Greetings, my lovelies.

Facebook Memories has been dragging Past Rae out of the archives lately, and apparently she has some things she’d like to discuss. Personally, I would like to know who gave her permission to show up before I’ve had enough coffee.

I’ve been reading posts from one year ago, two years ago, and even further back, and something has become painfully obvious.

I was fucking exhausting.

Yes, I was exhausted too, but that’s not quite the same thing. I was exhausting because apparently, somewhere along the way, I appointed myself Director of Everything That Could Possibly Go Wrong.

Finances? I’ll figure it out. Someone is sick? I’ll figure it out. Something breaks? I’ll figure it out. Not enough money? I’ll work more. Someone needs something? Give it to me. Life has burst into flames?

Hang on. Let me grab my planner.

That was my life for years, and the really ridiculous part is that I thought this was what being a responsible adult looked like.

Past Rae Had a Plan

A couple of years ago, I posted this:

“I am sick of fighting to get our finances on track!
I keep trying to get things back to where I had them and it’s a non stop battle!
I am so sick of this!
I may just get a second job and work until I die.”

Well, that’s cheerful.

Nothing says I’m doing fantastic quite like announcing on Facebook that your retirement plan is apparently death.

But I remember that woman, and I understand exactly why she wrote it. Money scared me—not necessarily because I thought we were going to wake up homeless tomorrow, but because I always felt personally responsible for making sure we were okay.

If the numbers didn’t work, I made them work. Usually that meant overtime. Lots and lots of overtime.

For years, I would take as much extra work as I could because money in the bank meant security. Security meant I had done my job. Being responsible meant being prepared for whatever fresh bullshit life decided to fling through the front door next.

And taking time off?

Please.

I practically needed a note from the Grim Reaper.

In 2016, I ended up in the hospital with septic shock. Apparently that met my qualifications for an acceptable reason to miss work. Very generous of me.

Otherwise, I showed up. I worked. I handled things. And if there was something I wanted but didn’t absolutely need, I could wait.

There was always a reason. Maybe we should save the money. Maybe something will happen. Maybe we’ll need it later. Maybe this isn’t the right time. Maybe next month. Maybe next year. Maybe after everyone else has what they need.

I became very good at waiting.

Actually, that’s not quite true.

I became very good at waiting and then never getting the thing at all.

Meanwhile, Life Was Happening

Looking back at my Facebook posts from 2024 is strange because Facebook only knew part of the story.

I posted about our health. Ronnie was dealing with several medical concerns, and I was worried about my own weight, cholesterol, blood sugar and the usual assortment of things that start popping up when your body realizes you’re no longer 25 and begins issuing strongly worded notices.

My response was completely predictable. I joined Daily Burn. I had Ring Fit Adventure. I asked for advice.

Because OF COURSE I DID.

There was a problem. Therefore, there must be a plan. Give me a notebook, a pen and approximately seventeen minutes and I’ll have this entire situation under control.

Except there were things I couldn’t control.

What I wasn’t posting about was what was happening behind closed doors. Ronnie was battling alcoholism and hiding it from me. He knew I had already reached the point where I had told him his drinking could cost us our marriage.

So underneath those perfectly ordinary Facebook posts about finances, cholesterol, blood sugar and trying not to stress was another life entirely.

Then came his accident.

And everything changed.

By 2025, I wasn’t just working full time and trying to keep our life running. I was also Ronnie’s caretaker. I was working, taking care of our home and animals, worrying about finances, navigating our marriage and caregiving—all while dealing with whatever fresh nonsense happened to appear that particular Tuesday.

And I did what I had always done.

I handled it.

Or at least I tried like hell to.

Then Mom needed help.

Because apparently the universe looked at my schedule and said, You seem to have an opening.

Sure, Let’s Add Another Crisis

Last year, I spent an entire month turning myself inside out trying to figure out how to help my mother.

She was in Tennessee. I was in Arizona. It’s only about 1,700 miles. What could possibly be complicated about that?

I bought a plane ticket. I paid for a nonrefundable shuttle to get myself to the airport. I talked to her social worker. I looked at the cost of flying her here. I considered driving her here. I tried to figure out what the hell we were going to do with everything she wanted to bring when I didn’t have room for it.

Meanwhile, I was already working full time and caring for Ronnie.

Apparently Past Rae looked at her plate overflowing onto the table and thought, You know what would look lovely right there? Another plate.

Then Mom and I had a horrible conversation, everything blew up, and I wrote:

“I can’t keep doing this. It’s not a healthy relationship.”

I also wrote:

“I have to protect my peace, my sanity, my home, my husband and my fur babies.”

At the time, I was furious, hurt and done. Not the cute dramatic kind of done where you announce you’re leaving and then check your phone every six minutes to see if anyone noticed. I mean truly done—the kind where even forming a complete sentence feels like an unreasonable request.

Reading those words now, I can see something I couldn’t quite see then. I wasn’t just angry with my mother.

I was completely depleted.

I had spent every last ounce of patience, worry, guilt and love trying to figure out how to help her. My brain was running on fumes, held together by lists, phone calls, financial calculations and the occasional desperate thought of, Surely this is the last crisis.

Physically, I was working full time, caring for Ronnie, managing our home and trying to solve a problem happening 1,700 miles away.

There was no secret reserve tank. No Emergency Rae tucked away in a closet with a fresh planner, a cup of coffee and a can-do attitude.

I had reached capacity.

For someone who had spent most of her adult life believing she could always figure something out, admitting I cannot do this was enormous.

Somewhere Along the Way, Responsible Became My Personality

There is a difference between having responsibilities and becoming The Responsible One.

I became The Responsible One.

She doesn’t call out because she’s tired. She works the overtime. She worries about money. She makes sure everybody has what they need. She thinks three disasters ahead and doesn’t spend money on herself because there could theoretically be something more important to spend it on someday.

And above all else, she figures it the fuck out.

I was very, very good at being her.

Too good.

Because eventually you start thinking your value comes from how much you can carry without dropping anything. You confuse exhaustion with accomplishment. Rest becomes something you have to earn instead of something human beings actually require.

And somehow everything you want gets classified as optional while everything everyone else wants mysteriously lands in the NEED column.

Funny how that works.

So you keep preparing. For the next bill, the next emergency, the next illness, the next disaster, the next thing that might happen.

Looking back now, I realize I spent an awful lot of my life preparing for emergencies instead of actually living between them.

That one stings a little.

Because here’s the really annoying part about life: the emergencies came anyway.

All that worrying didn’t stop them.

All that overtime didn’t stop them.

All that planning didn’t stop them.

I spent years trying to make myself so responsible, prepared and useful that maybe life wouldn’t be able to knock me on my ass.

Life apparently did not receive the memo.

Enter 56-Year-Old Rae

Something has changed this year.

Maybe I finally got tired. Maybe grief rearranged my priorities. Maybe turning 56 flipped some tiny switch in my brain.

Or maybe I’ve simply run out of fucks.

I’m leaning toward a delightful combination of all four.

Because 2026 Rae is different.

If I need a day off, I take the damn day. I have PTO, and apparently you’re allowed to use it even when you’re not hospitalized with something that could kill you.

WHO KNEW?

I’m going to California in September, and not because there’s an emergency. Nobody needs rescuing. There isn’t some important adult obligation requiring me to board an airplane.

I’m going because I want to go.

That shouldn’t feel revolutionary, but to me, it kind of does.

I’m crafting. I’m reading. I’m watching movies I love. I’m making my spaces comfortable. I’m finding things that make me happy simply because they make me happy, which is another concept Past Rae apparently needed extensive documentation to approve.

And here’s another wild development.

If I want something and I can reasonably afford it, I get it.

I don’t immediately begin presenting a Supreme Court case to myself about whether I truly need it. I don’t spend three weeks talking myself out of it because the money could possibly be useful for some imaginary catastrophe six months from now.

Your Honor, Exhibit A: Rae would enjoy this.

Case closed.

Because wanting something is allowed to matter.

Enjoying something is allowed to matter. Comfort matters. Fun matters. Experiences matter. Taking a trip matters. Sitting at home doing absolutely nothing productive once in a while matters.

And yes, spending money on something that serves no greater purpose than making me smile is allowed too.

I am allowed to count.

No, I Haven’t Completely Lost My Mind

Before anyone gets nervous, I am not announcing that I’ve abandoned adulthood.

I still pay bills. I still have responsibilities. I understand that money is finite and actions have consequences. I haven’t emptied the bank account, set the budget on fire and run off to join a traveling circus.

Although depending on the circus, let’s not completely rule anything out.

I’m simply done being the all-responsible adult.

I’m done being the woman who believes she has to anticipate everything, fix everything, carry everything and deny herself things just in case somebody needs something later.

I’m done treating myself like the one household resource that somehow never gets depleted.

Because I do get depleted.

I did.

For a long time.

And I don’t want to live that way anymore.

The Part I Didn’t Expect

Here’s where this gets a little tender, because I don’t look back at Past Rae and dislike her.

Quite the opposite.

I love that woman.

She was incredible in ways I didn’t appreciate while I was busy being her. She worked ridiculous hours. She kept homes running. She paid bills. She cared for people she loved. She navigated emergencies and walked into situations having absolutely no idea what she was going to do, then somehow figured something out.

She kept getting back up.

Again and again.

That woman got me here.

So I’m not embarrassed by her, and I’m certainly not trying to erase her. I don’t want to become someone completely different from her either. There are pieces of that woman I hope I always keep.

Her loyalty.

Her determination.

Her ability to figure shit out when figuring shit out is actually necessary.

But she doesn’t need to be on duty 24 hours a day anymore.

She can sit down.

Have some coffee.

Put her damn feet up.

We’ve got it from here.

Past Years vs. Now

The biggest difference between the woman in those Facebook Memories and the woman writing this today isn’t that I’m suddenly wiser or that I’ve cracked the secret code to life.

Trust me, that would be an extremely short-lived development.

The difference is that I no longer believe I have to spend my entire life preparing for the possibility that something might go wrong.

Something will go wrong.

That’s life.

But something will also go beautifully right, and I want to be present for that part too.

Past Rae spent years making sure Future Rae would be okay. She worked overtime for her. She worried for her. She saved for her. She put things off for her. She stayed home for her. She kept going for her.

Well, hello.

I’m Future Rae.

I made it.

And I’d like to have some fucking fun now.

Maybe I’ll buy something I later decide was ridiculous. Maybe I’ll take a day off when technically I could have worked. Maybe I’ll spend money on an experience instead of putting every extra dollar away. Maybe I’ll make a choice Responsible Rae would have side-eyed so hard she’d pull something.

That’s okay.

I’ve spent decades proving I can work hard, take care of people, survive emergencies and figure shit out. I’ve proven I can be responsible.

I don’t need to spend the rest of my life auditioning for the position.

I’d rather occasionally get life wrong than spend all of it doing everything “right” only to realize I forgot to enjoy the damn thing.

So, Past Rae, thank you.

Seriously.

You carried us a very long way, and I know why you did it.

But you can put the bags down now.

Present Rae wants a turn.