Failure hasn’t ever been one of those things that I managed well. Sure, I always lost with grace and class, but failure is contrary to my soul. I don’t like it. The taste is bitter. The tears ache as they exit my eyes and singe the tender peach fuzz of my cheeks as they roll so slowly down. Molten lava. I avoid failure as often as absolutely possible. I go to excruciating lengths in order to prevent as many foreseeable failures as possible.

My marriage failed and I lost my family.

I fought hard. I fought harder at keeping my marriage and my family than I have ever fought for anything before. Yet, tonight as I tuck my nine year old son into bed, I cry along side him as he weeps and misses his father with whom he just spent the weekend. He cries for snuggles next to his papa. He longs for our family bed where he slept his entire babyhood cradled between mom and dad. He longs for nights when mom and dad take turns hugging him and tucking him in with his goodnight songs and prayers.

Instead, I wipe away tears and hold the tissue for him as he blows his nose. I hug him close to me as he cries his tender eyes out. His face is red and blotchy. His nose is flared and swollen from crying and breathing so hard. His chin wrinkles and the usual smile lines that surround his youthful cheeks turn upside down into the saddest frown you’ve ever cried for.


This time, I didn’t just fail to keep a family together, I failed to keep my son happy and free from the pain of a broken home. I had my reasons and yes they were, and still are, very valid; it doesn’t seem to change the pain within the heart of a nine year old boy whose father is his idol.

I would suffer a thousand years and longer to prevent this pain from tarnishing my son’s beautiful heart. I would take every tear drop, every sad thought, every lonely moment, every wish left unfulfilled and make them all my own if I knew it would heal his broken heart. Oh the things I would do to save him this heartache.


More painful than ever before…this is definitely not what I planned nor wanted for my son’s life. Not for my own either, I might add, but hell, I’m grown and can take care of my own issues. My son, however, relies on his parents to take care of these things.

Failure will never be acceptable to me. I know I will fail many more times in life. God willing, He will walk beside me and see me through, but I pray and pray diligently, that no other failure will be this hard. I pray that no other failure causes such deep sadness for my boy.

Expressly yours,

The Repressed Peach

The tired mind

I wonder how many people come up with ludicrous thoughts and images after they’ve become overtired. Is it just me who thinks of horror monsters coming alive and sleepwalking through my bedroom or evil masterminds lurking in the shadows of my tiny apartment? I hate watching scary shows or movies anymore because my mind is too tender. I have sleepless nights imagining the demise of innocent people simply because of the edgy graphic images deposited in my brain from a recent episode of some crime show. I am a woman of faith and spirituality, but I find myself plagued with a tumult of images flipping through my mind as a slideshow as soon as I become overtired. Reminiscent of my postpartum days. As a single mom, I have a multitude of reasons to be conscientious of our safety, and thankfully, nothing has happened to us. Nonetheless, I feel myself shrink a bit more every time a vicious scene crawls through my mind as the wee hours tick closer to daylight. I need peace and safety as well as constant surety of those two things.

So here’s to a late night and being overtired. Slideshow will stop. Every unknown sound will fade into the silence and sleep will overcome my body. To sleep. To peace. To good rest.

Good night.

Hopefully yours,
The Repressed Peach