Hope doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it just stays.

I remember when my world crumbled. I remember it wasn’t all at once. It was a slow breaking. One crack, then another, until it was one too many. My heart, my soul shattered in a million pieces. Each shard sharper than the next. Too dangerous to even attempt picking up and putting back together. Broken. 

I remember the grief. I remember the pain. I remember the hopelessness that ached within. The questions that circled my brain until I caved to the pressure. How could I come back? To myself? To my kids? I remember the hate. The bitterness. The anguish of having to live with myself. How could I be loved by anyone else if even I could not stand being around me? 

But then I remember the time. The journey. The long walk home. I remember the love. Not from a romantic source, but from the community God built around me. People that took one look at me in my mess and decided they would stay too. Decided to help me find my way out. 

I remember God. I remember His mercy and grace. I remember almost giving up just to find some strength tucked away for a rainy day. I remember His love. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Especially then. 

Now, the questions are still there. I can’t pretend they’re not. In fact, I refuse to talk about a happiness not fought for every day. The doubt, the longing, the breaking, it’s all still there, yet I will not cave. Not this time. Because I don’t hate myself anymore. So if I can be enough for myself, then surely I am enough for my kids. If I can love myself, then maybe someone else could too. 

So, will I be okay? Will I find joy and peace in the middle of the muck? Will God still love me and use me even here in this storm? Maybe so….