There’s a certain kind of madness that comes from spending years in a place you never asked to be. For me, it was the cancer world—a relentless carnival of acronyms, therapies, and desperation dressed up in inspirational memes. You don’t choose this ride; it kidnaps you, straps you in, and spins you so hard you forget what normal even looks like. I was the mom deep in the trenches of parent support groups, endlessly scrolling, asking questions, and doling out advice like some kind of over-caffeinated Pinterest guru. I’d convinced myself I was MacGyver—armed with a glue stick, duct tape, and sheer determination to fix what no one else could. And then my son died.
Now, I’m still there, haunting those groups like the overly attached ghost of support threads past. But really, who wants advice from someone who didn’t make it? It’s like if a Squid Game contestant got eliminated, then popped up as an apparition yelling, “Don’t pick the umbrella shape in the cookie challenge!” No thanks, Ghost Whisperer—you’re dead, you lost. Move along.
And I get it. Who would want to take advice from the mom who couldn’t beat the odds? But every time I see a post—some terrified parent asking about posterior fossa syndrome or handling seizures—I feel that pull. I want to help. My fingers hover over the keyboard like a washed-up football coach shouting plays at a team that stopped listening five seasons ago. Except in my case, I’m shouting, “Try hippotherapy therapy! Use a respiratory specialist!” Meanwhile, my brain whispers, What if you’re just the cautionary tale? What if your advice is laced with failure?
And then there’s Zuma. My girl. The only thing keeping me from floating away like a sad little balloon that just lost its string. After Kingston, I committed to pouring every ounce of whatever I had left into her. She deserved that. She needed my attention, some stability, something solid to hold on to when everything else felt like quicksand. So, I threw myself into being her classroom volunteer, her cheer team parent, her personal crisis manager.
When no one else stepped up to make her experiences bigger and better, without even thinking twice, I just stepped in. I was already the glue holding our shit together, why not be the team’s glue too?
Word of advice, trust your emotional fuel gauge. Fun Fact: you can’t give away what you don’t have. And I was already running on fumes. But I’m a natural “fixer” and I had already been feeling next level guilty. After all, Zuma had just watched her brother and best friend wither away and die. So against my better judgement I dove headfirst into all kinds of volunteer positions and made outrageous commitments that in my non-grieving, right mind, I never would have.
One night, she came home deflated. “I think they’re trying to replace me,” she said, looking at me with big, watery eyes. And I gave her the mom speech: “You’re amazing. It’s all in your head. No one’s trying to replace you.” I said it with all the conviction of a self-help podcast host, but inside, I wasn’t so sure. The week before, I had a little chat with the gym’s director that left me feeling like I’d been hit with a truck full of passive aggression. Apparently, some parents had “concerns” about me. They mentioned that I sounded overwhelmed or “frustrated.”
Me?! Frustrated?! The grieving mom who stepped up to help a team of 22 cheerleaders right after their child had died? The mom who was 4th on the list of BACKUP team parents, the one juggling exhaustion and despair while making sure snack sign-ups got done and bows were bedazzled?! The subtext was loud and clear: You’re too much. Too loud, too broken, too… you. It felt like gaslighting, but with pom-poms.
I swallowed my pride and told myself to shut up and smile, because the last thing I wanted was to jeopardize Zuma’s spot on the team. But the next morning, the universe decided to twist the knife. The mom of the very girl Zuma was worried about posted a cheery little intro on our team page, like she was auditioning for “Replacement Mom Idol.” The painful part is that I she is such a close and dear friend and I never saw it coming. She didn’t say, “Hi, I’m here to replace you,” but the energy was there.
Zuma has missed one practice all season. One. And that’s only because I finally took her to see a doctor after months of me downplaying her injured foot for too long. (Parent of the year right here.) I’ve done everything short of sacrificing a goat to make sure she was able to keep her place on the team after Kingston died. But now? Now it feels like none of it mattered. One missed practice and suddenly she’s replaceable. Dispensable. Like all her hard work—and mine—meant nothing.
And me? I’m not just replaceable—I’m apparently problematic. Despite stepping up when no one else would, despite spending money and time I didn’t even have, I’m now the villain in the story. It’s like high school all over again, except this time the mean girls have Botox and matching Stanley tumblers. And just like back then, I’m the awkward outsider, wondering why I even bother trying.
And it’s not just cheer. Oh no. The hits keep coming. I’m fighting Zuma’s school about the grief support she needs, and they’re too busy writing me emails about her Crocs. Crocs! The only shoes that fit her wrapped, injured foot. But sure, let’s focus on the footwear and ignore the fact that her brother just died. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?
I am so fucking tired. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a hurricane, screaming, and everyone’s just walking by like, “Oh, look at that messy lady. She should probably calm down.” But I can’t calm down. I tried to ignore my gut, to silence the voice that said something wasn’t right, because I didn’t want to seem paranoid. And now? Now I feel like an idiot, because Zuma was right. I was right. And instead of trusting that, I wasted all this energy trying to keep the peace, only to be reminded, once again, that I’m not enough.
And the worst part? I can’t even let myself collapse into a heap of despair, because I’m supposed to be teaching her resilience. I’m supposed to be the example. So I slap on some fake optimism, because isn’t that the California way? Light a candle, breathe deeply, manifest some gratitude. Maybe throw in a downward dog for good measure.
Was going to set intentions for the day—breathe deeply, laugh a little, manifest some optimism. Isn’t that what the experts say? Wake up, start fresh, light a candle, align your chakras, and poof! Life’s supposed to magically shift into some influencer-worthy vision board. But you know what? Yesterday I lit the candle, I said the affirmations, and today I still want to crawl under a blanket and say fuck it all. Because why bother? No one appreciates what we give. No one even wants us there. And you know what? Maybe they are right. Maybe we are replaceable.
But sure, let’s fake the positivity, because isn’t that the California way? Channel some crystal-loving, yoga-breathing guru vibes. Find the silver lining. I’ll take a deep breath. Center myself. Maybe throw in a namaste for shits and giggles. “Everything happens for a reason,” right? Fair warning: If anyone says that to me today, they’re going to be the reason I lose my shit.
The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like I’m in a sitcom where the writers forgot to give me a script, so now I’m just ad-libbing chaos. Honestly, I’m one passive-aggressive post away from snapping and starting a new business: “Grief Rage Boot Camp—where we throw crystals at each other and scream into our metaphorical safe spaces.
And somehow, I’m supposed to convince Zuma that this whole “fake it till you make it” bullshit works, like it’s a science experiment where the result is happiness instead of setting the house on fire. If she buys it, great. If not, at least I’ve got a new fallback plan: I’ll start charging all these SoCal “non-experts” to teach their kids how to smile through the dumpster fire. “Manifesting with Maile,” coming soon!
Maybe it’s not the solution to the whole problem but hey, at least that might pay the cheer fees.
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LiveLikeKingston.Org
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