I've been listening to Valerie Bertinelli's Getting Naked — yeah, she's a celebrity, but that's not really what it's about. The first few chapters hit different because underneath the fame, it's just a woman being honest about the story she was telling herself all those years. And that's the part that got me. Because here's the thing — it's never really about the person in the book. It's about what happens in your head while you're listening. The things you say to yourself about yourself when it's just you, alone, no audience, no performing for anyone. That inner voice? The one that shows up in the quiet moments — driving, doing dishes, lying awake at 11pm? That's the one running the show more than we give it credit for. So I'll ask you what her book asked me: What's the story you keep telling yourself — and is it even true anymore? Drop it below. Doesn't have to be pretty. This is a no-judgment zone.

The first time I looked into the eyes of each of my three boys, I fell in love. If I’m being honest, I fell in love with them before I ever met them. Years earlier, I’d been told I might never be able to have children. So to eventually find myself the mother of three boys seemed almost too good to be true. I felt like the luckiest woman on earth. At first, I wondered whether raising boys would be difficult. I didn’t know anything about being a boy mom. Turns out, they would teach me. I learned about army men and dinosaurs, superheroes and Star Wars, wrestling and, of course, football. I learned there was something pretty incredible about having a chubby little hand reach for mine whenever someone was scared, tired, hurt, or simply wanted to be close to Mom. Whatever my boys loved, I wanted to be part of. Some days seemed to last forever. The years didn’t. There were days when our house was so loud and chaotic that I thought I might lose my mind. Three boys being boys. Someone was hungry. Someone needed something washed. Someone couldn’t find his shoes. Someone wanted a friend to sleep over. And always, another request. One more story, Mommy? Can I have another drink of water? Will you make Shrek pancakes in the morning? Back then, sometimes I just wanted everyone to go to sleep. I’d give almost anything to hear one of those requests again. Those were the years when my life felt incredibly full. And purposeful. As the boys got older, the chaos changed, but it didn’t disappear. Our house became the house where everyone gathered, and I loved it. Their friends were always welcome. There were teenagers everywhere, food disappearing almost as quickly as I could buy it, and more noise than any reasonable person should enjoy. Apparently, I like chaos. Our lives revolved around homeschooling, gym workouts, wrestling shows, football practices and games, friends coming and going, meals, laundry, and whatever was happening next. I didn’t have much time to slow down. What I didn’t understand was that the busier they kept me, the faster time seemed to move.

When my mom was in hospice and we knew the end was near our last visit was very much like each visit the days before. My dad would go every morning about 7:00. I would give him an hour or so alone with mom, then I would show up. We sat, we talked, we had visitors, we chuckled over comforting memories, we cried thinking about the inevitable. Then we would leave around 6:00 or 7:00, go have some dinner, go back to mom and dad's house, go to bed and repeat the same the next day. But that last night was different. I told my dad I wanted to go back to the hospital that night because I didn't want mom to be alone. He talked me out of it. He said I needed my rest and mom rested better when she didn't have people in the room with her. She will be fine he said. Something in me said I should go, but I thought maybe dad was right so I went to bed. At 6:00 the next morning the phone rang. My mom had passed in the night. I was devasted that I didn't go to her the night before. I let her down. She died alone. This was almost 13 years ago. For most of those 13 years I struggled with the THOUGHT that my mom was there for me, took care of me ... every day of my life. The one day that I should have been there for her I wasn't and I'll never be able to make it up to her. This is the THOUGHT that I struggled with for years. But its not the TRUTH. The TRUTH is, had I gone back to the hospital that night my mom probably would not have passed, she would have held on another day because she didn't want me (or anyone) to be with her when it was time. She would have suffered another day, struggling to breathe. That thought creeps into my mind, rearing its ugly head on milestone days ... her birthday, Mother's Day, the day she died, the day we laid her to rest. But I remind myself every time. THAT IS A THOUGHT NOT THE TRUTH. Love you and miss you mom always!

What's one thing you're carrying guilt for right now that, if you're honest, was never actually your fault? Doesn't have to be big. Could be something small you've been quietly beating yourself up over. Drop it below — no judgment here, just a place to finally say it out loud.