I always thought melt-downs occur around middle age. [You know, like the 55 year-old balding male who decides to pierce his ear and buy a convertible.] But, as I’ve discovered, anyone can be unglued and melt-down.

Prior to marriage I could spout off attributes to describe myself should someone ask. For example, tennis-lover, foodie extraordinaire, museum curator, blah, blah, blah. But as soon as I returned from my honeymoon, I became less sure of who I was. Dr. Phil and Dear Abby will all say marriage is an adjustment, but when two stepchildren are involved adjustment is an understatement.

Within the first trimester of stepmotherhood, my identity was in shambles. Around a crowded dinner table, my friend Michelle told me I was having an identity crisis. The only image I could conjure up was the mental picture of the 45 year-old mother who shops with her teen daughter at Forever 21, dyes her hair blond, and wears glitter, so I wasn’t really buying it. But after some soul searching [and crying], I realized I was becoming unglued.

Dateless and single for seven years, I developed a modus operendi of establishing a career while avoiding mediocrity at all costs. I filled my life with culturally enriching events, athletic pursuits, and business travel. As far as my friends and ministry pals were concerned, I was a virtual concierge, always with latest museum exhibition, hotel, or restaurant recommendation.

In my downtown I devoured cooking magazines, Grisham novels, and anything Pulitzer. On weekends, when I wasn’t spending long mornings running on the beach or some random trail, I could be found strolling museums pondering the motivation of tortured artists or sitting in a vibrating chair at Fancy Nail, having my toes painted red and catching up on tabloid trash. On Saturday nights, while the bourgeoisie and their kids waited in line at Blockbuster with a stack of the latest Disney films in their arms, I sat comfortably in an art house theater eating a dinner of popcorn and Evian water while watching intellectual indie files with subtitles. Sundays were no less self-absorbed with picking whatever church service catered to my schedule, workout, or ministry event.

Can you imagine the pain I felt spending $50 on a Saturday night to sit a theater with screaming kids watching the latest poorly produced cartoon? This. Isn’t. My. Life.

Moving from sassy and single to happy and hitched can be a rough transition by itself—throw stepkids into the mix and you got yourself a recipe for HotMess soup! However, it can be done. Whether newly married or newly married with kids, it’s important to allow yourself some time to adjust to wife and part-time mother.

I didn’t allow myself time [and grace] to adjust to what life would look like. If adjustment doesn’t occur and grace isn’t given [by the spouse], the goals of “perfect wife and doting step-mom” will eventually turn into Britney Spears’ head shaving experience: a disaster.

If you feel yourself coming unglued, give yourself time to adjust and weave into your new life activities that are uniquely you. Instead of making gourmet food from magazines, I’m convincing a 4 year-old and 6 year-old that Romano cheese and fresh pasta is so much better than Kraft mac-n-cheese. My weekly nail treats aren’t as frequent, but at least I get to have Ryen pick out a color we both can wear as we read books to each other on vibrating chairs. And Matt? Well, most of the time Matt just gives me grace when I have a meltdown or need a hug. Unless I lock myself in the closet—but that’s a whole other blog post.

I’m still working through this transition and I haven’t figured it out, but remembering my identity is solely in Christ has tempered my crisis and allowed me to embrace the change.

Thankfully other women like Lysa Turkeurst’s who are honest about coming UNGLUED. In Lysa’s newest book, she shares her experiences, life lessons, and learnings in her newest book Unglued. Today YOU can win a copy of Lysa’s newest book. All you have to do is leave a comment and I’ll announce the winner! Easy peesy, super cheesy πŸ™‚ [<—-Proof I have a six year-old]

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