Grace Under Fire: Showing Up When You’re Barely Holding On

 You ever have a week where everything hits at once?

The kind that asks you to be brave, bold, vulnerable, focused—and still somehow functional?

Yeah. That kind.

There are seasons that ask a little of us—extra patience, more focus, maybe a little overtime.

And then… there are seasons that ask everything.

The ones that stack grief and deadlines on the same calendar.

That schedule joy and fear back-to-back.

That demand your presence while your soul is still catching up.

The kind of season where your to-do list feels like a trap door.

Where people keep expecting you to be “on,” when all you want is to be offline.

You know the one:

• Someone’s waiting on an email.

• Another person’s texting “you good?” with a question mark that feels like pressure.

• There’s a meeting. An appointment. A family event. A grief day creeping up on the calendar.

• Life is life-ing. Hard.

And yet—you show up. Not because it’s easy. But because you’ve trained yourself to.

Because people depend on you.

Because disappearing feels more dangerous than pretending.

That’s not weakness.

That’s resilience with edges.

That’s grace under fire.

People expect presence, even when you’re emotionally absent.

They want quick replies. They want you to keep the same energy.

They want the version of you that’s funny, available, and comforting—even when you need comfort.

And if you don’t deliver it fast enough?

They notice.

They get quiet.

They get distant.

Sometimes they even get mad.

But what they don’t see is that you’re holding it together by the last thread— sometimes literally by the one chin hair you forgot to tweeze that morning. 🫠

This isn’t a cry for attention. It’s a call for compassion.

So many people are walking around with weighted hearts and invisible burdens.

Some are silently grieving.

Some are dealing with health scares.

Some are starting over—again.

And some… are just tired.

Really, truly, bone-deep tired.

Not lazy. Not unmotivated. Just worn the hell out.

So if you’re reading this and you feel like life is asking too much right now — this is your permission slip to be a little slower, a little softer, a little selfish.

You don’t owe constant access to people who don’t notice when you start to fade.

Here’s what I know for sure:

You’re doing the best you can with what you’ve got. And that? That’s enough.

You are enough.

Even if the texts go unanswered.

Even if you don’t show up to everything.

Even if all you managed today was survival.

That’s not failure.

That’s grace—even if it’s under fire.

🕊️ Written with love for the ones quietly carrying it all.

Reflection:

Have you ever had a season that asked everything of you? 

Share your heart in the comments below.

Not All Grief Wears Black

Grief wears many faces.

We’re taught to associate it with funerals, black clothing, flowers that wilt too quickly, and casseroles brought to quiet houses. But some of the hardest grief doesn’t come from death. It comes from absence. From silence. From people who are very much still alive but no longer accessible, emotionally or physically.

It’s the friend you thought would be in your wedding, but now you don't even follow each other on social media. It’s the ex you still dream about even though the relationship ended with no explanation, no closure—just distance. It’s the sibling whose number you still have, but you don't feel safe dialing. It's the parent in the hospital bed who looks like them, but isn't quite them anymore.

This is the grief that doesn’t always get a ceremony. The grief that lingers in quiet corners and awkward silences. And it deserves to be named.

Grief isn’t limited to death. It finds us in:

* Friendships that faded or fractured, especially childhood bonds.

* Romantic relationships that ended without closure or conversation.

* Family ties strained by estrangement, mental illness, addiction, or unresolved conflict.

* Watching a loved one decline due to health issues, slowly losing the person while they are still present.

There is grief in confusion. Grief in the unspoken. Grief in the *what-ifs*.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross gave us the original stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But when grieving the living, the cycle isn't so neat. It bends, loops, and boomerangs.

* **Denial**: "Maybe they’ll come back. Maybe it’s just a phase."

* **Anger**: At them. At yourself. At the universe for how unfair it feels.

* **Bargaining**: Replaying texts, wishing you said or did something different.

* **Depression**: That ache of emptiness, mourning what never even got a proper ending.

* **Acceptance**: Not peace, necessarily. But a moment when you realize you have to live anyway.

These stages don’t follow order. Sometimes they crash in all at once. Sometimes acceptance shows up quietly, only to slip away again.

**The Grief That Lingers**

When someone dies, we hold ceremonies. We cry. People check in. We wear black and speak in hushed tones. But when someone walks away, fades out, or disconnects—we’re often expected to just carry on.

That lingering grief is harder to explain. Harder to justify. But it's real.

You may:

* Isolate because explaining the loss feels embarrassing or complicated.

* Doubt your self-worth, wondering what you did wrong.

* Feel haunted by memories, unable to detach.

Grief—especially unresolved grief—reshapes how we show up in relationships. It can make us more guarded, more anxious, or even emotionally unavailable. It may make us hold tighter or let go quicker.

It challenges our ability to trust. To hope. It carves new scars where soft spots used to be.

But it can also deepen our empathy. Refine our boundaries. Teach us to honor what was *and* what must be let go.

Not everyone will say goodbye. Not every relationship gets a closing paragraph.

So we learn to:

* Write our own endings.

* Accept silence as its own kind of answer.

* Grieve what could have been, and still bless what was.

* Forgive, even if only for our own healing.

Closure isn’t always something someone else gives us. Sometimes it's something we create, stitch by stitch.

Give yourself permission to:

* Mourn without apology.

* Speak their name if it brings you comfort.

* Block, mute, or release if it brings you peace.

* Celebrate how far you’ve come since the ache began.

You don’t need a tombstone to grieve.

You don’t need permission to feel.

Grief isn’t a weakness. It’s evidence that you loved, that you hoped, that you cared deeply.

And even when closure never comes, healing still can.

💭 Journal Prompt:

1. Who or what am I still grieving, even if no one else sees it as grief?

Allow yourself to name the loss—without shame, without justification. Just honesty.

2. What would I say to the person I’ve lost (through distance, silence, or change) if I knew they’d never respond?

Write the words your heart needs to say, not for them, but for you.

3. How has grief reshaped me—for better or for worse—and what am I ready to reclaim?

Explore who you’ve become in the aftermath. What parts of you are stronger? What parts need gentle tending?

4. In what ways can I give myself the closure I never received?

Think about rituals, boundaries, or affirmations that can help you move forward.

5. *What does healing look like for me right now? Not someday—now.

Write about what your next step toward peace could be. It doesn’t have to be big. Just real.

Letting Go of What Was Never Mine

There’s a strange kind of grief in releasing something you never truly had. A friendship that only existed in your effort. A relationship where you were the only one holding on. A version of your life you clung to because it felt familiar, not because it felt right.

I’ve been learning that sometimes the hardest things to let go of are the things that were never really mine to hold. The comfort I tried to find in uncomfortable places. The people I tried to keep who were never meant to stay. The roles I played in lives I no longer belong to.

But letting go doesn’t always mean losing—it can mean choosing.

Choosing to grow.

Choosing to explore new memories, new connections, and new parts of yourself.

And maybe, just maybe, choosing to finally feel free.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with the idea of change — real change. The kind that stretches you, pulls you out of your familiar places, and asks you to trust what you can’t yet see. There’s a job opportunity that might mean relocating, and while it excites me, it also scares me. Not because I don’t believe I’m capable, but because it would mean leaving behind a city that’s given me a sense of comfort — even if I’ve never truly been comfortable here.

There’s something about being in a place where you know all the streets, all the routines, all the faces—but still feel unseen. Still feel like you don’t fully belong. I’ve called this place “home,” but if I’m honest, I’ve only ever settled here. I’ve built safety around what I’ve survived, not what’s made me feel alive.

And then there’s friendship. The ones that give me momentary happiness, quick laughs, shared memories — but lack depth, honesty, or purpose. I’ve been clinging to connections that feel good in passing but leave me lonely when I need to feel known. And I think I’ve stayed because I didn’t want to face what walking away might reveal about the spaces I’ve outgrown.

I’m even learning to grieve old versions of myself—the one who needed constant validation, the one who people-pleased out of fear of rejection, the one who stayed small to make others comfortable. I want to let her go, but I don’t fully know who comes next. And that unknown is scary. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the new version of me won’t come from certainty, but from courage.

I’m learning that the unknown doesn’t have to be something to fear—it can be sacred. A blank page where God can write something new. A space where I can meet parts of myself I’ve never known, or maybe forgotten. I don’t have all the answers, and I’m not supposed to. That’s what faith is for.

Letting go and letting God isn’t always graceful. Sometimes it feels like crying in the middle of the night, whispering prayers that don’t have words yet. Sometimes it’s sitting in silence, heart open, hands unclenched, choosing to trust even when I don’t understand. But other times, it’s peace that surprises me. It’s a stillness in my soul when I realize I don’t have to hold it all together. It’s knowing that I’m guided—even in the in-between.

I’m opening myself up to new things. New environments. New connections. New ways of living and loving and being. I’m allowing myself to hope again—not just for what I want, but for what’s meant for me. And I’ve decided that if I have to leave people, places, or versions of myself behind in the process, then I will—with love, not bitterness.

Because anything or anyone truly meant for me will never be threatened by my growth. They’ll celebrate it. They’ll cheer me on, even from a distance. And if they can’t, then maybe they were only meant for the version of me that stayed small.

I want to grow into someone I can be proud of.

Someone who walks in purpose and peace.

Someone who feels whole—with or without the people I thought I couldn’t let go of.

And if you’re here too…

If you’re in a season of letting go—of people, of places, of past versions of yourself—I want you to know that you’re not alone. It’s okay to grieve what never fully belonged to you. It’s okay to feel scared about what’s next. But don’t let that fear keep you from becoming.

Give yourself permission to grow. To heal. To change. To chase the life God has for you, even if you don’t yet know what it looks like. Trust that He’s already gone ahead of you and made the way. You don’t have to have it all figured out—just be willing to take the first step.

Affirm this with me:

• I release what no longer serves me.

• I trust that what’s ahead is greater than what’s behind.

• I welcome new beginnings with an open heart.

• I believe that I am safe to grow, even if it means outgrowing.

• I am whole—becoming more of who I was always meant to be.

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” — Isaiah 43:19 (NIV)

Let go.

Let God.

And let your life become the beautiful, unfolding story it was always meant to be.

Whispered Promises: Hopeful Hearts in Seasons of Waiting

 

A waiting season is a period when someone is waiting for something to happen, such as a spouse, child, or healing. Waiting seasons can be challenging, but they can also be a time of preparation and growth.

There’s a special kind of ache that comes with waiting for love. It’s a quiet longing, a mix of hope and uncertainty, and some days it feels like the wait will never end. But here’s what I’ve learned and continue to learn daily; the waiting season is not a punishment – it’s a gift. It’s a chance to grow, prepare, and hold space for the kind of love worth the wait.

I’ve had moments when I wondered if love was meant for everyone except me. Watching others find their person while I stood still felt lonely. But then I realized – this season isn’t about comparison; it’s about one’s own journey.

I am starting to see this season as preparation. I asked myself; What kind of love am I hoping to find, and am I ready to give that kind of love in return? This season became about learning to love myself. Taking myself on solo dates, exploring hobbies, revisiting old hobbies I let die, and discovering strengths I didn’t know I had. By doing this each day it became less about what I didn’t have and more about how I could live my life full … right here, right now!

Always be reminded that love doesn’t have to come on anyone else’s timeline but yours. Every step you take now – every dream you chase, every lesson you learn – brings you closer to the love that’s meant for you. It’s always easier to see the negative of things and at times we may feel like love is slipping through our fingers. But the truth is, every season has its purpose. If you’re waiting, it’s not because you’re unworthy or forgotten – it’s often because something beautiful is being woven together for you, one thread at a time. The Bible says that God creates seasons in our lives to help us become who He wants us to be.

Bible verses that relate to waiting include Psalm 37:7, Psalm 40:1, and Psalm 130:5.

Let us be reminded that:

• Abraham waited 25 years for a son.
• Jacob waited 14 years to marry his beloved.
• Joseph waited 13 years for his sufferings to be redeemed.
• Jesus waited 30 years before fulfilling His Father's will.

One day this waiting season will make sense. You’ll look back and realize that the time you spent here was the foundation for the love you’d always hoped for. Until then, stay hopeful. You are worthy of love, and it’s already on its way. 💕