Author: evemarie076

Letting Myself Off the Hook

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The holidays are such a joyful time—the anticipation of spending time with those we love, eating a hot meal together. But with the holidays also comes pressure: expectations, anxiety. 

Did I get enough gifts? The right ones? Will they fit? Will they like them—and is everything even? 

I’ve talked with a lot of moms about this, wondering if they do the same thing I do—trying to balance not just the number of gifts but also their cost. 

“Impossible,” one of my friends said. “How can you do that when one person asks for a big gift?” But every year I’ve done it. I make lists of each child’s presents, writing down the cost of every item. I shop until the last minute, making sure everything feels balanced—an impossible feat I’ve somehow pulled off for years. 

I always try to make Christmas special—a time when they can all be spoiled. Somewhere along the way, I connected the amount and cost of gifts with them knowing they are enough, worthy, special. 

Maybe I am trying to give them something I didn’t have as a child. The quiet certainty that they matter.

The kids are all adults now, and I find myself wondering how long I can keep this up—how long should I keep this up? The older they get, the more I realize they aren’t keeping track the way I have. Sure, they’d notice if one person got an iPhone and another got a hoodie—but really, it’s me who puts this enormous pressure on myself. 

That pressure takes some of the joy out of it. 

It’s everywhere—subtle reminders, quiet comparisons, the sense that there’s always one more thing to buy—but it still feels like something I’m choosing to carry.

Even when I have everything lined up perfectly, I still worry I didn’t do enough or didn’t get it right. It’s a quiet anxiety that hums beneath what should feel simple.

This year, I’m trying to let myself off the hook. I still have a list, and I am still trying to aim for balance—but I’m doing it with the understanding that my children want the same thing as I do: family bonding, connection, time together.

I’m releasing the idea of getting things “just right.” This feels closer to what the holidays are meant to be for us.  

Some Days the Victory Is Simply Showing Up

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Over the last several months, I’ve started to notice how much my mindset and old thought patterns shape my day, especially when it comes to productivity. I’ve also been paying attention to what my inner critic says—a voice I used to ignore while I went on autopilot. 

One morning, I woke up late and didn’t get to do my newly added daily walk. As I got ready for work, the voice started in.

“You’re never going to get this right. You’re lazy. You’re fat. You should have this figured out by now.” 

I stood in front of the mirror trying to decide if I was all of those things. The saddest part was that I believed the words. Really noticing them made me realize how often thoughts like these show up. The truth is, I’ve been talking to myself this way for years. 

Be better. Do better. That’s not enough. You’re doing it wrong. 

Sometimes I wonder—why is she such a mean bitch?

Apparently, she isn’t trying to be mean at all. She’s trying to protect me—from failure, disappointment, embarrassment, or whatever she thinks I need shielding from. It’s a concept I’m still trying to understand. 

It is a work in progress. I am a work in progress. 

The other day, when I noticed these thoughts spiraling again, I stood still for a moment, placed my hand over my heart, and said, “You are worthy, you are enough.”

This is something I’m finding I need to do daily. Like any habit, it takes time to build, and just because the habit is built doesn’t mean it can’t be sabotaged. Old habits are easy to slip back into. So I have to keep showing up, and maybe that’s the whole point.

One thing that helps me is listening to positive people like Gabby Bernstein and practicing choosing more compassionate thoughts. It’s helping—but I know I have a long way to go. Still, I’ll keep taking it step by step, and I hope you will too.

Some days, the victory is simply showing up, and right now, that’s enough.

How I Started Talking to Myself with Kindness

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Taming the Inner Critic

By Eve M.

Looking in the mirror one afternoon, I notice dark circles under my pale face. I’m exhausted from a long week, overwhelmed by day-to-day life. My oversized t-shirt is wrinkled, and my sweats are stained with whatever I ate last. I didn’t realize how mean she was until I caught myself whispering insults to my own reflection.

“You look horrible. You can’t get anything right.”

My inner voice says things I would never say to anyone else. She’s stern and sharp—always ready to point out a flaw or remind me I’m not doing it right, not good enough. She’s a hard-ass. Quick to judge. Loud when I’m quiet. And relentless when I’m already down.

A few years ago, I started cognitive behavioral therapy. When I opened up to my therapist about the inner critic, she didn’t try to help me fix it or shut it down. Instead, she’d say:

“What does your body feel? Notice what’s happening in your body. Don’t try to change it—just notice.”

Sitting across from her, staring at the beige walls, something would surface that shifted my emotions. She’d gently pause me and ask me to check in with my body, to sit with the discomfort as long as I could. I’d rub my hands along the rough edges of the couch, trying to anchor myself. What I felt was always visceral: tight hips, a clenched jaw, my thumb flicking a hangnail.

At the height of that discomfort, in her calm, steady voice, she’d ask me to thank it—“it” being the protector, or loudmouth, or whatever name I had given it that day.

Seeing the voice as a protector—not a bully—was hard at first. But to understand her, I had to go back. Sometimes all the way to childhood. Back to where she first showed up to keep me safe.

My inner critic didn’t start out cruel. But she did start young. So did the belief that I wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t doing it right.

When I was in second grade, I chipped my two front teeth. My brother was chasing me around the living room, threatening to pour Kool-Aid on me. I tripped and fell into the wooden armrest of our couch, cracking both of my adult front teeth.

At first, I didn’t connect my broken teeth with shame or worth—until my classmates started calling me names.

“You look like a rabbit.”

They said cruel things to make me feel less than. We didn’t have the money to fix them right away, so I walked around like that for years—until we could finally afford to fix them in sixth grade.

It was around then that I started constantly searching for affirmation. I needed to know I was enough. That I was lovable.

But I hadn’t really paid attention to the voice in my head. Not until I started actively listening.

One morning, I had planned to exercise but didn’t feel like it. Guess who showed up?

“You’re so fat.”

“You’re never going to meet your goals.”

Or when I’m working on a project that feels endless:

“You’re never going to finish.”

“No one cares what you have to say.”

She’s a hard-ass, blunt woman—that inner voice. For a long time, I thought the only way to quiet her was to fight her. Shut her down. Argue back. Ignore her.

But something shifted when I began to wonder:

What if she wasn’t trying to hurt me? What if she was trying to protect me?

Why is she so mean? It turns out she’s been there all along—thinking she’s helping. Protecting me from rejection. From failure. From getting hurt.

I didn’t know what to do with that realization. Every time she spoke, my body would tense. I’d grit my teeth and hate her. I wanted her to go away.

But that didn’t work.

So, I tried something else. I thanked her. I told her I was safe now. I said things like:

“I’m okay.”

“Thank you for being here, but I don’t need you right now.”

“I know you’re protecting me, but I’m not that scared little girl anymore.”

I heard once in a workshop that the brain’s reticular activating system craves predictability. Even if that means waking up to shame and self-criticism, it prefers the familiar. That’s why change can feel so uncomfortable.

My inner voice is still there. But now, the biggest shift has been awareness—and consistency. I’m learning to respect that even though she can sound harsh, she’s trying to help. She’s trying to protect me from pain, rejection, the feeling of not being enough.

She’s not trying to sound like an ass. It just comes out that way.

Now, when I skip the gym and she shows up, I breathe. I name her. I remind her:

“I’m still worthy of rest.”

I’m trying new things as I learn more. Someone once suggested making a physical version of your inner critic—maybe out of Play-Doh, or however you picture her. Then place her in a jar. When you see the jar, you can say:

“I see you, but I don’t need you right now.”

I started writing down the things she says—those sharp, familiar lines:

“You’re not enough.”

“You’re fat.”

“You’re getting old.”

“Nobody loves you.”

I put them in a jar too. A symbol of release. A reminder that I don’t have to carry every cruel word she offers me.

It’s still a work in progress. But I’m learning to be gentler with her.

She still speaks up. But now, I don’t always believe her.

And that changes everything.

I haven’t silenced her. But I’ve stopped letting her be in charge.

Do you know your inner voice? What does she sound like—and what might she be trying to protect you from?

The Weight of Silence: Why We Need to Talk About Hard Things

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Today I want to share something deeply personal with you — a piece of my story I’ve carried quietly for years. If you’ve ever hidden parts of yourself out of fear or shame, I hope this helps you feel less alone.

The First Time He Hit Me

The first time he hit me, I still thought it was my fault.

When I was eighteen, I was married to the man I thought would be my partner forever. Shortly after we said I do, he physically abused me for the first time. The first time turned to a second, and a third, and then too many to count.

Emotional and physical abuse took a toll on me, and I didn’t recognize the woman I was becoming.

I thought I needed to hide my truth. I told myself if I just smiled and showed up for work with makeup covering the bruises, no one would know.

I hid it from everyone — even my family. I was so ashamed to admit the man I loved was doing this to me. If I admitted that the man I picked was really a monster, then people would judge me and be disappointed. They would also wonder why I hadn’t left yet.

The Moment I Couldn’t Hide Anymore

I thought silence was safer. If I didn’t talk about the fear and exhaustion, the way my body ached under the weight of it all, then maybe I could make it disappear.

One day, when I went to my shift at the pizza shop, my coworker Allison cornered me as we wiped down the tables in preparation to open. She pauses, her face turning serious.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Adrenaline surges through me. Does she know? I force myself to meet her eyes.

“Does Chris beat you?”

Her words land heavy, pressing the air from my chest. I can’t speak. Finally, I manage, “Why do you ask?” I need proof that she’s right to ask.

“I take my son across the street from you for childcare. The babysitter said she saw him dragging you down the street by your hair.” Her voice stays calm, like we could be talking about fashion.

Heat rises in my face. I’m mortified someone saw — and no one called the cops.

This is the first time I admit the abuse I hide from the world — and the only reason I do it is because she calls me out. She has the proof.

The Silence I Carried

I have learned that many people avoid discussing pain, fear, or grief. I was always too worried about what people would think if they knew. This idea started when I was a child. I was taught not to show emotions — fear, pain, isolation. It’s what my mother was taught. You needed to show the world you are strong. If you admit you are struggling, does it mean you are weak? There’s a sense that no one else could possibly understand what you are going through, so it feels safer to stay isolated.

I didn’t think anyone was paying attention. Looking back, I can’t count how many times people asked if I was doing okay or needed anything.

“I’m fine” became my go-to response. It was so embedded in me that even after I left my husband, I still didn’t know how to ask for help.

Motherhood and Isolation

I thought I could stop hiding after I left my husband, but the habit of silence had rooted itself deep inside me.

When my daughter was born with a rare disease, my isolation got worse. I was faced with what I still deem to be the biggest challenge of my life. Yet I hid. I thought mothers are always supposed to be strong, and asking for help would mean that I failed.

I thought I had things under control. The sleepless nights. The fear so palpable my body physically shook every day. Until one day, I broke.

The Breakdown That Set Me Free

One night, after yet another long night with no sleep, blood-soaked bandages, and no way to take my daughter’s pain away, I broke. I locked the bathroom door, slid down the wall, and curled my body into the fetal position, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. The words spilled out between gasps: I can’t do this. I’m not okay.

The duct tape I’d wrapped around my life finally split apart, and everything burst open. Saying the words out loud — I am not okay — was the beginning of a new perspective.

I began speaking my truth. Instead of saying, “I’m fine,” I said how I really felt in that moment.

With the truth came power — and slowly, self-acceptance.

Finding My Voice Through Writing

When I realized I wasn’t alone, and didn’t need to do it all alone, I decided to write my stories. With each journal entry and scene written for my memoir, I began to reclaim my voice. Writing has made me confront the things I tried to ignore for so long. Knowing I wasn’t alone gave me the pull to share the hard parts of my life — to help others heal and reclaim their voices the way I am learning to reclaim mine.

An Invitation for You

What’s something that you have never said aloud?

What would happen if you let yourself be honest about it?

Breaking the silence isn’t easy. I continue to work on it every day. Sometimes I want to crawl back into my hiding spot, and sometimes I do. But I know that sharing my stories and speaking my truth doesn’t make me weak — it sets me free.

If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear your story in the comments. You can also follow me on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/evemarie076/ to follow along as I continue writing my memoir.

Letting Go of the Pressure to Keep Up

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By Eve M.

The Moment I Knew I Needed a Break

About a year ago, I disappeared from the internet. I had been on such a roll—posting daily positive quotes to Instagram and Facebook, sharing poems, and opening up about personal struggles. I don’t have a huge following, but I was looking to grow. To do that, I thought I needed to like, comment, and follow every person who followed me or engaged with my content.

Then one day, I found myself staring at my phone, heart pounding, scrolling through notifications and feeling completely drained. A simple comment from someone—just a kind word—felt like an obligation. I have to respond. I have to support them back. I have to keep up.

That was the moment I knew I needed a break.

Social Media and the Illusion of Perfection

Online, people only share the happiest, most perfect parts of their lives. It sets impossible standards, making it easy to feel like you’re never doing enough.

Keeping up became exhausting. The guilt of falling behind overwhelmed me. I also started questioning: Are people following me because they genuinely like my content, or do they just want a follow back? These thoughts plagued me daily. When I couldn’t keep up, I stepped away completely.

Realizing the Deeper Pattern

Stepping back made me realize that I do this in other areas of my life too. I set extreme expectations for myself, and when I can’t meet them, I feel like I’ve failed. Much of that guilt comes from the pressure I think others place on me—but in reality, it’s my own mind creating unrealistic demands.

Recently, I joined an online writing workshop and came across a post from someone expressing this same struggle—the pressure of not being able to keep up. But it wasn’t their post that changed my perspective; it was a response that read:

“Do what you can. The messages you are meant to see will be seen. Let go of the rest.”

It was so simple, yet before, I couldn’t allow myself to do that. Instead, I did what I do best—the way I’ve survived most of my life—I hid. If I couldn’t meet the standards I believed I should be able to, then I had failed. At least, that’s what I told myself.

A New Way Forward

But now, I’m choosing a different approach.

My advice? Don’t take things personally, and don’t put unnecessary pressure on yourself. Let go of the idea that you have to keep up. Show up in the way that feels right for you. That’s enough.

When Strength Becomes a Cage

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I sit on the carpet, legs crossed, the worn fibers pressing into my thigh. My back rests against the locked door. My breath comes in quick, shallow bursts as I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing myself not to cry. The house is quiet for the first time all day. I should be using this rare moment of stillness to rest. Instead, I’m hiding.

 I just need five minutes. Five minutes where I am not needed by anyone. Where no one expects me to have the answers. Where I don’t have to be the strong one. But even here, alone, the weight never leaves me. Because when people see you as strong, they don’t think to ask if you’re okay.

For as long as I can remember I have been the strong one. The person people turn to, the one who figures it out. I have been through more than most people know—single motherhood, trauma, the relentless fight to advocate for my daughter’s medical care. Through it all, the message I told myself was always clear: I had to be strong, I couldn’t break or ask for help, if I did it meant I had failed. 

No one tells you that strength, when worn like armor for too long, becomes a cage.

The problem with being strong is that people assume you don’t need help. They lean on you, but they never check in on you. They expect you to have the answers, to push through, to be okay—because you always are. So, you start to believe that breaking down isn’t an option. That asking for help means disappointing people.  

“How do you do it all?”  someone asks, smiling like they admire me. I smile back. “I just do; I have to.” Because that’s what I’m supposed to say. What I can’t say is, I don’t know if I can do this anymore. What I can’t say is, I am barely holding it together. The weight of being the strong one isn’t just exhausting; it’s isolating.

When my daughter was just a couple of years old, I was barely keeping it all together. She wasn’t sleeping. She could never get comfortable. Her medical issues were constant, and I had no idea how to fix them. No one expects a child to need their first surgery before they turn two. But I had been naïve. I had been lucky, raising two healthy boys before her. I had no idea what it meant to fight for a child’s health, to be a medical advocate, to live with the constant fear that something might go wrong. 

 One night, after a particularly long week, I showed up to my waitressing shift running on fumes. A coworker offered me a drink. A few drinks turned into a few more. And since I wasn’t much of a drinker, it didn’t take long before I was drunk—sobbing to my boss about my daughter, about my boys, about how I wasn’t sure I was a good enough mother for any of them.

 I don’t remember what I said, only that I finally let it all spill out. I was lucky. My boss didn’t fire me. But I couldn’t shake the shame of losing control, of letting my composure crack in front of someone else. 

For so long, I believed strength meant endurance. That it meant pushing through, showing up, never cracking. But I have learned that real strength isn’t about carrying everything—it’s about knowing when to put some of it down. It’s about being brave enough to say, I need help. 

The strongest people aren’t the ones who never break. They’re the ones who know when to ask for help before they do.

If you’ve ever felt like the person who has to hold it all together, ask yourself this: When was the last time someone held you? When was the last time you let yourself lean on someone else? 

Strength isn’t about never falling—it’s about knowing you don’t have to stand alone. 

You don’t have to carry it all, all the time. 

Exciting News!

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This Saturday, my little essay will be published in an anthology titled:

✨ Turning Points: Life’s Twists and Turns ✨

At first, I hesitated to share this. Maybe it’s imposter syndrome, or maybe I just didn’t want to feel like I was bragging. But the truth is, I’ve been working hard on my writing for the past couple of years—really hard.

I’ve often said that if you want to feel like your guts have spilled onto the floor and you’ve been tasked with picking them up piece by piece—become a writer. And you know what? I love every minute of it.

This is a big moment for me. My writing friends reminded me that I should be proud, and they’re right. My first published piece—the beginning of my author’s journey.

So here I am, celebrating this win. And if you needed a sign today… celebrate yours too. It’s okay. ❤️

Why Is It So Hard to Stay on Track?

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Why is it so hard to stay on track for some things, while others are a breeze? I think we have resistance to the things we want and need to accomplish. This resistance shows up in the form of fear and procrastination.

So what do you do about it? Is there some magical secret you’ve just not been privy to finding? It’s not as complicated as it may feel. Bit by bit, you chip away at your goal. You show up every day, even if only for ten minutes. You can use this for anything—exercise, writing a book, organizing the house. Just show up and put a few minutes toward what you’re trying to accomplish. Set a timer if you need to.

You’ll hate it at first and try to convince yourself that it’s too complicated, that you’ll never get where you’re trying to go. But keep showing up. Day by day, you’ll find your mindset shifting, and you’ll actually want to spend more time working toward your goals.

I wouldn’t have believed this was possible or even true a year ago. But I plugged away, writing the book I’d always dreamed I would write. I showed up, and I did the work. One day at a time. Some days, I only spent ten minutes. I’d set a timer and go.

Last night, I sat down and printed all those pages I’ve written over the past year. Guess what? I’ve got a first draft! Let me tell you something—I am the procrastination queen, so if I can do it, anyone can.

Showing up at the same time every day helps, but if that doesn’t work with your schedule, find an alternative. Schedule it like you would a doctor’s appointment. Look at your week, and if you can’t show up every day, how many days can you commit to?

Now comes the tricky part—sifting through the first draft and making a cohesive story. It will be challenging, but now I am armed with new skills and the knowledge that I can do anything if I set my mind to it. Yep, it’s a big, fat cliché—but it’s so true.

So why are you waiting? Chase your passions. One day at a time, one goal at a time. Move forward with the belief that you can and will. Know that it won’t always be easy, but it will be worth it.

And most importantly? You are worth it.