Enjoy the Shit That Matters (Even When It Breaks Your Heart)

“And my job - the one I signed up for the day she was born - is to hold steady in that space and not make it about me.”

I think maybe I'm getting sappier the older I get (which I hate admitting btw). My sexy hubby got me a necklace for Christmas that I've been eyeing in very targeted ads online for-ev-er and the chain isn't dainty, it's BOLD, as are the words on the pendant that say "Enjoy the shit that matters."

I've kept slowly pinching the pendant between my fingers since he gave it to me and give that big ass exhale moment as I try to let the words seep in.

Because dude, parenting a teen is like having constant fear, mixed with "you've got to be fucking kidding me", and holy hell can you please just listen to me and not leave fake eyelashes in the carpet. I've found myself guilty AF because I actually muttered the words... "you can endure it for another 5 years without having a heart attack right?"

As soon as the words entered my mind I felt like my pendant should have said "asshole mom of the year"... because my child is not something I just have to make it through the hard years for, she is the whole gift and the entire why behind every damn thing I do, even if she is an unreasonable stubborn little thing right now.

Can we please talk about how our Christmas tree never even got decorated this year? It has FOUR ornaments on it and a box of candy canes. Thank the Lord it was pre-lit or it would have been a sad sight.

I didn't mean for it to happen that way. Every year - every single year since Josey was born - we turn on music and decorate together. We pull out the ornaments she made in kindergarten with her tiny handprints. We pick our annual ornament, add it to the collection, drink hot chocolate, laugh at how many lights are tangled even though I swore I put them away properly last January.

It's one of my favorite things. Sitting back and looking at that tree, at all those ornaments that tell the story of her life so far, feeling like I've created something magical.

This year we got distracted at Target and bought mascara instead of an ornament.

The boxes of decorations are still in the hallway and storage room. The music never got turned on. And every time I wanted to decorate, a friend was over or we would "do it later."

Josey looked at it the other day and said, "This year doesn't feel like Christmas."

And I felt it in my chest - that specific ache of knowing she's right and knowing I can't fix it.

Because the thing that's changed isn't the tree.

It's her.

She's thirteen now. She's outgrowing the magic I used to make, and she doesn't know what her own magic looks like yet. She's in that terrible in-between space where nothing feels right because she's not a kid anymore, but she's not whatever comes next either.

And my job - the one I signed up for the day she was born - is to hold steady in that space and not make it about me.

Even though it one thousand percent guts me.

They tell you about the terrible twos and the sleepless nights and the first day of kindergarten. They warn you about hormones and attitude and slammed doors.

But they don't tell you about this specific kind of heartbreak: watching someone you love need you and resent needing you at the exact same time.

She still needs me. To show up, to hold steady, to be there when she's ready to talk (which is never when I expect). But she doesn't want me the way she used to. She doesn't want me to create the magic anymore. She doesn't want the traditions that used to make her light up. She doesn't want me involved in every moment.

It feels like getting picked last for a team in gym class, except you still have to play the game. You suit up, show up, smile, and pretend it doesn't sting that you're no longer anyone's first choice.

And the really fucked up part? This is exactly what I'm supposed to be doing.

The whole point of being a parent is to raise someone who doesn't need you. Someone who outgrows your traditions and creates their own. Someone who can walk away from the magic you made because they're learning to make their own.

The main thing here is to become unnecessary and know they can handle life when they leave.

I know this. I understand child development. I've read the books. I know separation is healthy and normal and exactly what's supposed to happen.

But knowing it doesn't make it hurt less when your kid says "this doesn't feel like Christmas" and what she really means is "I'm outgrowing the version of Christmas you created for me, and I don't know who I am yet, and that's scary, but I can't tell you that because I'm thirteen and everything is terrible and also I need you to leave me alone but also don't go anywhere."

I've spent the last year writing a book about outgrowing cages.

About leaving corporate because I'd built a prettier prison. About cancer forcing me to surrender control. About choosing fires I wanted to burn in instead of ones thrust upon me.

But this? Parenting a teenager who's outgrowing me?

This is a cage I didn't see coming.

Because my job now is to hold the space while she leaves it. To stay steady while she pulls away. To be present for moments that also break my heart. To reframe "endure" to "enjoy" when every instinct in my body wants to cling to the kid she used to be.

I can't make her want to decorate the tree. I can't force her back into childlike wonder. I can't create magic for someone who's in the messy middle of figuring out what magic even means to them anymore.

All I can do is show up. Hold steady. Reach up and hold this necklace between my fingers and remind myself what actually matters.

The things I've written about in this manuscript - leaving corporate, firing clients, surviving cancer, building a business from scratch - those were hard. Brutally hard.

But they were all about me choosing MY fire.

This is about watching someone I love choose theirs, even when their fire means walking away from mine.

And holy shit, that's harder than anything I've ever done.

I think about what "enjoy the shit that matters" actually means.

I thought it would remind me to be present. To not get caught up in productivity and optimization and all the cages I've spent a year learning to outgrow.

But it's teaching me something I wasn't ready for.

Sometimes enjoying the shit that matters means enjoying things that also hurt. Presence doesn't mean everything feels good - it means showing up for what's real. The moments that break your heart are often the ones that matter most.

My thirteen-year-old is becoming someone I don't fully know yet. Someone who doesn't need me to create Christmas magic or pick annual ornaments or turn on music for tree decorating.

And my job is to enjoy watching her become.

Not endure it. Not survive it. Not count down the days until she's reasonable again.

Enjoy it.

Even when it hurts. Even when the tree stays half-decorated. Even when Christmas feels different than it used to. Even when I reach up and hold this necklace and sigh because my baby isn't a baby anymore.

Because watching someone you love become fully themselves, even when becoming means leaving you behind?

That's the shit that matters.

And I'm learning - slowly, tearfully, one undecorated tree at a time - to enjoy it.

Manuscript Update: 19 of 19 chapters complete, 46,466 words

The book is 71% written. I'm in the final stretch.

And the biggest lesson I keep learning - in the manuscript, in my business, in my parenting - is this:

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is hold steady while everything around you changes. Sometimes choosing your fire means watching someone else choose theirs. Sometimes enjoying the shit that matters means your heart breaks a little every day.

And that's okay.

That's more than okay.

That's the whole point.