Welcome to My Beautiful Chaos

Why I Started Hot Mess, Big Heart

Hey. I’m Jennifer—mom of four, Leo with a playlist, and professional chaos navigator. I started Hot Mess, Big Heart because I needed a space to be real. Like really real. The kind of real that lives between boxed mac & cheese, trauma healing, soccer practice, dating disasters, Target runs, and late-night journaling with a face mask on. I’ve been through some shit. I didn’t grow up learning how to cook, how to love, or how to trust. But I figured it out along the way—with therapy, chicken nuggets, a few too many first dates, and a lot of vinyl records spinning in the background.

This blog is where I share it all:

  • The mom moments that break you and make you

  • The healing journey no one warned me would take this long

  • The dating stories that make me question everything (especially myself)

  • The cozy comfort food that gets us through it all

  • And the soft, strange, beautiful pieces of life that deserve to be written down

If you’ve ever felt like a hot mess with a big heart—welcome. You’re my people. Let’s laugh, cry, rage, and rise together.

Love,
Jennifer 🤍

This Mug Is a Mirror: Coffee, Chaos & Owning My Mess

It’s wild how one coffee mug can say everything I’m thinking.

Mine says HOT MESS in big bold letters—because of course it does. And yeah, it started as a joke. A cute find on a Target run when I was already emotionally unstable and overly caffeinated. But over time, that mug became something else. Something truer.

A little mirror.
A little mascot.
A little reminder that I’m still standing... even if it’s sideways.

Because the truth is: I am a hot mess.
Not just because I’m a mom.
Not just because I’ve got laundry multiplying like it’s trying to win a game I never agreed to play.
But because LIFE is a lot. All the time.

There’s the trauma I’m still unpacking.
The relationships I stayed in too long—and the ones I ran from too fast.
The dreams I shoved to the side because someone else needed me more in that moment.
The healing that isn’t linear, pretty, or Pinterest-friendly.
The deep loneliness that creeps in at 2 a.m.
The pressure to be okay all the time.

I hold that mug with chipped nails and a half-hearted to-do list in my head, thinking about how many versions of me I’ve been… and how many more I still need to meet.

It’s not just coffee anymore.
It’s comfort.
It’s ritual.
It’s survival.

And every time I take a sip, it’s like saying:
“You’re still here. Still trying. Still worthy—even when it’s messy.”

Because messy doesn’t mean broken.
Overwhelmed doesn’t mean weak.
And crying while reheating the same cup of coffee for the third time doesn’t mean you’re failing.

It means you’re human.
It means you’re feeling.
It means you’re alive.

So today, I raise my hot mess mug to every woman out there trying to do the damn thing—whether she’s wrangling kids, dealing with heartbreak, chasing dreams, or just trying to brush her teeth before noon.

You’re not alone in this chaos.
You’re not behind.
You’re not too much.
You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be—with your big heart, your heavy thoughts, your humor, and your hope.

And you know what?
That’s enough.
Actually… it’s kind of incredible.

Love,
Jennifer 💋

Hot Mess Healing: What It Really Looks Like

You ever see one of those perfectly curated Instagram posts about healing?
It’s all clean countertops, matcha lattes, glowing skin, and women in linen robes doing sunrise yoga. And while I love the aesthetic, let’s be real—

That ain’t what healing looks like over here.

Sometimes healing looks like crying in the car with a chicken nugget in your bra.
Sometimes it’s setting boundaries that make you feel like the villain.
Sometimes it's grocery shopping with a fake smile and hoping no one talks to you.
And other times? It’s cleaning out your fridge, buying spinach, and then ordering pizza anyway.

Because healing isn’t pretty. It’s not symmetrical.
It’s not always calm.
Sometimes it’s chaos that still chooses softness.

What People Think Healing Looks Like:

 

  • Soft music, candles, herbal tea

  • Meditating in a perfectly made bed

  • Journaling about peace and release

  • Cutting people off and instantly feeling empowered

What Healing Actually Looks Like (for me anyway):

 

  • Saying “I’m fine” then rage vacuuming the entire house

  • Crying during commercials

  • Wondering if you’re too much, not enough, or both

  • Learning how to sit with your own silence without spiraling

  • Unfollowing people who make you feel small (even if you still low-key stalk them)

My Personal Signs of Healing (The Hot Mess Edition):

 

  • Buying myself flowers and not making a joke about it

  • Letting myself rest without calling it lazy

  • Drinking water… sometimes

  • Saying no and not explaining why

  • Putting on a cute outfit even if I’m not going anywhere

  • Laughing again, not because life’s perfect, but because I’m still in it

Here’s the Truth:

 

Healing doesn’t mean you’ll never cry in the grocery store again.
It means the next time you do, you’ll be gentler with yourself.
You’ll wipe your eyes, grab the frozen waffles, and remind yourself that even now—you’re worthy.

You are not broken.
You’re rebuilding.
And if your healing journey includes boxed mac and cheese, late-night scrolling, and a healthy dose of sarcasm—you’re doing it exactly right.

So this is your reminder:

You don’t need to be graceful to be growing.
You don’t need to be perfect to be healing.
You just have to keep showing up—with your big heart, your messy bun, and your whole honest self.

And if anyone tells you otherwise?
Smile politely… and eat your pizza.

Jennifer

“I’m Fine (But Also Not. But Also, Maybe I Am?)”

You ever answer “I’m fine” while aggressively stirring pasta like it personally offended you? Yeah. That was me last night. Wearing pajama pants that are technically inside-out, eyeliner from that morning, and a sweatshirt that smells like dry shampoo and cinnamon toast. Reese asked if I was okay, and I smiled and said “Yeah, I’m fine.” But the truth? I’m not really sure. I’m in this weird season of life where everything feels both too much and not enough.
My kids are growing up too fast, my laundry pile is auditioning for Everest, and I cried watching a commercial for paper towels. PAPER TOWELS, Jennifer. Get it together. But also? I got everyone fed today. So… maybe I am fine. In my own way.

I’m learning that healing isn’t cute.

It’s not always green juice and meditation. Sometimes healing is ignoring texts because you don’t have the energy. It’s buying yourself flowers because no one else will. It’s crying in the car, wiping your face, and walking into work like, “Let’s do this.” It’s texting your best friend “What if I am the problem?” at 11:47 PM, then laughing so hard at your own chaos you snort wine through your nose. It’s forgiving people who never said sorry. It’s forgiving  yourself when you were just trying to survive.

It’s letting the dishes sit so you can dance to Shania Twain in the living room. (Which I definitely did.)

There’s a version of me I’m working on.

She wears cute matching lounge sets and remembers appointments. She’s emotionally stable and drinks enough water. She doesn’t spiral over one weird comment or reread old messages for signs she missed. She is calm. She is centered. But last night, I wasn’t her. I was the hot mess version. The one who overthinks everything. The one who yells, then feels guilty. The one who gets tired of being strong all the time. But I also have a big heart. And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough for today. So if you’re reading this in bed with mascara on your pillowcase, wondering if you're doing okay: you are. If you’re trying your best, even when it doesn’t feel like enough: it is.

If no one’s told you lately: I’m proud of you. You’re not alone. You’re doing better than you think. I don’t have the answers. But I do have empathy, snacks, and a half-dead houseplant I keep forgetting to water. Let’s be soft with ourselves. Let’s keep going, messy and magnificent.

xo,
Jennifer
Hot Mess. Big Heart. Full Feels.

 

Rewind & Recess: A Love Letter to My '90s Girlhood

There was a time when happiness smelled like plastic Barbie shoes and the inside of a Trapper Keeper. When weekends meant pancakes, TGIF on the TV, and trying not to fight your sibling over who got the Sega genesis.

I miss it. I really do.

I miss curling up on the carpet with a stack of American Girl, Teen Beat, and whatever weird catalog kept coming in the mail. I’d tear out pages and make vision boards before I even knew what manifesting was. (I just knew I needed that inflatable chair and glittery lip gloss ASAP.)

I miss board games that made no sense, like Dream Phone, where you’d call boys with names like “Dan” or “Blake” to find out who had a crush on you. (The drama. The suspense. The cordless phone fantasy.) And let’s not even start on Mall Madness. The electronic voice saying “There’s a sale at the shoe store!” still lives rent-free in my head. We were financially reckless queens with invisible credit cards and big hair scrunchies. We'd paint our nails with weird scented polish that peeled off in sheets, wear body glitter like it was SPF, and think Bonne Bell Lip Smackers in Dr. Pepper made us mature.

Life felt so big then. And also so safe.

My biggest worry was my Tamagotchi dying or someone recording over my favorite episode of Clarissa Explains It All. I had no idea how much I’d miss the simplicity of sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing Life with my sisters and skipping the "college" route just to see what job I’d get.

We had rituals—little sacred ones. Friday night pizza. Rewinding the VHS with a plastic pencil.
Getting the big catalog in the mail and circling everything you wanted (knowing damn well you’d never get it, but dreaming anyway). Stretch chokers. Mix CDs. Polaroids on your bedroom mirror. Glitter pens. Mood rings. The vibe. And somewhere between then and now, life got louder. Busier. Messier. But the girl I was? She’s still in here. She shows up when I catch the smell of Lip Smackers, or when I hear Shania Twain and remember every word. She’s there when I buy cute notebooks I don’t need and light up at the sight of a thrifted troll doll.

So today, I’m calling her back in.

I’m letting her sit with me. We’re playing M.A.S.H. on a napkin with hearts over the i’s. We’re flipping through a beat-up Seventeen, pretending to know what a “date night look” is. We’re not stressed. We’re not overwhelmed. We’re just girls, dreaming big and laughing loud.

And maybe you need her too—the glitter-covered, butterfly-clipped, Kool-Aid-stained version of yourself. She’s magic. She’s joy. She’s the original you. Let’s bring her back more often. Let’s blast some TLC. Let’s play the long game of remembering who we were… and how cool she still is.

xo,
Jennifer
Forever a hot mess. Forever a big heart. Forever that ‘90s girl with big dreams and sparkly gel pens. 💖

 

Morning Rituals & Magic

“You don’t need a perfect morning. You just need one that feels like yours.”

Let’s be real—mornings in my house are a circus. Someone can’t find their shoes, someone else spilled cereal, and I haven’t even had coffee yet. But over time, I learned that I need to carve out just a little moment that’s mine. Even if the house is loud, even if I’m running late—those five minutes with my coffee, a candle, and my favorite record playing in the background? That’s my peace. I didn’t grow up with structure or rituals. Mornings used to feel heavy. But now, I make them mine. I wake up a few minutes early (sometimes), light my vanilla candle, play something soft and nostalgic—maybe Fleetwood Mac or old-school country—and just breathe. It’s not perfect. But it’s mine. And that’s what makes it magic.

My Real-Life Morning Ritual (Even When the Kids Are Screaming):

  • Light a candle. (Bonus points if it’s thrifted and smells like a memory.)

  • Pour the coffee. Add a splash of sweet cream or whipped cream if I’m feelin’ fancy.

  • Pick a song that makes me feel good.

  • Write one thing I’m grateful for—even if it’s just hot coffee and dry shampoo.

  • Take a deep breath. Sometimes cry. Sometimes dance. Sometimes both.

    Cozy Morning Recipe: Fancy Toast Trio

    Because let’s face it—toast is breakfast therapy.

    1. The Hot Mom Toast
      Avocado, red chili flakes, sea salt, olive oil drizzle

    2. The Sweetheart
      Whipped cream cheese, fresh berries, drizzle of honey

    3. The Chaos Queen
      Peanut butter, banana slices, crushed granola, cinnamon

    Serve with coffee and a side of “Don’t talk to me yet.”

    🎶 Morning Playlist Vibes:

    Coffee, Chaos & Main Character Energy

    • “You Belong with Me” – Taylor Swift

    • “Wide Open Spaces” – Dixie Chicks

    • “Dreams” – Fleetwood Mac

    • “Golden” – Harry Styles

    • “Neon Moon” – Brooks & Dunn

    • “Sunday Best” – Surfaces

    • “Breathe” – Faith Hill

The Beautiful Mess of Mother’s Day

Let me just say it upfront: Mother’s Day is weird. Beautiful and sweet, yes—but also weird. It’s like this one day where you’re supposed to feel completely adored and cherished while also still wiping noses, refereeing sibling arguments, and pretending you actually enjoy cold toast brought to you in bed. Don’t get me wrong—I love being a mom. I love it in that deep, tangled-up, messy-sock-drawer kind of way. I love it when my 7-year-old gives me a rock he found that “reminded him of me.” I love it when my teen rolls her eyes but still sits next to me on the couch. I love the quiet “I love you” texts from my grown girls, who don’t live here anymore but are always in my heart. But here’s the truth no one really says on the greeting cards: Mother’s Day is a mixed bag. It’s a reminder of how hard we work, how much we give, and sometimes, how little we give to ourselves. It’s a hug from your kid with syrup on their face.
It’s a coffee that’s reheated three times. It’s a handmade card with misspelled words that makes you cry like you just watched Steel Magnolias. It’s also, for some of us, a little bittersweet—missing our own moms, or feeling the weight of motherhood without the support we wish we had. So, this year, I’m not going to pretend like I have it all together (I mean, the blog is called Hot Mess Big Heart for a reason). I’m going to celebrate myself the way I really want to: Mimosas with my favorite people, A thrift store trip I don’t have to rush, Possibly a nap I won’t feel guilty about,  And at some point, locking myself in the bathroom just to scroll TikTok in peace. To the moms reading this: You’re doing amazing. Even when it feels like you’re falling apart. Even when the laundry is yelling at you and your kid just told you “I liked it better when Grandma made it.” You are still the glue. The magic. The soft place to land. Even when you’re running on fumes and caffeine. And to the women who mother in a million ways—teachers, aunties, godmothers, friends, neighbors—you’re part of the village and we see you too. This weekend, whether you’re getting pampered or just trying to survive, I hope you find a moment of peace. A moment to love yourself the way your kids do—unconditionally, wildly, and even when your eyeliner is halfway down your face. Happy Mother’s Day, hot messes. We’re doing it. Big hearts and all.

💐✨💋
xo, Jennifer