The SS MOTHER LOAD

By Sandy Hart

“Step aboard!” they said! “It will be a magical voyage!” they promised …

HELLO beautiful fellow mamas out there on those stormy seas called life! In “The Mother Ship 2 Book, my share was around the storms of divorce. Which is anything but fun or easy, but today, I think I would take D-I-V-O-R-C-E- over bone scans and CT scans looking for cancer. What I know in my last 1/3 of both this epic book journey and life, is that it simply doesn’t get easier; we truly do get wiser and stronger. It’s my honor to share what wisdom I can to hopefully prepare you a little for your next part of this journey. Hugs girl, you got this!

As I reflect on my own journey on this crazy voyage we all embark upon from the moment of conception, then birthed into life as a female … one truth still stands tall for this daughter, sister, friend, mama, and Nana; the most beautiful parts of this voyage are hands down love, marriage, and babies. These are the moments that filled me with hope, purpose, and dreams of an ever-brightening future. In the glow of new love, the promise of marriage, and the wonder of children, life unfolded with an almost magical light, painting a dream picture of endless, boundless happiness. Likely a good thing that there were no WARNING signs about the STORMS  ... there are many parts of the journey for which we receive no navigational map, no fog horn screams of “hazards ahead” warnings. There are no cautions about the shattering realities of divorce, our children growing up and out, no guidebook on the slow, painful aging of those who raised us. There’s no chart to follow when we become the caretaker, the strong one, the rock that our aging parents lean on as their own strength fades. And there’s certainly no preparation for the staggering sense of loss that comes when our grandparents, then parents who once felt as steady and timeless as the ground beneath our feet, depart, leaving a crater half the size of the earth in our hearts. In reality, thank God we don’t foresee or expect the love, grit, and grace it will take to weather these storms.

When I was a young girl, I dreamed of a fairy tale, particularly one titled (you may know it;) CINDERELLA. My younger self believed that life was about being saved by a knight in shining armor, a prince at a ball, and then arriving at my own castle, finding love, settling into marriage, raising children, all part of gracefully riding off into some sort of everlasting sunset. But what life had in store was a far richer, and FAR more complex narrative - an adventure on the sometimes stormy seas filled with unforeseen challenges, heartbreak, and the indescribable strength, resilience, and tenacity found in enduring real-life adventures and hardship. It’s a true and worthy tale where the quiet strength of grit becomes just as, if not more important than, the loud joy of celebration, and where grace is not just a lovely quality but a necessary companion for surviving and thriving.

As I’ve grown into my role as a helpful daughter, mother, then Nana - a very blessed and grateful human and then, almost BOOM - full circle, a daughter again, helping my parents in their later years, I’ve come to understand that life is not a linear journey but a true adventure from countless roles, responsibilities, and relationships that shape us as we move forward. Each stage comes with its own gifts and gut-wrenching burdens. We are the teachers and the students, the nurturers and the nurtured, the healers and the broken. Time and storms wait for nobody. There is no preparation, and amid it all, we are nailed with balancing each of these roles, even (or especially) when we feel unprepared, overwhelmed, and utterly exhausted.

Being a mother and a Nana is a blessing and a gift that has also challenged every part of who I am. It has called forth a depth of love I never imagined, along with a level of strength that I often doubted (and still do) I possessed. But it has also shown me the limits of that strength. Motherhood doesn’t stop; it simply shifts as the years pass, revealing new challenges and requiring new skills. As my children grew, so did I, learning through trial and error the kind of wisdom you can’t find in any book. And now, as a Nana, I have the privilege of watching the next generation come into their own, each moment with my grandchildren a reminder of the magic, innocence, wonder, and simple joy that were gifted in motherhood all those years ago.

Yet life has a way of throwing us onto unexpected paths. Divorce was not part of the fairy tale. There were no warning signs for the sudden change from wife and mother to single parent, juggling roles that once seemed defined and straightforward but now felt chaotic and fractured. Divorce, in its own way, was a rebirth-painful, yes, but also clarifying. It taught me the necessity of self-reliance and showed me the beauty in strength and resilience. It was through the trials of navigating single motherhood, of rediscovering myself outside of the labels society had given me, that I found a new kind of strength, one that didn’t need validation from anyone else.

As the years pass, I now find myself in another unexpected role: the caregiver. Just as I was finding my stride as a mother and a Nana, life called me back to being a daughter, not in the simple, carefree way of my childhood, but as a pillar of support for my aging parents. This transition is filled with beauty and sorrow, as I witness the gradual decline of the very people who raised me, who loved and supported me through every step of my journey. I am now the one they look to for strength, for comfort, for care. And while this role is an honor, it is also a weight, one that brings with it a sense of urgency, of time slipping through my fingers as I try to savor every precious moment I have left with them.

Through all these stages-young innocent daughter, young innocent mother, grateful Nana, and now not so young, far from innocent daughter once again-there is a thread that runs through, binding each experience with a profound sense of love, grit, and grace. Each role has taught me something invaluable about life and about myself. Being a mother taught me patience and unconditional love. Becoming a Nana reminded me of life’s magical innocence and beauty. And now, caring for my parents has brought me face-to-face with the reality of aging, of loss, and of the immense strength it takes to walk with dignity through life’s final chapters. Cruel yet beautiful.

There is a speech I delivered very recently, titled Cherish, that now rings truer than ever. Life, I’ve learned, is precious beyond words. It’s a dance of highs and lows, triumphs and losses, beauty and heartbreak. But each step, each moment, each role we embrace is an invitation to cherish what we have, while we have it, because time, as I’ve learned, waits for no one. The older I get, the more I realize that life’s greatest gift is its impermanence; it’s what makes each moment so valuable, each relationship so meaningful, each memory so precious.

As we navigate the seas of life, from the crystal glass-looking-calmness of sunrises and sunsets, basic calm most days, to the crazy storms, we are constantly evolving, constantly growing. The SS MOTHER LOAD is about honoring this journey, with all its beauty, its challenges, and its undeniable impact on who we become. We are each carrying forward a legacy-not just of love, but of resilience, of lessons learned, and of the wisdom gained from embracing every part of our journey. This legacy is the most profound gift we can give to those who follow, and it is my hope that through these stories, you too find the courage, the strength, and the grace to sail through whatever storms life may bring.

So, come aboard. Let’s journey through the heartaches and the joys, the grit and the grace, and discover together the legacy we’re creating, one precious moment at a time. WARNING though ... bring your snorkel and your life jacket; these seas get rough, then they get calm and stunning, then they get rough then …! Below is my recent Toastmasters Speech to my “Cherished” Spruce Capital Toastmasters Club in Prince George, British Columbia, Canada on a Tuesday evening after the fall Daylight Savings Time Change, where we had a theme of that evening “Time Travel”.

My speech was titled: 

CHERISH

“Imagine for a moment … if you could travel back in time, to a single day, a single moment that you’d want to experience all over again, what would it be?

Mister Chair, Fellow Toastmasters, and CHERISHED guests … would it be a reunion with a loved one, the laughter of children, a conversation with someone you’ve lost, or a long-forgotten feeling? Time, for all its fleeting magic, is a one-way street, unless, that is, we truly learn to CHERISH it. Time travel may be a fantasy, but the journey through life is as real as it gets, and I’d like to take you on that journey tonight, including 3 GOLDEN  … TRIEVERS ...”

"I remember walking into the home of my parents, with my children, and watching my parents light up as they held their grandkids. It hit me: I was in the center of three generations, the bridge between my parents’ yesterdays and my children’s tomorrows. Time didn’t feel urgent back then, until it started slipping by. I thought I had all the time in the world. Didn’t we all?  As the years passed, my kids transformed before my eyes, from toddlers with bright eyes and endless questions to teens with dreams of their own.

My dad’s wisdom: we should all live life like a golden retriever, THEY know how to live in the moment … trust me, lock your wife and your golden retriever in the trunk of your car, regardless if it’s 5 seconds or 5 hours, one of them is going to be happy as hell to see you … and the other is going to bite you!

Today, my babies are 3 grown men with families of their own. I was anything but a “helicopter mom” hovering over my boys … I was instead a  “career mom”. 6 am until midnight 7 days a week for 18 years. My biggest regret in life is two-fold: I wish I’d taken more time with my kids, and I wish I had relented from my ridiculous mindset not to get a nanny sooner because “if I didn’t want to raise my own children, I wouldn’t have had them” was as backward as I could have been. Elsa came into our lives when my boys were 15, 6, and 3 years old. She took over the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, and making the school lunches so that I could be present and enjoy starting the day with breakfast together, favourite thing of the day at supper, bath time, and bedtime stories. I remember a moment when my middle son, Bodie, shared that it’s the “little things” he cherishes most with me, like Mom cooking pancakes for our school at Rendezvous or a simple lunch date.

Heartbreak and Celebration:

The truth … I barely remember 11 years of my children’s lives. I was SO successful “on paper” but the truth, I would drive around in my $109,000 platinum edition ESV Cadillac Escalade and cry because I was utterly exhausted, I was 225 pounds, and my marriage was a disaster, and worst of all, my kids were in terrible distress. My TOP year in real estate turned out to be my lowest as a woman, a wife, and a mom. Today, time is everything, and being present is more than a gift.

As my mom began to slip away, I began to witness life’s incredible, heartbreaking cycle up close. Each visit felt shorter, each hug tighter. And I realized I’d spent so much of my time chasing goals that weren’t even mine, missing the magic of moments right in front of me. What is money worth to you? Tom may have more money than Jack, but who cares? News flash: Randy has more money than any of us! 

A good friend of mine shared his mom’s wisdom when his brothers started to fight over the “family fortune” ‘Son, … we chase status and riches our whole lives, but in the end, we all get JUST 6 feet. In all these seasons, I learned a powerful truth: time is both our friend and our fiercest teacher. It gives us memories, but only after the moments have passed.’

The Circle of Life:

‘Now, as I watch my own grandchildren play, I feel like I’m in a time warp. 

It’s a reminder, a gentle nudge, whispering, ‘Don’t miss it this time. CHERISH every single moment.’ I think of all the family gatherings, the birthdays, the ordinary Tuesdays that I now wish I could revisit, and my brilliant Uncle Bruce’s advice: ‘The key is to bonding with your grandchildren, be there for them, remember, you share a common enemy!

The years have taught me that life isn’t made up of grand milestones - it’s pieced together by the simple, UNREMARKABLE moments we don’t realize are precious until they’re gone.’

Cherish

I leave you with a recap of those 3 golden "RETRIEVERS" of time travel wisdom 

Never forget: 

1- Live like a golden retriever,

2- In the end, we all get JUST 6 feet and 

3- Bond with your grandchildren, be there for them because you share a common enemy!

I invite you to close your eyes and think of a moment you CHERISH deeply. Hear the laughter, feel the warmth. Dear friend, may you truly learn to CHERISH the time you have and the life you live. INVEST your time like it’s the most valuable thing you have, because IT IS. When we cherish, we live fully, leaning into both the beauty and the hardship that life inevitably brings. We treasure our loved ones, we embrace our purpose, and we let gratitude flood into all corners of our existence. Cherishing, in a way, is a courageous act because it means acknowledging that nothing lasts forever and choosing to love it anyway. Today, I invite you to cherish your journey, with all its joys and sorrows, victories and defeats. Each day is a gift, and each person we hold dear is a blessing. Thank you. Back to you, Mr. Chair.”

That evening, as I delivered my speech, I looked out into the audience to see my father, his face weary yet full of love. I’d invited him to join because, in the wake of my mother’s passing three years before, I wanted to involve him in something meaningful. Little did I know that earlier that day, he had received not one, but two phone calls from cancer specialists bearing unwelcome news. He hadn’t told me until minutes before I spoke, when he said, "Well, it looks like I may have a tough road ahead." And yet, there he was, showing up for me, supporting me even as his own world was shaking. The weight of that moment, knowing what he was facing, created a thick fog of heartbreak and dread. I felt the deflating grip of doom, an overwhelming awareness of how life could turn in an instant. Here I was, delivering a speech about cherishing life, while fearing the potential loss of yet another anchor in my world.

During my speech, my dad forgot to mute himself, and the sound of his quiet, choked tears filled the air. His grief was palpable, a man mourning his own mortality, still mourning my mother, and preparing to leave the world himself. My heart broke, yet I pressed on, gathering my own courage, knowing I had to be strong-for him, for my family, for myself. The ship, as my dad would say, must continue to sail.

But resilience doesn’t mean we don’t need a lifeline. In the days following, I reached out to trusted friends, sharing the weight of my fear and sorrow. I needed their steady presence to balance the delicate act of holding on to hope without ignoring the reality that I might be preparing myself for yet another devastating loss. This was grace in action, the grace to be human, allowing myself to be vulnerable, to let others help shoulder the burden, and to acknowledge that while I was striving to be strong, I indeed was still human.

As women, we carry more than our fair share of life’s weight. Motherhood, career, caregiving-these roles come with immense responsibility and, often, little recognition. I had given birth to three children, raised them while balancing work, and endured the pain of a heartbreaking loss. I had experienced the stress of trying to be everything to everyone while silently feeling crushed under the weight of perceived perfection. Social media doesn’t help, either. We’re bombarded with images of “perfect” moms and families, airbrushed to an impossible standard that only deepens our self-doubt. The journey is messy, full of both laughter and tears, success and setbacks. For me, being a mother is only part of the challenge; I was also a career mom.

Choosing to build a business felt like raising another family, with all the joys and challenges that entailed. There were days it felt exhilarating, and days it felt impossible, especially when I faced storms I could not control. I remember the day vividly, at 26, when I informed my parents that I had chosen my career path: I was going to be a real estate agent. My father’s response was, shall we say, unexpected. “Couldn’t you just be a prostitute and give us something to be proud of?” he asked, in a massively sarcastic tone. Here I was, the daughter of two respected pillars of society. My mother served as a court administrator and justice of the peace, and my father was the senior game warden and a special constable with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I was the child of two people who had dedicated their lives to law and order, to respectability and public service. And here I was, telling them I was entering real estate, an industry not always regarded for its integrity. The “disease to please” that Oprah once described hit me full force.

Growing up in the ’70s and ’80s, I was conditioned to serve, to live up to my parents’ standards, to earn their approval by making choices that aligned with their values. But somewhere in that moment, as I faced their disappointment, I realized I had to blaze my own trail. I had to show them-and the world-that a real estate agent could be both successful AND maintain integrity. This became my mission, my fire. I was going to prove that you could make an honest living in real estate and still sleep soundly at night knowing that you make the world a better place, not worse or sleazier in sales.

For 18 years, I pushed myself, determined to succeed not just for my own sake but for the honor of the profession. My career flourished, and the best day of my working life came not long after I had opened my own RE/MAX office. My honorable daddy, newly retired, walked into my office, looked at me, and said, “You look tired. I think I’m going to get my real estate license and come work in your office.” “WHAT, Dad?” I laughed, remembering his earlier words. “And prostitute yourself?” With a mischievous grin, he nodded. It was the most unexpected, full-circle moment I could have imagined. For the next decade, my father and I worked side by side. Those years with him in my office were some of the best of my life. He challenged me, tormented me, and became my greatest supporter. But, not even my father could protect me from the “perfect storm” that was brewing.

The endless cycle of 6 a.m. to midnight, seven days a week, began to take its toll. More than a decade of relentless work, of sacrificing personal moments for professional success, was wearing me down. I’d climbed high, but at a cost that was becoming too steep. My energy waned, and my passion, once a blazing fire, became a flicker. The reality was that I had been so driven by the need to prove myself, to gain my parents’ approval, that I had lost sight of the very reasons I started. I wanted to create something meaningful, something that would provide for my family, yes, but also something that would bring me joy and fulfillment. Yet here I was, the captain of a ship battered by storms, struggling to keep afloat in waters I once ruled with confidence.

It was during this massive storm that I came to terms with a truth I had long avoided: I was exhausted, burned out, and more than on the verge of collapse. The not-always-smooth inside passage to success had taken me to beauty and success I never dreamed of, but it had also cost me. My father had instilled in me a strength and resilience I could lean on, but the lesson he taught me as he cried through my Toastmasters speech was one that softened me, one that allowed me to accept help, to let others step in, to steer the ship, to not be the “strong one” every moment of every day.

As I stood in the space between motherhood and my role as a daughter, I realized that strength doesn’t mean going it alone. It doesn’t mean soldiering on when your soul is crying out for rest. The legacy my father and mother gifted me was not just one of grit and resilience, but of love and grace. They taught me that real courage is found not only in pressing forward in the storm but in knowing when to pause, to set down the anchor, when to lean on others, and when to cherish the journey, however imperfect it may be.

In the end, the SS MOTHER LOAD is a ship with a compass that points to a truer north, a path that honors the beauty of the triumphs and the trials alike, the victories and the losses, the joy and the heartbreak. As I continue to navigate these waters, I carry with me the wisdom of a daughter, mother, and Nana, a legacy that extends beyond the roles I’ve played, to the heart I’ve poured into each one, and though the storms may come, I know that this ship, with all its wear and tear, is still afloat, still journeying, still seeking the beauty in every wave. My father’s words linger in my mind, echoing in the quiet moments: The ship must continue to sail.

I can’t help but think of the journey I took to find my calling in real estate. It wasn’t a straightforward path, and it certainly wasn’t a choice that thrilled my parents. As the daughter of two pillars of society, my mother, a court administrator and justice of the peace, and my father, a senior game warden and special constable with the RCMP, I grew up feeling the weight of their expectations. When, at 26, I proudly announced my decision to become a real estate agent, my father’s sarcastic response, “Couldn’t you just be a prostitute and give us something to be proud of?” stung more than I wanted to admit. But my resolve was stronger.

The “disease to please” had gripped me for years, a need to earn my parents’ approval and prove my worth. Growing up in the ’70s and ’80s, I was conditioned to serve, to seek validation from those around me. And in many ways, this was the fire that pushed me to be the best at what I did. I wanted to prove to the world, and to my parents, that a real estate agent could succeed with integrity. This became my mission, my driving force, the thing that kept me going through all the highs and lows of my career.

Eighteen years later, I opened my own RE/MAX office, and I remember vividly the day my father, newly retired, came in and said, “You look tired. I think I’m going to get my real estate license and come work with you.” It was a full-circle moment, one that filled me with pride and joy. For the next decade, he became my commercial agent in the office, eternally my biggest fan and my toughest critic. Every day, he was there, reminding me with a smile that he’d once called my career choice a form of “prostitution.” But even my father couldn’t protect me from the perfect storm that was brewing. A decade of relentless work had taken its toll. The cycle of early mornings and late nights, the endless striving, was breaking me down. My father taught me first and foremost integrity, but he also taught me the importance of balance, something I had long neglected. As I hit my own walls, exhausted and struggling, his presence was a reminder of the legacy he had left me: a legacy of grit, grace, and unrelenting love.

My mother embodied the term “mother load” in every sense. A mother of three who had sworn to have all her children before she turned 25, she was determined, capable, and driven by love. But, like for so many of us, motherhood didn’t go exactly as she planned. After the birth of my oldest brother, Andy, she decided it was time for baby number two. What followed, however, were unexpected losses, a series of heartbreaking miscarriages that weighed heavily on her heart and spirit. Eventually, my brother Clint arrived, three years after Andy, bringing a renewed sense of joy and possibility. Then, in a twist only life can deliver, just 10 and a half months after Clint, my mother discovered she was pregnant with me. I was a spicy little surprise with a crown of carrot-colored hair that stood straight up, a far cry from my older brothers’ silky, dark locks and delicate features. If my brothers were porcelain dolls, I was something else entirely, a little carrot top with see-through skin and a personality that would keep my mother on her toes from day one.

She often told the story of my arrival with laughter, sharing how her beautiful babies had black hair and porcelain complexions, while I came along with hair so orange that people took a double look. “We put her in pink so people would know she was a girl,” she would say, and then laugh, “but she was U-G-G-G-G-L-Y.” That became the family story: the “ugly” carrot-top child. And as lighthearted as it was meant, I absorbed it. I absorbed the belief that, somehow, I was less, that beauty and desirability were external gifts that had simply bypassed me. This perception planted the seeds of what Oprah famously coined the “disease to please.” If I couldn’t be beautiful like my mother or brothers, then I would be helpful. I discovered that when I was useful, I was good. And so began my training-in-service, a core value my mother instilled in me from the very beginning. If I wanted to be loved, I would have to be of service, always giving and doing for others. From as early as I can remember, I was the one clearing supper dishes, tidying the bathroom, and eventually, by the time I was eight, making bread from scratch. My mother taught me how to clean thoroughly, and not just clean, but clean with excellence. “If you’re going to do something, Sandra, do it right the first time,” she would say, her voice a mixture of encouragement and instruction. And if I missed a step? If I swept around a corner instead of under it? There was no hesitation. I’d start over, from the beginning. My mother instilled in me the third core value that has followed me my entire life: excellence. If something was worth doing, it was worth doing well, a lesson I would carry with me into motherhood, career, and life.

It wasn’t until later that I fully understood the weight she carried herself. My mom worked two jobs for most of my life, hustling to ensure we had what we needed, all while keeping the household running. She never stopped. She was the silent manager of our family’s well-being, holding the burden of financial concerns and the relentless responsibilities of motherhood close to her chest. She rarely shared these struggles with my father, choosing instead to shield him from the reality of our finances when things were tight. She bore the weight of the “Mother Load” without asking for help or acknowledgment, and in her mind, this was simply what it meant to be a mother.

Despite the challenges, my mother had one dream: to be a mom. That role, however heavy it became, was her purpose, and she gave everything to it, often sacrificing her own happiness in the process. She was a worrier, a woman who held onto every responsibility as if it were her duty alone. And while she loved us fiercely, I often saw her worn down by the weight of all she carried. Yet there was an irony that never ceased to surprise her. Amidst her own struggles, she was raising a daughter with a boundless sense of optimism, a ridiculously happy child whose lightheartedness seemed to stand in stark contrast to her own worries. She’d look at me, this effervescent child who laughed easily and carried an innate joy, and it baffled her. She did the best she could to nurture me, often attempting to temper my endless enthusiasm with her own steady, practical wisdom. But the friction between her cautious outlook and my happy-go-lucky spirit sometimes left us both bewildered. Looking back, I realize she was trying to protect me, to make me strong, to prepare me for a world she knew could be harsh and unforgiving.

My mother was also a beauty, a child model with jet-black ringlets, bright blue eyes, and a button nose. People would say she looked like Shirley Temple, and as a little girl, she had dreams of a life filled with possibilities. She was accustomed to being adored, to being the picture-perfect girl, and I think, in some ways, that perception of beauty and worth followed her into adulthood. My brothers, as babies, had inherited her striking features, one with curly hair, one with straight, both with big, luminous eyes. And then there was me, her surprise baby, who would become her biggest helper, always striving to earn love through service.

I grew up watching my mother, a woman who gave everything and received little in return, and I learned to hustle. She taught me the value of hard work, of pushing through even when things were difficult, of persevering in the face of challenges. And as much as she might have wanted her only daughter to fit a certain mold, she also taught me to be strong, to be unyielding in the face of difficulty. I learned that the Mother Load wasn’t a weight to be despised but a responsibility to be embraced, even when it felt overwhelming.

There were times when I saw my mother exhausted, worn out by the burden of doing it all. She was so good at being strong that she forgot how to ask for help. She had given so much of herself that happiness often seemed just beyond her reach, an elusive thing she kept searching for but could never quite grasp. I wish I could go back and tell her that she didn’t have to carry it all alone, that the weight of the Mother Load didn’t define her worth. But perhaps she did know this, somewhere deep down, and perhaps it was simply her generation’s way of navigating the complexities of life. In her mind, a mother’s strength was her ability to bear whatever came her way, no matter the personal cost, and so, I became her helper, her “good girl.” Every task, every bit of service was an opportunity to earn her approval, and in those moments, I felt like I was doing something worthwhile, something that would make her proud. The disease to please took root in me early, an insidious need to gain validation by being useful, by serving others without question. Yet, as I grew older, I began to realize that this way of living wasn’t sustainable. In my relentless pursuit to help, to serve, and to meet every expectation, I was slowly losing pieces of myself. I had inherited my mother’s work ethic, her resilience, and her drive, but I also inherited her silent, unspoken belief that to give was to be good, and to need was to be weak. It was a lesson I would spend my adult years unlearning, as I found myself in my own whirlwind of roles and responsibilities.

In many ways, my mother’s legacy shaped me more deeply than I realized. She taught me the value of service, the importance of doing things right, and the strength to keep going even when things seemed impossible. But she also showed me the cost of that strength, the toll it takes when we believe that our worth is tied to our ability to carry the weight of the world alone.

As I navigated my own journey, first as a mother and later as a career woman with a family to support, I began to understand her sacrifices in ways I couldn’t have as a child. The Mother Load is a heavy burden, and though my mother carried it with grace, it was clear that it had worn her down over the years. She loved fiercely, gave selflessly, and held onto her dream of being a mother with unwavering devotion. And while that dedication came at a cost, it also instilled in me a sense of purpose, a deep-seated belief that love is a powerful force capable of shaping lives across generations.

In the end, my mother’s legacy is one of resilience, love, and unwavering dedication. She carried the Mother Load not just for herself but for all of us, teaching me that true strength is found not in perfection but in the willingness to keep going, to keep giving, and to keep loving, no matter the weight we carry. My mother was a force, both at home and in the world beyond. She was a woman who balanced two lives: one as the queen of our household, managing every detail and sacrifice that motherhood demanded, and the other as a professional, wielding a kind of quiet authority that not everyone expected. She literally signed search warrants and released prisoners, her signature determining freedom for some and accountability for others. She was a court administrator and a justice of the peace, a position that held her as a pillar of our small community. She had a role and a reputation that were as strong as iron, a woman others respected for her discipline, strength, and resilience.

Yet, even iron wears down over time. For all the strength she showed to the world, my mother was not immune to life’s hidden toll. The pressure to be perfect, to balance family and work with grace and skill, took more from her than anyone, including herself, wanted to admit. Somewhere along the line, alcohol became her solace, a quiet way of softening the edges of a life that had been so rigorously controlled. What began as an occasional drink slipped into a nightly ritual, a pattern that crept into her life until it was part of her routine. Alcohol was there to mask the worries, to ease the stresses she never shared and the emotional fatigue she never acknowledged.

Diabetes followed, as if her body was responding to years of stress, of giving without pause. And then, as if it were the body’s final reckoning, came dementia, a slow, sorrowful release from the life she had once held so tightly. The decade that followed was both heartbreaking and strangely beautiful, a testament to the bittersweet nature of life’s final chapters. My mother, who had been the picture of control and responsibility, began to drift away from the burdens she had carried for so long. As the dementia progressed, she let go of the “Mother Load” she had carried, the weight of all those years lifting slowly, releasing her from the endless roles and responsibilities that had defined her.

For my father, caring for her in those final years was a trial that almost broke him. He was her anchor, as he had been throughout their marriage, and he poured his heart and soul into her care, determined to see her through this last journey. But it was a journey that demanded everything of him. The woman he had known for decades was slipping away, piece by piece, memory by memory, leaving behind only fragments of who she had once been. And yet, even as he watched her fade, he was there, day after day, embodying the vows he had taken so many years before, honoring her in sickness as he had in health.

For my father, this care was an act of love, but it was also a test of endurance, one that took him to the very edge of his own strength. The stress, the grief, and the exhaustion of caring for my mother began to wear on him, as if the weight she had carried for so long was now passed to him, heavier than ever. In those years, I feared that he, too, might be lost to the toll of this journey, his own vitality slipping as he cared for my mom, and the woman he loved.

And yet, during this struggle, there was an unexpected beauty. As my mother drifted into dementia, she also drifted back into her childhood, a place that was filled with innocence and joy. She became, in many ways, the version of herself she had long buried beneath the layers of responsibility, worry, and self-sacrifice. She returned to child-like innocence and joy, a place in her mind where she was no longer burdened by the demands of adulthood. She became, once again, much like a child of about three wee years old, with a sense of wonder and curiosity that softened her spirit and especially her stress in a way I had never seen before in my lifetime. Gone were the worries, the stress, and the constant need for perfection. In their place was a pure, unburdened joy, a lightheartedness that had eluded her for all her adult life. For the first time, I saw my dear mother without the weight of the Mother Load. She laughed more easily, found delight in the simplest things, and lived in a state of genuine contentment. She was, ironically, at peace with herself in a way she had never been before. The woman who had once carried the weight of the world on her shoulders was now free, drifting through her days with the joy of a child and the wisdom of a lifetime, although she couldn’t really remember most of the facts, the wisdom was there.

This journey was as transformative for me as it was for her. Watching my mother let go of everything she had once held so tightly was both painful and beautiful. In her release, I saw the final gift she was giving me: a reminder that life is too precious to be spent in endless worry, that the weight of responsibility should not be carried alone, and that there is a kind of grace in letting go. Her journey through dementia was a revelation, a lesson in the importance of releasing control, of finding peace within ourselves rather than in the opinions or expectations of others. Caring for her became a family commitment. My father, despite the toll on his own health, devoted himself to her care, and I did my best to be there as well, to offer support where I could. In those final years, we all became caretakers of the woman who had been our rock, our constant. We were there for her through this last chapter, honoring her with the same love and devotion she had shown us throughout her life.

Looking back, I can see the beauty in those moments, the quiet grace that defined her journey. My mother, who had once been the pillar of strength, the embodiment of responsibility, was now, finally, free. And in her freedom, she showed me that it is possible to find peace, even in the face of life’s most challenging moments. She showed me that letting go doesn’t mean giving up; it means choosing to live without the weight of fear, judgment, and expectation.

Her final years were a testament to the transformative power of release, to the idea that sometimes, the greatest strength lies in letting go. She taught me that it’s okay to relinquish the burdens we carry, to find joy in the simple, unremarkable moments, and to embrace life’s journey, no matter where it may lead. And as I watched her, I made a silent vow to myself: to live with a little more lightness, to let go of the things that weighed me down, and to honor her legacy not by carrying the same weight she had, but by embracing the freedom she found at the end of her voyage. My mother’s journey, her final gift to us, was one of peace, joy, and, finally, release. It was a reminder that while the Mother Load may be heavy, we have the power to choose how we carry it. And sometimes, the most beautiful thing we can do is to let it go.

The Breaking Point: Laying Down the Mother Load

There’s a day in every mother’s life that changes everything. For me, that day came when I was 40. I remember it vividly, a day I will never forget, because it was the day my body refused to continue carrying the load it had borne for so long. My youngest child was only six, my baby, still so young and full of need. I had pushed myself to the brink of exhaustion, ignoring the warning signs, the fatigue, and the creeping sense that something wasn’t right. And then, one morning, I simply couldn’t get out of bed. At first, I thought it was the flu, a temporary bug that would pass in a day or two. But as the hours ticked by, a deeper fear crept in. This wasn’t just a cold, and it wasn’t something that rest could fix. I lay there, gripped by a fear that ran through me like ice: Had I pushed myself to the point of no return? Would my children lose their mother?

The truth hit hard. I had spent my entire life taking care of everyone else: family, friends, clients, and even strangers. I had played the roles I’d been taught by my mother: be useful, be of service, don’t let anyone down. I took care of everyone but me. And now, as I lay in bed, unable to find the energy to move, I felt the weight of my choices. Had I created this reality, this moment, through years of self-neglect? Hell yes, I had.

The days that followed were filled with doctors’ appointments and tests. Cancer, MS, lupus-they looked for all the serious culprits, each result a looming specter, until, finally, they found an answer. I was diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome, an illness that had no magic cure, but finally, I had a name for what was happening to me. The verdict was clear: my body had finally given out after years of relentless cortisol spikes, high stress, and constant demands. The burden of the Mother Load, which I had carried with pride, had taken its toll. I was terrified. My worst fear was that my children would grow up without a mother, that my body would betray me and leave them to navigate these storms of life without me. But in the face of that fear, I made a promise to myself: If I was going to be here for my kids, things had to change immediately. This wake-up call, as brutal as it was, forced me to confront the fact that I could no longer live the way I had. I had to learn how to put myself first, to give myself the same care and attention I had always given to others.

The next five years were a journey of healing, a deep dive into health, wellness, and self-care. I spent hundreds to start, then thousands of hours researching what it truly takes to thrive, not just survive, in a world that seems to demand everything from us. I realized that I had to unravel the habits, the conditioning, and the beliefs that had driven me to this breaking point. I had to dismantle the patterns I’d learned from my mother, who had sacrificed everything for her family, and learn how to care for myself without guilt. In those early days, it felt like learning a new language. I had always been the strong one, the giver, the dependable presence in every crisis. But now I was learning to be something I had never been before,  vulnerable, aka human. I had to learn how to say no, no more watered-down or half-assed yes’s’, how to listen to my body, and how to set solid boundaries. I learned that self-care wasn’t selfish, that it was a vital part of being the mother, the woman, and the human being I deeply want to be.

Every day, I walked five kilometers, a ritual that became both a physical and mental reset. I started small, focusing on the basics: healthy food, movement, and rest. It was a slow process, but gradually, I felt my strength returning. I became meticulous about what I ate; breakfast was turkey bacon, scrambled eggs, real whole foods, and I cut out anything that didn’t serve my health. I was rebuilding from the ground up, learning what it took to truly nourish my body and my soul.

But it is far from only about the physical changes; it is about letting go of the weight I had carried for so long, the BS load of responsibility and expectation that had shaped my life. I started to understand that this “Mother Load” wasn’t just a burden I had inherited from my mother; it was a burden I had chosen to carry, a legacy of self-sacrifice that I had, in my own way, self-actualized. And as I began to release it, I felt a profound shift. I was lighter, freer, both in body and in spirit.

As the years passed, I lost over 80 pounds, but more importantly, I shed the weight of expectation, guilt, and perfectionism that had ruled my life for so long. I learned to honor my needs, to put myself first without apology, and to recognize that my worth was not tied to how much I could give to others. My health improved, my energy returned, and I found a joy that I had long forgotten. I was no longer defined by the roles I played for others; I was finally, truly myself.

Looking back, I realize that this journey is the gift I didn’t know I needed. My breakdown was the beginning of a new chapter, a chance to live life on my own terms, to let go of the burdens that weren’t mine to carry, and to teach my children a different way to live. They saw their mother transform, not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. They saw me prioritize my well-being, set boundaries, and finally live with a deep sense of balance and joy. In letting go of the Mother Load, I found freedom, a way of living that honored both my needs and my desires. I had learned the hard way, but I had learned, and I was determined to carry these lessons forward, to live a life where exhaustion is no longer a badge of honor, that is not defined by stress and sacrifice but by health, vitality, happiness, and authenticity. Today, I am 80 pounds lighter and 80 million tons lighter in stress, and I am grateful every day for the strength that came from laying down MY self-sought and self-brought Mother Load.

This journey taught me that the greatest gift we can give our loved ones is not our endless service, our constant availability, or our self-sacrifice. The greatest gift we can give them is our own health, happiness, and presence. By taking care of myself, I can be a better mother, a better friend, and a better human. I have learned that true strength lies not in carrying the weight of the world but in knowing when to let it go. For years, I had watched my mother carry her burdens with grace, but I now see that her strength was both her gift and her prison. I carry forward her resilience, her love, and her sense of duty, but I have also learned to draw boundaries, to protect my own health and happiness, and to cherish the life I have been given. In choosing to live a life that honors both myself and my family, I am creating a new legacy, one that is built not on sacrifice but on balance, joy, and well-being. In laying down the Mother Load, I have finally found the freedom to be myself, to live fully, and to cherish each day as it comes. And that, I know now, is the greatest gift I can give to those I love.

Now, as I reflect on the storms of life, I know that the ship must continue to sail, but I also know that I have the power to choose how I steer it. This legacy, one of resilience and compassion, is the gift I hope to leave to my children and grandchildren. And if there’s one lesson, I hope they carry with them, it’s this: Cherish the moments, live with integrity, and never forget that love is by FAR the most important journey of all.

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