Joy Follows: 7 Paths Back to Yourself
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Grab your coffee and get comfy. This is a long one. You can jump to each path here:
Growth is not linear.
Kacey Musgraves said it best — healing doesn't happen in a straight line. And honestly? That's the thing that keeps so many of us from staying consistent with the very things we know we need to do to heal.
The tides are ever changing. They pull back before they come in. And some days, that's exactly what healing feels like — two steps forward, one step back.
This changing of tides has defined the last twenty years of my life.
I promised you honesty and unfiltered motherhood — so here it is: long before my ex took a wrecking ball to my life at two months pregnant, I struggled mightily with severe depression.
I have put my shattered self back together again more times than I can count. I have seen every kind of therapist you could think of. I've read the books. I've bought the journals. I've done the work, and then I've stopped doing the work, and then I've started again.
What I've learned — slowly, imperfectly, over two decades — is that the changing tide is actually a beautiful thing. A hopeful thing.
It means that no matter how deep the water gets, it will recede. Pain will not stay forever. It is an impossibility. Joy follows pain the way the tide follows the moon.
Pain washes over us. Consumes us. Joy Follows.
It's not a matter of if. It's a matter of when.
Okay — enough metaphors. Let's get into what actually works.
These are the 7 things that have, without fail, helped me find my way back to myself.
If this speaks to you, my journal, Joy Follows, was written for you.
For the women putting themselves back together again, bit by bit.
Click here to get a free preview of Joy Follows. 💗
A trip to Lake Michigan 3 months pregnant. A small turning point.
1. Call in the Cavalry: Building Your Support Team After Trauma
This is the most important step. Full stop.
You have got to build a team of people you trust — people who will also hold you accountable. When my life fell apart while I was pregnant, I was in such bad shape — and "bad shape" does not begin to cover it.
One day I was catatonic. The next I wanted to burn it all down.
At my lowest, I was seeing a perinatal psychiatrist, a trauma therapist, and my regular therapist all at the same time.
I have seen the same therapist for six years. Honestly, it's one of my proudest accomplishments. She has saved me time and again — or rather, she has helped me save myself.
She is one of the most important people in my world, and I will shout the benefits of therapy from every rooftop I can find.
But I also know it's not something everyone is comfortable with. So here's what worked for me — in the hope that it makes the whole thing feel a little less intimidating.
It Doesn't Have to Be Therapy. A pastor, a church group, a divorce support group — whatever feels safe for you. Do. What. Works. For. You.
Research First. I found my therapist on Psychology Today after reading about thirty different bios. You can filter by specialty, therapy type, and what you're specifically going through. It gives you a sense of who someone is before you ever walk through the door.
Date Your Therapist. A therapist I had in high school told me this and I looked at him like he had three heads. His point? You are trusting this person with the most intimate details of your life — so choose them intentionally. Most therapists offer free 15-minute consultations. Use them.
A Therapist for Every Budget. When I was 25, living in Austin on a CPS caseworker's salary, I found sliding scale therapy. It was either that or an impromptu garage sale. The research nerd strikes again. Sliding scale means you pay according to your income — the lower your income, the lower your rate. Therapy is for everyone.
Find your support team near you: Psychology Today
2. The Resource Rabbit Hole: How to Find Help When You Don't Know Where to Start
My mom told me early on — shortly after I moved back in with my parents — something she and my aunt had said to each other. That what made them so confident in my recovery was that they knew I would use every single resource available to me.
They were right — and my mom was right there with me, doing the same.
When I was fifteen weeks pregnant, she took me to Corpus Christi for a change of scenery. I remember her walking me down to the water and having me put my toes in the sand. I remember looking up at the sky and asking for some kind of relief. Some kind of answer.
Some kind of promise that she would be okay — and that I would be whole enough to be the kind of mother she deserved.
It came. Just not the way I was expecting.
I had a pregnancy complication that sent us searching for an ultrasound. Since I had left my teaching position so suddenly, I had no insurance. My mom found a place in Corpus that offered free ultrasounds to mothers in situations like mine.
And there, in that room, I watched Rosie move around on the screen for the first time. Tiny. Real. Healthy. Safe.
A woman named Elizabeth worked there with Catholic Charities. She and my mom held my hand as the tears came. She listened to my entire story. She told me I was going to be okay — and then she made sure of it. She connected me to insurance, to resources in San Antonio, to a community that would walk alongside me through the first five years of Rosie's life.
Elizabeth made me feel seen. She gave me a plan when everything felt uncertain. She gave me something to hold onto.
Later that day, my mom and I went to our favorite Thai restaurant on the island. And somewhere between the ocean and the green curry, something in me shifted just slightly toward okay.
There's something I've never told many people.
We had already chosen a name — boy or girl. But the name we had picked out together before I left my marriage no longer felt right. I always knew she was going to be Rosie. But originally, Rose was her middle name.
I changed it to her first name.
And because that moment on the beach had been so significant — because the water has always been a place where I find my way back to myself — I named her Rosemary for my mother, grandmother, and the sea.
It means dew of the sea. Rose of the sea. It thrives by the water.
So does she. So do I.
And her middle name?
Elizabeth.
She shares my middle name. And the name of the woman who saved us both.
Rosemary Elizabeth. 🤍
Rosemary Elizabeth, 14 months, Corpus Christi, TX
I HIGHLY recommend visiting findhelp.org for every kind of resource you could think of.
Here are some other essentials that helped me find my way postpartum.
3. The Bit by Bit List: Small Steps for Healing When Everything Feels Impossible
I spent five years as a behavior therapist working with children with autism. And one of the most powerful techniques we used was something called behavioral momentum.
The concept is simple: before you ask someone to do something hard, you first ask them to do a series of easy things. Small wins build momentum. Momentum makes the harder thing possible.
I didn't know I was going to need that for myself.
During the two weeks between leaving my marriage and moving in with my parents, my mom and I stayed in a hotel and then at my sister's house outside of Austin — in denial, I think, about the fact that we already knew what came next.
I remember one particularly miserable day lying in bed at my sister's house, staring up at the ceiling. Days without a shower. Who knows how many days since I had seen a toothbrush.
I had completely retreated inside myself.
I had reached a place so dark that the people who loved me most knew I needed more help than they could give me.
So, my therapist helped me start small.
Not "make a plan" small. Not "set a goal" small.
Feet on the floor small.
Literally willing my body to roll out of bed and place my feet on the ground. That one motion got me on my feet.
Which got me to the bathroom.
Which got me to the shower.
Which got me into the clean pajamas my mom gave me.
Behavioral momentum.
You start with the smallest possible thing. Then you add one more. Then maybe one more after that.
And the next day you either repeat the same or you add another or you forgive yourself for doing nothing at all.
Bit by bit.
Day by day.
If you're not as far down in the pit, it might look different. Maybe yoga class or baseball practice feels too big — but promising yourself you'll just put on the clothes feels manageable. Or that you'll drive to the parking lot. That's enough. That counts.
Because here's what happens when life falls apart: your brain has too many tabs open. Cognitive overwhelm is real. You cannot operate at your normal capacity because you were never designed to carry this much at once.
So we break it down. We schedule our days in twenty minute bites. We tackle it bit by bit. And then at the end of the day we make a bit by bit list, a reverse to do list of your wins for the day.
We are kind to ourselves on the days we couldn't finish all of it.
We are kind to ourselves on the days we put our feet on the ground and survived.
That is enough.
That will always be enough.
If this speaks to you, subscribe below for more Notes from the Nest — honest motherhood, thoughtful finds, and a free preview of my upcoming guided journal, Joy Follows. 💕
4. Visualize Your Joy: How Daydreaming Helped Me Find Hope
One of the most pivotal pieces of advice I received while I was trying to pick up the pieces came from my therapist, Diana.
She told me to give myself permission to daydream.
I had gone from madly in love to just mad. I thought I had found my forever — we had plans, dreams, a life mapped out.
And then overnight, the person I loved most in the world became the person I needed to protect myself from. With the flip of a switch.
One day I couldn’t get out of bed. The next I was shattering giant framed wedding vows in my backyard. Over, and over, and over again. Highly recommend. Maybe wear some safety glasses though.
I had wanted to be a mother before I had wanted to be anything. And here I was, growing this beautiful girl — unable to enjoy a single second of it. Unable to see past the pain.
I was a shell of a human being, and what was left inside that shell was a sadness so deep I felt like I was drowning, and a rage so consuming I felt engulfed in it.
I couldn't see joy anywhere.
So Diana told me to daydream.
She started me off small. She wanted me to visualize the first time I did Rosie's hair. To picture walking through a store together, Rosie grabbing for a little purse off the rack — me buying it for her without thinking twice.
Seemingly insignificant moments. But they made her real. They made joy feel possible on the other side when I couldn't find a single trace of it in my present.
I remember lying there wondering — what color would her hair be? Would it be curly or straight? Would she come out with a full head of hair, or bald like I was? What color bow would I use? Would she fight me or sit still?
Those questions gave me something to hold onto.
It was a mental shift — from the misery of right now to the hope of what's coming.
It gave me a line of sight into what could possibly be. A North Star when all I really wanted was to disappear.
And it's still my North Star today.
A peek at Rosie’s Pinterest board 💗
Now I get on Zillow and pick out the house Rosie and I will buy in a couple of years. I browse Pinterest and choose wallpaper for her next room. I don't just think about it — I feel it, I plan for it, I move toward it.
Some people call this manifesting. I've never loved that word — it feels overused, a little hollow.
I prefer daydreaming with intention. Visualization that turns into action.
Because the more we think about something, the higher a priority it becomes in our brain. The more we visualize it, write it down, say it out loud, and make a plan — the more likely we are to bring it into existence.
It started with a daydream about my little girl's hair.
It saved me.
5. Find Your Few: How to Build Human Connection While Rebuilding Your Life
I'll say something that might surprise you coming from someone who just launched a blog to build a community:
I am not a natural community-builder.
I am an introvert — loudly and proudly. And I want to say something about that before we go any further, because I think we've gotten it wrong as a society. Being an introvert doesn't just mean being quiet, though I am. It means I process the world differently.
I get my energy from stillness, not from people. I like my circle small. I don't need something on the calendar every weekend. I am a homebody, and I have made peace with that.
So when people talk about "finding your village," I understand why it can feel like advice written for someone else entirely.
For me, it felt impossible.
My first year of teaching, my social anxiety was so bad that I would time my trips out of the classroom to avoid the hallway when other teachers were walking through. I have never said that out loud to anyone other than my therapist. And honestly, it feels embarrassing — but I promised you and myself honesty. So there it is.
Finding my few has always meant my family. They have stood by my side in ways I don't know if I'll ever be able to properly describe or thank them for.
My sister and brother-in-law, who lived twenty minutes away before everything fell apart, handed me a key to their house before I even asked — because they were worried about my safety.
My brother, all six foot seven of him, who has wrapped me up in the most giant bear hug and squeezed until I finally caught my breath, tears streaming, on the verge of a panic attack.
My parents, who have caught me every single time I've fallen. Without judgment. Every time.
And a couple of friends who always seem to come back around when they know I need them. Along with a few very important others.
When I arrived at my parents' house — after leaving everything overnight with a few bags and a baby on the way — my mom looked at me on the patio and said simply:
"You have got to call someone."
I understood in that moment that she wasn't just saying it for me. She needed me to call someone.
She is one of the strongest women I know…by a mile. But even she can only hold so much. And I could not ask her to be my only source of solace.
So I picked up the phone. I called one of my oldest friends — the one I had been able to bare my soul to when I was eight years old. She picked up. And I came at her like an emotional fire hose. She listened. She met me with love, with kindness, with empathy and zero judgment.
That's really all I needed.
For you, finding your few might look completely different. If you're an introvert, it might mean going to the same coffee shop every day until you know the baristas by name.
Going to the library at the same time each week.
Finding a low-risk place where you'll see the same faces repeatedly.
Maybe it's joining a Facebook mom group — there are incredible ones out there for every kind of mom. Single moms, stay at home moms, homeschooling moms, all of it. There's even an app called Peanut, designed specifically for moms to find mom friends.
Rosie, me, and the MVP of my “few” —my Mama.
My dad—who has stepped up in ways he shouldn’t have to. 💙
And here's what I want to leave you with:
Everybody has that one person. The one who immediately comes to mind when life falls apart. The first person you would call.
I ignored that instinct too many times.
Don't.
Pick up the phone. Send the text. Reach out. If they shut you down, they are not one of your few — and that's okay. Keep reaching.
People want to hear from you. Don't deny them that.
I launched an entire blog trying to build a community I've never been good at building.
So. Here we are. 🤍
6. Your Comfort Zone: Creating Safety, Stillness, and Peace
One of my favorite things in the entire world is Longhorn football.
So when I finally made it to Texas OU weekend for the first time in my thirty-six years of life — the biggest game of the season — I was absolutely miserable. Not just a little off. Not just tired. I knew I was not okay. Not even a little bit.
TX OU October 2024
The next night I was at my brother and sister-in-law's house. I was exhausted. Angry. Defeated. Hopeless.
My sister-in-law Paige disappeared into their bedroom. About twenty minutes later she reappeared and said in that East Texas accent I love so much: "Come here."
I didn't ask any questions. I just followed her.
She had turned off all the lights. Lit candles. Drew me a bath. Laid out a wide array of lotions and potions, her best skincare, and masks on the edge of the tub. Spa music was playing. Her pajamas were folded and waiting for me. “Take as long as you need,” she said.
She had built me a sanctuary. In her bathroom. Just for me.
It was in that bath that I realized I hadn't been doing any of that for myself. The people around me were desperately trying. But I wasn't taking care of myself. I wasn't giving myself any of the comfort I deserved.
And my daughter deserved a mother who was whole. I was so afraid I wasn't going to be able to give her that.
So my psychiatrist gave me a prescription I wasn't expecting.
Find anything that brings you comfort. Anything at all.
Make a cup of tea. Focus on the ritual of it — the boiling water, the bag, the waiting, the warmth of the mug in your hands. Sit on the couch with the coziest blanket you own. Create a space where there is nothing to be afraid of because at that point I had been waking up in the middle of the night to any sound or shadow. She told me to create a safe space. Just stillness. Just safety. Just you.
For me it was the Real Housewives of New York City and the first four seasons of Grey's Anatomy. You might think I'm kidding — but some of the darkest nights of my life were made softer by Ramona and Sonja. I'm pretty sure their antics were one of the reasons I laughed again.
My mom and I walked through HomeSense one afternoon — HomeSense, not HomeGoods, it's the better half — and we touched every single blanket until we found the one. A gorgeous blue and pink floral. The coziest thing we could find.
That blanket came with me to the hospital when I gave birth to Rosie. It gave us a nest to snuggle into as I fed her and as she napped in my arms. And now it lays at the foot of the bed I used to sleep in — in her nursery.
And when my grandmother sent me a box of beautiful things for Rosie, tucked inside was the exact same blanket. The exact same one.
I think that was another sign that it was time to take care of myself. For me and for her.
Things That Worked For Me, That May Work For You
Journaling & Mental Reset
Start Where You Are — Meera Lee Patel
My favorite lay-flat journal
Sakura Micron pens
Comfort & Nervous System
Our current coziest throw blanket
My favorite pajamas
Shearling slippers — luxe for less version (on sale)
Ugg slippers — luxe version
For Your Mood
Light therapy lamp — luxe version
Light therapy lamp — affordable version
For Your Hands and Your Quiet Brain
Diamond painting kit
Adult coloring book
Sudoku or puzzle book
Fidget Toy
The Exhale
When everything feels like too much, sometimes the fastest way back to yourself is through your body.
These three techniques all work the same way. They activate your vagus nerve, which signals your parasympathetic nervous system — the part of your brain responsible for rest, calm, and safety — to take over. Your body shifts out of fight-or-flight and into stillness, often in under two minutes.
Hand on Heart: One hand on your chest, one on your belly. Breathe in slowly. Exhale slowly. Feel the rise and fall. Say quietly to yourself: I am okay. I am here. That's it. That's enough.
Box Breathing: Breathe in for four counts. Hold for four. Exhale for four. Hold for four. Repeat. This is the one I taught my students. It works for a third grader in a meltdown and it works for a grown woman on the bathroom floor. I'm even modeling it for Rosie now before she goes to sleep — except we say "breathe in the good, breathe out the bad." And watching her purse those tiny little lips to try to exhale is quite possibly the cutest thing in the whole wide world.
Forced Exhale: Breathe in as deeply as you possibly can. Then exhale as forcefully and completely as you can — all at once. You will sound like Darth Vader. That is correct. That is the point. Do it three times. Notice what changes.
You don't have to do all three. Just choose one. Come back to your body. The rest will follow.
7. The X Factor: The One Thing You Can Always Count On
A 2016 version of me, doing all I could to find a path back to myself
This one's simple. I'm not going to make it complicated.
The X Factor is the one thing you know you can always count on to bring you back to yourself. The thing that has never failed you. The thing you reach for first, or the thing you forget to reach for — and then remember, and feel the difference immediately.
For me, it's journaling.
Writing in general is therapy for me. This blog is included in that. So is my children’s book (stay tuned for that).
Since high school, I have filled around twenty journals. There have been times over the years when I've gone back to read them — to remind myself of where I've been, how far I've come, and what I survived that I once wasn't sure I would.
When life gets too loud, or falls apart entirely, I have found incredible relief in getting it all out of my brain and screaming it onto a page.
Or sometimes, slowly meditating on the day. Letting the pen move before my brain catches up.
My journaling has been many things. Beautiful, careful letters to myself — the kind I would write to a friend if she were going through the same thing. Praising her for how far she's come. Reminding her how resilient she is.
And it has also been letters I can never send. Words I'll never get to say. Letters written to a person — for me, and on behalf of my daughter.
Letters that ask: what would you say to her if someone treated her this way?
Letters full of questions I will never have the answers to.
I have made my peace with that.
If there's one thing that comes in second place for me, it's exercise.
I was an athlete in high school and I have always gotten a tremendous amount of relief from moving my body, strengthening it, reminding it what it's capable of.
I've done everything from CrossFit to Pilates. My current favorite is HOTWORX — which my dad has taken to calling "my investment" since I haven't been in three months.
Point taken, Dad.
Before You Go
I am not telling you I do all of these things perfectly. I don't. But I have done all of them — simultaneously or separately, in different seasons and different levels of crisis — and they have never failed me. Not once.
Right now, some of these tools are gathering dust in my toolkit. That's the truth. But I know they're there. And I know they work. And when I need them, I reach for them.
I hope you will find them too.
And I hope that when you need them — and you will need them, because that's just life — you remember that reaching for them is not weakness.
It's the bravest thing you can do.
Human beings are not static. We evolve. And our skills and our needs have to evolve with us. We deserve kindness in the process.
We have to accept that pain is universal. To varying degrees, at different stages, in ways we never see coming. I will never promise you that goes away.
But what I can promise — because I have lived it — is that joy follows.
It always does.
The tide will recede.
And you will find yourself again.
💗
Rosemary of the Sea
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Join the Conversation: What path are you currently on? I’d love to hear from you in the comments below. 💕
The Quick List
Journaling & Mental Reset
Start Where You Are — Meera Lee Patel
Comfort & Nervous System
Our current coziest throw blanket
Shearling slippers — luxe for less version (on sale)
For Your Mood
Light therapy lamp — luxe version
Light therapy lamp — affordable version
For Your Hands and Your Quiet Brain
