The Overbooked Life

Growing up, it’s strange the things that end up living rent-free in our minds. These little memories echo at the most unexpected moments, triggered by who knows what. We never know which moments will become the core memories that shape us—or which ones we’ll unknowingly create for our own children.

As adults, we carry those echoes with us. They help define us just as our youth once shaped who we’ve become. But growing doesn’t stop when childhood ends. We’re always changing, always absorbing, always being reshaped by what we experience each day.

Still, I find myself pausing on the ways the past lingers in who we are now. If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you already know a few things about me. I have PTSD, anxiety, and depression. Yes, I know—so many people these days carry similar labels. Most days I function just fine with them. I don’t wear them like a badge; I don’t announce them in my daily life. Honestly, it’s only here—behind the safety of anonymity—that I talk about the childhood moments that carved them into me. There’s comfort in being unknown, yet still able to speak.

In some ways, I share more with this blank page than I do in therapy. Some people are talkers. Others (and I firmly fall into this group) are writers.

So let’s take a step back into those depths for just a moment. I won’t bore you with an entire history—just one detail.

My mother has never told me she’s proud of me.

Not once. And somewhere along the way, I realized that my adult life has quietly revolved around chasing that one thing. Over and over. Waiting to hear her say I’ve done a good job. That I’m worth her time. Every kind thing I do for her seems to return in some form of backlash.

But still, I chase it.
Somewhere inside me, a little girl still tugs at her mother’s sleeve and asks, “Are you proud of me?”

And in chasing it, I become the victim of my own longing. I set boundaries, I swear I’ll keep them, I promise myself I won’t cross the line again. I remind myself of the pattern: the gratitude that never comes, the kindness twisted into a weapon.

And yet—I cross it anyway. Every time.

The phrase “No good deed goes unpunished” has never felt more accurate. Those who try to help end up hurting for it.

And I am punished, again and again.

Last night, I walked right back into it. My mother has been going on about her broken car, dropping hints about needing help. I didn’t offer. She never directly asked. Then she let my stepfather “fix” it, he made it worse, and she ended up selling it to a junkyard for $289.

She called me nonstop that day, crying about how no one understands her, how no one gives her a chance.

I gently suggested she consider a job—there’s a good bus system, or even work-from-home options.
She immediately told me I wasn’t listening. She can’t work because she can’t get around.

I offered to drive her.
Another roadblock: she wouldn’t be able to get to work once hired.
Then came the real truth—“I will not work with other people. I just want to do DoorDash.”

My inner voice slipped out before I could catch it:
“And how will you do that now that you don’t have a car?”

I should have known.
I should have seen the setup. But I stepped right into it.

The conversation went something like this:

Mom: “Well, I need a car first.”
Me: “To get one, you’ll need money. How are you planning that?”
Mom: “Your sister said you know a car guy.”
Me: “I do. But you still need income.”
Mom: “I have income. So does —(insert stepdad’s name)—.”
Me: “Do you have decent credit?”
Mom: “My credit is none of your business.”

And honestly, she’s right. It isn’t.

Still, I connected them with my car guy. I drove them an hour and a half there. Only to find out they had zero credit. They turned and looked at me—and I should have recognized the stare. I sold cars once. I know that look.

Mom: “My daughter will co-sign.”

Those four words… they dropped like weights.
And I dropped with them.

I co-signed. I wasn’t ready. I felt blindsided, taken advantage of, small again in that familiar way I hate.

And now, once more, a part of me waits—hopes—to hear something simple.

“I’m proud of you.”
Or even just, “Thank you.”

But the echo is silence.

I know there will be consequences later. There always are. But this time, I at least protected myself a bit. I kept the second key to the SUV. I made sure the payments were ones I could cover if I had to.

They were upset they didn’t get a nicer car. My car guy understood the situation, though, and he helped me find the safest option.

And here I am again—realizing I am, in many ways, a victim of my own making.

I see it.
I know it.
I feel it every time I hand over another piece of myself, hoping this time—maybe this time—it will finally be enough.

Because beneath all the logic, beneath the boundaries I swear I’ll uphold, beneath the adult who knows better… there is still a child standing in a doorway, hands clasped, waiting for a mother who never turns toward her.

That small version of me still aches for the words I’ve never heard.
Still reaches for something that never comes.
Still believes that if I just do this one more thing, if I give a little more, help a little more, bend a little further… maybe she’ll finally say it.

“I’m proud of you.”

But she doesn’t.
She won’t.
And yet—I keep trying. I keep handing over parts of my heart like offerings to a god who has never answered a single prayer.

Last night, when I signed those papers, I felt that ache crack open again. Not just the frustration or the exhaustion—but the oldest wound. The one that whispers, maybe now she’ll see me. Maybe now she’ll care. Maybe now she’ll love me in the way I needed all along.

And the cruelest part is… I know better. I know the cycle. I know what comes next. I know the pattern so well I could recite it in my sleep.

But knowing doesn’t stop the wanting.

So I sit with it—the hollow space where her pride should have lived. I feel it throb in my chest, the way absence sometimes hurts more than anything present ever could.

I’m angry with myself.
I’m angry with her.
I’m angry with this endless loop I can’t seem to break.

And beneath all that anger… I’m just tired.

Tired of hoping.
Tired of reaching.
Tired of loving someone who only knows how to take.

Maybe someday I’ll finally stop chasing her shadow. Maybe someday that little girl inside me will understand that the words she’s waiting for aren’t coming.

But tonight?
Tonight I still feel the weight of them.
Tonight I still want what I’ve wanted my whole life.

To hear her say she’s proud of me.
To hear she sees me.
To hear anything that sounds like love.

Even if it’s only once.
Even if it’s only a whisper.
Even if it comes far too late.

Because wanting it—needing it—doesn’t make me weak.
It just makes me human.

Until next time, my dear readers, keep the coffee hot and the chaos manageable.