Over the past two weeks, I’ve been sharing the reflections that came after my son broke his leg back in May. At the time, people kept asking how we were doing. And I kept answering honestly: “It’s been hard. He’s in pain. I’m carrying a lot right now.” I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. I was just telling the truth.

But I noticed something. Every time I said it out loud, that things were hard, that I was tired, that I felt stretched thin, I felt this subtle fear creeping in: Was I saying too much? Was I reinforcing something I didn’t want to keep living in? Was I slipping into self-pity… just by being honest?

I didn’t want to pretend I was strong anymore. But I also didn’t want to say something about myself that would keep me down. And that’s where this whole internal struggle began.

I was out walking the other day, just trying to clear my head, when a white dog came barreling down the boardwalk. No leash. No owner in sight. It looked exactly like mine. For a second, I thought it was my dog. I tried to catch it, but it kept running. He was fast, and he was lost.

It was one of those moments where the outside world mirrors something happening inside you, and you don’t even realize it until later.

Because the truth is, I’d already been thinking about that feeling of being untethered. I wasn’t a wreck or falling apart, but I think I’d slowly lost my anchor recently without even noticing. Holding things together, kind of. Functioning, mostly, but at the same time, wondering if “I’m okay” still means what I think it means.