Motherhood: The Joy, The Guilt, The Grocery Bills

To the Six Souls Who Made Me: A Love Letter to My Children

To my six wildly different, beautifully complex, occasionally maddening, always beloved children—

Four of you came from my body, and two of you came through the quiet magic of blending lives. You didn’t all arrive at once, but now here you are: a half-dozen personalities swirling through this house like a living kaleidoscope. Ages five through nineteen. Every hormone imaginable. Every mood. Every era of childhood and young adulthood represented at once.

Short of a crying newborn at 3 a.m., we have it all. And honestly, some nights it feels like we do have that too.

This house is loud. And beautiful. And exhausting. And miraculous.

You six have taught me more about love than anything else in this world ever could. You've shown me compassion, raw honesty, how to stretch my patience, how to face myself, and how to keep showing up. You’ve made me laugh so hard I cried and cry so hard I forgot how to laugh—sometimes in the same day.

You've brought me unfiltered admiration... and equally unfiltered teenage eye rolls. You’ve offered me sweet notes on my pillow and also slammed doors in my face. You’ve hugged me like I’m your entire world and, moments later, acted like I ruined your life because we have no good snacks!

Parenting is not for the faint of heart. Want to feel like someone’s superhero and their mortal enemy in the same breath without ever quite knowing what you did to earn either title? Become a parent.

Want to dedicate your entire soul, body, and bank account to nurturing other humans just so they can grow up and leave you—and rip your heart out while doing it (and then do it again and again with each kid)? Yep. Parenting.

Want to spend hundreds of dollars on groceries only to be told “we have nothing to eat” 48 hours later? Welcome to the club.

And then—because life likes to keep things spicy—let’s add divorce. Let’s add the constant wondering: Did I ruin them? Are they okay? Will they be okay? Will they remember the damage more than the love?

Now let’s add schedules. Logistics. Two homes. Two sets of rules. Two very different incomes and parenting styles. Guilt. Fear. Therapy. Trying your best while constantly feeling like it's not enough. Co-parenting…I’ll just leave this here . And then—because why not—let’s go ahead and date again in your 40s. Let’s try blending again. New kids. New personalities. New expectations. New perils.

Now you’ve got one big messy, magical family.

And sometimes it works. Sometimes there's laughter around the dinner table and everyone’s helping each other and sharing space with kindness and grace and you think: Maybe, just maybe, we’re doing okay.

Other times… well, let’s just say the group chat goes silent and the fridge door slams shut a little too hard.

But even in the chaos, the heartbreak, the endless second-guessing… you are my life’s great love story. All six of you.

Each of you carries something sacred that no one else does.
Each of you has broken me open and rebuilt me into someone I could never have become without you.
You are my compass and my undoing. My softness and my fire.
You are the only people who can simultaneously drive me to blind rage and bring me to my knees with awe.

When you’re not here, I miss you so much it hurts. Even on the days I counted the minutes until bedtime—I still miss you when you're gone.

I don’t always get it right. I know I don’t. But I love you with every part of who I am. And I wouldn’t trade this messy, loud, complicated, ever-evolving journey for anything else on earth.

You are my little birds—flying in every direction—but always, always tethered to my heart.

With everything I have,
Mom

Are My Eyebrows Supposed to Stand Straight Up Now?”: A Middle-Aged Guide to Staying Cool (or Not)

Let’s just say it: staying current in middle age is a full-time job nobody applied for. Do you know how long it took me to get on board with skinny jeans?? Just as I got cozy in those it was on to high-waisted “Mum jeans”, next minute it’s flared bell bottoms and the next, TikTok is telling you that if your jeans aren’t wide-legged and aggressively frayed like it’s 1997 again, you’re basically invisible. (Wait—do I still have those in a box in the basement? Probably next to the dial-up modem and emotional baggage.)

And don’t even get me started on eyebrows. Why are they suddenly vertical now? Is that a thing? Is my face supposed to look mildly shocked on purpose?

Every time you open your phone, there’s a new list of “must-haves” and “never-agains”:

• Tapered jeans? NO.

• Jeggings? Still no.

• Maxi skirts? Not unless they’re the right kind of long (what?).

• Long white skirts? In.

• But not those long skirts.

• Dark colors are slimming, but pastels are "soft girl aesthetic," and we’re not even going to unpack that.

Makeup is another minefield. Lip liner is overlined. Eyes are overlined. Everything is somehow more... but also natural. It’s giving “Instagram filter IRL,” and I'm giving “I tried my best with this eyeliner but now I’m just look hungover.”

And the hoodies? Everyone under 25 is walking around in what appears to be their dad’s hoodie from the '90s, looking effortlessly cool. But the second you try it, someone gives you a concerned “Are you okay?” Like, no Brenda, I’m not. I’m just trying to not look like the Unabomber while staying warm.

Then there are the fashion rules no one explained.
Socks and sandals? Absolutely not—unless they’re Birkenstocks, then it’s a vibe.
High-waisted jeans? They’ll contain the muffin top, yes—but also threaten to split your liver when you sit down after a slice of pizza.
Crop top or oversized tee? Depends on the day. And the moon phase. And whether or not you’ve had caffeine yet.

At this point, I’m just wandering through my closet, whispering “Am I doing this right?” and hoping for divine fashion intervention.

But here's the truth: NONE of it really matters.
Somewhere out there, one person decided standing brows were “in,” and now the rest of us are brushing our forehead hair up like it's normal. Every trend starts with someone bold enough (or confused enough) to just go for it.

So maybe that person is you.

Wear what makes you feel happy, free, and like the best version of yourself. If that’s every single hot new trend—go nuts, friend. Be the Pinterest board of your dreams.
And if that’s the bleach-stained tee you got free with a case of Pilsner in 2011... you do you, comrade. That shirt has stories.

Someone’s always going to judge.
If you try to dress “young,” you’re trying too hard.
If you dress “your age,” you’re out of touch.
So, seriously—who cares?

Feel like going you’re rocking the Coachella wildflower look in a flowy dress and a flower crown? Do it.
Feeling more like the lady who feeds the pigeons in Home Alone 2 - lost in New York, you’re one of us.
And if you feel ridiculous? Cool. That’s what changerooms (and return policies) are for.

But if you feel confident, comfy, cute?
Then throw on that OOTD and stand those eyebrows straight up to the heavens, because YOU, my friend, might just be starting the next trend.

Screw the rulebook. Trendy isn’t always a vibe—but authenticity always is.

Love Actually … Is A Shit Show

The Emotional Circus of Relationships After 40

Let’s talk about romantic relationships in your 40s. Not the rose petals and grand gestures kind. Not the lust-fueled early days when you shaved your legs religiously and texted things like “can’t stop thinking about you 😘.”

No, no. I’m talking about real, capital-A Adult Love. The kind that lives in a house with shared whiteboard calendar, overdue library books, and a collection of half-drunk pepsi cans and SO many crumbs play the role of the ‘decor ‘on your kitchen counters.

The kind of love where you look at your partner and think:
“I would die for you. But I’d also smother you in your sleep if you keep chewing those chips so loud.”

It’s a wild ride, folks.

We’re Talking Real-Life Romance

There’s no time for long gazes across candlelit tables when your life is just an endless loop of:
Work → gymnastics → football → dinner → laundry → dogs → mow the lawn → wash the car → pour the wine → pass out halfway through your show with your mouth open and subtitles still playing.

I love this person. I chose this person.
But sometimes, the only thing we have in common is that we’re both deeply tired and struggling.

We have different parenting styles, different social batteries, different friends, different hobbies, different coping mechanisms, and wildly different opinions on what qualifies as “clean.”
Yet… here we are. Still showing up. Still tagging each other in for another round.

Passion? Check. Annoyance? Also Check.

Let’s be real: long-term love is not a dream state of bliss.
It’s passionate in that “I’M DOING EVERYTHING MYSELF” tone.
It’s knowing exactly how to push each other’s buttons and which button starts the coffee maker.

They fill your cup but also occasionally spill it across your new ivory couch that you waited four months for and cost more than your first car payment.

But we keep going.

The Flex Tape Phase of Marriage

Every day is a new leak in the boat.
The dog pees on the floor.
You forgot your lunch.
Kid #2 needs to be at gymnastics in 15 minutes and it’s a 20-minute drive.
You tripped over a Birkenstock, ripped your shirt, and forgot your charger at work.

Your partner walks in looking like they had a day and guess what?
You both want to be babied but there’s no one left to baby anyone.

You’re the lead in the 2025 reboot of Groundhog Day: Domestic Chaos Edition.
Except instead of a groundhog, it’s just that one drawer that never closes and keeps catching your hip every morning.

Still Worth It (Even When It’s Not Easy)

And still, through the chaos, you stay.
You try. You schedule date nights that never happen. You touch toes in bed and call it intimacy.
You trade memes and send the occasional “suggestive” text that gets ignored for five hours because someone was making snack bags for tomorrow’s field trip.

You apologize. You come back together. You pour wine.
You find each other again, somewhere between the dishes and the dog hair.
And sometimes—on those magical unicorn days—you laugh until you can’t breathe and remember exactly why you fell in love in the first place.

The Quiet Work of Loving Someone (While Tired, Touched-Out, and Wondering What’s for Dinner)

Some days, loving someone feels like soft music in the background of chaos. It’s there, steady and comforting, but it can get drowned out by the sheer volume of life. Kids, bills, work deadlines, mental to-do lists that never stop running, and the ache in your lower back that reminds you had no business moving that table by yourself…again.

And then there’s your partner—this person you adore, admire, and genuinely like… who somehow becomes the one who asks, “What we have for dinner?” at the exact moment you finally… finally sit down for the first time all day.

It’s not about the dinner. It’s never really about the dinner.

It’s about the weight of it all. The constant balancing act between being who your kids need, who your clients need, who your partner needs—and somewhere in there, who you need. And when you’re broke, tired, overstimulated, and barely holding it all together, the pressure can feel suffocating.

You start to feel like you’re the one always falling short. Like your best efforts are invisible because they don’t always look like success or care. Because survival mode doesn’t come with applause. Because “still standing” doesn’t get the same recognition as “thriving,” even when standing is a miracle some days.

And sometimes, resentment creeps in. You want space without guilt. You want to feel chosen—seen—without needing to narrate every feeling you have just to be understood.

And if we're being really honest? Sometimes you just want everyone—including the person you love most—to leave you alone! Middle age and perimenopause have brought a new kind of fatigue and sensitivity. Your body is changing. Your patience has a shorter fuse. And the idea of intimacy often looks more like a full night’s sleep than anything else.

But here’s the part that matters—the part I come back to again and again:
I chose this person. I still choose them. Even when I’m weary. Even when I feel misunderstood. Even when I don’t want to be touched, but I still want to sit beside them and be.

There is something quietly romantic about that.

Loving someone deeply doesn’t always look like fireworks. Sometimes it looks like laughing over a stupid meme on the couch. Or splitting a bag of chips while watching the show we’ve seen a hundred times. Or sitting side by side in silence because it’s the only peace you’ve had all day—and sharing it feels like connection in its own right.

And maybe that’s love in real life. Not shiny or perfect, but gritty and loyal. Not loud, but present. The kind of love that holds steady when everything else feels unstable.

Your story may not be perfect what matters is that you want the story. The one where they are still your person. And the one where you wouldn't want to do any of this without them.

Bottom line?
Love after 40 isn’t a fairy tale.
It’s a slow burn, a shared effort, a comedy of errors, and a practice in grace.
It’s showing up even when you’re depleted, and choosing to stay—sometimes out of love, sometimes out of stubbornness, often out of muscle memory.

But if you're lucky, it’s still home.
Even with the unpaid property tax bill on the table.

The Friends Who Bring The Shovel: The Hilarious, Healing Power of Grown-Up Friendships

Let’s talk about adult friendships—the real ones. Not the ones where you bond over you’re shared lack of interest in having to get out of the car at school pickup and pretend to care about Susan’s kombucha brewing hobby, but the soul-deep, ride-or-die people who have seen you completely unfiltered and love you more because of it.

You know the ones.

They’ve been there through it all: your divorce/breakup, your miscarriage, the time you ugly cried because your kid told you they hated you, and when your aging parents decided technology was a personal attack and only you can fix it. They’ve sent “you’ve got this” texts while you were crying in a bathroom stall at work, and they’ve stood like emotional bodyguards when your mental health had you duct-taped together with caffeine and sarcasm.

These aren’t just friends. These are your chosen family. Your late-night phone call crew. The people you could text at midnight with,

“Wear a disguise. Bring a shovel. No questions.”

and the only thing they’ll ask is, “Whose car are we taking?”

They are your load-bearing emotional beams. The humans who somehow know exactly when your tank is empty and show up with snacks, wisdom, and the emotional equivalent of a well curated toolkit. They've seen your worst and reminded you it’s not the end—just a dramatic, peril-riddled chapter in your bestselling autobiography.

They’ve witnessed the crimes:

• The backed-into-the-pole-but-drove-away moment.

• The accidental poop incident (don’t lie, “One of Us. One of Us..”).

• The screamed-at-my-kids-because-I-was-overwhelmed meltdown.
  And they didn’t flinch. Instead, they said, “Same.” Then they handed you a glass of wine, some cheese, or just sat with you in silence, because they get it.

They know all the things:

• You had headgear, braces AND peed the bed when you’re 13.

• The deeply regrettable people you slept with in your 20s (RIP to our dignity, but hey—experience).

• The exact tone you use when you’re pretending to be fine but are actually three seconds from spiraling.

And the love? It’s tough but honest.

They’re the ones who whisper “There’s a peppercorn in your teeth” before you walk into a meeting.
Who adjust your necklace and blend your makeup mid-conversation.
Who will absolutely tell you when you're being a dramatic twat—but then still hug you like you didn’t just try to ruin brunch with your hormonal chaos.

Here’s the thing: friendships like these are survival tools.

In a world that is constantly throwing us spiked emotional dodgeballs—aging, failure, grief, overwhelm, the mystery of where your thigh gap went—it is these friendships that keep us grounded and sane. It’s important to nourish the new connections, yes. Say yes to coffee with that girl you met at an event, go to the book club, chat up the mom at pickup who seems kind and might have snacks. But don’t forget to water the OG roots—the people who have stood in your mud, danced in your joy, and held your secrets like sacred scrolls.

And let’s not forget the absurd beauty of how these friendships evolve. Once upon a time, your hangouts involved prank calls, absurd amounts of vodka/waters (cause the water cancels out the alcohol resulting in zero hangover…LIES Krysta!) and emotionally unavailable men named Chad. Now? It’s leggings, cute hoodies, and trying to stay awake long enough to finish an episode of Sweet Magnolias you’ll all rewatch four times because you keep falling asleep.

You used to talk for hours about dreams and crushes and how you were totally moving to Paris one day. Now you talk about therapy breakthroughs, your pelvic floor, and which probiotic finally made you poop like a regular human. Growth, baby.

But even when the conversations shift, the connection doesn’t. In fact, it only gets deeper. You begin to understand that true friendship isn't just about fun—it’s about witnessing. About saying “I see you” when you don’t even recognize yourself anymore. About holding each other accountable and holding each other up.

These are the friends who send reels as love letters. Who remember your kid’s birthday even when you forgot it. Who text “Wellness Check?” because they haven’t heard from you in a couple hours and not because they’re insecure—but because they know you and your silence means you're probably hiding in your laundry room stress-eating Ritz crackers dipped in cream cheese or pouring that 5th glass of crisp pinot grigio because you are not okay.

They celebrate your weird. They encourage your wild. They love your soft, your broken, your rising.

And you love theirs.

You’ve weathered breakups, breakthroughs, Botox appointments, and the slow, soul-crushing realization that your metabolism has left the group chat…months ago. You’ve held space for each other in the messy middle of life—when it’s not shiny or impressive or Instagrammable.

And somehow, that’s where the magic is.

So here's to the ones who remind us that we’re not alone. That we’re not crazy (even if, okay yes, we are a tiny bit unhinged and are intrigued by murder). That we are loved, needed, important—and not just because we bring snacks and emotional support beverages, but because we matter.

To the women and people who’ve seen us at our worst, cheered us at our best, and love us exactly where we are today:

You are the lifelines. The medicine. The magic.

Yes, yes, YES. I’m speaking language of deep, ride-or-die friendship, and I hope you’re here for it

And let’s talk about the real investments these friends make in you—not just emotionally, but financially. These are the women who have e-transferred you money without a single question, with a note that says, “Pay me back when life stops being a dumpster fire.” They’ve covered dinners, gifts, concert tickets, and that Target runs.

They invest in your dreams, your side hustles, your weird Etsy store that sells hand-knitted cactus cozies. They believe in you when you don’t believe in yourself. They are venture capitalists of your soul.

They’re also wildly talented in the art of duality. Because yes, they’ll bash your husband in the group chat when he’s being an emotionally constipated man-child—but when you all get together? They hug him warmly, they truly care and ask him about work, and pretend they haven’t heard every sordid detail about that dumb fight you had over who was snoring louder last night. Again.

These are the people who love your children like bonus family. They bring birthday gifts, show up at school concerts, and text you reminders to pack snow pants because they know you’re mentally elsewhere trying not to cry over a reel you saw about soldiers returning home. They remember your kid’s favorite colour, allergy, and F-word phase.

They are your board of directors for all shopping-related decisions. You cannot—will not—buy a throw pillow, a dress, or a coffee mug without FaceTiming them from aisle seven like you're on a fashion version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. “Should I get the amber glass vase or the cream ceramic one?” And they’ll pause like it’s a life-altering decision—because honestly? It is.

They are walking, talking love languages.
Acts of service. Words of affirmation. Physical touch. Quality time. And gift giving—all wrapped up in a hoodie, holding a Starbucks, asking, “Are we being too harsh or is he actually the worst?”

They are the glue, the hype squad, the reality check, and the relief. They hold space and they hold receipts. They let you be ugly, messy, tired, overwhelmed—and they love you harder in the moments you feel least lovable.

So here’s to the friends who bring wisdom, snacks, shopping advice, and unconditional love.
Who know when you need a pep talk, when you need a loan, and when you just need to cry into their lap like a sad Victorian ghost.
These people are not just friends. They are everything.

And if you don’t have a group like this yet—go find them. Be this kind of friend. Because life is too damn hard to go through it without someone who will defend your honour and also your questionable taste in men!

Lastly, if we ever do need to bury something shady, I’ll bring the shovels. You bring the wine. And we’ll take my minivan—there’s more trunk space.

Leslie Kent