’t Know What’s Next

A 4:35 a.m. alarm because even though we have “all day,” if the training doesn’t get done before the rest of the world wakes up, it doesn’t happen.

Then we go about the morning the same way we always do.

Lunch boxes—check.

Kids out the door—check.

House picked up of all the leftovers on the floor—check.

There goes the washer buzzer, again—check.

The errands get run. The refrigerator gets restocked. If we’re lucky, none of the school papers were forgotten on the counter that day.

We sweep the floors.

Do more laundry (again).

Eventually our precious tiny humans make their way off the bus and back home. In which shape on which day will always be the mystery toy in the cereal box.

Happy running feet and open arms because they missed Mom so much? Sometimes. Or stomping right on by because someone didn’t share the spinner at recess and now the entire world is going to pay for it? More often than not.

The after-school hangries. The taxi service to gymnastics. Pickups from after-school activities. Trombone lessons. And might as well throw in sewing lessons like it’s the 1990s—which, admittedly, I wish I were the one attending.

Dinner—if another buttered noodle night even qualifies as so.

Showers. Repacking for the next school day. WWIII over homework and reading.

Bed.

Please, tell me.

Where along this timeline did this become our everything?

Our everything that we are so damn fortunate to have.

Our kids we wouldn’t trade for anything. Time is a thief, and we KNOW that. Our hearts are full and our (coffee) cups overflowing.

This is joy. Gratitude. Unconditional love.

But everything?

We shut the door behind the kids in the morning and turn around to laundry piles and grocery lists.

We sit down at the computer with ambition and a desire to find something, only to see our family smiling back at us from the screen saver.

We take a break, we feel guilty.

We go 100 miles a minute, we feel exhausted.

We’ve not only named our ChatGPT assistant, but we have full-on conversations with her because some (most) days it feels like no one else quite gets it.

And somewhere between all the things that mean everything to us, we wonder:

How can a life this full… still leave part of me feeling so empty?

Let Me Tell You a Story.

When I was in high school, I went to the Lombard School of Chiropractic for a field trip. I have zero idea why we went there, or even if I have the location right anymore. But I vividly remember two things from that day.

The first was a presentation on chiropractic care and adjusting someone’s cervical spine—which, from the perspective of a high schooler, meant I watched (and heard) a chiropractor crack the shit out of someone’s neck.

The second was a short talk next to a tall order: a human cadaver.

I remember taking my turn to get closer.

And I remember not being scared.

I was interested.

No, I was fascinated.

I was in awe of what was in front of me. Something so complex and intricately delicate, yet there it was in such raw simplicity.

I walked through the rest of that day thinking, I want to be a part of this.

I want to understand the human body.

I want to make a career out of what I just watched that chiropractor do in mere seconds.

But here’s the part of that memory I keep coming back to now:

I didn’t just tell myself I wanted to do it.

I told myself I could.

And I believed her.

Fast Forward.

Clearly, I am not a chiropractor. Nor was I ever one.

My college education took me down a different path, still rooted in the health field, and I was completely okay with that.

And it isn’t even the chiropractor dream I find myself thinking about now.

It’s the girl who had it.

Why could she look at something she knew nothing about and believe she was capable of becoming part of it?

Why didn’t she first make a list of all the reasons she wasn’t qualified?

Why didn’t she need proof—from others or herself?

Because here I am today.

Older. Wiser. More experienced.

I have raised humans. Managed a household. Worked jobs. Started a business. Built systems. Made hard decisions. Figured shit out over and over again.

By every logical measure, I should trust myself more today than I did as that young teenager.

But somehow, I believe in myself less.

Limbo.

Let’s set aside the fact that I have a hardworking husband who supports his wife and kids. Four healthy, thriving children. (And the dog—don’t ever forget the dog.)

This is the part of me that will never change. I’d live in a tent in the middle of the forest dancing with bears for them if that’s what the universe told me I had to do.

They are my everything.

The limbo exists somewhere else.

It’s in my every day.

The routines. The schedules. The expectations.

And the version of me that has become so completely intertwined with them.

One side feels familiar. I know how to live here—comfortably and successfully.

It comes with the territory of stay-at-home-mom life. I chose this life, and I am grateful I did.

It’s the other side that hurts.

The side I can see but can’t quite reach.

Not necessarily more.

Just different.

Something that is mine, and only mine.

Something that asks more of the parts of me that have gone quiet over the years.

The part that teenage girl knew without question—the part that could look at something unfamiliar and think:

Why not me? I can do this.

I don’t know when the limbo stick got so low.

When I stopped believing I could clear it.

Somewhere along the way, what once felt like something I could jump over started feeling like something I couldn’t even crawl beneath.

Eventually, it stopped looking like limbo at all.

It became a brick wall.

The Truth.

No more metaphors.

No more memory lane.

Just the reality.

Two things can be true without one canceling out the other.

I am allowed to love my life exactly as it is.

The days filled with laundry and cleaning, organizing my home and volunteering at school. Early morning walks with a weighted vest (#teammillenniummom), followed by early bedtimes.

I love being the person who knows who needs to be where and when. Who remembers the form that needs to be turned in and the groceries we’re almost out of. Who knows when baseball practice changed times and understands the kid who needs something extra that day before the kid even does.

There is value in this work.

There is skill in it.

There is love all over it.

It is enough.

And here is another truth I don’t particularly like admitting:

I am unbelievably grateful that I got to spend the last 12 years raising my kids. It is one of the greatest gifts I could have ever been given.

And sometimes, I resent what it cost me.

There. I said it.

I wonder what would have happened if I had tried to keep working while raising four little kids. Would I have found a way to do both?

What if I had kept one foot in the professional world, building skills and experience along the way?

What if I had slowly worked toward another degree or certification during those years, so I wouldn’t be sitting here now feeling like everyone else kept moving while I’m somehow starting over?

Of course, I can play the other side of the what-if game, too.

What would I have missed?

Would I have wished I had been home more?

Would I trade the years I had with them for a stronger résumé today?

No.

And somehow, I can still resent that there was a cost.

Maybe that’s another version of two things being true at once.

I can be profoundly grateful for the choice I made without pretending I never wonder about the life I didn’t choose.

And I am still allowed to want something else now.

I’m allowed to want to rush out the door with my husband in the morning because I have somewhere of my own to be.

To interact with adults with brilliant minds, collaborating to make visions come to life.

To exercise my own creativity.

To use the parts of my brain that aren’t currently calculating who needs a ride home.

To make my own stamp on this world without knowing yet what the limits of that might be.

To feel capable.

Fulfilled.

Strong.

These are my truths.

Neither one makes the other less true.

The difference is, I know how to do one of them.

I know how to be Mom.

I know how to run our home.

I know how to take care of the people I love.

I don’t know how to get to the other side of myself.

She Shoots! … She’s Blocked.

These feelings are not new.

Five years ago, I applied on a whim for a remote position with a rapidly growing online community for women who wanted to become physically strong, with an emphasis on mental and emotional growth too.

Right up my alley, right?

I thought there was no way in hell I’d even be considered.

Until I found myself in the top three.

Ultimately, the owner chose another candidate “based off a gut feeling.”

It hurt.

I moved on.

Or at least I thought I did.

She Swings! … She Misses.

A year or so later, the company posted another position.

So why not apply again?

I still believed in what they were doing. I still followed their work.

Round after round of interviews later, I found myself sitting in the final two.

Again.

This time, the answer was more concrete: the other candidate had more technical experience.

And without getting too deep into this saga, it happened again after that.

Same scenario. Same answer.

I was a walking passion with very little current ammunition on my professional résumé.

The punches to the gut came with tangible reasons.

I could understand them.

What I didn’t understand yet was what those little hits were doing underneath the surface.

She Leaps! … She Comes up Short (Again).

Eventually, another opportunity presented itself.

This time I thought, This has to be it.

A partnership in health coaching.

A new road. A new beginning.

Guess what—are you on the edge of your seat?

Well, buckle back down.

It never started.

Another disappointment.

Another attempt that took a bigger hit to my confidence than I care to admit.

Because after enough of these moments, the internal war starts to feel a lot like surrender.

You stop asking:

What do I want to try?

And start asking:

What am I actually qualified to do?

Then, if you let that question sit long enough:

Who would even want me?

And just like that, the girl who once looked at something she had never done before and thought I can do that… is silent.

Just. Get. Up.

How many times am I going to hear “no” before I start believing that’s simply the answer for me?

Enough was enough.

It was time to pick myself up off the floor.

So I stopped waiting for someone else to choose me.

I chose myself.

That’s when I created Aligned.byKate.

I took something I knew I was good at—organization—and combined it with my background and passion for health and mindset work.

I built something where there had been nothing.

And it made—makes?—me happy.

It fulfilled—fulfills?—me.

And this is where writing the truth gets uncomfortable.

Because Aligned.byKate has not failed.

It proved me wrong about myself.

I can create something.

I can work with clients.

I can walk into someone’s home, see what wasn’t working and build a system that made everyday life easier.

I can write.

Teach.

Stand in front of a room and speak.

Take an idea that existed only in my head and make it real.

Aligned.byKate has given me evidence that the capable version of me hasn’t completely disappeared.

She is still here. But a mere whisper.

Because yet…

I’m still asking:

Now what?

Now What.

Maybe that’s the part I haven’t wanted to admit.

I thought creating something of my own would answer the question.

Instead, it answered one question and left me with another.

Maybe I’m not simply looking for a job.

Maybe I’m trying to figure out where I fit now, without wishing away the 12 years that got me here.

Not Mom.

Not Wife.

Not the keeper of the schedules, finder of the missing shoes, buyer of the groceries or folder of the laundry.

Me.

Where do I fit?

Where do my ideas go?

My creativity?

My ability to see what needs to happen and make it happen?

Where does the part of me go that wants to walk into a room and contribute something that wouldn’t have existed if I hadn’t been there?

Maybe that flame is still burning—quietly—waiting for the next place where someone else sees it, too.

Believes in me, too.

And so, because apparently the universe enjoys a good plot twist, another hopeful job opportunity recently presented itself.

This is it, for real this time.

I really thought this was the right step forward.

I applied.

Not six hours later, the answer came back:

Too late.

That was it.

Not you’re not qualified.

Not we don’t want you.

Just… too late.

My rational brain understands the difference.

Self-doubt does not.

All I heard was:

You are not good enough. And thus, here we go again.

So here we are.

No grand answer.

No five-step plan.

Just a woman wondering where that teenage girl went when she needs her most.

Where is the I CAN DO THIS?

Where is the girl who didn’t need proof before she believed in herself?

Where is her voice, louder than a whisper and stronger than the noise?

Because right now, it’s just really, really hard to hear her.

Some Day.

I typically end these pieces with some powerful aspiration.

Some inspiring words that grasp onto hope for the future. Positivity overcoming the negative. I wrap it all up with a nice little bow that assures everyone—including myself—that I figured out the lesson.

But that isn’t the truth today.

The truth stings.

It feels gross.

Uncertain.

Unbelievably heavy.

So uncomfortable that I’m still debating whether I hit publish or delete on this whole damn thing.

I don’t have the lesson yet.

I don’t know what comes next.

I don’t know whether the answer is growing what I’ve already built, finding something entirely new, or stumbling into something I can’t even picture from where I’m sitting today.

I know I’ll figure it out.

I mean—we always do, right?

Maybe I’ll find my footing.

Maybe that I’m not good enough voice will finally get tired of hearing herself talk.

Maybe I’ll take my own advice and align my everything.

But today, I don’t need to pretend I’m already there.

This is my story right now.

My struggle.

My unknown.

And I’m hoping that telling the truth from the messy middle of it—in all its cliché glory—is enough.

Because I know someone else is here, too.

Someone else loves the life she built and still wonders if there is another part of herself waiting to be used.

Someone else has heard enough no’s that she has started saying them to herself before anyone else gets the chance.

Someone else is grateful for the years she gave to her family while quietly wondering what those same years might have looked like if she’d made different choices.

Someone else wouldn’t trade them for anything—and still wonders what if?

Someone else wants something she can’t quite name.

Someone else looks ahead and sees nothing but blur.

If that’s you, I don’t have the answer.

I can’t tell you what comes next.

But I can tell you this:

Don’t be afraid to say it out loud.

I am.

Because as it turns out?

That is something I can do.