Return to Center

It’s been a long road home. We’re all still figuring it out. I just write about it.

There’s a stack of packed boxes that’s been sitting in the garage for days, and a bag of someone’s last-minute essentials at the top of the stairs. Both have this sense of finality radiating off of them every time I see them.

And when I do, I remind myself that this isn’t the usual ‘family clutter’.
No, this is closure.

Which feels strange lately. To call it surreal would be...a bit of an understatement.

You see, after two and a half years of doing the work and holding the line, a major chapter is ending in our home, one that I pray will be a positive transition.

The younger of the two kids we’ve been raising will be heading to her new home in a matter of days.

That still feels weird to say out loud. But it’s right. It’s what we’ve been working toward, and what we’ve all, in our own way, had to grow into.

Not that that makes this easy.

Reunification’s supposed to be this “happy ending,” right? But the truth is, it’s not a Hallmark moment. It’s more like: Ok, we did our part. Time to hand over the reins and collapse face-first into bed for a week.

From the start, we knew this could be the goal if it was safe and stable. That day seems like it might finally be here. Truly, I’m proud.

Exhausted, but proud.

The child wants this. Her mom wants this. And maybe now they finally have a real chance to figure each other out—who they both are in this new stage of life and how to move forward from it.

The child and I bonded in our own way with a little trust, mutual respect, and a shared understanding that I always know when she’s full of crap.

I know all her tells (and she hates that I won’t tell her what they are). I know when she’s lying, when she’s scared, when she’s fake-crying, and when she just needs a snack. Hangry recognize hangry.

She’s a sneakerhead, abhors anything “girly,” and is the nucleus of her friend group (which is impressive considering she’s not even from here).

Now, she’s still the same kid underneath it all, but she’s calmer now, more intentional in her actions, and a little more mature.

People have told us, “You saved those kids' lives.” I’m not saying it for some moment of self-aggrandization on my own platform. It’s just true.

That one fact made every single bit of all this worth it. Even the nights I lay awake in bed and questioned whether we were making an impact at all.

And dear God, there were many.

To us, the younger one seems to think like a shark; definitely not in a bad, ‘cold and cruel’ way; she’s just wired for constant forward movement.

I say shark because sharks never float around waiting for someone to take care of them. They move, constantly and instinctively, because that’s how they survive.

That’s how she learned to survive. Always scanning, strategizing, and negotiating. If you give her a rule, she’ll immediately spot a loophole. If you give her a choice, she’ll counter before you even finish your thought.

She’ll negotiate like she’s brokering a peace deal between countries instead of just scoring a later curfew, more allowance money, or a trip to Culver's. 

It used to drive me nuts until I finally realized she wasn’t being defiant. It was simply how she learned to make sure she had a say in her own life when everything else was so out of control. Honestly, I respect that (now).

She’ll always be moving, reading the terrain, and figuring out her next move. She’d make an excellent lawyer if the WNBA doesn’t work out.

Either way, that kind of mentality, used in the right direction, is going to make her unstoppable. I can’t be mad about that.

My role was never to take over or even match her pace, but to consistently remind her that she doesn’t have to fight the current anymore.

But I’d be lying if I said there isn’t some little part of me that hopes those who shut us out take note of just how far she's come.

They’ll never say it, but I know they’ll see it.

So the last few days and weeks have been about tying up loose ends, packing up clothes and toys, and unpacking memories of doctor visits, therapy sessions, court hearings, phone calls from school, and nights spent joking around the dinner table, only to later referee rage-filled arguments and correct bad attitudes.

Kids, right?

But our job is far from done.

While one child is heading back down south, the older one wants to stay with us. He’s just a teen and already WAY taller than me, and my best description of him is an old soul - a still water that runs deep.

There’s this aura of calm and intelligence about him that comes from seeing too much too young, yet somehow choosing peacefulness in response. That’s admirable.

If he doesn’t lose that, he’s gonna go far, and not just in quantifiable ways.

So that’s the upcoming arrangement, one kid in our house, one in another, all of us trying to make something resembling a fully functioning family out of two households and years of baggage.  

It’s going to make for some complicated logistics and even more complex emotions, but so far, I’m encouraged. Communications have been positive and child-focused, and I’m grateful for that.

When the time is right, there’s a lot to unpack within the family if there’s ever a chance of deeper healing, but the priority is to keep things on an even keel for now.

But in the middle of all that transition, time marches on. Last weekend was the older one’s first homecoming dance.

I stood with the rest of the parents, snapping pics like the paparazzi, trying not to side-eye too long at the length (or lack thereof) of the girls' dresses. I’m no prude by any stretch, but come on… some of those dresses had less material than my dinner napkins do.

Still, I remember my own prom dress that my mother picked out (mid-thigh), and I laughed at how daring and scandalous I thought I was, when really, I was just a shy kid pretending to be confident.  

Watching him surrounded by friends, teammates, a girlfriend, plans, after-parties (which, yes, made me cringe), I realized how different his world is.

How good that difference is.

He gets to be a kid. No walking on eggshells, no cops or social workers at the door, no wondering if the water is coming back on anytime soon, or what tomorrow will look like. Just…normal.

And that’s when it hit me that this sort of normalcy is exactly what we’ve been fighting for all along. All of the stress, tears, hearings, and exhaustion led to this simple scene of teenagers laughing and taking selfies, parents trying not to cry, and me standing offside, wondering when he got the party shirt he‘d hidden under his dress shirt and whether he’d actually eat something before the dance.

I’ll take that kind of problem over trauma any day.

So the new situation overall might seem complicated and messy, but that’s what families are as a whole anyway, aren’t they? A little spread out, a little unconventional, but still always just a text or call away.

We’ll figure it out.

It finally feels like life is making room for us again, my husband and me. But my brain is absolutely gridlocked trying to figure out what to do next because, for the first time in years, there’s a significant change in the routine.

One less seat at the table. One less in line for the shower. No more back-to-back drop-off and pick-up trips, appointments, school visits, calls, practices, sports, or legal documents hanging out in my inbox to be addressed.

It’s unnerving, honestly. For now, at least.

Especially because at the onset of this whole thing, I underwent a bit of an identity crisis. Two kids who had only ever called me by my first name suddenly started calling me ‘Gigi’, which I love, I truly do.

But at first, it felt like this strange new identity had been foisted upon me. Up until then, I’d only ever been a wife and a mother to one child — a single, child-free, and loving-it twenty-something daughter.

I told the family early on that I was never going to be a rocking-chair, gray-perm grandma. I don’t mind aging; I just don’t ever plan on growing old, and there is a huge difference between the two concepts.

But within a few weeks, damn, I felt old. I was exhausted, overweight, and completely out of sync with the woman I thought I was. It was the catalyst that pushed me to return to her one small step at a time.

After living the empty nest life, we built a home for us, my daughter, and his two grandchildren. My idyllic lakeside cabin days were but a recent memory, replaced with small-town suburbia and NO clear sense of whether I could sustain it.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that my identity crisis was actually the beginning of a personal transformation. Through all the drama (and there was a lot), I held on tight to my sense of self while making room for this new version, who now answers to ‘Gigi’ for two very special kids.

My husband thanks me all the time for my part in the process, and I tell him I never did it for the thanks. I did it because I love him. I did it because it was the right thing to do.

I did it because that’s what marriage is: always choosing each other even when your life looks nothing like what you’d been planning for years.  And I remind him every time that I could never have done this without him. Full stop.

This space takes time, thought, and the continuous refill of coffee. If you’d like to help keep it going, you can do that through Ko-fi.

I can already feel some semblance of our old life creeping back in in little ways. There's this sense of possibility, a different kind of energy now. For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something I’m squeezing my eyes shut and bracing for.

I’m not naïve enough to think it’s all smooth sailing from here. There’ll still be curveballs, there always are.

But again, we’ll figure it out.

In the meantime, I’m back in the driver’s seat of my own life. I can finally make decisions that don’t have to hinge on a hundred kid- or court-related logistics.

I finally get to create a home that reflects who we are and what we love instead of what was needed to get through the ordeal. It's not that it didn’t look nice; it just wasn't us.

It served its purpose, and now it's time for something less practical and more us. In other words, it's time to splurge on some decorative authenticity.

Your surroundings are everything. What you create around you sets the tone for your mood, your outlook – everything.

So yeah, there'll be new paint, new furniture, and a few impulsive décor choices (YOLO). But the real reset comes from realizing that you made it through relentless stress without ever losing yourself in it.

For the first time in a long time, my brain has room for creativity instead of crisis management.

And here’s the best part: I’m just getting started.

This might be the end of one chapter at home, but it’s the beginning of so much more. There’s so much I haven’t even talked about yet, stories I’ve lived but haven’t had the mental fortitude to tell.

That time is coming, and for the first time ever, I will write from peace instead of catharsis.

Talk about returning to center; I don’t think it gets more centered than that.

I write about what comes after crisis, the complicated parts of rebuilding your life. If that sounds familiar, you'll probably feel at home here. Subscribe to get first access to new pieces each week.

You might also like:

• Beautiful Lies: The Dreams I Escaped Into and the Life I Built From Them - A story about turning fantasy into direction.

• The Easiest 50 Pounds I Ever Lost- How I let go of more than just weight.

• Enough- On finally believing you’ve done enough, and have HAD enough.

• The Silence Was a Choice - When speaking up costs you comfort but buys you peace.

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing darkly funny, brutally honest stories about trauma, resilience, and healing.

Her platform, Unfinished Business, has been read in over 30 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and raw essays on reinvention, grief, and the absurdity of real life.