ungrowing-up

I hope this post reaches someone who needs it. Here’s me, being vulnerable—no filters, no bows.

Healing doesn’t follow a calendar. It shows up when it shows up—and we either meet it or we don’t.

Since 2020, I’ve been struggling with my mental health. Not because of COVID or politics. Just… life. Life happened. And then it kept happening.

I had my son Max in high school. Becoming a teen mom defined so much of who I am. From the moment he was born, I made a silent vow: I would fight like hell to give him the kind of life I saw other kids have—the kind that looked safe, whole, and normal.

So I pushed myself hard. I graduated college in 2022. I stopped working two jobs. I bought a house. I hit every goal I had set for myself. I did everything that I thought would make me feel proud, secure, and happy.

But somewhere in all that “success,” I started to feel worse. Emptier. Like I had reached the end of a checklist that wasn’t even mine. Max was older and more independent. My fiancé had his passions. My stepson had his world. And me? I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. I didn’t even know who I was outside of surviving.

It felt like I had been speeding through life on a high-speed train—driven by pressure, fueled by survival, focused on achievement—and then all of a sudden, the train slammed into a wall. There were no more goals to chase. No chaos to distract me. Just silence… and the deafening crash of all the emotions I had been avoiding for years, hitting me all at once.

So last year, I made a decision. Quietly. Internally. Something had to change.

While I was deep in this mental health journey, I started reading What Happened to You by Dr. Bruce Perry and Oprah. There was a part of the book that stopped me in my tracks—one of those moments where everything clicks.

It talked about how, as kids, we develop survival strategies to cope with trauma. These defense mechanisms help us get through what we couldn't understand or control. But as adults, those same coping skills can start to hold us back. What once kept us safe might now be what’s keeping us stuck.

That idea made me take a long, honest look at my own story. I wasn’t just reacting randomly to life—I was still operating from a nervous system shaped by old pain. Still trying to survive, even when I was finally safe.

I started looking at my patterns—the ones I’d repeated for twenty years. I wasn’t just “bad” at life. I wasn’t a mess. I was surviving the only way I knew how. I was trying to hold it all together with ingredients that never quite seemed to fit.

For so long, I thought I was broken:

Unorganized.

Hyper-emotional.

Constantly slipping in and out of depression.

But God doesn’t create broken things. People break things.

And I am not broken.

I’m fucking tough. I am resilient and smart. I had all the right ingredients—I always have. Somewhere along the way, some asshole came into my life and replaced the sugar with salt, and the people who were supposed to protect me simply blundered.

But that’s okay. Because I wouldn’t be who I am today if that hadn’t happened.

And the person I am today?

She’s a badass.

So if you’re still here—still reading—I want you to know this: You are not too far gone. You are not too broken.

You are worth love, peace, and joy. You deserve to feel whole. You can feel whole.

It’s not going to happen overnight. Healing takes time. It takes truth. It takes guts.

I’m still in it. Still doing the work. Still unlearning and rebuilding. But I promise you, it’s worth every hard, messy, beautiful step.

Exidia recisa or Amber Jelly, is a fungi. You can find it growing on dead branches or fallen trees in wooded area.

It’s edible, can help lower cholesterol and blood pressure.

As a parent, you want so badly to go to school with your kid. To walk down the hallway beside them, hold their hand through every confusing moment, sit in the cafeteria to make sure they’re not eating alone. You want to help them figure out life before life even hits. You worry about everything— their sadness, their silence, their mental health. Do they have friends? Are they talking to anyone, really talking? Are they spending too much time on screens, and not enough time outside where the world can touch them?

But ultimately… none of it is up to you. And you just have to sit the fuck back and let them figure it out. That is the hardest thing I have ever done.

I think back to when I was a teen— Did my mom know? Did she know how lonely I felt, how lost and out of place I was? I wonder if she stayed up at night the way I do now, heart racing with a kind of love that feels like drowning.

Thank God I had my son. He saved me without knowing it. But now— he doesn’t have someone like that. Not yet. And that’s what breaks me.

I see him hiding in his room, retreating into video games, avoiding sunlight, family, connection. Every conversation turns into a battle. I’m not trying to control him—I’m trying to reach him. But it’s like yelling through a wall of glass. He sulks about not having friends, but won’t meet the world halfway. He blames his anxiety and his introversion. And maybe those are real. Maybe they’re mountains I can’t move for him. But I still find myself trying—desperately.

I threaten to make him work this summer if he won’t go outside. I take away the power cord to his console. Not to punish—but to break the loop. To say: This isn’t all there is.

And still, I wonder if he hears me.

I want to scream, "You're not alone!" But he’s wearing noise-canceling headphones made of teenage defiance and quiet sorrow. And all I can do is sit outside his door, holding hope like a fragile bird, wishing he’d open it and let me in.

On Sunday, we visited my mom for Easter. After dinner, the whole family was lounging around the house, casually chatting, full of food and warmth.

At some point, my 14-year-old son wandered into one of the bedrooms and found a scale. From across the hall, we heard him shout—rejoicing—that he weighed over 150 lbs! He was genuinely thrilled, proud even.

(And in that moment, all I could think was... what I would give to weigh that. Scratch that—what I would give to feel excited about gaining weight instead of defeated by it.)

Then it was my husband’s turn. Then my mom’s. One by one, they all stepped on that little machine like it was nothing.

Me? I quietly slipped away and hid in the front room, praying no one would notice.

There was no way in hell I was stepping on that scale. Not in front of everyone. And definitely not in front of my mom.

I’ve always been a little afraid of scales.

Not because they hurt. But because they hold power—a kind of power I’ve given them for far too long. I’m scared of the number, scared it won’t match the version of me I’m trying so hard to love. Scared it’ll confirm my worst thoughts instead of challenge them.

I don’t really talk about my weight. Not because I don’t care, but because no matter where it’s landed, it’s never felt “right.” Not in the eyes of society, not in the eyes of family. Not even in my own.

But something’s shifting.

Lately, I’ve started dressing the body I have—not the one I’m chasing. I’ve started looking in the mirror and seeing someone beautiful. Someone real. Someone with hips and laughter and stories etched into her skin.

And today, I stepped on a scale.

197 lbs. The highest number I’ve ever seen attached to my body.

It was hard to see, I won’t lie. But weirdly? It didn’t break me. I still felt good. I still saw that beautiful, smiling woman in the mirror.

Maybe the scale doesn’t get to have the final say anymore. Maybe it’s just a tool—one of many—and not the one that defines my worth, my health, or my beauty.

There was a time in my life—fifteen years old, a brand-new mom—when the voice in my head was relentless.

“You’re disgusting.” “No one will ever love you.” “You have nothing to offer.” “Why would anyone want you, especially with your baggage?” “You’re a failure. A whore.” “You should just disappear.”

These weren’t insults from classmates or strangers. The truth is, most of the kids at my high school were kind, even supportive. These words came from me. They were the soundtrack to my life.

At fifteen, I had just given birth, and I was drowning in shame, fear, and self-hatred. I hated my body. I hated who I thought I was. I hated waking up.

There were only two things that kept me going: The tiny baby who relied on me for everything— And the determination to survive, fueled by nothing but sheer will.

I exercised to punish myself, convinced that my only value was in how I looked. I pushed my body past its limits, once running four miles in the blistering summer heat. By the time I got home, I was overheating, my skin chafed raw, barely able to stand. That night, I spiked a fever. I nearly ended up in the hospital.

But I was skinnier. So I told myself I’d won.

I breastfed, partly because I’d read it helped with weight loss, partly because I loved my baby. But I couldn’t get back to my pre-pregnancy weight—and it consumed me. I was binge eating, drinking every weekend while my mom babysat. I thought I was failing at everything.

Still, I stayed alive—for my son. That’s the power of a mother’s love. It can drive you to do the impossible, even when you’re breaking. But that season of my life taught me something I didn’t fully understand until years later:

Nothing done in hatred can be fruitful. Only love makes things grow.

That inner war continued into my twenties. On the outside, I looked like I had it together: Graduated college. Bought a house. Changed careers.

But I was unraveling. I was 27, burned out, and fighting quiet battles with my mental health. The truth? I wasn’t holding it together. I was dangling.

I kept trying to fix myself—journaling, walking, pushing through. But I didn’t realize I’d already hit rock bottom. And I couldn’t see how much my pain was impacting my son. Or my relationship.

In 2023, my fiancé and I split. We later reconciled, but by April 2024, the weight of everything came crashing down. My son was suicidal.

The same little boy who once saved my life now needed saving himself. And I realized—I could lose him.

Nothing done in hatred will ever be fruitful.

So I did what I should’ve done years earlier. I got help. I put both of us in therapy. I started rebuilding—not just my life, but my relationship with myself.

And today? I finished my first CrossFit circuit. It was brutal. I wanted to quit at least a dozen times.

But I didn’t. Because I’ve come too far to go back now. And because fifteen-year-old me deserves this version of me—strong, steady, whole.

My inner voice sounds different now. “You’re doing great.” “You’re so strong.” “You’ve survived harder.” “You’re not giving up on yourself anymore.”

Today, I turned 30. And for the first time in a long time, I feel proud.

The quicker you start to love yourself, the quicker you'll see results.

Loving yourself is hard because you have to challenge your daily thoughts.. and who tf really has time for that at 20?

You can't be everything you want to be before your time.

I am a WHOLE lot of woman, and that's a superpower.

My 30th is coming up VERY soon so I booked a road/camping trip to Wildcat Den State Park.

Just me and my buddy, Theo.

Quite honestly, I am 1 week away and have nothing. I am not even sure I know what to bring. (Advice, tips, insight welcome.)

I will obviously need a backpack, but what kind would be best? Does he need a backpack? SOS!

Hi! I'm Kasia (pronounced Kah-Sha). My life is a collection of stories, some funny, and some, where seasons of my life came with tough lessons.

For most of my life (25+ years), I was in a constant state of fight-or-flight. In 2024, I decided that I was sick and tired of feeling the way I felt and wanted change. I wanted to heal little me. This is blog is my journey of 'growth', healing, and finding myself by "un-growing-up".