Amy Lynn Onesty

.I come from a big family.

The kind that looks full from the outside — aunts, uncles, cousins, history, stories.

But I’ve learned that big doesn’t always mean close.

And family doesn’t always mean safe.

On my dad’s side, I had two people who felt like home — my grandparents. They were older than most. Slower. Softer. Intentional. They did everything for my brother and me. They showed up. They loved quietly but fiercely. They were what grandparents are supposed to be.

Even at 30, I still grieve that I didn’t get more time with them.

I was young. They were older. I didn’t understand how fragile time was. Now I do.

Time is cruel when you really sit with it. Every day is the clock moving forward. We assume there will be more holidays. More Sundays. More chances.

Then life humbles you.

Losing one of my best friends humbled me. Watching my daughter go through heart surgery humbled me. Sitting in hospital rooms realizing how quickly something can change — that shifts your perspective forever.

It makes you think about who showed up. Who protected you. Who didn’t.

My mom’s side of the family was different. As a child, I didn’t understand the tension between my mom and my aunt. I didn’t understand the fighting. I didn’t understand the slow fractures that would grow over time.

But I grew up. And I saw more than I wanted to.

I watched my mom try — for years. I watched her extend kindness that was not returned. Birthday cards. Text messages. Baby shower gifts. Invitations. Effort.

And I watched her get burned.

This isn’t blind defense because she’s my mother. I was a witness to much of it. I watched uncles speak to her in ways that chipped away at her confidence. I watched my aunt emotionally break her down. I watched my mom shrink into a child-like state at times — not because she was weak, but because she was exhausted from constantly fighting to be included, to be respected, to matter.

She wanted my brother and me to have that family unit. She kept trying for us.

Nothing changed.

There were grandparents who lived up the street from me my entire life and never made an effort to truly know me. Proximity without connection. Presence without involvement.

And I started to understand that a lot of what I was witnessing wasn’t random. It was generational. Old wounds bleeding into new relationships. Pride replacing accountability. Silence replacing healing.

Then I became a mother.

And something inside of me sharpened.

There was a moment — a comment made about my daughter when she was a baby, fresh out of heart surgery. A joke at her expense. And in that moment, everything became clear.

When you become a mother, your tolerance changes.

You can swallow disrespect toward yourself for years.

But the second it touches your child? The line becomes permanent.

That was the moment I understood that history does not equal access. Growing up together does not guarantee respect. And love does not mock vulnerability.

I’ve also learned that dysfunction doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes it looks like distance. Sometimes it looks like indifference.

In my husband’s family, the few who do have children choose not to maintain connection. I understand life gets busy. We’re all raising kids. We’re all working. We’re all juggling responsibilities.

But it gets old being the one blamed for the lack of contact. It gets old being the one expected to initiate. To plan. To show up. To reach out. To explain.

There’s always a reason. Always an excuse. Always a deflection.

And over time, it becomes clear when effort is one-sided.

It’s exhausting to always be the bridge. To always be the one extending connection. To always be the one making space.

And it’s even more exhausting when the same people who don’t show up always know when to take.

Between the family I was born into, the family I married into before, and even parts of the one I’m in now — I’ve seen how patterns repeat themselves in different packaging.

Different people. Same dynamics.

And I find myself asking — when does it end?

When does pride stop winning?

When does accountability begin?

When does someone decide that relationships require effort from both sides?

The truth is — cycles don’t end on their own.

They end when someone refuses to carry them forward.

I cannot rewrite the past. I cannot fix what previous generations refused to heal. I cannot force connection where there is no desire for one.

But I can protect my home.

I can decide what energy enters my children’s world. I can refuse to normalize disrespect. I can stop chasing relationships that only exist when it’s convenient.

I wish we had a full table — loud, unified, warm. I wish there were fewer fractured relationships and more humility. I wish love came without ego attached.

But wishing doesn’t heal people.

Boundaries do.

I still grieve what could have been. I still miss my grandparents in a way that aches. I still wish some things had been different.

But I am not powerless.

I am the bridge between what was and what will be.

And in my house, connection will be intentional.

Effort will be mutual.

Love will not come with conditions.

And emotional safety will not be negotiable.

The cycle ends here.

Hi.

Sorry I’ve been a little MIA.

Not because I disappeared into a wellness retreat or found inner peace—but because I’ve been deep in motherhood burnout, the kind that winter makes worse and caffeine can’t fix.

When you add motherhood to ambition, school, health concerns, and the everyday logistics of keeping small humans alive, life starts to feel like a group project where you’re doing all the work and still being asked for more.

Here’s what my current season looks like:

I’m building a business from the ground up.

I’m juggling dance classes and sports schedules.

I’m an active member of my kids’ elementary school council—to stay involved, informed, and to make sure my son isn’t using his newly discovered potty mouth at school and that my sweet, innocent daughter isn’t being bullied by kids telling her to spell “Lana” backward. (I hate kids’ jokes.)

I’m maintaining a 4.0 GPA in college, nominated for multiple awards, inducted into two honor societies, and somehow labeled an “influential woman,” which still makes me laugh out loud because… no way.

And I’m running a household that becomes messy again approximately 12 seconds after I clean it.

That’s just the baseline.

Because motherhood doesn’t just give you responsibilities—it gives you plot twists.

Recently, my son’s preschool teacher and the school nurse gently let us know that he can’t see very well. Which is how we learned that an eye doctor is officially in our path.

So yes, we’re preparing to spend about $400 on toddler glasses, knowing full well I will soon watch him destroy them while pretending to be Spider-Man.

Vision is essential.

Acceptance is survival.

Then there’s my daughter—my little cardiac warrior—who continues to keep life interesting. She’s now been diagnosed with hypermobility by orthopedics and asthma by pulmonology.

Next stop: a genetic specialist, because apparently our family hobby is collecting referrals.

Some people collect stamps.

I collect doctors.

Somewhere between appointments and calendar Tetris, I’m fairly sure my husband has started hiding in the bathroom longer than necessary. Not because nature is calling—but because he’s afraid of me and my never-ending supply of Clorox wipes.

And honestly, I get it.

If you know the Onesty household, being sick used to be our personality. So this year, I snapped. I became a cleaning machine.

The plagues haven’t been as bad.

Coincidence? I think not.

So yes—yay, Clorox!

And yay me, flying through the house on a Swiffer mop like a possessed witch, determined to keep the germs away and my sanity barely intact.

And all of this is happening while I’m trying to be present, patient, productive, and emotionally regulated—which is ambitious, really.

Here’s the truth we don’t say often enough:

You can love your children deeply and still feel completely exhausted.

You can be grateful and burned out at the same time.

You can be doing everything “right” and still feel like you’re barely holding it together.

Motherhood today feels like carrying seventeen invisible tabs open in your brain, all playing different music, while someone asks what’s for dinner.

So yes—sometimes I want to run away to the Bahamas.

Sometimes I want to scream into a pillow.

Sometimes I just want five uninterrupted minutes where no one needs a snack, a ride, a signature, or a specialist referral.

And if that sounds unhinged—good.

Because this season of motherhood is.

But I’m not going anywhere.

Motherhood Unfiltered is back.

More honesty. More chaos. More truth.

Because if we’re all silently drowning, maybe the bravest thing we can do is say it out loud—and remind each other that we’re not failing.

We’re just tired.

Editor’s Note: All names and identifying details in this article have been changed to protect the identities of the individuals involved.

Friendship One: Lena — The Friendship That Never Felt Real

Some friendships don’t end with a blowup—they end with a slow realization that they were never fully there to begin with.

Lena was one of those friendships.

When I lived in my apartment with my abusive ex, I craved connection. I wanted friends over, I wanted to leave the house, I wanted moments that reminded me I was still a person outside of survival mode.

Every time I invited Lena over, there was an excuse; sometimes reasonable, other times not. She had a friend who lived across the complex and posted constantly about outings while I was told she was “too sick” to come by. It planted a quiet question: Why is it easier to show up for everyone else but not me?

Before I had my daughter, we genuinely spent time together maybe twice. Afterward, there were a few more—three, if I’m being honest—but they felt performative. She stepped into the role of “aunt” in name only, and I tried to believe it meant more than it did.

As I tried to build friendships with other mothers.. something Lena herself never wanted; her behavior shifted. Despite refusing to engage with me or them, she became visibly jealous when these mom friends were around. These women were my everything. They showed up, protected me emotionally, and helped shield me from the ongoing hurt of my ex.

Yet Lena couldn’t respect me as a friend enough to respect the people who were holding me together.

This betrayal became painfully clear during her wedding. She chose me as a last-minute bridesmaid, showing up at my baby shower with a box she said she “forgot to make.” She wanted my daughter to be a flower girl, but then dropped the bomb: my husband and my son weren’t allowed to attend. My husband-who had built a life of love, stability, and joy for me and my daughter after her father walked out and chose addiction, and his new relationship over his daughter.

To make it worse, the family member Lena had spent months criticizing? She was the maid of honor.

This wasn’t jealousy. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. This was pure shock. I had spent years supporting her, showing up, and being loyal. And yet here I was…second fiddle at the one event that should have celebrated her beautiful marriage and our bond with the fun wedding moments.

Maybe it was pregnancy hormones. Maybe it was everything building over years. But I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The anger, disbelief, and betrayal poured out.

Years later, I finally sent a long, explosive text message—a torrent of feelings I’d held in for years. The breaking point had arrived: ignored while she pursued someone else, chaos in my life with my ex, isolation while roaming the Tropicana casino alone, pregnant, abandoned while he left for a hotel party with a bag of drugs.

At the same time, I watched Lena repeatedly cheat on her now-husband and speak poorly about him. I couldn’t align with it. Not after what I had been through. Not after seeing how deeply betrayal cuts.

The friendship didn’t explode—it simmered for years—but that message marked the moment I finally stopped pretending it was something it wasn’t.

Grieving a friendship that was mostly imagined is a special kind of pain.

Friendship Two: Marisol — The Sisterhood I Still Miss

Marisol was always around in high school, the proclaimed party girl everyone knew. At the time, our lives barely overlapped, but everything changed after our relationships with our daughters’ fathers ended.

She came into my life when I had no real friends. For years, I had been isolated in my ex’s crowd. After one of his friends assaulted me, I cut off that entire circle.

Marisol arrived as a lifeline.

We drank, we partied, she showed me things that I never truly experienced because I lived my ex’s life, not my own. We went out on weekends while I lived with my parents. I didn’t yet understand her struggles, and somehow, her partying would get deflected onto me—as if I was doing something wrong. All I wanted was to experience the fun I’d missed.

Still, she was there.

She held me during heartbreak. We cried together. We had sleepovers. We laughed, danced, and healed. It felt like a sisterhood I hadn’t experienced since childhood. She was like a big sister—protective, familiar, deeply woven into my life.

Marisol was there for the pivotal moments: meeting my husband, falling in love with him, and supporting me as I helped him navigate the grief of losing his brother in 2017 from addiction. She encouraged us, offered guidance, and helped me show up emotionally during a heartbreak no one should endure alone. She helped my husband and I grow together. She played a role I don't think she’ll ever understand.

Even with all that, I noticed her slowly pushing away. Despite being there through the most important moments of my life, her support began to fade. I learned later as we tried to rekindle our friendship about two maybe three years ago she suffered from addiction and I was her biggest supporter- all I ever wanted was Marisol to truly be happy after all the bad things she’s been through. I guess she didn’t really care regardless how much I cared. She was just mad that my life became busy when we tried to be friends again. Between kids, a husband, dealing with medical complexities she was angry and used that as motive to turn it against me that I didn’t hang out often. Really, let’s be real. I just still wasn’t her latest crowd.

Being the person of support, the one who cared first, was never enough. I was never truly part of her crowd.

And the kicker: once I stopped texting, reaching out, and checking on everyone first, I became the “bad guy.” Not one person checked on me. Years of carrying emotional labor for everyone else had been ignored. I had been showing up for people who didn’t show up for me.

Care without reciprocity isn’t friendship—it’s a burden. Learning that lesson became the foundation for understanding what I will—and will not—accept moving forward.

always Friendship Three: Rowan — And the Beginning of the Mom Group

I met Rowan in history class at community college. She was hysterical, a little weird, and from a completely different side of town—but something about her made us a strange but necessary match. We bonded over shared quirks and early life struggles.

After classes ended, before transferring to a different college, my ex and I would often run into her at the local mall, and she always seemed to be doing well. We kept in touch, and it felt easy to maintain that connection. Looking back, it was my fault for mixing the group together—bringing everyone into a shared circle. That’s the only part I wish I hadn’t done.

Rowan endured a terrible car accident, surgeries, and the loss of a child. These experiences shaped her and eventually contributed to mental health challenges.

After transferring colleges, we drifted apart—but Rowan became the bridge to the Mom Group, connecting me to Harper, Elena, and Sloane.

We all had babies in 2018. I brought us together, forming a circle built on loneliness, shared motherhood, and the need to escape the shadows of our pasts. For a time, it felt like belonging. Little did I know, it would become years of painful lessons.

Friendship Four: Harper — The One Who Held the Matches

Harper was familiar from a distance, high school hallways, the mall—but our lives truly intersected in 2018 when we both had children. Motherhood became the bridge.

At first, it felt pure. She was another one when I look back on it. Always felt like an older sister I could turn to, but with how much she was my biggest hater; I regret going to her in ways that I did over the years.

But slowly, Harper became the fracture point. She thrived on he said, she said dynamics, spreading gossip, manipulating narratives, and speaking poorly about me and others.

I also worked with her managing a boardwalk store. When money went missing, it revealed just how deep the problems ran. I won’t go into details; I love her children and will always protect them—but it confirmed what I’d been sensing for years: no accountability. Nothing fixable.

I I

I wish we could reconcile—for the sake of the kids—but Harper refuses to take responsibility. At the end of the day, I protect my peace, my family, and my children—and let the rest go.

The Collapse of the Mom Group —Harper, Rowan, Elena, Sloane, and the Heartbreak

Rowan, Elena , and Sloane had been part of the core of my village. But as the damage from Harper grew, neither wanted to repair anything. I kept trying, apologizing, carrying the weight.

Harper spoke poorly about me, my husband, my children, and my family.

The day of my car accident, nearly fatal with a broken wrist, not one of them reached out. That was when I realized how one-sided these friendships had been. For years, I had tried to repair things—and when I needed them, there was nothing. That was the day I blocked Rowan and Sloane.

Eventually, it became clear: you cannot repair a friendship when one person benefits from its destruction and the others fail to stand in truth. I had allowed triangulation, gossip, and manipulation to dominate my relationships. It took moments like this to finally see the full picture.

Through it all, I kept going back to Harper—trying to fix things—but in the end, it was just her taking all our hurts and turning them into leverage.

How long can you ignore who is really pulling the strings?

A Final Word — To the One Who Played the Strings

I could say more. There are details I’ve spared. Moments I’ve chosen not to dissect—not because they don’t matter, but because I no longer need to relive them to be validated.

Harper—please look in the mirror.

You judged me, positioned yourself as a confidant while quietly being my biggest critic, and watched me fight for friendships that were already being undermined. That ends here.

I will never be made a fool of again. I don’t want you at my table or in my life. Not just me, but all of us sought friendship, reassurance, and safety from you—and what we gave in trust was used against us.

I see the pattern, the damage, and my own strength in walking away. I will never trust you again—and I am at peace with that.

Author Reflection — Motherhood Unfiltered

Motherhood changes everything—even friendships. It magnifies the good, exposes the cracks, and sometimes leaves you questioning your judgment, loyalty, and worth.

Not every person who shares a season of your life is meant to stay for the entire journey. Some teach boundaries. Some show resilience. Some—like Harper—remind you that protecting your peace is non-negotiable.

Grief isn’t just losing loved ones—it can be losing the village you thought you had. Healing comes in recognizing patterns, standing firm in truth, and walking away without guilt.

To every mother reading this: your tribe matters, but it must be built on trust, respect, and mutual care. Let go of those who drain your energy or distort your reality. Motherhood is hard enough—don’t spend it fixing people who won’t be fixed.

And finally, to myself: I will never apologize for protecting my heart, my children, or my sanity. I will continue to love, build, and trust—but only with those who are worthy.

Protecting my husband will always be my top priority because he has been through too much to be spoken about by someone like Harper.

I’ve learned to guard my peace, cherish my tribe, and never let anyone who thrives on chaos take a seat at my table again.