Middle of the storm

Middle of the Storm

My life feels like it’s unraveling. Some days it seems as though every seam is splitting at once — finances, children, relationships, even my faith. I’m trying to hold it all together with shaking hands, but the storm keeps raging harder.

I’m facing legal and financial pressures that have drained me emotionally. I tried to find a way out, only to discover more obstacles and loss. My footing feels completely gone.

But what hurts even deeper than money is the weight of my children. One of my daughters is living away from home, and that alone has broken me. Every night, I feel the ache of her not being under my roof. I think of how she must feel too — abandoned, unwanted, angry, hurting — and it tears at me.

On a recent visit, everything spiraled. She came ready for conflict, tried to provoke me, and said things no mother ever wants to hear. She threatened to harm herself and me. Authorities eventually intervened and she was taken for help. Watching her spiral and knowing I couldn’t stop it ripped my mama heart apart. And now I have no contact with her. I tell myself I’m doing what’s best, but the silence between us feels like a punishment that breaks my heart.

Another one of my children is in trouble with the law. His choices terrify me. In the middle of all this, there’s tension between siblings that has turned into fights I can barely break up. I keep stepping in, desperate to stop the chaos, but it often leaves me accused of taking sides when all I’m trying to do is keep my family from tearing itself apart.

Resentment has grown in my home. Things have been damaged, cruel words have been hurled, and my heart has been pierced in ways I can’t describe. Just when I thought the storm might calm for a moment, another blow came — one of my children was harmed by someone I trusted. Watching her brokenness and hearing her recount it to people meant to help her crushed me. My heart is in pieces.

Through all this, I feel the darkness creeping back in — the same darkness I once knew when I was in such a hopeless place that I tried to end my own life. I recognize its voice, whispering that I can’t keep going, that I can’t hold it all together. And some days, I almost believe it.

Even my relationships, the places I should find shelter, feel shaky. My anger boils over, exploding at those closest to me for small things, and afterward I feel ashamed. But in the moment, everything feels too much. I’ve grown hyper-aware of flaws, magnifying them, resenting the emotions of others when I can barely manage my own. I tell myself they should be strong enough to shoulder my storms without bringing me theirs, but instead, we clash. I want them to understand me when I explode — to look past the anger and see the woman breaking underneath.

This storm is relentless. My finances, my children, my relationships, my spirit — everything feels under attack. I am exhausted, broken, and so close to hopelessness. And yet, somehow, I am still here. My heart is still beating.

I am desperate for God, but He feels so far away. At first I whispered scriptures, choked out prayers, and begged for peace. But now, even that feels like too much. My faith is trembling; my prayers come out as silence or tears.

Still, in the dimmest corner of my heart, there is a flicker — not strength, not certainty, but a stubborn kind of hope. Even with a downcast soul and shaking faith, I keep telling myself: He has not left me. I may not feel Him, I may not see the way through, but I am still here. Still breathing. Still reaching.

And for now, that is all I can do.

“For we are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

— 2 Corinthians 4:8–9