Six Cries Before 9 AM: A Day in the Life of a Sleep-Deprived, Passionate Chaos Coordinator

Some people wake up to a peaceful morning, sipping coffee, watching the sunrise, maybe even doing yoga.

I, on the other hand, woke up after a luxurious three hours of sleep, courtesy of a tiny kitten named Timber, who operates on a shift schedule that rivals a newborn. And somehow, despite the sleep deprivation, I thought I was fine—until life decided to smack me upside the head. Repeatedly.

We’re talking full-blown, ugly-cry

By 9 AM, I had already cried six times. SIX. And before you ask, no, it wasn’t a dramatic “single tear rolls down the cheek” kind of crying. We’re talking full-blown, ugly-cry, can’t-catch-your-breath, “why does everything feel so hard?” crying. And not over one thing, but a series of rapid-fire, soul-crushing events that all piled up before the day even had the audacity to fully start.

First, my daughter woke up late for school. Okay, no big deal—except that she also had an appointment we forgot about. So now we’re scrambling, my brain is still buffering from exhaustion, and the world is already feeling like a lot.

Then, I find myself at this appointment next to a person who is talking LOUDLY on their phone. In a waiting room. At an ungodly hour. Sir, I do not need a front-row seat to your dramatic saga about how Susan from accounting stole your lunch. I am barely holding myself together as it is.

But things really hit hard when I found out that Timber—this sweet, innocent little ball of fur who has kept me functioning through my own exhaustion—is no longer welcome in certain places at certain times. And suddenly, two things I love—my sport and my work—collided in a way that felt like a personal attack. I never try to impose on people. I just want to make the world a little better, and kittens bring happiness… unless they’re sick or dying. Then they bring heartbreak. And I don’t know why that hit me so hard, but it did.

Meanwhile, I’m juggling a million things

And if that wasn’t enough, let’s talk about the clinic. Oh, the clinic. The beautiful, exciting, financially terrifying clinic. Right now, I’m trying to order equipment, balance funds that only arrive in chunks, and figure out how to stretch every dollar like it’s made of elastic. Permits, construction, unexpected costs—it’s like a game of financial Tetris, except the blocks are on fire, and I’m playing blindfolded.

The beautiful walls and floor of the clinic!

And then there’s the ex-husband. Because why not add that to the mix? The joy of navigating co-parenting when the other party seemingly exists in a separate reality where only their problems matter. Meanwhile, I’m juggling a million things, making sure my daughter is okay, running an organization, and—oh yeah—trying to stay sane.

I do what I do because I know what it’s like to have nothing.

By the time I made it to my therapy session (yes, I have a therapist because, let’s be real, who wouldn’t with this level of chaos?), I was emotionally spent. And what did I learn? That I need to let people see me as more human. That I’m such a strong leader that I forget to show my vulnerabilities. I mean… this blog alone should be proof that I’m hanging by a thread some days, but sure, let’s add “be more relatable” to my never-ending to-do list.

The thing is, I don’t mind the stress. I don’t mind the work. I do what I do because I know what it’s like to have nothing. To feel lost. To feel like there’s no one who can help. And I never want another person—human or pet—to feel that way. But it’s exhausting trying to constantly prove that I’m only here to help, while simultaneously navigating people’s opinions, assumptions, and judgments.

It’s because I’m drowning.

Somehow, people expect me to be available 24/7, responding instantly to texts, emails, and messages, while also keeping the entire organization running. News flash: if I don’t respond right away, it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I’m drowning. I’m trying to be thoughtful. I’m trying to juggle more than I can carry. And maybe—just maybe—I need a second to breathe before I can give you the response you deserve.

Such a great thought

At the end of the day, I don’t need sympathy. I don’t need people to feel sorry for me. What I do need is understanding. I need people to realize that I am human, that I’m doing my best, and that my heart is in the right place. Because I am fighting—every single day—to make things better for people and their pets. Not for money. Not for recognition. But because it needs to be done.

I see you.

So, if you’re like me—someone constantly pushing forward, constantly trying to be strong, but feeling misunderstood—I see you. And I hope we can all meet in the middle. Because the world is already hard enough. We don’t need to make it harder on each other.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another cry scheduled in about five minutes, and Timber needs his bottle.

Timber at 14 days old