Then this happened

Then this happened Then This Happened is a creative reset for anyone who’s been carrying too much for too long.

It’s our space to pause, breathe, reconnect, and remember what joy feels like again.

The stupid wreath sat there unfinished and mocking me for almost two days.And because apparently my brain is very suppor...
09/07/2026

The stupid wreath sat there unfinished and mocking me for almost two days.

And because apparently my brain is very supportive, the soundtrack went something like:

Failure.
Loser.
What is wrong with you?
You used to be able to do this.
Maybe you’ve lost it.

Since my mom passed, I’ve only made a handful of wreaths.

No clay work. Barely any creative momentum. Just this weird flatness where I could look at supplies I normally love and feel… nothing.

So I picked a Halloween wreath on purpose.

Low stakes. Fun colors. Something that didn’t have to mean anything.

And I still couldn’t get going.

That bothered me more than I expected, because it wasn’t really about the wreath anymore. It started to feel like proof that something in me had gone missing.

But I kept messing with it.

Changed the ribbon. Took things out. Put them back. Walked away. Came back. Swore at it a little. 😂

And then finally, something clicked.

I finished it.

And I felt lighter.

Not because it’s the greatest wreath I’ve ever made. Not because finishing one project suddenly fixes grief or brings back my creative spark.

But because for a couple of hours, I felt like me again.

I think that’s the part I’ve been missing.

Creating was never just about making pretty things.

It was one of the ways I processed life.

One of the ways I found energy again.

One of the ways I came back to myself.

So maybe this wreath wasn’t stupid after all.

Maybe it was just sitting there waiting for me to catch up.

Eight years into caring for my mom, I had gotten really good at handling things.Calls.Appointments.Prescriptions.Paperwo...
09/06/2026

Eight years into caring for my mom, I had gotten really good at handling things.

Calls.
Appointments.
Prescriptions.
Paperwork.
Work.
Family updates.
The next crisis.

I had a full-time job away from my mom, and what felt like another full-time job with my mom.

And somewhere in all of that, I started disappearing a little.

Not in some dramatic way.

I still showed up.
I still got things done.
I still handled whatever needed handling.

But I was exhausted.

I was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and whatever tiny scraps of energy I had left.

And I missed myself.

I missed doing something just because I wanted to.

Something that wasn’t useful.
Something that wasn’t urgent.
Something that didn’t involve fixing, managing, coordinating, or taking care of somebody else.

So I started making things.

A wreath.
A bow.
Something for the house.
Something pretty.

And for a little while, I wasn’t somebody’s caregiver.

I wasn’t the person with the list.

I wasn’t waiting for the phone to ring.

I was just me, standing at a table with ribbon everywhere, probably making a gigantic mess, trying to turn a pile of stuff into something beautiful.

And I think that’s why I loved it so much.

It wasn’t really about the wreath.

It was about making something beautiful when life felt anything but.

It was about seeing something take shape in front of me and thinking, There you are.

A little piece of the person I still was.

That’s where Then This Happened came from.

Not because I needed another hobby.

Because I needed somewhere to go where life could still be funny, creative, messy, ridiculous, and beautiful.

I didn’t need to reinvent my whole life.

Because sometimes you just need one small thing that reminds you that you’re still in there.

Then This Happened is for that part.

09/05/2026

There were nights I sat in my car in the hospital parking lot for ten minutes before going inside. Not because I didn't want to be there. Because I needed those ten minutes to become the person she needed me to be.

I was my mom's caregiver for eight years. And for most of that time, I thought the exhaustion was something I was doing wrong. Like if I just managed my time better, or asked for help sooner, or slept more somehow, I'd stop feeling like I was being slowly hollowed out.

I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was doing everything right. And it was still too much for one person to carry.

If you are in the middle of it right now, the appointments, the paperwork, the family group chat where you're the only one who actually does anything, the grief that doesn't have a name yet because the person you love is still here, I want you to know something.

The parking lot minutes count. The times you showed up even when you had nothing left? Those count too.

You are not failing. You are carrying something most people never have to carry, and you’re doing it without a manual, without a break, and without nearly enough credit.

This is the messy middle. And you're not in it alone. We’re in this together.



The hospital said Friday. You said you weren't ready. And then you signed anyway, because you didn't know you could push...
09/04/2026

The hospital said Friday. You said you weren't ready. And then you signed anyway, because you didn't know you could push back.

This is one of the most common moments caregivers describe: a discharge that felt rushed, papers you barely had time to read, staff who were kind but clearly moving on to the next room. And somewhere in all of it, the quiet, awful feeling that you were supposed to know what to do next.

Here's the thing nobody tells you in that hallway: you have the right to appeal a hospital discharge. It is a real right, it is written into Medicare, and hospitals are required to give you notice of it, though they don't always explain what it actually means or that you can use it.

Appealing doesn't mean picking a fight. It means buying time to make a safe, informed decision about where your person goes next, whether that's a rehab facility, home with equipment, or somewhere else entirely. That decision matters enormously, and you deserve more than four hours to figure it out.

You don't have to take whatever Friday they hand you.

08/30/2026

My Mom could complain. To her it was conversation, to me it was sometimes comedy, sometimes ridiculous, and sometimes frustrating as hell, but mostly it centered around food.

Grief is funny, it’s a myriad of emotions that can hit you all at once. Some days you think you’re fine and other days she taps you on the shoulder reminding you that she’s still right there, you’re still carrying her.

I’ve tried for months to find the words to post a tribute to mom, but I just haven’t been able to. Yesterday was her birthday, and today I found this video, and well, it is pure Beverly.

I laughed out loud at her eye roll (wait for it. It’s a treat) and then I looked at the date I recorded it.

I didn’t know that day that just two weeks later I’d be saying goodbye to her for the last time.

Grief is truly a bitch, you can’t escape her, you just have to sit with her until she’s through with you.

I finally did it! Got the courage to get my laser engraver up and running. It’s really the coolest thing! I’m ready to e...
08/14/2026

I finally did it! Got the courage to get my laser engraver up and running. It’s really the coolest thing! I’m ready to engrave anything that stands still long enough. 🤣🤣

08/11/2026

It may sound ridiculous but there were mornings after being up all night with mom, that I was overwhelmed at the idea of washing my hair. The shampoo, the conditioner, blowing it dry so it wasn’t a tangled mess. All of it made me want to hide in my bed.

Caregiving can take all the energy you have.

08/11/2026

Sometimes…

08/11/2026

Self-care comes in all forms. Give yourself some grace. ❤️

Sometimes you’re stuck in the middle of something you can’t fix.
08/11/2026

Sometimes you’re stuck in the middle of something you can’t fix.

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