If tacos could fix it

There’s a certain kind of Monday that doesn’t ask how you’re doing.

It just shows up.

And you either meet it… or you get dragged through it.

Today, I’m sitting behind my computer, no camera on, looking like something that should’ve stayed in bed. Kids are in the other room making breakfast, Overboard playing in the background, and I’m over here cycling Sudafed like it’s coffee.

Chest still tight. Nose running. Body weak.

The kind of sick where even breathing feels like a task.

And still… here we are.

Because the world doesn’t stop.

Not for flu-feel. Not for exhaustion. Not for anything.

We don’t have that kind of luxury.

This whole thing started Thursday.

I was in a good mood. We got let off early for spring break. Sun was out. Life felt easy for about five minutes.

Then my chest tightened.

Nose started acting up.

I ignored it.

Told myself no. Not this weekend. Not with Easter. Not with Kelly’s birthday. Not with a rodeo on the schedule.

We don’t have time for that.

By Friday, it wasn’t a suggestion anymore.

It was full send.

Meds. Inhaler. Repeat.

I pushed through the weekend anyway.

Because that’s what you do.

And honestly… that same push showed up everywhere.

The rodeo had its highs and lows.

Our older girls hit a wall in poles.

And it wasn’t a skill issue.

It was mental.

Poles demand fast thinking. Tight timing. No hesitation.

We have the speed.

But when the gate opens, it’s like the brain just checks out.

Barrels felt better. Cleaner. Still work to do, but something to build on.

The twins showed up in their own way.

Bonnie is still carrying the memory of Dixie bucking. That doesn’t just go away. So she held back on Gemma. You could see her protecting herself.

Loretta pushed through, but the environment got loud. Gates banging. Calves getting roped next to her. Warm-up pen chaos.

That kind of pressure is big when you’re little.

But she rode anyway.

And Gemma… she’s giving everything she has left.

You can see her age catching up.

Speed isn’t her strong suit anymore.

But her heart hasn’t changed.

Still trying. Still showing up.

And then there were the parents.

The kind of people who step in without being asked.

One family fed us lunch.

Another brought eggs for the girls, painted nails, handed out tattoos, kept the twins entertained so we could breathe.

That stuff matters more than people think.

That’s the glue holding everything together.

Sunday we got home, worn down in that deep, quiet way.

One of our girls was there with her horse.

Still shaken from hitting the dirt last week.

Didn’t want to ride.

I told her to get on anyway.

She did.

And you could watch the shift happen.

Tension easing. Confidence coming back.

By the end, both of them were lighter.

That’s the kind of win you don’t put on paper, but it counts the most.

Then we went to El Toro.

Because that’s what we do after rodeos.

Tacos fix a lot of things.

And right now, tacos are carrying more weight than usual.

Because we still don’t have propane.

Leak outside now.

So no hot water. No stove. No heat.

Just figuring it out as we go.

Which feels pretty on brand for life lately.

So here’s the truth of it.

Some days you feel strong.

Some days you feel clear.

And some days you’re sick, tired, running on fumes, and still showing up because there’s no other option.

It’s not pretty.

It’s not balanced.

It’s not something you’d put in a highlight reel.

But it’s real.

And real looks like this.

Messy. Loud. Exhausted.

Still moving anyway.