Being seen and known, right where you are, is one of the most powerful things I know.

It’s a luxury most of us lack in one setting or another; we have faces and voices that we trot out as needed, to let the outside world know that we are competent, sociable, in control. We are – and always have to be – supportive friends, brave parents, and conscientious employees.

But we have heavy stories that we tell in snippets, only to the people who love us best. We dangle from the precipice of our innermost thoughts, all too often scrambling up and away for fear of betraying our sorrow, our pettiness, our weakness.

Telling the truth about ourselves is a radical act of humility and faith, and it can come at a cost.

But I’m willing to pay it.

So here’s the truth: I have two young children with autism, and sometimes it’s soul-crushing. Most of the time, I’m pretty sure I’m doing it all wrong. Sometimes my husband and I stay up till the wee hours hashing it out, comparing notes, making plans for the future and promising each other, no matter what life looks like in a couple of decades, we will love and support them and each other, and we will be okay. We stay up late confronting each other, and forgiving and comforting each other, for the mistakes that we’ve made during the day.

This will be a place I come to make sense of it, to let it breathe, to let ME breathe. It’ll be honest, and that means it will often be ugly, awkward, and open-ended. I’ll challenge myself to just put it out there without trying to make it poetic, or gift wrap each entry with a moral of the story at the end.

So if you’re here, if you’re interested, thank you for being part of my truth. Thank you for listening and meeting me where I am on a given day. Know that you, your experiences, and your feelings are welcome here.

And Mom, I’m sorry in advance for the cussing.