Breaking Point

I was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, sobbing.
The only thoughts in my head:
What the hell is wrong with me? I need help. I can’t do this anymore.

I wish I could say I remember every detail of what led up to that moment, but the truth is, a lot is lost in the fog of survival. Memories blur. Some are gone. And still others I seared into my own mind – self-inflicted trauma, branded into me like scars I carried long after the moment passed. For years, I told myself I was “handling it.” In reality, I was barely functioning — numbing, distracting, and calling it “coping.”

By that day early in 2021, I had been a single parent for almost four years. Angry at the world, exhausted from motherhood and full-time work, I was worn down from surviving — financially, emotionally, physically. My children had learned to walk on eggshells, bracing for the moments I would lose it. I was tired in a way that went past rest. It was in my bones.

That day, I was working on an old baker’s cabinet someone had given me, trying to replace the bottom. A rod in the middle made it impossible to fit the panel. I tried every angle muttering terrible words to myself: “You’re so stupid! It can’t be that hard!” My frustration boiled over until I finally broke. I screamed, sobbed, cussed and threw things across the kitchen.

I collapsed on the floor, sobbing with my face in my hands, rocking back and forth. My body shook, my chest tight with exhaustion and shame. In that moment, I was surviving one breath at a time, one thought at a time – wondering how I’d made it through so much already – and asking myself “why am I still so broken.”

And then I heard it — the trembling voice of my 11-year-old son:
“Momma, are you okay?”

The words sliced through my storm. A wave of guilt washed over me, but under it was something else: This can’t be my normal anymore. My daughter was sitting silently on the couch, watching. I apologized for scaring them.

I don’t remember much else from that afternoon. But in that moment, I didn’t blame my ex, my kids, my job, or my circumstances. The power — and the beginning of my healing — was in owning my need. In admitting my inability to cope. That was the first time I stopped looking outward for someone to fix it and turned inward to say: I have to change.

How I Know I’m Healing

I used to sob when telling this story. The kind of sob that throws you back into the moment — heart racing, throat choking, body bracing like it’s all happening again. That’s what trauma does.

Now, if tears come, they’re not from shame. They’re tears of compassion for the woman I was that day on the floor — doing her best with the tools she had.

This is how I know I’m healing:

• The memory no longer owns my body.
• I can tell the story without drowning in it.
• I can feel gratitude for the moment that broke me open because it pushed me toward the help I needed.

If you are somewhere between the breaking and the healing, I see you. You are not weak for being here. You are not behind. And you are not alone.

Come with me — one held edge at a time.