Disappointment

I’ve come to understand that I’m allowed to begin again—even if it means starting over a hundred times in a single week. Some days unravel without warning, and I feel like I’m just keeping my head above water. But starting over isn’t weakness… it’s a quiet kind of bravery. Every time I rise again, I’m choosing myself. It doesn’t have to be flawless—it just has to be real.

That’s the mantra I whisper to myself when the nights get heavy.

This past weekend cut deep. I disappointed my son—truly disappointed him—and the ache of that has lingered like a bruise I can’t hide. I never meant for my children to be pulled into the storm of my choices, my wounds. Especially not her… my daughter. She’s been my strength, my mirror, my quiet anchor. But I see now I’ve leaned on her in ways I never should have. I hate that I blurred the lines between mother and confidante, asking her to carry burdens that weren’t hers.

I’ve been selfish. Desperate. Human.

And now, with my heart raw and my spirit aching, I retreat into the only places left that feel safe—my words… and my prayers. Countless whispered prayers. Because when everything else crumbles, God remains. My rock. My refuge.