Strong and resilient. That is what I want my kids to be. But I can’t even manage it myself. I’m so tired of having to be strong, and I’m definitely not resilient. If I were, I wouldn’t be sitting here, crumbling in front of my computer, tears streaming down my face.
It’s people.
I really don’t like people.
This feels ironic because I work tirelessly to help people—to build community—because I know how amazing life could be if we all came together. If we cared for one another, not just for our own best interests. I’ve seen how this could work. I’ve caught glimpses of it. And I hold onto the promise from God: We are not meant to walk this life alone.
But today, it feels like a losing battle.
People suck.
It seems like the only thing I’ve learned over the last year is this: the harder you try to help others, the more you get steamrolled.
This morning started off well. I didn’t wake up with crippling anxiety. I sat in church next to my good friend during worship, and we decided to go back. Both of us struggle with anxiety, and with her wedding anniversary coming up, we whispered and shared photos from our weddings.
It was a rare moment of joy, a time in our lives untouched by anxiety.
Were we 100% blameless before this morning’s event? No.
There were two women sitting nearby who didn’t like us talking. They chose hostility. A few polite words would have stopped us in our tracks, but that’s not what happened.
“You two haven’t stopped talking even once. Can you be quiet? You’ve talked through everything,” one of them said.
I didn’t see it coming.
We hadn’t talked through everything. We didn’t speak during prayer. We didn’t speak during the entirety of worship. We whispered between moments, sharing something that felt meaningful to us.
And then another chimed in, “Thank you,” as though this public scolding was necessary.
Was there a better place for us to chat? Yes. But what they failed to realize is who they were speaking to: two moms, 11 months postpartum, both grappling to find joy in life. Two moms who are fighting the daily battle of being present with their families while feeling like shells of themselves.
The old me wouldn’t have let it go. I would have defended myself. But I’m older now. Wiser? It doesn’t feel like it. If I were wiser, this interaction wouldn’t have left me feeling so broken.
“Mean girls don’t remember what they said.”
So I got up. I apologized. And I walked away, just as the sermon began.
I walked out of church.
So much damage in such a short time. They won’t remember.
But here I am. A child of God, and yet I feel like I’ve let Him down. I’ve heard the scripture, the sermons, and the songs that tell me that could never happen.
Yet here we are.
What is my worth?
I’m grappling.
I’m 11 months postpartum, and this anxiety has been unbearable. I’m so tired of feeling worthless, of feeling like a burden.
I wake up, and I dread that today could be a day that anxiety will strike. There is no way of telling when it will happen or what will trigger it, so there is no way to prepare. And the triggers never stay the same.
Sometimes it’s eating. Sometimes it’s the fear of getting sick because I can’t imagine being unwell but needing to care for my family. Sometimes it’s the random heart palpitations, an abnormal blood test, or a mysterious twinge in my back that makes me fear another kidney stone. Maybe it’s my three-year-old waking up in the middle of the night screaming, and I can’t figure out why.
My brain always finds a way to spiral. It’s skilled in that way.
Will it end?
I don’t know when. It’s times like this where faith is the hardest. Waiting in between the miracle is so hard. It’s a dark, hopeless, sad, lonely place.
He’s here, though.
Would you believe me if I told you that every interaction I had that morning led me to that row behind those women? And when I was rushing to get my kids from childcare, I misplaced the name tag for my middle child. It led me to the child desk, where Teri was sitting—a woman I hadn’t interacted with much before.
Out of nowhere, I asked her, “Can you talk?”
We walked back to her office, and she talked. She talked as I sobbed on her couch. I broke, and she let me feel. All the while, I cried, she spoke words of encouragement, reminding me not to let the devil win. “God wanted you here,” she said. “The enemy didn’t.”
When she said that, I flashed back to the words I muttered after picking up my youngest: I’m never coming back here, ever.
People suck. There’s so much brokenness in this world.
So I’m going to sit here and put myself back together. Stitch by stitch, I’ll close the wound and heal.
I’ve been crying for the past two hours. This wound is a deep one and may take time to heal. But I will heal. And God will be there, hand on my shoulder, waiting patiently.
It won’t be dark forever. The light will shine again. With His grace during this stormy season, I know there will be breaks in the clouds where He will show me what awaits on the other side.
But if I choose to give up now, to stop moving, I know I will drown.
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