Holy hell - it was a 'good' weekend.
We had our first summer hockey league tournament this weekend - as I write about it on the way home tonight, it really was a good weekend.
I mean, hocky was rough - we weren't really sure what to expect and Summer Hockey is unlike regular season in a bunch of ways.
First, you have to try out to be on the team, and then the players that are selected come from all over the place and we are the only family from Yankton on this team. Which is fine, maybe I'll make new friends - HA! But they have a total of four practices all summer and four tournaments. Before this weekends set of games they had only played together for 4.5 - 5 hours total. So they really have no idea how they all play in games, who is good at what, how to communicate and we played against teams who have been skating together for years. So it was a whirlwind.
We got our asses handed to us all weekend - not only on the scoreboard but physically. It was some of the most intense hockey I've watched at this age level. Lots of roughing, back checking, a fist fight, and two ejections...just in Payt's games! It was bananas. But when I say we had a good weekend I don't mean how much fun we had watching the games. I mean with Payton.
On Friday night, my in-laws offered to have the girls spend the night at their house. So on Friday night after Payton's 8 o'clock game just the tree of us went home together and Saturday morning it again, was just the three of us. On the drive home, we actually joked with one another, I didn't have an attitude - we talked, not a lot because we both passed out, but it felt 'normal'. Then on Saturday before his games - he came out of the locker room after he had gotten dressed just to stand with Mitchell and I and chat ... he's never done that, and again it felt - normal, and good.
As I type that, I just picture people reading this being like -- well yeah, that's normal? Because that's the way most people live - but moments like that with Payton and I happen so far and few between that they get engrained into my brain and I'll literally never forget it. Ever.
We didn't fight all weekend - I guess we still have tomorrow (Sunday - when this is posted), but I don't remember the last weekend we didn't fight about anything. Maybe it's because we were busy, maybe it's because I chilled the fuck out, maybe it's because I just didn't notice some of the stuff that would normally drive me crazy - either way I'll take it.
When I've shared about Payton and I have 'a rough go' most people respond by saying ' Lauren, you've got to give yourself some grace.' Like, oh... okay, yeah that's great ... what the fuck does that even mean? What does it mean to 'give yourself grace' and how the hell do you do it? How are you NOT hard on yourself? I don't get it.
“Grace”—whatever that is or means—feels like I’m loosening my grip. And I’m afraid that if I loosen it, even just a little, everything will slip through my fingers. Maybe that’s the heart of it. Maybe grace feels like a weakness to me. Like letting myself off the hook. Like giving myself permission to be less than what everyone around me needs. And I can’t be that. I won’t. There’s no room for that version of me—not when the expectations are high, the to-do list is endless, and people are counting on me. If I’m not holding it all together, who will?
And what if I don’t want to give myself grace? I demand more from myself because that’s how I move. That’s how things get done. I’ve trained myself to believe that discipline is my superpower. That if I just stay sharp, stay focused, stay relentless—I’ll keep everything running. You know the saying: pressure makes diamonds. And that pressure? It’s become my fuel. Grace, on the other hand, sounds like a slippery slope. Like the first step down a hill I’m not sure I could stop rolling down. I don’t know how to want grace when the version of me that refuses to accept anything less than the best is the version that’s doing all the heavy lifting. She’s the one holding it down. She’s the reason I’m still standing.
So I keep going. I keep pushing. Because the alternative feels too risky. I've got to keep showing up—even when I don't feel like it. I've got to go to therapy, prioritize my mental health, eat the things that make me feel good, pretend rest is productive, tell myself I’m doing fine. I don’t give myself grace—I give myself checklists. Because that’s what works. Or at least, that’s what keeps me moving.
I am running out of time.
I’ve got maybe four years left with Payton living under my roof full-time. And then, theoretically, he’ll go to college, or a trade school, or whatever path he chooses—and he might never come back to live here again. Just visits. Holidays. Maybe summers if I’m lucky.
And the thing is—change takes time. Healing takes time. So when I mess up—when I can’t hold my tongue, when I snap for no real reason, when I blow my lid and say things I never meant—I don’t want to take that lightly. I can’t. I can’t sit here and tell myself that it’s “okay” just because I’m human. I don’t have the luxury of waiting until I have it all figured out. I don’t get a do-over on these years. And grace, in moments like that, feels like an excuse. It feels like letting myself off the hook when what I really need is to get my act together now.
So no—I don’t want to give myself grace. Because I don’t know how to hold grace and urgency in the same hand.
Xoxo,
Lo
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