It's Not in My GPS

Today is day two of being back to work.

My anxiety is high this morning. I couldn't quiet my thoughts, so before I logged on, I came outside to get them out of my head. Maybe if I can empty some of what's spinning inside of me, I can start the morning a little lighter.

I feel like there are chunks of my life missing.

Not memories.

Pieces of me.

When I look back over my life, caregiving was never part of the plan. I never imagined that my greatest purpose would become keeping two little boys alive. I didn't know that I would spend over a decade navigating hospitals, therapies, specialists, insurance companies, emergency rooms, medications, equipment, and advocating for children who couldn't advocate for themselves.

And if I'm honest, I didn't know what that assignment would cost me.

It cost me time.

It cost me opportunities.

It cost me parts of myself that I don't even know how to describe.

Would I do it all over again?

Without hesitation.

Every single time.

Darren and Jaxon got all of me.

I left nothing on the table.

If there is one area of my life that I don't question, it's how I loved them.

I know what kind of mother I was.

I know what kind of advocate I was.

I know how hard I fought.

But nobody tells you what happens when the assignment you've been completely devoted to ends.

Nobody tells you how to become someone else after spending years becoming exactly who your children needed you to be.

I'm used to being an A+ student.

I'm used to solving problems.

I'm used to walking into impossible situations and somehow finding a way through them.

People have depended on me because, somehow, I usually figured it out.

I don't recognize that woman right now.

When I look at my life today, I don't feel like I have an A in anything.

Not one thing.

Not as a wife.

Not as a daughter.

Not financially.

Not professionally.

Not emotionally.

Not even spiritually some days.

If I'm grading myself honestly, I don't even know that I have a B!

And that is a painful sentence to write because excellence has always mattered to me.

Faithfulness has always mattered to me.

Being a good steward has always mattered to me.

Right now, I don't feel like I'm doing any of those things well.

I don't feel like I'm making progress.

I don't feel like I'm making good decisions.

I don't feel like I'm being a good steward of what God has entrusted to me.

I don't feel like I'm making my boys proud.

That one hurts to write.

Because everything I've ever done has been to make them proud.

People tell me I'm strong.

I wish they knew how foreign that word feels when they say it.

Because I don't feel strong.

I feel attacked.

I feel exhausted.

I feel like I got the wind knocked out of me eight months ago, and I still haven't caught my breath.

I don't want this to sound like self-pity.

This is simply the truth of where I am.

God has been faithful.

That has never changed.

I've been obedient.

That has never changed either.

But somewhere during this grieving process, something became misaligned.

I don't know if it's me.

I don't know if it's my expectations.

I don't know if it's because grief has a way of rearranging everything you thought you knew.

All I know is this doesn't feel like a storm anymore.

Storms come and go.

This feels like earthquakes, hurricanes, tsunamis—one after another.

Every time I think I've found solid ground, something else shifts underneath me.

I really believed obedience would look different than this.

Not easier.

Just...different.

I never imagined obedience would come with this much anxiety.

This much depression.

This much fear.

This much therapy.

This much praying just to make it through an ordinary Tuesday.

Some days I pray more than I speak.

And sometimes my prayers aren't polished.

Sometimes they sound like,

"God...do You remember my address?

Do You remember Your daughter?"

Because it's so quiet.

Painfully quiet.

The kind of quiet that lets your thoughts become louder than your faith.

This season doesn't feel like purpose.

It feels like wandering.

It feels like I've been dropped into a life I don't recognize, carrying responsibilities I don't know how to carry, trying to become someone I haven't met yet.

I don't know where I am anymore.

Not physically.

Identity-wise.

I'm corporate.

I'm an independent author.

I'm a wife.

I'm a mother to two boys in Heaven and one little boy here on earth.

I'm a daughter.

I'm a friend.

I can list all of my titles.

I just don't know where I fit inside of them anymore.

Sometimes I wonder if people look at me and all they see is the woman who lost two sons.

The woman who writes blogs about grief.

The woman people call strong.

The woman who's in therapy.

The woman whose health is failing.

Sometimes I feel like I'm wearing a scarlet letter that everyone can see.

I don't know if that's true.

I just know that's how it feels.

What's even harder is feeling like my grief doesn't stay contained inside of me anymore.

It spills into everything.

It affects my marriage.

It affects my family.

It affects my friendships.

It affects my finances.

It affects my work.

It affects promises I've made.

I don't want to become someone who blames everything on grief.

But I also can't pretend that eight months ago my entire life exploded.

It did.

And I'm still trying to figure out how to live inside the aftermath.

My life coach once told me to borrow her lungs until I could breathe again.

I've held onto those words.

But this morning I had a different thought.

I need to give them back.

She deserves to breathe too.

Because right now it feels like everything I touch, I damage.

Everything I touch needs repairing.

Everything I touch becomes another thing I have to apologize for or fix.

And I don't want to hand that weight to someone else.

Maybe that's grief talking.

Maybe it's shame.

Maybe it's both.

I honestly don't know anymore.

What I do know is that God keeps asking me to trust Him.

He keeps asking me to believe that what's ahead is different from what's behind me.

And I do believe Him.

I really do.

But belief and feelings aren't always standing in the same place.

Today...

Hope doesn't feel like it lives at this address.

And maybe that's because I don't even know what my address is anymore.

The woman I used to be doesn't live here.

The woman God is creating hasn't introduced herself yet.

I don't know where I reside anymore. The new house and the new address—I don't know it. It's not in the GPS for me to find it

I believe God when He says this season won't last forever.

I believe Him.

I just don't know how to get from here to there.

And maybe that's the most honest thing I can say today.

Not that I've lost my faith.

Not that I've stopped trusting God.

But that I no longer recognize myself.

Today, that's my truth.