Honoring My Pain and Learning to Walk Through It
Today marks a small but significant milestone: my two-and-a-half-year-old fell asleep on the couch by herself this morning. It’s 10:15 a.m., and honestly, I’m stunned. This is the child who nearly broke me. The one who shifted our world in the most beautiful and challenging ways. The one who never falls asleep without hours of struggle. She’s had trouble with regulation—not by any fault of her own but because of the circumstances she faced early on. Born two months premature and alone in the NICU for weeks, she bears marks that are part of her story, shaping her journey in ways unseen to most.
Most days, you might not notice it. Little by little, she’s learning to adapt to routines and sleep schedules, but it has taken so much time and patience. Some nights, my husband and I just share a look—a glance that speaks volumes, filled with the weight of these past few years. The exhaustion, the endurance—it’s been hard, no doubt. But please don’t misunderstand; this isn’t a complaint. Alongside every hard moment, there are countless blessings, none of which I would trade. Every challenging piece has woven a life far more beautiful than I deserve, one I’m deeply grateful for.
Yet, as she sleeps peacefully downstairs, I feel the weight lifting just a little. With every passing day, things grow a bit more manageable. It makes me think about how many others are walking through their own quiet battles, the kind that go unseen.
Each morning, my daughter and I walk her older sister to school. Her sister just started kindergarten, and the change has been tough for her. My older kids are now in middle and high school, so I don’t know many of the other parents at this new school. And for the first month, our walk was a battle—my two-year-old screaming, kicking, flailing, each step feeling like a test of patience. I tried everything: snacks, toys, music. But the truth is, she thrives on routine, and saying goodbye to her “best friend sister” each morning is a big disruption to her world.
So, while the other parents cast their looks, maybe judging, maybe not, I’ve reached a point where it simply doesn’t matter. Think what they will. Our family has chosen a path that’s messy, imperfect, and yes, beautiful. They don’t know the backstory, and they don’t need to.
Now, as the weeks have passed, she’s grown to love the walk. We point out the same statues and trees, making the journey part of her routine. She no longer flails; she’s learning to settle, bit by bit. The scars and story remain, but they’ve softened. And I know that each of us carries a similar story, hidden just beneath the surface. Behind our smiles, there’s a depth of pain that connects us.
I’m no longer afraid of that pain. It deepens us, building empathy and drawing us closer to our Creator. Jesus knew pain intimately. His path was only forward, through the pain, and I believe ours is, too. Suppressing or hiding it never serves us well; it’ll always find a way out. Our way forward is through—acknowledging it, honoring it, and letting it shape us.
So, to anyone carrying hidden struggles, know that you’re not alone. I pray you find the courage to step forward, embracing the hard moments as they come. May each step bring you closer to a place of peace, strength, and understanding. And as you walk your own journey, remember that pain doesn’t diminish who we are—it deepens us. Let it be the thread that connects us to each other and to our Creator, as we grow in empathy, love, and resilience for the path ahead.
