The other night, my boys begged me to build a fort in their room. It’s summer, and I’m all about a good fort, so I dove in headfirst. Chairs, bean bags, couch cushions, sheets—anything I could grab went into it. And let me tell you, I built the most ridiculously awesome fort of all time. It was legit. Like, “too legit to quit” legit.
Seriously, it was amazing.
Then came the request I should have anticipated: they wanted me to spend the night with them. In the fort. On the hard floor. Surrounded by stuffed animals, Star Wars blankets, and child-sized sleeping bags.
Uggggghhhhhh…
But I did it. I smiled, pretended to have fun, and squeezed myself into the tiny space. I slept in that impossibly small, cramped corner, thinking, “This is fine.” The next morning, reality hit hard.
My eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. My neck screamed from being twisted into unnatural positions, trying to fit an adult body into a three-by-one-foot space. My back throbbed from being kicked, jabbed, and jostled countless times by tiny hands and feet.
Y’all. I can’t do that anymore.
I’m either too old, too grouchy, or maybe just too in love with sleep—but whatever it is, I’ve officially outgrown certain things. And in that moment, lying there with my bruises and regrets, I realized something else: life has a long list of “I can’t do that anymore” moments, and I’m finally ready to admit them.
I tried a round-off the next day… barely moved.
Eating junk food and staying skinny? Nope.
Staying out past 11 pm? I could, but I really don’t want to.
Shopping at Abercrombie & Fitch? Can’t.
Bras without serious support? Can’t.
Ignoring bills? Can’t.
Crying because I have no plans on a Saturday night? Can’t.
Waiting for the next stage of life to be happy? Can’t.
Caring what others think? Can’t.
Being afraid to fail? Can’t.
Running myself ragged with meaningless errands? Can’t.
Keeping up with the “it” crowd? Can’t.
Changing who I am to fit in? Can’t.
Comparing myself to someone else? Can’t.
Getting tangled in petty drama? Can’t.
Believing I have nothing to offer? Can’t.
Walking on eggshells around everyone? Can’t.
Sure, I’d give anything for my 16-year-old body again. (I wouldn’t give up chips, salsa, or cookie dough, though.) High school had its good moments and good friends, but I wouldn’t go back—not for chai lattes, not for Lululemon stretchy pants, nothing.
I’ve learned too much since then. I’ve grown, experienced, and changed in ways I wouldn’t trade for the world. I’ve poured my energy into being a good wife, mother, and friend. And slowly, I’ve let go of the things I can’t do, the versions of myself that are gone forever. And in that letting go, I’ve found freedom. Freedom to focus on what I can do. Freedom to be who I am.
No, you won’t see me doing the splits anytime soon. You won’t see me in a tiny cheerleading skirt. But you also won’t see me crying because I’m left out. You won’t see me standing alone in the cafeteria, awkwardly holding my tray, hoping someone wants me there.
I can’t do that anymore.
I don’t want to do that anymore.
I don’t need to do that anymore.
Now, I know who I am and what I bring to the table. I sit down wherever I am, make a comfortable place for myself, and open a spot for anyone else who needs a place to belong. And that—finally—that feels amazing.
