The Moth - Starting Over: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: January 13, 2026

In this hour, stories of trying again, fresh starts, and chances at redemption—as a parent, on stage, and in your 20s. This episode is hosted by Jay Allison, producer of this show. Storytellers: Leah Baruch files for bankrupcy at age 26.  Ron Hart tries to make sure his children don't take after him. Te'Jal Cartwright rediscovers her star power. Devan Sandiford avoids a difficult conversation with his son's kindergarten class.  Ethan Sweetland-May goes hunting with his grandfather for the first time.  Bridget Flaherty tries to mend her relationship with her son.  Podcast # 958 To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Jay Allison. We may not be able to undo the past, but sometimes we get the opportunity for a second chance. In this hour, stories of do-overs, fresh starts, and redemption. Our first story comes from Leah Baruch. Leah told this at a Moth Grand Slam in Portland, Oregon,

where we partner with Oregon Public Broadcasting. Here's Leah. I've always believed in the power of a fresh start, and in the summer of 2006, I really needed that power. I had just filed for bankruptcy at the age of 26, having misunderstood maybe what it meant that women could have it all. I had defaulted on my student loans, my car had been repossessed, I had sold all of my belongings kind of by court order, and I really needed a new mean. who wasn't a moron. So I thought about it, and I concluded the new me should be a doctor, which felt like the opposite of a moron,

and the second season of Grey's Anatomy had just come out. So it turns out you can't apply to medical school with a bachelor's degree in theater. So new me was going to have to go back to undergrad, and the school needed to be cheap because I was not a, allowed to take out student loans. So I chose Evergreen State in Olympia. Go Goey Dex. Very affordable state school, also known for the fact it doesn't give out grades. It's not a premier destination for pre-med, if you could believe it. But I thought I could make it work. So I moved to Olympia. The only apartment I could afford there was like miles from campus.

I didn't have a car, so I scrounged together, a used bus. to get around town and I rolled up one pant leg and knew me was officially here. There was this one holdover from Old Me, this drummer I'd been dating for a few years. Hold that thought. And just before school started, he invited me to go hiking. And he chose this trail that was like a steep downhill, like into a ravine. And I do think he was looking for a metaphor with that because at the last, lowest point of the hike, he did break up with me.

He had great timing that drummer. So I was feeling some feelings in this moment, but I was also like trying not to cry because I was like, ah, would a doctor, like, cry over this drummer? I don't know. So I'm standing there, like, definitely not crying. And I see over his shoulder there's this, like, rock. formation and it catches my eye because it's kind of medium tall but it looks very climbable and I'm pretty sure doctors are into rock climbing and so suddenly so

am I and so before he can stop me I am like off to climb this rock I am gonna prove something to myself I do not know what but I just needed to climb so I get going I get seven eight feet in the air and I realize this rock is taller than I thought it was gonna be and it's wet and then my feet just slip out from under me, I plummet to the ground, my right ankle cracks as I land, I hear it, and I think, I'm not a doctor, but this is broken. And like, the whole plan for the new me is also broken because I'm like, okay, how am I going to ride a bike to get to school with a broken ankle? And now that I think about this,

if I even manage to get to the school, once I'm there, they're not going to give me any grades. Like, I'm never going to be a doctor. I'm only ever going to be a moron, and now a single moron. And it just kind of like spirals in my mind like that, and I end up just like weeping on the ground while the drummer just kind of like watches awkwardly. And right there in that lowest moment of humiliation, I get a vision of Meredith Gray from Grey's Anatomy.

And she is both. groveling to McDreamie going, pick me, choose me, love me. And she's holding a bomb in some guy's abdominal cavity, like she's just steely eyed. She's doing what needs to be done, but also she's so pathetic, but also she's such a badass. And I'm like, that's it. Maybe I too can be both a moron and a doctor. Because women contain multitudes, right? So I had to crawl, army style, through the mud to get out of the ravine that day. It took hours, because the drummer, not exactly Patrick Dempsey, not strong enough to lift me, we discovered. But I did get out, and I did have to sell my bike to pay for bus fare, and I had to walk with a cane for quite a while,

like a different TV doctor. But I just kept moving forward, broken ankle and all. And that's the thing about bones is when they break, there's all this great stuff inside that gets to come out and shine. It's like growth factors and stem cells, and they surround the injury, and they organize and they remodel, and they create from that disaster a whole new bone. And the new bone, it's not stronger than the old bone. That is a commonly believed myth. But given enough time, it will be strong enough to bear your weight. And that's some stuff. the new me learned about bones in medical school. Leah Baruch is a family medicine and addiction medicine physician practicing in Oregon,

a lifelong lover of music. She married a drummer, not the one from the story, taught herself to play guitar, and is raising a pianist to round out their family band. Leah sent us a photo of her in the lab at Evergreen State, quote, concocting a pre-med student from the ashes of a former theater major. You can find that at the moth.org. Ron Hart told our next story at an open mic story slam in Chicago where we're supported by public radio station WBEZ. Live at the moth, here's Ron Hart.

I have two daughters and I've been a father for a while but it still feels like a disguise to me because inside I still feel like a kid pretending to be a parent. And I know I'm going to mess them up. I've already given up on that. But my goal is that I give them fresh garbage to deal with. I don't want to pass on what's in my head. It's bad enough they get my hair.

I don't want what's inside my head going down on them. So, you know, the expression, you know, like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I'm like, fly away apples. Get away from this tree. So when I was a kid, I was terrified of museums. Museum of Science and Industry, I thought it was going to be. eat me, right? Freak me out every time we went in there. So that was like, I was like, this is a thing I can give them that I didn't have, to not be afraid of museums. So my

daughters were young, my oldest was three, the youngest was one, and I said to my wife, you got the day off today. Super Dad's going to take the girls on a little adventure. I live in Los Angeles and we went to the Museum of Natural History. I'm going to show them. Museums are a fun place and we're looking around, we're seeing the exhibit, and we see that there's a show in the museum. It's about dinosaurs. I'm like, oh, girls, it's a show. Like, who doesn't love a show?

Let's go to the show. We go into this big room. It's got all these exhibits, and this guy comes in with, like, a pith helmet and a vest. And, you know, he's putting on this, like, you know, low-rent Indiana Jones Act, talking about archaeology or whatever. And in the back of the room, a door opens up.

And this guy comes in in a dinosaur, disguise. And I can tell it's a disguise because I can see cargo shorts and Adidas. But my three-year-old sees 80,000 teeth and an eating machine. And my one-year-old doesn't know what she sees, but she just starts screaming. And she grabs my neck so hard that I can barely breathe. And she's clutching down on me, and the three-year-old comes in, grabs me locking into her sister. And they're both screaming. I'm like, I've got to get out of here. But they've formed like a human bike chain. And I can't literally stand up and I have to like run out like Quasimoto getting out of the room. We're back home 45 minutes into my wife's day off, and I hand her two toddlers with PTSD.

And if you're like my wife, you're thinking I'm a pretty horrible parent, but it actually gets much worse. A couple months later, my three-year-old, she's in preschool, and they're having a field trip, and they're looking for chaperones. I'm going to be a chaperone. We're going to the butterfly pavilion, which is next to the Museum of Natural History. Butterflies, that sounds like fun to me. We go, we look at the butterfly, all these three-year-olds, great time. We get out, and the teacher says, boys and girls, we have extra time. We can go into the museum.

I was like, oh, I don't think that sounds a good idea. We're looking around the museum. Sure enough, the teacher says, boys and girls, they have a show about dinosaurs. Who doesn't love a show? And I say to her, like, actually, I think it's a really bad idea. We tried it once, and she doesn't want to listen to me, because she thinks I'm a parent.

She doesn't realize I'm disguised as a parent, right? So she heads into the, like, she's got all these three-year-olds to worry about. She heads into this room. The other chaperone, Christy, tries to go and get a seat and like, you know, Christy, you got to stay here. We have to protect the door. She's like, I'm going to sit down. No, no, Christy, stay right here. Catch these kids.

She's like, what are you talking about? Trust me. Just stay here. The show starts. Pith Helmet comes out. He's talking. And then Jurassic Park enters. And it was like watching a jiffy pop explode.

without the lid on. All these kids just start running at us. And I grab Ruthie and I got Max. I throw Naomi over my shoulder. We're grabbing kids. And I see like Jacob sees sunlight between us. He's running to the crease and they have to like kick save him over to Christy. And we're like, I got all these kids and we're like, let's go. And this is not slow motion. This is a 300 pound man running with 12, three year olds on him. We get out of this room. And then the teacher comes out and she goes, yeah, you were kind of right about that show. And we ride home on the bus. There was no B.I. NGO on that trip.

Just dead silent. And we get home, and I realize I've failed, as a parent, teaching my daughter not to be afraid of museums. And I'm tucking her in, thinking I'll see you in a few hours when the nightmares begin. And she looks at me, and she says, Daddy, thank you for taking me and being, there with me at the bad place. And I realized, okay, the apple did fall close to the tree,

but at least I was there to catch her. Ron Hart is a television writer living in Los Angeles. He told this story when he was visiting his family in his hometown of Chicago. Ron told us that his daughter, Anina, is currently at Sarah Lawrence College, where she is studying art history and hopes to have a long career working in, believe it or not, museums. You can see a photo of Anina from the field trip before it erupted in chaos at the moth.org. In a moment, a little girl believes she's destined to be a star and a man withholds the full truth from a room of kindergartners. When The Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jay Allison. our next story of having another go was told by Tagell Cartwright. Tagell told this at a story slam in Detroit. Live at the Moth, here's Tagell Cartwright. Now, little me always knew I'd be a star in the theater world. I went from doing plays during Resurrection Sunday at my church,

screaming, crucify him in the background, to be in the lead character, and my school play as Daisy and Daisy and the Seven Homies, which was a rendition of Snow White and the Seven Doors. Intercity School, y'all, inner city school. So I just felt it. I was so in love with it. I felt like a star.

And over time, I was in community plays and my church plays, and I felt like I was on top until I was 17 years old and tried out for the mousse machine, singing in the rain, and that really blew me. I tried out, and I got Girl in the Park number eight. Yes, thank you. Oh, I love that. Thank you.

So it really killed my ego and my self-esteem and my star kind of dimmed a little bit, and after that, I decided to never be in theater again. Yes. So I went to school, got a real job, and lived my life until about 10 years later. I had my son and his birth really inspired me to get back into theater. Now that's another story.

Yes. Thank you, thank you. And so my first play back on the stage was the community play, and it was Dream Girls. So I decided that I was going to get the role of Dina. Okay, I saw Beyonce and Dream Girls. Bear with me, y'all. I'm a little young, so that's the Dream Girls that I was raised with. And so I auditioned.

I sang Amazing, Maisie, and I also did a monologue about hats. The playlist, I mean the list, the chosen people went up, and I was Girl in the Bar number four. Yes. But I wasn't discouraged this time because I had already learned my lesson about quitting things. Ten long years had went by. And so I was like, I'm going to stick this through. I'm going to learn. And even though I'm not Dina, I'm going to play the shit out of Girl

on the bar number four. So I went to practice for about two months. We practiced five days out of the week for four hours a day. I went to work, went home, took care of my kid and fed them, and then I went off to my play practices. I learned the words. I learned everyone's lines just in case they needed me. You know I was gonna stay ready.

And it came time to perform. Weeks went by and I had so much fun. And the last night, I actually lost my outfit. And so they found an outfit for me. And this dress was purple. It flowed so beautifully. It had rhinestones in every single inch of it. And I felt like a star.

Now, this was the last night of Dreamgirls. So I was going to give it my awe. And so as girl at the bar number four, I gave that dance, everything that I could. and I sang the song with my soul and I just shined through this role because I was proud of myself. I didn't quit y'all and I wasn't Dina but I was behind Dina

so that was enough for me. Yes. So I gave him my all and it was the end. I was proud of myself and I went to go collect my flowers. I was pretty used to that by then. And this man came up to me and he said, I was all the way in the back. I saw you. You were amazing.

You shined. You dazzled. You were amazing. I had to know who was that girl. And all I could hear was my little self. I told you you were a star. Thank you. Tageo Cartwright is a storyteller, entrepreneur, and media personality based in Dayton, Ohio.

As the founder of Lour Storytelling, she helps people turn real-life experiences into stories that spark community change. Next up is Devon Sandiford. Devin told the story at a New York City Grand Slam, where WNYC is a media partner of the Moth. Here's Devin. A few years ago, I was sitting in the front of a kindergarten classroom with 26 little eyes staring up at me, and I was so nervous. I was supposed to be telling a personal story in my son's kindergarten class, and initially I had been super excited.

But then I had made the mistake of asking my five-year-old son, what story he wanted me to tell. Immediately he had a response, he said, The Kissing game story. And it sounds like it might be cute, especially coming from a five-year-old who's got this beige skin who looks like John Legend. But it wasn't cute at all.

I was so nervous because this story had the most vulnerability that I ever had to give, had race in it. I initially told him, I'm not telling that story. But over a week, he just hung his head, hung his shoulders, and gave me the disappointed look.

And finally, I just gave in. I said, you know what? I'll tell the story. Forget it. And so as I was walking and I got into his classroom, I saw all the eyes staring at me and I kind of decided that, like,

I'll tell the story, but I'm going to make some adjustments. So I sit at the front. The teacher allows my son to sit next to me. I start going into this story. It's the moment I actually first knew about race. I was in first grade. I was six years old. The kids in my class would play this game.

Cooties, and the girls would chase after the boys. The girls would chase after the boys all over the school yard, and then they would find them on the backside where the drinking fountains were, and they'd kiss all over them, and I thought this was the greatest game ever. But it took me a while to realize that none of the girls were chasing me or trying to catch me, and as one of two black kids in the class, I would find out that the girls were actually afraid to touch me. And as I was in my son's class, I decided, as I tell this story,

that I would just make it a fun game story. I'd tell them about the lunch tables we run through, past the recess yard, on the backside. But when I got to the part about race and about feeling so alone, I just pulled that part of the story. And I was like, I made it through. That wasn't so bad. But then when I looked over the teacher,

the teacher opened the floor for questions. The first two questions I'll never be able to remember. But the third question, I'll never be able to forget. This little beige girl in the middle of the classroom raised her hand, and she said, why didn't the girls want to kiss you like the rest of the boys? And I was like, that is a really good question. And I looked over to the teacher hoping she would give me one of those magic like one, two, three, just get through this conversation type of things.

But she didn't. She just stared back at me and I knew it was on me to do this. And as I was thinking of an answer that I could give, I heard a voice from the back of the room. It's because he's black. And I looked over and it was this little half Asian, half white kid. and he had no meanness in it all, no malicious. It was an objective truth that he knew. And I was like, yeah, I should have known that somebody knew this.

And so I explained to the class that, yeah, I didn't go to a school like yours, that I was one of two black kids in the class. And we didn't talk about diversity or inclusion or any of that. And as we got through the conversation, I looked back over to the teacher, and now she gave me the nod that I was done. So I get up and I hug my son. and as I hug my son, I start walking into the hallway and it starts to land on me that my son had heard that story many times before.

And I started to feel really disappointed in myself because by pulling out the race out of the story, I was pulling one part of the story, our identity out of the story. And as I walked home, the way of just like disappointing my son, disappointing myself, just grew more and more until it was the only thing I could think about. And so later that week, I came back into the school. I was actually teaching a personal storytelling workshop to the kids from kindergarten to fifth grade. And I found the principal in the hallway. And I asked her, would it be okay if I share this story?

I want to be able to just share the full story. And she looked at me and she said, absolutely. We never withhold the truth from the kids. And those words were like such a surprise to me because that's all I had ever known. And as I was getting ready to walk away, she was like, but just, if you can just make sure you allow them to ask questions at the end. And I was like, the questions again, my goodness. But I was like, you know what, I can do that.

So I walked into the art room where we were having the personal storytelling workshop that I was teaching. I started grabbing the stools and setting them up in a semi-circle. And as the kids walked in with their backpacks, I let them know that I was going to be sharing one of my personal stories with them. And as soon as they all got there and sat down, I launched into my story and all of them are staring up at me again. But this time I gave the entire story. I talked about the details of the table, the scenery of the playground, the race, me being one of the black kids, and the girls not kissing me, and how alone it felt to be standing there on the playground all by myself. And as I got to the end of the story, tears started to fill into my eyes, and I thank the kids for listening. And then I had to open the floor up to questions.

And as soon as I did, a bunch of hands shot up. And I scanned the room, and I picked this little second grader in the first row, this little white boy, who had short hair cut on one side and long flowing hair on the other. And he put it out on his hand and he said, you know what I hear in that story? I hear a lot of pain. And it reminds me of the time, and then he went into a story about a time when he was playing with some friends

and they had excluded him for a completely different reason. And as he's going through the story, tears are coming into my eyes again because I feel like I'm more connected with this kid than I've ever been connected with anyone in my life. And as he finishes a story, one by one, the rest of the kids who had their hands up, they each shared stories of being excluded from groups. And it's just this, like, warmest feeling that I had ever felt.

And by the time we got to the last story of the people who had raised their hands, we actually didn't have any time left for the lesson plan at all. But I was okay with that because I knew that I didn't need to teach those kids anything about storytelling that day. They had actually taught me that if we are brave enough to share the whole, hard parts of our stories that we can be connected with the people around us like we never have been before. Thank you. Devin Sandiford is a Caribbean American writer, storyteller, and community catalyst. His reflections on identity, masculinity, partnership, storytelling, and tender-hearted parenting have appeared across lots of media outlets. Devin tells us, I'm still a strong

believer in being vulnerable and having tough conversations with kids, especially when we can find age-appropriate ways to give them space to talk about what's already on their minds. Just because we don't name something heavy doesn't mean it's not a burden they feel. In a moment, a boy tries to impress his grandpa and a mother tries to repair a relationship with her son when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jay Allison, and in this show, we're hearing stories of opportunities for redemption.

Ethan Sweetland May told our next story in Louisville, where we partner with WFPL, the Louisville Public Media Station. Here's Ethan live at the mall. Just a little bit. So the only reason why 8-year-old me would be in the serial aisle at 5 p.m. on a Friday night and jazz. out of my mind, because I'm about to have a weekend with Grandma and Grandpa. Now you understand, being the fourth-born of 11 kids, getting to pick your own cereal, and not only your own cereal, but a sugar cereal, when your mom is like a granola

and natural peanut butter in the five-gallon bucket that you have to mix with, like, a drill. Every time I did a sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa's, I got to pick my own cereal, and it could be anything, and we didn't have to tell Mom. And so I was in the checkout with Grandma, and I had my frosted flakes, and that would have been enough. The fact that I was going to wake up in the morning on the couch in their den, and I was going to turn on the TV, and I had TV, and I was going to watch cartoons, and I could watch cartoons. And all of that was great.

That was expected. But that Saturday, my grandfather, my grandfather, was going to teach me how to shoot. My grandfather was a Golden Gloves boxer. He was a race car driver, a professional race car driver. His front in his garage, he had one of the old, like, no roll cage. Everyone died, but the guy that won, like, race cars. Like, he was a hunter. He had three deerheads in his house, like, mounted on the walls.

They lived on a lake, and he was a fisherman, and he could do everything. And he was going to teach me how to shoot. and I was pumped. I woke up early, I ate the whole box of cereal, I was ready when he came down the stairs and I watched him drink coffee out of the percolator and we went to one of his friend's house and my grandpa's friends are all people like him.

They're all like 40-year retirees of plumbers and steam fitters. They drive trucks but not dushy ones. Like they are like the salt of the earth we farmed and worked and we have, you know, hemorrhoids and we don't brag. And I was the only kid there. I was like eight years old, and I'm jazzed on sugar, and I am so nervous as he puts the actual shotgun into my hands. And I mean, I watch Red Dawn.

I've got the basic idea, you know. I saw Patrick Swayze do it. And so I think I'm doing it right as I kneel down and I hold it about an inch in front of my shoulder, and I'm kind of looking down on the – And when I shoot, it knocks me all the way over onto my back. The gun goes across the gravel. His friend's all duck.

And I burst into tears and run to his truck. And after about 20 minutes, he comes and gets in without saying a word. And he was like, that's okay. It's like that sometimes. And we drove back to his house. And I was devastated. I was so let down. It was like a moment to shine with, like, Grandpa.

And so I did what the only thing left to do. in the afternoon, I went down to the lake on the little dock and I was fishing and I was okay at fishing for bluegill. I've got a cane pole and I'm fishing for bluegill and grandpa's mowing the grass and I'm just like like sad and like I, you know, like I'm just like I blew this moment with my grandpa and out of nowhere he's, I hear the lawnmower stop and he comes down onto the deck and he says, hey catch me one of those bluegill and I'm like oh here's this doughball I put it on the hook and like you know five seconds flat I can catch a bluegill I'm eight years old I'm good at this.

and he pulls out this case and he sets it down, and he unzips it, and he pulls out a knife, this big, long knife with a heavy black handle. And I'm standing there holding the bluegill, not totally sure what's about to happen. And he takes the bluegill from me, and he sets it down. And I'm like, I catch a bluegill? Blue Gills back on the water.

I'll probably catch him later. We're like basically plain tag. And he puts the bluegill on the deck, and he goes, wham! And it's just blood. And it's a dead bluegill. And I didn't scream, but I almost screamed. And he starts cutting it into strips.

just cuts it into strips like a crazy person and he cuts it into cubes and he puts a big cube of it on my cane pole and he makes it way deeper than I ever do and he drops it into the water and he says come get me and I'm sitting there holding this

and I like no bluegill are coming for their buddy and I'm just watching it not totally sure what's about to happen and after about 15 minutes I see these big dark shadows coming down the inlet and like these blue cats, these blue catfish know what's up. They know what's up, because they've been doing this with my grandpa for decades, probably.

And they comes right up to the dock and like one eye floats out of the water. I swear to God and looks at me and he's like, and goes back down. And I am shaking and the lawnmower is running and I'm like, just keep going, buddy. I don't even, don't stop for me. And he goes down the inlet. And for a minute I think I'm safe and he doubles back and I just watch him go down into the moss, and for like three seconds, nothing happens. And then, woo!

And it goes. And I'm, I am, like, I'm tall now. I was not that big. And he's, like, pulling me to the edge of the deck. And I am screaming for my grandfather. I'm like, Nipper! And he doesn't hear me. And I am locked into a fight with Moby Dick. And, like, and he's, like, for revenge. And, and, like, my palms are sweating. this little cane pole is bent in half and sliding out of my hands. And I'm just like, I can't lose. If I lose this pole, I will have to, like, run away.

I will have to get in this boat and, like, go down the end to somebody else and find a new, like, grandparents. And at last, like, I hear the lawnmower stop. And I'm like, grandpa, get on. And he, like, comes down, and he, like, takes the pull from me and just, like, old man strength, rinsches this, like, blue cat in and pulls it up out of the wall. and he's like, here, take this.

And I'm like, I put my hand where his hand is, and I get it on the lip, and I'm holding it. And he's like, and he steps back and reaches in the black bag. He's got a little Polaroid camera. A little back bag. He's like, hold that up. I'm holding it up. And I'm holding it up. And I'm a smile for him.

And he takes a picture, and I have this picture. It's this blue cat about as long as my torso, and you can see just this part of my smile. And that's the only thing I really have to, like, remember that day by this little moment of smiling. My grandpa helped me get a win. Thank you. That was Ethan Sweetland-May. Ethan has been telling stories since he was big enough to stand on a piano bench and pretend it was a stage. He's currently running for state senate in his home state of Indiana because he believes that our stories have the power to unite our communities and make the

world a better place. When Ethan's grandfather passed away in 2008, he left Ethan the very 12-gauge shotgun that knocked him to the ground all those years ago. As for what he'd like to give his own grandchildren in the future, Ethan says, I hope I can show a grandchild the basics of baiting a cane fishing pole one day. Our last story in this hour is from Bridget Flarety. Bridget told this in New London, Connecticut, where we partnered with the Guard Art Center. A note that this story discusses mental health, including self-harmine, and suicidal ideation. Live from the moth, here's Bridget Flarey.

It was a cold and snowy mid-January day in 2016 and I was driving home after spending eight weeks in a mental health facility in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Driving the six hours home to Dayton, Ohio, I was feeling a mix of excitement and uncertainty. I was excited to see my children because Two months was the longest I had ever been away from them. My daughter, who was 19, had been able to come and visit and exchange letters, but I had only been able to speak to my son once a week on Sundays for 10 minutes, and I missed him. Ian was my little man.

I was so excited when he came into the world that I put my IT career on hold for two years in order to stay home with him. However, lurking in the shadow was a deepening mental illness. illness. Depression had been my constant companion since I was a teenager, and shortly after his birth, I was diagnosed with severe postpartum depression and put on medication. When he was four, his father and I got divorced, and shortly after I got remarried. I wanted to make sure that Ian felt seen and special. So every Saturday, I would take him out to breakfast, just the two of us. He got my undivided attention for his bedtime routine, and it created special moments for us,

like going to see the Cincinnati Reds play and spending the entire day together. After seven years on the antidepressants, my psychiatrist helped me to slowly wean off with the pills with significant and sometimes debilitating side effects. I thought that I was better, and so did everyone in my life. But the truth was the underlying issues had not been addressed. So when it became clear that my second marriage was coming to an end,

the feelings of shame and utter failure were so thick that I could not imagine any way that I would survive. When I got to the point that I was cutting my skin in the bathroom on breaks between business meetings, I knew that I was not okay. I convinced myself that everyone, including my son, would be better off without me in this. world. One night I sat in my car with a loaded 9-millimeter handgun, and I imagined that no one

would find my body until the morning. That night, I beat the demons in my mind, and I went home, and I played the part of a loving mother. I had gotten really good at masking my pain, but I fantasized about leaving life constantly. About two months later, I covered I find it in my sister that today was the day. I told her about my plan to end my life while Ian was at his father's house, and she begged me to get help. After hours on the phone with her, I agreed. In treatment, I learned about the depth of my core wounds

and the extent of my trauma. I was told that I had complex PTSD and severe depressive disorder. I was treated with love and understanding by the staff. I was given tools and support. And now I was returning home with a plan for continued follow-up treatment. The day after I got back, I went to pick up Ian at his father's house after school. I was excited to see him, but I also felt unsure. Ian didn't bounce down the steps to greet me like he normally did. Instead, he walked towards me with a face that I couldn't read. He was silent as we got into the car.

Good to see you, bud. Got no response. After a pause that felt like forever, he asked, were you as bad as Robin Williams? I wasn't prepared for that question. I wasn't sure what his father had told him, but I hadn't prepared myself to answer questions about my mental health right away.

And so I said, well bud that's why i went to get help did you even think about me did you even think about how i would feel his angry response hit me so hard that it took everything in me not to cry i'm sorry bud he crossed his arms and when we got home he went into his room and he shut the door i went out of the door i went out and called a friend who had been in treatment with me, bawling. I told her what happened and asked for advice. She told me that I was doing great, but I didn't feel like I was doing great. I felt terrible.

Ian's anger didn't subside. He was silent on the way to basketball practice that night. When I tried to ask about friends or about school, he said, well, you would know if you had been here. Other than my daughter, who was an adult and better able to understand, there was no one else in my life that I really cared about reconnecting with. I had already quit my job. I was separated from my soon-to-be ex-husband, and I really didn't have any friends. The only thing that I wanted, other than my sanity, was my little man back. So when about two weeks later, he told me that he wanted to spend.

more time at his dad's house, and less time with me, it stung. He said that his dad's house felt like home base, so his father and I moved to a standard visitation model, where I took Ian every other weekend and one night a week for dinner. I was an intensive outpatient treatment, including 12-step meetings every day, and one-on-one therapy three times a week. Healing my mental trauma had to be number one priority if I was going to survive. But I also was determined to be there for Ian. I went to his basketball games and the screaming coaches triggered me so I brought crochet projects so that I could support him in spite of my fragile state. On weekends, I spent every minute with him. Sometimes things went smoothly and sometimes Ian's anger triggered me and it took everything in

me not to respond. One day, shortly after selling my house and most of my belongings, I had an idea. School was almost out. So I asked Ian if he could go anywhere in the continental United States, where would he go? And without hesitation, he said, the top of the space needle in Seattle. And with that, an epic journey was born. I packed the rest of my belongings into my Hyundai Alantra and the two of us took off for the road trip of a lifetime. From Ohio, we went to Atlanta to visit his sister. From Georgia, we headed towards the Gulf. When I got to Mississippi, I got off the highways so that we could drive along the beach. As soon as we saw the Gulf of Mexico, I pulled over the car and both of us ran towards the waves. We were laughing and squealing and

splashing. The sun was shining on us. The beach. was empty, it was glorious, and it was a start. Ian and I hiked the Grand Canyon, body served in the Pacific Ocean, and made a last-minute stop and Crater Lake, where Ian jumped off of a cliff into the nearly freezing water. I, however, was terrified, but he kept encouraging me, you can do it, Mom! So eventually I jumped. By the time we reached the space needle in Seattle, Ian and I were really connecting again, especially on those long drives where we had plenty of time to talk,

and it felt really good. We got back to Dayton shortly before school started, and I dropped him off at his father's house, and shortly after, his anger returned. I was now homeless, staying with friends and family. And when I told Ian that I had applied for assistance in order to buy us groceries,

he told me that I was embarrassing. He demanded that I'd take him back to his father's house and he refused to eat the food that I had purchased. One day, his school sent home an email, informing the parents that the following day there was going to be an assembly at school to teach the kids about the warning signs of suicide, and their friends and family and how to help them.

As soon as I read the email, I knew that Ian could not go to school without a conversation. So that night, I brought up the topic and the assembly, and I asked Ian how he felt about it. He started to ask questions, the ones we hadn't talked about. Like, why did I go to treatment? What was the last straw? What would have happened if I hadn't gone?

Why couldn't I go back to work? Was I better now? None of the questions surprised me, but his tone was different. Instead of angry, he was curious. But answering the questions was still hard. I wanted to be honest, but explaining suicide to a 12-year-old isn't easy. At one point, he asked if he could call his father, and he went in the other room. He didn't normally call his father when he was with me, so I wasn't sure why he wanted to call him now.

I nervously paced the kitchen until he came out, and I saw that he was crying. He came over, and he gave me a big hug, and he said, Mom, I'm really glad you're here. I immediately started to cry too when I hugged him hard and I said, Me too, bud. I wasn't expecting this. But even more, I wasn't expecting how I felt about it.

For so long, I had wanted Ian's anger to subside. I wanted to connect with my son. But this moment didn't feel the way that I thought it would feel instead of relieved, I felt sad. What I realized was that Ian's anger was so much easier to handle than his understanding. You see, when he was angry with me, he could offload the reality by making his pain, my pain.

It was my fault. I had ruined his life. But when the truth of what might have been, really sunk in. The truth now rested on his shoulders. He understood completely how close he came to losing his mother. And watching that truth sink in was hard to bear.

There was no longer a shield to protect him from the truth. Ian didn't go to school the next day. Instead, we spent the date to get. We went out for breakfast, just the two of us, and we tossed a football in the park. And with that day, our healing truly began. Today, Ian is an 18-year-old young man. He's a college freshman who graduated high school with a 4.6 GPA and a college essay about that whirlwind trip we took across the campus.

we took across the country. And I almost missed it. All of it. Varsity sports, awards, vacations, laughter, first love, first heartbreak, broken bones and birthdays, seven years of a healing, healthy relationship that I am so incredibly grateful for.

Thank you. Bridget Flerity is a storyteller and writer from Dayton, Ohio. She's writing a book comparing the rules of poker to the rules of patriarchy, unpacking power, risk, and the human desire for connection. At the time of this recording, Ian is a senior in college set to graduate with a dual major in finance and supply chain. Bridget tells us that over the past three years, he has chosen to unpack the challenges of his youth and heal the wounds, created by his

parents dysfunction. Today, she says Ian is a vibrant young man, wise beyond his years, and she could not be more proud of the person he has chosen to become. You can see photos from Bridget Nien's road trip at our website, the moth.org. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time, and that's the story from the Moth. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was hosted and produced by me, J. Alice. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, Associate producer Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Larry Rosen,

with additional Grand Slam coaching by Jennifer Hickson and Chloe Salmon. The Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Marina Clucce, Sarah Austin Janesse, Jordanale, Caledonia Cairns, Kate Tellers, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Yerenia. Moth stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by this story. Our theme music is by The Drift, other music in this hour from SAP, Blue Dot Sessions, Me and My Friends, John Schofield and Dave Holland, Stelwagon's Symphonette, and Diwali and Philippe Budo.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story, and to learn all about The Moth. Go to our website, the moth.org. Ever listen to The Moth and thought, I have a story to tell. We'd love to hear it.

The Moth pitch line is your chance to share a two-minute pitch of your true personal story. Record it right on our site at the moth.org or call 877-799 Moth. That's 877-999-69-66-84. Here's the thing. We listen to every single pitch.

Your story could end up on our podcast, our stage, or inspiring someone who needs to hear it. Share your story at the moth.org or call 877-799 moth. Everyone has a story worth telling. Tell us yours.