The Woman Behind Legacy Three: The Truth I Carry Quietly, Constantly, and Completely Raw

People see my life and think they know the story.

They see puppies.

They see pretty land.

They see my boys smiling.

They see a solid marriage.

They see a job title.

They see a homestead.

They see me juggling it all.

But what they don’t see, what I’ve never fully said out loud…is the weight I carry underneath all of it. The kind that doesn’t fit into Instagram posts or cute captions or the highlight reel version of motherhood.

This is me pulling back the curtain. No filter. No polish. No pretending to be something I’m not.

Let’s talk about the truth—the whole truth.

The Mental Load: A Brain That Never Turns Off

My mind is loud. All the time. There’s no quiet moment, not even in the middle of the night.

It’s constantly cycling through schedules, work crises, resident needs, staff issues, documentation, emails, puppy families, vet appointments, transportation, groceries, household tasks, conversations I replay, things I forgot, and the never-ending list of things I feel I should be doing better.

It’s overstimulation. It’s pressure. It’s responsibility. It’s mental overload that does not shut off.

And I don’t say that to be dramatic. I say it because I live it every single day.

I don’t have the luxury of turning my brain off.

The Work Guilt: The Kind No One Prepares You For

People see “Director of Nursing” and think paperwork, leadership, and decisions.

They have no idea.

This job is emotional heaviness like nothing else. I don’t just manage clinical outcomes—I manage people. Nurses. CNAs. QMAs. Families. Staff dynamics. Resident issues. Emergencies. Legal implications. Policies. State survey readiness. Life-altering decisions.

And the guilt that comes with it is enormous.

Every day I go home wondering:

Was I fair?

Was I too firm?

Was I too soft?

Did I set the right example?

Did they misunderstand me?

Did I help them grow or shut them down?

Did I lead, or did I simply manage?

Did I protect my team?

Did I do right by them?

Leadership is lonely. It is heavy. It is painful. And no one tells you that sometimes doing the right thing still makes you the “bad guy” in someone else’s story.

Some nights I lie awake replaying conversations I had with staff—wishing I could have handled them with more grace, or more strength, or more clarity.

You don’t get to be the fun one.

You don’t get to make everyone happy.

You don’t get to take the easy way out.

You lead. You guide. You advocate. You hold the line. And you hope—desperately—that you did right by the people who rely on you.

That’s the guilt I carry too.

The Mom Guilt: The Gut-Punch Kind

My boys are everything to me—my heart in three different bodies.

And because I love them that deeply, every misstep, every harsh tone, every moment of distraction feels like failure.

Every night I ask myself:

Did I show up enough?

Did they feel loved?

Did they feel heard?

Did they get the soft part of me or the worn-down part?

Did my stress overshadow my love for them?

Will they remember the good today—or the moments I wish I could redo?

Sometimes I’m physically present and mentally somewhere else. Still thinking about work. Still processing the day. Still juggling worries.

And I hate that feeling.

I apologize a lot.

Not because I’m weak, but because I believe in repairing, reconnecting, and teaching my boys that love doesn’t demand perfection—it demands effort.

And every time they forgive me so quickly, so genuinely, I feel God whisper:

“They know your heart. You are their safe place.”

That grace is everything.

The Marriage Guilt: The Quiet Kind No One Talks About

My husband gets the version of me no one else sees.

He gets the overstimulated me.

The touched-out me.

The quiet me.

The depleted me.

The “I love you, but I have nothing left” me.

And I feel guilty, deeply, that he often gets the last of my energy.

Not because I don’t love him.

But because love doesn’t cancel out exhaustion.

Sometimes the best I can offer is sitting next to him in silence.

Sometimes it’s leaning into him even though I’m overwhelmed.

Sometimes it’s letting him rub my back even when my body wants space.

Sometimes it’s simply choosing him when I don’t have much left to give.

Real marriage isn’t candlelit dinners and curated moments. It’s showing up for each other in the trenches. And despite everything, he keeps choosing me. Every day.

That is love—the real kind.

The Homestead Guilt: A Quick Reality Check

Let’s be honest.

I am not Ballerina Farm.

Not close.

Not remotely.

You won’t see me:

Churning butter.

Kneading sourdough.

Wearing linen aprons.

Harvesting vegetables from a picture-perfect garden.

Milking cows at sunrise.

Pretending I enjoy cooking or cleaning.

My homestead life looks more like feeding animals in scrub pants, wrestling straw out of my hair, racing between work and sports practices, and picking up a rotisserie chicken from Meijer for dinner.

And sometimes I feel guilty—like I’m not “doing homestead life” the right way.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

A homestead is not an aesthetic.

It is not a filter.

It is not a content category.

It is heart.

It is intention.

It is purpose.

It is love.

I don’t need to be Ballerina Farm to build something meaningful.

I need to be me.

The Question That Haunts Every Role I Hold

Behind every title and responsibility is one quiet, relentless question:

Am I enough?

Did I do enough?

Was I good enough today?

I ask it as a mother.

As a wife.

As a leader.

As a boss.

As a woman.

As a human being trying her absolute best.

The fear never fully goes away.

But this is where faith steps in.

Every time I ask God, “Am I enough?”

He doesn’t give me a checklist.

He gives me peace.

He reminds me:

“I fill the gaps you can’t.

You are doing enough.

Your love is enough.

You are enough.”

I don’t have to be perfect.

I just have to be faithful.

The Legacy I’m Actually Building

It isn’t perfect meals.

It isn’t a spotless home.

It isn’t aesthetic homesteading.

It isn’t flawless leadership.

It isn’t an ideal marriage.

It isn’t checking every box.

My legacy is:

Showing up even when I’m overwhelmed.

Loving deeply.

Apologizing when I fall short.

Repairing when needed.

Laughing with my boys.

Choosing my husband.

Leading my team with integrity.

Caring for animals and people.

Praying through the chaos.

Building a life rooted in purpose.

Trusting God in the places I cannot hold alone.

My children won’t remember whether dinner was homemade.

They’ll remember a mom who stayed, who tried, who loved them fiercely.

My husband won’t remember every tired night.

He’ll remember the woman who chose him over and over again.

My staff won’t remember every correction.

They’ll remember the leader who cared enough to lead them.

And God?

He sees every crack, every tear, every fear, every effort, and He calls me enough.

Maybe it’s time I start believing Him.