You’ve read me talk about how hard parenting adult kids has been. And honestly… that’s only part of it.

What I didn’t fully realize until last year was how little I was taking care of me.
Not in a dramatic way. Not in a “rock bottom” way.
Just in a slow, quiet, barely-noticed way.

Growing up, my dad struggled with depression and anxiety, even though we didn’t really use those words back then. He went to work. He stayed home. He worried a lot about what people thought of him and whether he measured up. Holidays made it worse.

At the time, that was just “dad.”
Now, as an adult, I understand it differently.

As I got older, moved out, and had kids of my own, I started recognizing pieces of myself in that same mental tornado. The constant worrying. The overthinking. The endless what-ifs.

Am I good enough?
Pretty enough?
Smart enough?
Do I measure up to everyone else?

After Tyler was born, there were moments when Jeremy would leave for work, and I would just sit and spiral. Convincing myself he’d leave because I wasn’t like the other wives. Imagining every possible worst-case scenario. It wasn’t healthy, but at the time, it felt uncontrollable. Like i honestly felt like i couldn’t help it. It was “just me”.

I’ve always been a worrier. I hate it, actually. I joke that if I don’t worry, no one will, but the truth is, it’s exhausting. My brain doesn’t imagine one bad outcome. It imagines all of them and then plans how to survive each one.

I talked to my doctor about it years ago. I didn’t want to take medication, that was just a personal choice for me, and he suggested a little trick.
Find one thing. A snack. A glass of wine. Something small and specific. And only use it when your brain is spiraling. Focus on it. The taste. The feeling. Redirect your attention until the spiral slows.

Did it work for everyone? Nope.
Did it help me for a while? Yes.

But life kept life-ing. The kids got older. My business grew. My dreams got bigger. And with that came bigger worries.

After Emily, I became very good at pushing emotions down. Almost killing them. When you’ve lived through the worst kind of loss, everything else feels survivable, so you just keep moving. I still felt love, fear, sadness… but worry never left. She stayed loud and present.

Then came 2025.

And 2025 rocked me.

I hit a wall I didn’t see coming. I didn’t want to disappear in a dramatic way, but there were days I genuinely wanted to get in the car, drive, and not tell anyone where I was going. I stopped taking care of myself. I wasn’t showering regularly. I wasn’t eating well. I wasn’t exercising.

I wasn’t falling apart, but I wasn’t fully present either. I was just going through the motions.

I was pretty good at it, because no one asked, no one noticed, no one said “amber, let me help you”. I mean they did, but it never felt in a real way. It was more of a, i know things are rough and this is what im suppose to do, way.

I went to therapy in 2025. I’ll be honest… I’m not great at it. I find parts of it boring and uncomfortable. That’s a me thing. But it helped remind me of something important: even when life feels heavy, you’re still allowed to have good days.

So here we are in 2026. I’m 45 (almost 46), and this year I’m trying, really trying, to take better care of myself. To worry less. To be more honest about what I can and cannot control.

That’s why my word for the year is Release.

Not because I’m suddenly calm.
Not because I’ve figured it all out.
But because I need it. I can’t got back to the wall again, it was scary.

I can’t control my adult kids. I won’t like every choice they make, and that’s okay. I can still love them and respect them without needing to fix everything. I can’t control my Scentsy team. I can’t control outcomes no matter how many scenarios my brain wants to plan.

If I can’t control it, or realistically fix it, I’m learning to release it.

Taking care of myself also means doing things that might look silly to others. I’m a routine person. I write things like “shower,” “facial care,” “workout,” and “vacuum” on my to-do list. Because when I see it, I do it. I’m trying habit tracking too, not to be perfect, but to remind myself that progress matters more than consistency.

This year, taking care of me isn’t optional. Worrying less isn’t a switch; it’s a practice. And releasing control doesn’t mean I don’t care. It means I’m choosing peace where I can.

This is me, trying.
And that’s enough.
Because i can’t go back to 2025. I refuse.

xoxo amber g