The NIRVANA Chronicles

It’s 5:47 AM, and the soft whir of the ceiling fan is the only sound in the room. My children are still asleep, the house is cloaked in a kind of quiet that feels like gold, and I’m holding a cup of chamomile tea like it’s sacred. This—this moment—is my ritual. It didn’t start out that way. It was born from desperation, forged in exhaustion, and refined through trial and error. As a mother juggling work, home life, emotional ups and downs, and the invisible weight of mental load, I didn’t find peace. I clawed my way to it. And the ritual that saved me wasn’t grand. It was consistent. Motherhood has a way of consuming every inch of your time, identity, and emotional bandwidth. Somewhere between diaper changes, school runs, late-night feedings, and trying to keep a marriage or partnership afloat, you forget yourself. I didn’t notice it at first. I just felt crankier, more tired, less inspired. My laughter felt mechanical. My patience wore thin. But the guilt kept me going: the guilt th...