From the moment we decided to leave the States and relocate to New Zealand, I knew almost instantly that I wanted to create a blog to document our experience. I’ve resorted to writing as a creative and emotional outlet since quite a young age. In fact, when my mom passed away and we were going through all of the keepsake boxes in her basement, I uncovered handfuls of journals from throughout my life. Going back and reading them was as cringy and hilarious as you might imagine. The poems, drawings, and streams of consciousness were a mix of arbitrary anecdotes, mundane notes from random dates, and deeply emotional entries about the joy, pain, or sadness I felt worth documenting at those points in my life.

From the embarrassing, melodramatic diary entries about fights with friends in middle school, to the sappy poems I wrote about my “tortured” life as teen (puke), I’ve always found that capturing my thoughts through words can be very therapeutic. Most special of all are the entries detailing specific moments in time (good or bad) that I felt were meaningful enough to record. Being able to step back in time to that day or place is always nostalgic for me. I wouldn’t say I’m exceptionally good at writing in my journal, but I have gotten better over the years, trying to incorporate enough detail that years from now I can read it back and hopefully recall not just the facts of the day, but the feelings and emotions that were felt when I wrote them down.

With social media creating a new outlet for documentation, I experimented with closing my journal on occasion and instead sharing my vulnerable moments online. Older generations often joke (or judge) that the Millennial and Gen Z generations can’t keep their thoughts to themselves, having to post everything we think and do for the world to see, as if we are so important that we just know others will want to hear what we have to say. It’s hard to disagree sometimes, considering the abundance of meaningless content that exists on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok. But I also find that judgement from other generations to be misguided.

As someone who has used social media to share some of my most intimate and personal experiences, I have learned that in doing so, you allow others to see pieces of you they didn’t know existed. It provides an opportunity for others to see behind the façade we all work to uphold in our lives and be exposed to the messy, beautiful, imperfect vulnerabilities within. The puzzle pieces of who someone is, why they behave the way that they do, or where their beliefs and values come from can come together to create a more accurate depiction of humanness. Perspectives can change. Self-reflection can ignite. Relationships can begin or blossom.

Since having Larsen in 2017, and particularly during the COVID-19 years, I became increasingly open about my personal struggles with everything from motherhood and parenting to the grief of losing my mom to cancer. I opened up about my addiction to alcohol and my journey to becoming sober. I disclosed my diagnosis of endometriosis and PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder) in 2023, hoping to inspire women to take their health seriously. And I continue to talk about managing my anxiety and depression with medication, therapy, and my on and off again relationship with meditation and yoga.

Sometimes, I admit, I share these things hoping to find some acknowledgement of my/our struggles and support from friends and family when I am feeling particularly weak, bitter, or lonely. But more often I hope to shed light on an experience I/we are having, knowing there most definitely is someone else in our network who has been through/is experiencing something similar. I cannot count the number of times I have received messages from friends, family or even strangers who reached out to share that they too are navigating that particular challenge. Most meaningful are the times when women have thanked me for being authentic about motherhood, making them feel less crazy and alone. Or the friends who shared that they felt brave enough to try therapy, after years of putting it off. I’ve even had friends and acquaintances approach me and admit that they too struggle with alcohol and have decided to quit or cut back after seeing the success I’ve had in living an alcohol-free life.

I make no assumptions that I am an inspirational voice for all or that my words are profoundly unique or special, never having been spoken before. My “audience” is small and my reach is limited. But I am human, and it is ingrained within the history of humanity to tell stories and share experiences through written word or art. Authenticity is magnetic, drawing in others who appreciate your true, inner self, and fostering richer connections and deeper relationships. It is beautiful and I’ve grown to crave it.

I’ve offered up a bit of our more vulnerable moments here and there on this blog, but today I offer an extended, unabridged view. As I noted in my last post (Peaks and Valleys), we had a tough week of illness, cloudy weather and parenting a child with ADHD amidst consistent change. What I had hoped was our deepest valley yet was just the precursor to the tidal wave to come. The past week has truly been our most challenging and unforgiving yet.

Allow me to set the stage. We are currently staying in a modern Airbnb, equipped with the necessities, but devoid of all color or personality. The walls and linens are all white, as if we live in some sterile mental institution. And despite being new, it’s quite poorly built. No matter where you are in the house, you can hear footsteps, doors opening/shutting, and even quiet conversation. The house is nestled back from the road behind another home, surrounded by similar houses, a result of islands having limited space and needing to maximize land. Our only view of greenery is through the back windows, which overlooks an overgrown and rather dismal backyard belonging to another home. The weather is increasingly sunny, but incredibly unpredictable. It is cloudy and rainy more than it is nice (it’s Spring after all), and often the sun appears for mere moments before hiding behind a cloud once more. (Note: We are thankfully experiencing more sun each day, which has been a massive boost to our mental health.)

We continue to await news of our visas, receiving an e-mail from Immigration New Zealand that they require additional information from me about my anxiety and depression diagnoses. I spent $160 and an hour waiting to see a GP, who quickly advised me that they require the full background and history of my previous mental healthcare for the visa submission. Reading between the lines: New Zealand wants to know that I am mentally stable and not likely to have a manic episode, endangering others or myself, before granting us our visas. As a perpetual people pleaser working through her childhood trauma of emotional neglect, you can imagine the guilt I feel weighing on me at the notion that I am potentially slowing down our visa approvals with my medical conditions. Of course, this is silly, something Austin consistently and lovingly is reminding me. But nonetheless, it’s hard to feel that you are unwanted or creating concern because you openly provided your medical conditions and were flagged for further examination. Mental health stigma is real, even for those of us that fight it.

With Austin not yet working, we are trying to be thoughtful about how we spend our money, knowing that his salary is less than before and mine is likely to be as well, due to economic challenges in New Zealand. Each day we wake up and are faced with the ever-exhausting task of finding something to do for the next 12 or so hours. Every parent (and especially the stay-at-home parents) understands how draining this can be – you can plan a day at the zoo, including buying a toy at the gift shop and ice cream treats afterwards, only to enjoy a screaming child on the way home telling you how terrible their day was. And while there is so much to do and see on this scenic island, what we want to do vs. what we will do is very dependent on how Larsen is feeling at any given moment of the day.

Because Larsen has ADHD, her big, beautiful brain is built different, affecting her executive functioning (her ability to plan, focus, remember, and multitask), emotional regulation and reward system (less stimulating tasks are unappealing and difficult to accomplish). As a result, Larsen is hyperactive, impulsive and struggles with emotional dysregulation. More so than other children without ADHD, kids like Larsen are less able to manage big emotions without an outburst. And boy, does our girl have some big emotions.

Children with ADHD thrive on routine. It provides much needed structure and predictability, which helps make up for the deficit in executive functioning, allows them to feel less overwhelmed by daily tasks, and reduces stress and frustration. As you’re all aware, routine is a bit hard for us at the moment. Despite our best efforts, it’s challenging to control our daily routines without school, jobs, our own home, and predictable environments. We do not have the comforts we’re accustomed to back home, which is why something as simple as the taste of ketchup can be so triggering for a girl like Larsen. What seems to be meaningless and unimportant is in fact quite problematic for a girl that craves predictability and consistency. Ordering a burger and fries is a typical “go-to” meal for parents, as they know their kid will enjoy it. We can easily find these meals at restaurants here too, but one dip of a fry in ketchup that tastes different could trigger an emotional reaction that might take an hour to work through.

Major triggers for Larsen include, but are certainly not limited to: Changing from one activity to another, transitioning off of a tablet/TV, being asked to put on socks and shoes, brushing teeth, getting ready for bed/going to bed, being around too many people, overly loud places, smells she doesn’t like, and going to do an activity she has not done before (aka – any new experience). Once triggered, it’s hard to say how Larsen will respond. Her reaction could be minimal, where she simply goes quiet or shuts down for a bit, retreating into herself for a moment to ground herself. Sometimes she will find myself or Austin and say something like “I need help, I’m feeling frustrated” or “I feel like I’m going to explode,” allowing us to use the tools we’ve learned with her therapist to support her through it. In those moments, we praise her profusely and acknowledge how proud it makes us when she recognizes her needs and asks for help. We know (many) adults who have yet to figure that out, and to be an 8-year-old with emotional intelligence is a remarkable thing.

The worst is when Larsen’s brain truly fails her and she is stuck in an episode of anxiety, panic, and dysregulation. These outbursts, which are often and mistakenly called tantrums (by both us and society) are equivalent to an emotional bomb exploding. Everyone is hit and the impact is often detrimental. Like stepping on a landmine, the explosive reaction is instantaneous without warning or preamble. Of course, we have learned over the years and especially this week, there are many signs if one is only willing to look.

What occurs next is a turbulent mix of screaming, crying, stomping, verbal insults, and sometimes aggressive behavior. These are not your typical “child acting out” episodes. They are incredibly intense and traumatic for all involved and a result of a deficit in Larsen’s executive functions. She is not choosing to act out or manipulate us with “bad behavior.” She’s not lacking discipline or structure from her parents. We know this because we have spent years and thousands of dollars working with doctors and therapists, reading books and researching articles to understand Larsen’s unique needs.

Perhaps that is why this past week has been so absolutely grueling. We have spent the last eight days living inside of a pressure cooker. Each day, sometimes multiple times a day, the pressure cooker bursts and we watch our interim home implode into little pieces. And each day, sometimes multiple times a day, we piece ourselves back together and attempt to move on. I have sat on a floor, back against the door, crying into my knees more often than I can recall in the last week. We exhausted every tool in our arsenal, from past advice from therapists to new methods we found online. We started each day honing in our strength for what was to come, only to end each day with explosive behavior that would put even the Dalai Llama’s patience to test.

Beyond the tremendous effort it takes Austin and I to parent in these moments, it is perhaps more exhausting and upsetting to witness your child suffer in this way. For each time we worked through the waves of emotions and Larsen was calm once more, the heavy weight of shame and guilt was written all over her face. The maturity of her words as she offers apologies for how she behaves have brought tears to our eyes time and time again. We always reassure her that there is nothing she could do to make us not love her or make us so angry we would never forgive her. And as we navigated this particular tumultuous week, we’ve learned to incorporate new words of comfort that have helped us break through.

One evening this past week, Austin brilliantly helped soothe Larsen after a difficult transition to bed. He shared with her that we all have multiple sides to us, good, bad, or otherwise. And sometimes, our big emotions are so loud that they will “flip our lid” – a phrase we learned from Larsen’s therapist, referencing the inability of our prefrontal cortex (executive functioning) to activate because our amygdala (the fight or flight portion of our brain), is taking over. We know she isn’t always in control. We acknowledge that she doesn’t “want” to behave that way, but is truly unable to stop herself. But he reminded her that just because her big emotions are loud and trying to take over, it doesn’t mean her other parts are gone. They’re still there and we can pull them back out when we ask for help, take some breaths, and use the tools we know will work to regulate our bodies and brains. Austin reminded Larsen that simply saying “I need help” can create the opportunity to stop our emotions from taking us over and allows us to gain back our control. Let’s all take a moment to admire the beautiful, emotionally mature husband I married. As Taylor Swift so eloquently puts it in her new album, “I ain’t got to knock on wood.” Hands off ladies – he’s taken.

After eight days of trying our best to hold space for Larsen, retain a calm demeanor and model for Larsen how to regulate safely, we’ve slowly but surely gained traction. At a mere eight years old, Larsen is finding her way, thoughtfully and maturely, through the clutter of ADHD and the transient chaos of moving to a new country. Our pride in her is fierce and it is evident that this girl was built to withstand whatever life throws her way. Perhaps we all were. The uncertainty and hardships we have faced as a family have continuously made us stronger, together.

It is in these moments of struggle, when I feel broken and bruised, that bitterness seeps in and grabs hold. Bitterness for having to endure this alone, thousands of miles away from the support system we so desperately need. The claws of the bitter-beast are sharp and hard to remove. Resentment for what you are handed in life and comparing it to the experiences of others can create a cancerous toxicity in your mind. As we moved through each day, feeling tired and hopeless, wishing desperately for help, I grew angry and annoyed at the social media posts I came across. I scrolled past pictures of friends back home getting together for drinks or visiting the pumpkin patch with their family, wishing desperately that I could be there with them. I clicked through stories of people reminding the world to “stay positive” and “move through the discomfort,” wondering if they had ever been handed the obstacles we’d faced.

Comparison is the thief of joy – or so they say. And I certainly have found this to be true. As I grew angry at the lack of people reaching out to see how we were doing, I slowly realized that I had secluded myself in my head and failed to reach out and ask. I allowed my feelings to grow big and take over, letting them fester inside me instead of asking for support, which we so often advise Larsen to do. Nobody knew what we were going through, because we are all just living our lives the best we can, dealing with the unseen challenges behind the curtain. And I realized, by opening up and sharing more about what we are experiencing, we just might find others going through tough times too. It’s not always about finding someone who’s navigating the exact same challenge, but often about being reminded that struggle is human nature. We all encounter it, and together, we can all overcome it.

So, for our family and friends back home, just know that despite the struggles of the past few weeks, we are doing well. We are striving to let go of the bitterness that tried to grab hold, and instead enjoy the sweetness of life. It is maybe the hardest thing we will ever do, but we will not stop fighting for the happy, joyful life that we have earned.

Below are some random snapshots from the past few weeks that are certainly worth documenting, so one day we can go back and remember the little moments of joy we were able to find together.