Love, Smoke... and a U-Haul Full of Roaches

A Note from PJ
There was a time in my life when I believed it was my responsibility to hold everything together… for everyone.

I didn’t question it.
I didn’t push back.
I just carried it.

Until one day… I realized I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

You could smell it before you even opened the door.

Not just smoke. Not the kind that drifts. The kind that lives there.

It clung to the walls, the curtains, the furniture… probably had its own bedroom at this point. Years of it. Decades, really. Layered in like wallpaper no one asked for.

And then… the animals. Lord, the animals.

Cats. Dogs. Chickens, yes, actual chickens, walking around like they were late on rent but nobody had the heart to evict them.

You didn’t walk into that trailer.

You entered it carefully.

Like your lungs needed a strategy.

This was the place I grew up. And the place I couldn’t wait to leave. And now… the place I couldn’t seem to stay away from.

Because my momma was there. And right next door… my youngest sister.

Her trailer was somehow worse. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it was.

She had two little boys. And she was barely able to take care of herself.

Depression had wrapped around her so tight, it didn’t leave room for anything else. Most days, she couldn’t get out of bed. Her weight had climbed past 300 pounds, and her world had gotten smaller and smaller until it barely stretched beyond those four walls.

So my momma stepped in. Not just helping. Doing everything.

Cooking. Cleaning. Raising those boys. Holding that entire situation together with lungs that were already failing.

And me?

I felt responsible for all of it. Every bit. Even though I didn’t know how to fix any of it.

At the same time, I was trying to build a completely different life.

I had Kyle, my son, my reason, my “we’re not doing this again.”

I was working two jobs. Trying to keep us afloat. Trying to be a good mom.

Trying to prove, to myself more than anyone, that I could give him something better.

And then there was Tim, my husband. And his world. Polished. Proper. Educated.

Words like “etiquette” floated around like they meant something I should already understand.

And there I was…trying to hold a conversation at the dinner table while quietly wondering if they could smell the trailer on me.

Because somewhere deep inside, that little voice was still there:

You don’t belong here.
You’re not enough.
You’re just… what they always said you were, poor white trash.

So I kept going back.

To the trailer. Because my momma would call.

“Why don’t you ever come see me?”

Or…

“I’d sure love to see Kyle.”

Or the one that always worked:

“I can’t breathe.”

So I’d pack Kyle up and make the drive. And the moment I opened that door, it hit you.

That air. Heavy. Thick. Like it had weight to it. If air could be expired… this was it.

And I’d go into full survival mode. Watching Kyle like a hawk.

Don’t touch that.
Don’t put that in your mouth.
Don’t breathe too deep, baby, if you can help it.

And still, every single time, we left with a sinus infection, an ear infection, or both.

At this point, I’m pretty sure his pediatrician had us on a punch card.

“Two more visits and the next set of tubes is free.”

Meanwhile, I was exhausted. Working. Parenting. Trying to be who I thought I needed to be. Trying to hold everything together.

Tim worked an hour out of town, which meant he left before the sun came up
and came home after it went down.

Most days, I joked I had a husband somewhere…he just didn’t live with us full-time.

He’d come in long enough for what I called the three S’s (shit, shower, shave)

and then it was lights out. Now listen… I was grateful. He was providing for us.

Holding things together in his way. But in my world? I was still the one holding everything else. And slowly… quietly…I was disappearing.

That’s the thing about what I now call quiet depletion.

It doesn’t hit you all at once. It’s not loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It just slowly drains you…until one day, you realize you don’t have the energy to even recognize yourself anymore.

And then it happened.

Momma got so sick… I thought I was going to lose her.

Standing there in that trailer, breathing in air that felt like it could take you down with it, watching her struggle, knowing my sister couldn’t help, knowing those boys were watching all of it, something shifted.

I couldn’t fix everything. I couldn’t fix my sister. I couldn’t fix that trailer. I couldn’t fix the past. But I couldn’t leave her there either.

So I made the decision. I brought her home with me.

Now let me just say, this was not a sweet, Hallmark moment. There was no music swelling in the background. There was no “you’re such a good daughter.”

No.

What I got was: “What, you too good for smoke now?”

And…

“You trying to impress your husband’s family?”

And honestly? That one hit. Because part of me was. And part of me didn’t even know who I was anymore.

But before any of that could even settle…we had to move her.

And Momma?

She wasn’t leaving empty-handed. Oh no. She wanted her things. All her things.

Every last memory… wrapped in smoke and, as it turns out… companionship.

The kind with six legs.

Now I had a problem. Because I loved my momma…but I did not love what was living in that trailer with her. And I definitely wasn’t about to introduce them to my home like honored guests.

So my younger brother and I came up with a plan. We packed everything she wanted into a small U-Haul trailer. Closed it up tight.

And then…we tossed in three, maybe four, roach bombs.

Shut the doors.

And ran.

Within seconds…smoke started pouring out of that trailer like we had just launched a mobile crime scene. And my brother? Didn’t hesitate.

He jumped in his truck and took off down the road, pulling that smoking trailer behind him like we were fleeing the scene of a very specific, very questionable decision.

I can only imagine what people thought driving by. Just a cloud of smoke rolling down the highway…and hopefully, roaches either dying…or bailing out mid-ride like, “This ain’t worth it.”

Now, I couldn’t exactly tell Momma:

“Hey, I didn’t bring your stuff inside because I didn’t want to invite the entire roach family to dinner.”

So instead…I told her we just didn’t have the space. And I rented a small storage unit. Put everything in there nice and safe, or at least… contained.

She was happy. Thought we’d done right by her. And I smiled…because sometimes love looks like protecting someone’s feelings, and protecting your home, at the exact same time.

She came into my home like it was hers. And I stepped into a role I wasn’t ready for.

Caregiver.

Daughter.

Mother.

Provider.

And referee… because apparently that was needed too.

And underneath all of it…there was something I didn’t want to admit. There were moments I wanted to curl up into a ball…close my eyes…and disappear.

The same way I used to when I was a child. When things were too much. When I didn’t have control. When hiding felt safer than feeling.

That old pattern?

It was still there.

Just quieter.

And then came the guilt. The kind that doesn’t knock. It moves in.

Because when I took my momma with me…I left my sister behind. I can still see her standing there as we backed out of that driveway.

Lost.

Empty.

And I carried that with me.

Still do.

Because not long after…she died. And for a long time, I told myself:

That was your fault.

But life doesn’t give you time to sit in that. Not when you’ve got a child watching you. Learning from you. Becoming because of you.

So I didn’t fix everything. I couldn’t.

But I chose one thing. Every day.

I chose Kyle. I chose to give him a different life. I chose to keep going. Even when I was exhausted. Even when I was overwhelmed. Even when I didn’t feel like I had anything left to give.

Eventually, I knew something had to change again. Because loving someone doesn’t mean losing yourself completely.

So I found a way, somehow, to make it my momma’s idea to move into a retirement community. And when she got there? She flourished. Made breakfast every morning.

One plate for her. One for her dog. That dog gained weight like it had joined a Southern cooking competition.

And me? I kept going. Not fixing everything. Not solving it all. Just doing the next right thing.

Because looking back now…I see it clearly.

It wasn’t the big decisions that carried me. It was the small ones. The quiet ones. The ones no one sees.

Because sometimes…you don’t survive life by fixing everything. You survive it by choosing one thing, and doing it again tomorrow.

Inside the Pause Reflection:

Before you move on today…pause for just a moment.

Ask yourself:

👉 What’s one thing in your life right now that feels too big to fix?

Now don’t try to solve it. Don’t fix it. Just choose one small next step.

That’s how you begin.

If this story resonated with you, you’re going to want to listen to this week’s conversation on the Delay the Binge™ Podcast.

It’s with a woman who faced something she couldn’t control…and instead of waiting for it to pass, she created something meaningful right in the middle of it.

🎧 Early access is waiting for you inside tomorrow’s Inside the Pause™.

👉 And if you’re not on the list yet… now’s the time. These stories, and what comes after them, are how we begin to change things!