I’m in the middle of a divorce. Not the kind that’s already over and neatly wrapped in lessons learned—but the kind where everything still feels raw, uncertain, and unfinished. I’m still in it. Still untangling the life I built with someone else. Still waking up with a heavy heart and pushing forward because I have no other choice.
And honestly? I’m scared to death of what comes next.
I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for the last few years. My days used to be slow and familiar—story time, snacks, nap routines, the warm hum of daily life with a little one. I didn’t have to worry about how to pay rent or whether I could afford groceries next week. But that life unraveled quickly, and now I’m trying to figure out how to survive and still give my daughter the childhood she deserves.
I apply for jobs constantly. Remote writing gigs, customer service, virtual assistant work—anything that might let me be home with her while still making ends meet. When I don’t have her, I deliver for Uber Eats. I’ve emailed strangers asking if they need help with their blogs or social media accounts. I’ve stretched every dollar and leaned on temporary government help. I’m trying. I’m exhausted. And I still lie awake at night wondering if it will ever be enough.
My daughter is only three, but she notices everything—like how Daddy no longer lives here, and she only sees him a couple days a week. She tells me she loves him and misses him, and every time she says it, it breaks my heart a little more. She’s still learning how to process it all, and I’m learning how to hold space for her emotions while carrying my own.
I want to protect her from the weight of it all, but some days I barely have enough energy to protect myself. Still, I show up. I cook dinner, I sing bedtime songs, I cuddle her when the world feels too big. I smile even when my heart is aching. I do my best to hold it all together for her.
But somewhere in the midst of all this unraveling, I’ve started to find something unexpected—a small sense of rediscovery.
I haven’t always loved to write. This is something new and exciting for me. A fresh way to process everything that’s happening. Before all of this, I loved photography. I fell out of it somewhere along the way, but now I’m slowly dipping my toes back in. And writing? It’s becoming a quiet place to catch my breath.
I write devotionals, journal entries, prayers. I write late at night when the house is still and the weight of the day has softened just enough to breathe. Writing has become a place to lay down my fears. It’s where I talk to God, where I give myself permission to hope, and where I whisper reminders to myself that I’m still here—even if I don’t feel strong.
And in these slow, messy, in-between days, I’ve realized something else: I’m not just surviving this divorce—I’m learning how to become someone new through it.
I’m learning how to hold joy and grief at the same time. I’m learning how to ask for help, even when it humbles me. I’m learning how to be honest about how hard this is, without letting it define me. And I’m learning how to find moments of peace with my daughter, even when the future feels uncertain.
We go for walks. We bake muffins. We read the same book twelve times in a row. We sit on the floor and play with all of her little figurines. And in those moments, I’m reminded that this version of motherhood—this stripped-down, vulnerable, “just doing my best” version—is still sacred.
I’m not the mother I used to be. I’m more tired now. A little more anxious. But I’m also more grounded. More intentional. More grateful for the little things. I don’t have everything figured out—not even close—but I’m trying to build a life that feels real and rooted in love.
So yes, I’m scared of the future. I don’t know where we’ll live a year from now or how I’ll make enough money to truly feel stable. I don’t know how I’ll explain all of this to my daughter as she grows up. But I do know this: she will never doubt that she was loved fiercely and completely.
And I know that I will keep showing up for her, even when I’m afraid.
Because that’s what mothers do. We carry it all—fear, hope, exhaustion, joy—and we keep going. One ordinary day at a time.
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