Unfiltered Notes

You did the hard part. You sat down — probably at an inconvenient time, probably while someone was making noise nearby, probably after convincing yourself you'd do it tomorrow — and you wrote a book. Maybe it took you six months. Maybe it took three years and a lot of closed Google Docs tabs. Maybe you wrote it in thirty-minute increments between therapy appointments and dinner tantrums and the specific kind of exhaustion that doesn't go away with sleep. Doesn't matter how it got done. It got done. And then you opened KDP for the first time. KDP Looked At Me Like I Owed It Money I remember the first time I uploaded a manuscript and got a wall of warnings I didn't understand. I had no idea what a trim size was. I thought "mirror margins" was a Photoshop thing. I spent forty-five minutes trying to figure out why my table of contents wasn't interactive and ultimately decided the universe was personally opposed to me publishing a book. I'm not dramatic. Th...

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the place, Not a creature was stirring—except panic and disgrace. The stockings were hung by the laundry with care, In hopes that the dryer would soon spit out a pair. The children were feral, not snug in their beds, While visions of mayhem danced in their heads. And Mama in band tee, with a glass full of gin, Had just settled her nerves for fresh chaos to begin. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, She sprang from the couch to see what was the matter. Away to the window she flew like a flash, Tripping on Legos—the true Yuletide gash. The moon on the breast of the half-shoveled snow Gave a luster to objects lost ages ago. When, what to her wondering eyes should appear, But Amazon packages she hid all last year. With a sigh so weary and spirit so weak, She ripped into wrapping, frantically bleak. The children will wake in less than an hour, She’s got batteries, wine, and a dubious power. She laughed through the mess, she shru...

There’s   a   moment   most   parents   don’t   talk   about: Your   kid   hugs   you. And   instead   of   melting   into   the   sweetness   of   it,   your   brain   quietly   screams: PLEASE STOP TOUCHING ME! Not   because   you   don’t   love   them. Not   because   you're   a   bad   parent. But   because   your   nervous   system   has   already   been   through   the   sensory   Olympics   that   day. Sticky   hands. Loud   toys. Someone   screaming   about   the   wrong   color   cup. The   dog   barking. A   toddler   climbing   you   like   a   human   jungle   gym. And   suddenly   your   body   feels   like   a   phone   stuc...

If you somehow ended up here, welcome. This blog started as a place for me to write about motherhood, neurodivergence, survival, and the weird chaos that happens when your brain refuses to operate like the instruction manual says it should. Over time it turned into a mix of things: -Parenting -Mental health -Overstimulation -Life lessons learned the hard way -Writing and publishing books -And occasionally yelling into the void about things that don't make sense. So if you're new, this post will help you figure out where to start. WHO I AM My name is Samantha Oyler. I'm a writer, a mom, and a professional overthinker with a nervous system that occasionally acts like a smoke detector with a dying battery. My son Kaizer is two and a half, and parenting him has been the most chaotic, exhausting, hilarious, and meaningful thing I've ever done. He's also autistic and currently in 30+ hours of therapy a week, which means our life runs on schedules, snack breaks, and figuri...

I’ve been working on A LOT lately. New ideas. New books. New businesses. A new website. New social media accounts.  (LinkedIn, TikTok. SubStack, NextDoor, Threads, Lemon8, Buy Me A Coffee…) And in between all of that, Kaizer has ABA and other therapies 30+ hours a week, which means our schedule currently looks like someone spilled a calendar and then tried to tape it back together. So if things have seemed a little chaotic around here… that’s because they are. But it's the productive kind of chaos. THE GREAT WEBSITE MIGRATION I’ve been slowly moving things around online like digital furniture. The blog is moving from Wix to Blogger, which means I'm transferring posts, updating things, and trying not to break the internet in the process. At the same time, I’m rebuilding the rest of the site in Canva. It’s cleaner, easier to update, and honestly just works better for my brain. My digital shop on Beacons also got an upgrade and will soon have its own site at: maternalm...

I used to think good moms were calm. You know the type. Soft voice. Clean house. Matching snack containers. Meanwhile I'm standing in the kitchen trying to remember if I ate today while my toddler screams like a tiny drunk Viking because I peeled the banana wrong. Apparently there is a wrong way to peel a banana. Parenthood is weird like that. You start the day thinking you'll be productive and by noon you're negotiating with a two-year-old about why we don't lick the dog. And if you're neurodivergent? Everything is louder. The lights. The noise. The touching. The constant questions. Sometimes my brain feels like someone opened 37 browser tabs and every one of them is playing music. Welcome to overstimulation. OVERSTIMULATED MOMS ARE STILL GOOD MOMS Here's something nobody tells you. You can be overwhelmed and still be a good parent. Those two things can exist at the same time. Some days I'm calm, patient, and doing Montessori-level parenting. Other days I...