On my 36th birthday, I went to Disney World with my boyfriend of six months and his son, who had just turned 10 the day before me.

I started a journal with the intention of documenting my 36th year through my thoughts and writings. I still have that journal, and I write in it frequently. I also look back at it and read what I was thinking at the time.

This week was one of those weeks. It has been impossibly hard. Benny kicked off a stomach bug in our house last Thursday. The weekend was an absolute shit show (literally), and everyone is still recovering now, including poor James, who is hanging onto it the longest—though he’s in good spirits.

What makes this even worse (and does it get worse than everyone having a stomach bug)? Yes, it does—when you have emetophobia, which is an intense and irrational fear of vomiting or seeing others vomit.

I have had this fear since I got a stomach bug when I was five. It has shaped so much of my life, including, I’m sure, the panic attacks I had from ages 16 to 30. I have a rational understanding that my fear is irrational. I know that for the average person, vomiting isn’t a source of terror. It’s even welcomed as relief when they’re feeling sick, and it doesn’t stop them from helping others who are throwing up.

For me, this fear was a big factor in having kids. I knew this day would come—that I’d have little people who depend on me and require me to rise to the occasion despite something that has debilitated me for so long.

It is because of this, that the weight of the world I struggle so hard everyday to carry, crushed me today. 

On our best days, we still have three kids: 2-year-old twins and a teenager. Chris and I have been married for 1.5 years, but we’ve only known each other for 3.5. We’re balancing kids, careers, school, moving, buying a house, my nonprofit work,…oh, and did I mention my terminal cancer?

Over the past few days, I’ve done what needed to be done to make sure things are cleaned up, the kids are okay, I’m okay, Chris is okay. But any time I get the chance to just breathe, I start crying. Today I realized what I was crying about: I’m overwhelmed.

I don’t admit that often. I strive to be positive. I want to find happiness in every day because I don’t know how many more days I have left. If this disease takes the same medical trajectory as AIDS, I could have 40 more years. If I only live to the median survival for stage 4 ALK-positive lung cancer patients, I could have five. Realistically, I probably have somewhere in between.

But when you can’t enjoy the day—for multiple days—and you’re living through one of your biggest fears while evaluating just how overwhelming life has become, it’s understandable to break.

The fact that I’m able to rise to the occasion on an average day is pretty amazing. The fact that I then take on as much as I do is why people around me call me “inspiring.” But the truth is, no one would blame me if I ran away. If everything just became too much and I cracked under the pressure, no one would wonder why. I think people are more in awe of the fact that I haven’t.

But this week, I sure did miss my simple life, in my bachelorette apartment with just me and Shlomo that I lived in on my 36th birthday.

Moms—all moms—know this feeling. Sometimes it’s just too much. This week, I’ve wanted to go home and have my own mom take care of me. I even put in a food request. I called on my mother-in-law, who took incredible care of Jack this weekend (and then got the bug herself), to please come help me with James.

I cannot imagine not having my mom and my MIL. Thank you both, from the bottom of my heart. I love and appreciate you more than words can express. I admire you both for the circumstances in which you were moms.

What I have been through since I started my journal three years ago is still mind-boggling. How hard this past week has been for me is completely understandable.

My biggest takeaway is this: Have Grace. Have grace for myself, for other moms, and for other people living with cancer.

Life can be really fucking hard. And it’s okay to break, to take a break, and to admit that you need help every once in a while.