MwithPDA

Forget the white wedding, the “I do” that feels more like “I submit,” and the shiny script society hands out like it’s the only path. Let’s talk about a pink marriage,  a partnership that thrives on choice, individuality, and a daily dose of defiance. This isn’t about rejecting love or commitment; it’s about rejecting all those sneaky, patriarchal rules that say who should do what, and why. In this Wonderland-inspired journey, I’m ditching tradition for autonomy and waving my pink flag for everyone who’s tired of following a script that wasn’t written with their life in mind. The Pink Pill: Daily Doses of Defiance The pink pill isn’t a fairytale charm or a happily-ever-after. It’s a daily act of rebellion—a reminder to carve out our own rules, to say no to outdated roles, and to keep our marriage vibrantly, uniquely ours. And believe me, it hasn’t always been easy. Choosing this path was less of a natural progression and more of a hard-won battle involving a few choice words, a cou...

Parenting in the Land of the PDA  Parenting a child with PDA (Pathological Demand Avoidance) in a world that adores obedience, structure, and “good behavior” is like a constant chase after the White Rabbit. You’re endlessly adapting, discovering new strategies, and navigating a reality most people don’t quite get. But PDA parenting, as challenging as it can be, is also revolutionary. It’s a form of caregiving that dares to prioritize autonomy, respect, and flexibility in a world that sees demand avoidance as rebellion. Falling Down the Rabbit Hole: Discovering PDA You might say I tumbled down a rabbit hole, one unexpected behavior at a time. From the outside, demand avoidance can look like defiance; the more you push, the more resistance you meet. But inside, it’s a complex dance of needs and boundaries, a world of sensitivity where traditional parenting tools feel about as useful as a paper teacup in a storm. For my child, demands—from brushing teeth to leaving the house, feel lik...

The Unseen Rules of Stepmotherhood Before I was a mother, I was a young, undiagnosed stepmom, stepping into a role that seemed promising but quickly revealed itself as a wonderland tea party, filled with invisible rules and teeming with quiet resentments. I treated my stepdaughter as any child should be treated: with love, respect, and care. But it didn’t take long for the world around me to remind me of the unspoken rulebook:  Love her, but not that much. Be there, but stay invisible. Falling Down the Rabbit Hole of Resentment In the eyes of everyone else, I was “too much” or “not enough,” expected to pour endlessly into a role that didn’t allow me to fully exist. And heaven forbid I accidentally shone a light on the less-than-stellar examples of step-parenting around me; suddenly, I wasn’t just a stepmom, I was a threat. In Wonderland, stepping out of line might attract the Queen of Hearts’ wrath, but in stepmom land, I was attracting everyone’s discomfort. When “Replacement Wife...

For as long as I can remember, there’s been this nagging feeling that I didn’t quite fit. Like everyone else had read a secret “how-to” manual on life, leaving me to navigate Wonderland without a map. While others drifted through life on autopilot, I felt like I was forever trying to decode invisible rules. And then my son came along, and for the first time, a few things started to click into place. In those early years, from baby massage to playgroups, it was clear that he was his own rare breed of caterpillar in a world full of butterflies. His way of being felt both familiar and foreign, like a puzzle piece I could almost recognize. It wasn't long before I started down the rabbit hole of research, reading everything I could find on autism, and checking boxes that seemed to match not just him but me as well. And so, together, we began our journey into a world of assessments, speech therapy, and occupational therapy, a world that would eventually lead us both to answers. It wasn’t...

If burnout is Wonderland’s Queen of Hearts, then writing is my bold way of shouting, “Off with her head!” In a world that’s constantly demanding my silence, submission, and service, every word I write is a step out of the maze, a rebellion, a fiercely unapologetic yes to myself. For my last birthday, I gave myself the ultimate gift: permission to create. Not just when it’s easy, but in the cracks, in the chaos, and in spite of everything Wonderland hurls my way. The Art (and Audacity) of Writing My Own Way Writing isn’t just therapy; it’s rebellion. It’s my not-so-subtle middle finger to burnout and every demand that tells me to be smaller, quieter, more “manageable.” These days, I write not because the world makes it easy (it doesn’t), but because I’m done caring about the limitations. Here’s what it means for me to dive headfirst into this Wonderland of words: My writing isn’t just storytelling; it’s an invitation to wander down the rabbit hole of reflection, to sit and sip tea with ...

Once Upon a Not-So-Fairytale Life I stumbled into a world with a rulebook written in invisible ink that I never agreed to but somehow followed anyway. Before I knew it, I had become everything Wonderland demanded: silent, submissive, endlessly serving in solitude. And guess what? It led me straight to the maddening tea party called Burnout. Silent: Swallowing My Voice Like a “Good” Wonderland Girl Silence is a hungry beast. The more you feed it, the louder it grows. I was once that girl who raised her hand, who questioned authority, who saw every “no” as an invitation to challenge. But Wonderland was full of mirrors, each reflecting a version of me that was quieter, softer, more “agreeable.” It wasn’t long before I traded questions for nods, packed away my spark, and became the “don’t rock the boat” girl they all wanted. But here’s the thing about silence: it doesn’t make you invisible. It makes you hollow. My voice had gone down the rabbit hole, leaving me tiptoeing through a world th...

They say the patriarchy’s worst enemies are little girls, old women, and sex workers. If that’s true, then I must be Wonderland’s Maddest Hatter. Ready for a trip down the rabbit hole? I’ve worn each of these roles unapologetically, and, as you’ll see, I’ve always had a knack for rewriting the script they tried to hand me. The Sweet, Soft-Spoken Girl Once upon a time, there was a soft-spoken, neurodivergent girl raised by a hippy father and a free-spirited mother, M in her own Wonderland. In those early years, life didn’t demand loudness or defiance. I had a gentle world where rank and hierarchy were as fictional as fairies and no one questioned my sweetness. If the patriarchy wanted me to shrink, I didn’t know it (and neither did my parents.) And for a while, it was wonderful. I was praised for being kind, soft, and accommodating. But as I grew, the world around me started to change. Life’s edges grew sharper. To survive my teenage years, I had to shed my softness and take on a harder...