🎄 Lonely on Christmas: A Hidden Blessing🎄

Christmas is often painted as the season of togetherness family gathered around the table, friends exchanging gifts, couples wrapped in cozy traditions. But for many, the holiday feels more like a spotlight on loneliness.

 The empty chair, the quiet room, or the absence of loved ones can make the season heavy. Yet what if loneliness on Christmas isn’t just a burden, but also a blessing in disguise? Loneliness has a way of slowing us down. When the noise of parties and gatherings fades, we’re left with space, space to reflect, to breathe, and to reconnect with ourselves and with God. That silence can feel painful at first, but it also makes room for clarity. It reminds us that joy doesn’t only come from crowds; it can be found in stillness, in prayer, and in gratitude for the life we’ve been given. 

 For those who have lost loved ones, Christmas can feel especially tender. The traditions you shared, the laughter you miss, and the memories that surface can make grief feel sharper. But even in loss, there is blessing. The love you carry for them is proof that their presence mattered, and their impact lives on in you. Lighting a candle, saying a prayer, or honoring their memory in a small ritual can transform grief into gratitude. It’s a way of keeping them close while allowing yourself to heal.

Being alone on Christmas can also be a reset. Instead of following traditions that may not serve us anymore, we get to create new ones. Cook your favorite meal, write down what you’re thankful for, or spend time in scripture. These small acts turn solitude into sanctuary. They remind us that our worth isn’t defined by who sits at our table, but by the love God has already placed within us. Loneliness can even deepen empathy. When we experience it ourselves, we become more aware of others who feel the same. That awareness can inspire us to reach out a phone call, a message, or even a prayer for someone else who might be hurting. In this way, loneliness transforms into compassion, and compassion is one of the greatest gifts we can give. Most importantly, Christmas is not about how many people surround usbit’s about the one who came to save us. The birth of Christ was quiet, humble, and far from glamorous. Yet it changed the world. If He could bring light into a manger, He can bring light into our solitude and into our grief.

Discernment from God vs. Intuition

We live in a world that often praises intuition. People say, “I just knew,” or “I had a gut feeling,” and sometimes they’re right about what they recognize. But what we call intuition is often something deeper it’s hypervigilance and pattern recognition born out of trauma. It’s the survival instinct that scans for danger, remembers past pain, and tries to protect us from repeating it.

 

The problem is that even when our intuition correctly identifies a pattern, we can still make the wrong choices. Why? Because we leave God out of our decisions. 

Intuition alone can tell us something feels familiar, but it cannot tell us if it is healthy. It can alert us to danger, but it cannot guide us toward destiny. That’s where discernment from God comes in. Intuition is shaped by experience. If love was missing in childhood, if chaos was constant, or if betrayal was familiar, our bodies learned to anticipate it. 

We became skilled at spotting signs of trouble. That’s not weakness it’s survival. But intuition without God can mislead us. It can push us toward what feels familiar, even if familiar is toxic. It can convince us that we “know what we need,” when in reality, we’re repeating cycles that keep us stuck. Discernment, however, is different. Discernment is wisdom that comes from God, not just from us. It is the Spirit’s way of separating truth from deception, peace from chaos, and purpose from distraction. 

Where intuition says, “I’ve seen this before,” discernment says, “This is not for you.” Where intuition says, “This feels right,” discernment says, “Lean not unto your own understanding, but in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your path.” This truth applies to all of us men and women alike. Trauma doesn’t discriminate, and neither does God’s wisdom. If you’ve ever felt like your “gut” keeps leading you into the wrong situations, know this: you are not broken. You are not weak. You are human. And you are capable of choosing differently when you invite God into the process. For women, discernment means no longer settling for relationships or environments that drain your worth. For men, discernment means refusing to carry the weight of survival alone and trusting God to guide your steps. 

For both, it means confidence confidence that you don’t have to rely only on your past experiences, but on God’s vision for your future. Discernment strengthens mental health because it shifts us from fear to faith. It calms the nervous system, quiets hypervigilance, and replaces anxiety with peace. It reminds us that we don’t have to figure everything out alone we can rest in God’s guidance. Intuition is valuable, but it’s not enough. Without God, intuition can keep us trapped in cycles of trauma, mistaking familiarity for safety. With God, discernment becomes our compass. It doesn’t just help us recognize patterns it helps us choose differently. So the next time you feel that “gut feeling,” pause. Ask yourself: is this intuition, or is this discernment? Am I leaning on my own understanding, or am I letting God direct my path? The difference could be the very thing that breaks the cycle, protects your mental health, and gives you the confidence to walk boldly into peace.

 “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.” Proverbs 3:5–6

Love Yourself the Way You’ve Been Begging to Be Loved

Yesterday, I opened up about limerence the intoxicating highs and painful lows of chasing love that isn’t fully returned. I talked about how those red flags can trap us in one sided relationships and leave us questioning our worth. But recognizing those patterns is only the first step. Today, I want to go deeper. It’s not just about noticing imbalance it’s about breaking the cycles that created it in the first place, and choosing to love ourselves the way we’ve been begging to be loved.

For many of us, the root of those patterns runs deep. If love was missing in childhood if affection, affirmation, or emotional safety were absent it can shape how we show up in adulthood. We may find ourselves chasing love, over giving, or settling for crumbs, because part of us is still trying to heal what was never nurtured. That doesn’t make us weak it makes us human. But it also means we have the power to rewrite the story.

This month, I’m challenging myself and inviting you to join me to practice self-validation every single day. That means speaking to ourselves with kindness instead of criticism. It means celebrating our wins, even the small ones, and protecting our boundaries instead of bending until we break. It means pouring into our own dreams with the same energy we’ve poured into others, and reminding ourselves daily that we are worthy of love especially our own.

This shift isn’t about anyone else. It’s not a jab, not a demand, not a test. It’s about reclaiming our power. It’s about realizing that love isn’t something we have to beg for it’s something we can embody. When we stop waiting for someone else to validate us, we stop repeating the cycle. We stop shrinking ourselves. We stop questioning if we’re enough. Because we are.

If you’ve ever begged to be loved, here’s your reminder: you don’t have to beg for what you can give yourself. Self validation is the foundation of every healthy relationship. Loving yourself sets the standard for how others love you. And you are worthy of love, even when no one else says it out loud.

Yesterday was about breaking cycles. Today is about building new ones. This month, let’s choose to love ourselves the way we’ve been begging to be loved. And in doing so, let’s set the standard: love should never be begged for it should be lived, starting right now.

When Love Feels Like Too Much (And How to Take Your Power Back)

 Have you ever fallen so hard for someone that they take over your thoughts? You wake up thinking about them, go to bed thinking about them, and in between you’re replaying conversations like they’re the only soundtrack that matters. That’s not just a crush it’s limerence. It feels intoxicating, but it can also leave you drained.

At first, limerence feels magical: late night talks, butterflies, the rush of knowing someone sees you. But here’s the truth nobody tells you limerence isn’t just highs. It’s the silence that feels like rejection. It’s pouring out love and vulnerability, only to be met with flat replies. It’s asking for quality time and being met with defensiveness, or being made to feel guilty and small for simply wanting the love you give in return. It’s giving your heart and wondering if it’s being received with the same depth.

And then the questions creep in: Why am I so weak? Why don’t I deserve more? You start doubting yourself, lowering your boundaries, and handing over full control just to keep the connection alive. But here’s the truth this isn’t okay. Love should never make you feel like you’re begging for scraps of attention.

When someone’s time always seems more important than your feelings, that’s not love it’s imbalance. And imbalance will drain you until you forget your own worth. The moment you find yourself questioning whether you deserve better, that’s your signal. That’s the red flag waving. You do deserve better. You deserve reciprocity, presence, and care that matches the energy you give.

Confidence Boot: Stop Self‑Sabotage and Build Yourself Up

So how do you break the cycle? You start by reclaiming your power.

First, validate yourself before anyone else does. Don’t wait for someone else’s words to prove your worth. Write down three things you love about yourself every morning. Their silence doesn’t erase your value.

Second, catch the spiral. Notice when your thoughts loop around them, and interrupt it with a grounding ritual journal one line, stretch, or breathe deep. Replace “Do they love me?” with “Am I loving myself right now?”

Third, protect your energy. Ask yourself: “Does this exchange restore me or exhaust me?” If it drains you, step back. Your rhythm and recovery matter more than chasing crumbs of attention.

Fourth, make self‑care non‑negotiable. Take yourself out, cook your favorite meal, wear the perfume that makes you feel powerful. Self‑care isn’t indulgence it’s survival.

Finally, build your self‑love muscles. Speak to yourself the way you wish they spoke to you. Celebrate small wins: paying bills, finishing a shift, showing up for yourself. Self‑love grows in repetition, not perfection.

Limerence teaches a hard lesson: longing isn’t love. Real connection is about being seen, heard, and met with the same energy you give. If someone can’t do that, no matter how amazing they are in other ways, then protecting your emotions, your energy, and your self worth has to come first.

Notice the red flags. Don’t be afraid to address them. And most importantly don’t be afraid to walk away when you find yourself questioning your worth. You don’t need anyone else’s validation to prove you’re lovable. You already are. The moment you stop shrinking yourself to fit someone else’s emotional limits, you step into the kind of love that starts with you and radiates outward.

When Pressure Pushes You Away from Yourself: Choosing Self-Love Over External Validation

People often don’t realize the weight they place on you when they’re “just trying to help.” They suggest things, push ideas, and tell you what you “should” be doing. Their intentions may be good, but the impact doesn’t always feel supportive. Instead, it can feel like they’re trying to reshape you—like your own voice isn’t enough, and your choices need to be justified. Over time, you stop living for yourself and start performing for their approval.

Sometimes the hallway is long, and the voices around you echo louder than your own. But self-love means choosing your own direction even when no one walks beside you.

What makes this even more difficult is that the people who pressure you rarely take the time to understand what you’re actually going through, they are concerned and they can give you words of hope but, are they really listening? They don’t ask about your mental health. They don’t sit with your silence or acknowledge your exhaustion. They barely speak on what’s beneath the surface. And because you don’t want to be a burden, you stay quiet. You listen to their advice, absorb their opinions, and let them tell you what you need to do or how you’re not doing enough all while carrying pain they never even notice. The pain that makes you cry yourself to sleep. The pain that make you wonder why me. 

It’s not that they’re cruel. It’s that they’re disconnected. They see your potential but not your fatigue. They want you to rise but don’t recognize what’s weighing you down. And when you try to set boundaries or express disinterest in their suggestions, they dismiss it as fear or laziness. They call it “making excuses,” when in reality, you’re making decisions, intentional thoughtful ones that honor your truth.

This is where self-love becomes essential. Self-love isn’t loud. It doesn’t beg to be understood or validated. It doesn’t need applause. It’s quiet, steady, and rooted in clarity. It’s the moment you say, “I’m proud of myself, even if no one claps, even if they think im being lazy.” It’s the decision to walk away from pressure, even when it’s disguised as care. It’s choosing peace over performance.

Validation from others can feel good, but it’s not sustainable. Because the moment you stop meeting their expectations, the applause fades. And if your worth is built on that noise, you’ll feel lost. That’s why internal validation matters. It’s the kind that doesn’t disappear when you rest. It’s the kind that holds you steady when others don’t understand. It’s the kind that says, “This is enough,” even when the world says, “Do more.”

If you’re constantly being pushed, constantly being told what’s best for you, pause. Ask yourself: What do I want? What feels true to me? You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to earn love through labor. You don’t have to chase validation that vanishes the moment you choose yourself.

You are enough. Even when you’re resting. Even when you’re saying no. Even when you’re not explaining. Let their pressure fall away. Let your own voice rise. That’s self-love. That’s freedom.

The hallway doesn’t ask you to explain. It just lets you walk. That’s what healing feels like—quiet, steady, yours.

Reflection:  

Sometimes healing looks like walking a quiet hallway alone. Not because you want to be distant, but because no one asked how far you’ve already come. The ones who pressure you rarely pause to ask what you’re carrying. They don’t see the weight. They just see the pace.

But self-love means choosing your own direction. It means trusting your steps, even when the hallway is long and the doors stay closed. It means knowing that your silence isn’t emptiness—it’s restoration.

Let the hallway be yours.  

Let the walk be sacred.  

Let your voice rise, even if no one’s waiting at the end.

Breakfast, Breakdown and God

Today I woke up stressed, defeated, disappointed, and hurt. I looked at everything I’m going through and just felt overwhelmed.

But I got up.  

I showered, got dressed, grabbed breakfast, and went straight to the water.

That’s the moment you see in this photo.  

I sat by the water, food in my lap, tears in my eyes.  

I cried hard.  

I talked to God.  

I asked questions.  

I asked for strength.  

I asked for forgiveness.

Nobody ever sees me break down. But today, for some reason, I woke up and felt God telling me, “Go to the water.”

So I did.  

I’m not perfect. I own my mistakes.  

But I’m tired.  

I’m disappointed.  

I’m mentally defeated... but I’m not done.

I’m a strong woman.  

I love helping people.  

I love encouraging others.  

I love praying for everyone.

Right now, I’m in distress—but God hears me.  

He’s real.  

And as I write this, I feel His presence.  

I feel the weight lifting.

That doesn’t mean everything’s fixed.  

It just means He’s comforting me.  

And I feel his love and blessings and I will make today count and keep moving in faith.

A Bold, Visionary Work That Repositions Africa’s Role in the World

There are books that inform. There are books that inspire. And then there are books that shift the atmosphere.

Kuuya’s debut, Africa: Gifted with Unanticipated Global Leadership After America Stepped Back, is one of those rare works that doesn’t just speak—it declares. It’s a call to reimagine Africa’s place in the global power matrix, not as a participant, but as a host, a strategist, and a leader.

In one passage, Kuuya writes:  

> “Hosting is not simply a logistical detail. It is a declaration of readiness, a message to the world that Africa is not just participating in the future but defining it.”

That line stopped me. Because it’s not just about summits or diplomacy—it’s about spiritual posture. It’s about reclaiming authority that was once denied, and stepping into a leadership role that was always ours to hold.

From Johannesburg’s rise as a diplomatic hub to the demand for reparations, Kuuya’s book doesn’t shy away from hard truths. He names the historical injustices—slavery, colonial exploitation—and reframes reparations not as charity, but as a rightful claim to economic partnership.  

> “Western nations must be notified of African peoples’ justified demand for compensation for their historical suffering.”

This isn’t bitterness. It’s clarity. It’s accountability. It’s the kind of truth that makes room for healing and forward motion.

And then there’s his vision for Pan-African unity. Kuuya doesn’t romanticize it. He calls out the gaps—limited funding, fragmented commitment, and the absence of binding political will. But he also casts a vision for what’s possible when Africa’s institutions are fully empowered.  

> “Africa’s journey toward unity cannot rely on speeches or symbolic gestures alone.”

That line feels like a mirror. Because how many of us have settled for symbolism when what we needed was transformation?

Kuuya’s book is a blueprint. A challenge. A love letter to Africa wrapped in strategy and spiritual urgency. And I’m proud—not just of the recognition it’s receiving, but of the man behind the message. His voice is rooted in conviction, clarity, and care. He writes not to impress, but to awaken.

So let the world come to Africa.  

To listen.  

To learn.  

To partner.  

To follow.

PICK UP YOUR COPY HERE ON AMAZON!!!

https://a.co/d/5q4WiKl

OR ON BARNES AND NOBLE

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/africa-gifted-with-unanticipated-global-leadership-after-america-stepped-back-kuuya-murapa/1147876022

Because Africa is not knocking. Africa is leading

When the Ache Is in Your Bones: A Prayer for the Hopeless Hours

📅 August 15, 2025

By Erica Stigall

There are days when the pain doesn’t just visit—it moves in. It settles in your bones like it’s always belonged there. Depression doesn’t knock. It seeps. Loneliness doesn’t shout. It hums in the background, constant and cruel.

Today is one of those days.

I don’t have answers. I don’t have energy. I don’t even have the strength to pretend I’m okay. What I do have is honesty. And maybe that’s enough.

I’ve carried betrayal, disappointment, and the kind of grief that doesn’t come with a funeral. I’ve smiled through the ache, showed up when I wanted to disappear, and prayed when I didn’t feel heard. And still, here I am—bone-weary, heart-heavy, soul-tired.

So I wrote this prayer. Not for the strong. Not for the healed. But for the ones like me—who are still in it.

---

🕊️ A Prayer for the Bone-Weary

> God, I don’t need a miracle today.  

> I need mercy.  

> I need rest for the ache that won’t name itself.  

> I need You to sit with me in this silence,  

> not rush me out of it.  

> Remind me that even here,  

> in the hollow of hopelessness,  

> I am still held.  

> Still worthy.  

> Still Yours.

---

I’m not writing this for pity. I’m writing it for presence. For the reminder that even in the darkest hour, I am not invisible. I am not forgotten. I am not too broken to be loved.

If you’re reading this and you feel it too—this ache, this heaviness—I see you. I honor you. And I pray you find a sliver of light in this offering.

Because even when hope feels impossible, healing is still holy.

💔 When the Helper Feels Broken: A Pause, Not a Goodbye

I’ve spent years trying to be everything my daughter needed—guide, protector, encourager, planner, and therapist rolled into one. In family-based therapy, the model encourages parents to take the lead in a child’s recovery. And I did. I committed myself wholeheartedly. I showed up. Again and again. Even when I was crumbling inside. Now, she’s becoming a mother herself. And I find myself drowning in a tide of emotions I can no longer hold back. I feel unheard. Invisible. Defeated. I cry every day. Not because I’m weak. But because I’ve been strong for so long that my heart is begging for relief. I know the therapy team means well. I know I’ve done everything I could. But today, I need to say something difficult: I’m stepping away. Just for a moment not because I don’t care, but because I care too much. This space has been a lifeline, a sanctuary, a place to share encouragement with fellow parents navigating unimaginable challenges. But right now, I need to make space for myself. To rediscover my worth outside of what I give. To rest without guilt. If you’re a parent reading this, and you feel unseen too... I want you to know this: You're allowed to break down. You're allowed to question your path. You're allowed to step back and breathe. We are so often praised for our resilience, but rarely granted permission to simply be. Today, I’m giving myself that permission—and I hope you’ll do the same when you need it. This isn’t a goodbye. It’s a whisper of self-compassion. Until I return, may you find comfort in knowing your journey matters—even when it's messy, painful, or lonely. With all my heart, —Erica

For the Parent Carrying More Than They Say Out Loud

Here’s a photo I took of a tree once—no leaves, no flowers, just branches reaching into a pale sky. That’s what parenting has felt like lately. Not performative. Not picture-perfect. Just presence. The kind that keeps going even when no one claps. The kind that picks up prescriptions, schedules appointments, boils pasta, and comforts tears—while nursing its own quiet ache. The kind that stays rooted, even in the season of feeling unseen. I don’t write this for pity. I write it for the parent who’s still standing after a long night. The one who makes magic out of thin air. The one who sacrifices and reorganizes and rewrites the script in real time. The one who holds it together for everyone, and then cries behind the bathroom door. You’re not failing. You’re weathering. And just because the branches are bare today doesn’t mean growth isn’t happening underneath it all. Even now, your child sees you. Even now, love is blooming quietly beneath the surface. Even now, you’re doing sacred work. So stand proud. You are the tree. And you are still standing.

The Shadow That Shouldn’t Exist: A Parent’s Reflection on Guilt, Love, and Seeing Her Clearly

There’s something haunting about a shadow stretched across a sidewalk—the way it lingers, the way it follows, the way it exists without truly being noticed. This is what it feels like to be the child who stands in the background, watching life unfold around them, waiting to be seen. For years, my daughter has been that shadow. Not because I didn’t love her, but because life kept pulling my attention elsewhere. Her sibling needed me more. Not because she was more deserving, but because circumstances demanded it—mental illness, struggles, now pregnancy. And in the midst of all that, my other daughter stood strong, independent, patient. She never asked for more, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t need it. The Love That Was Always There She knows I love her. I tell her all the time—how proud I am, how she’s growing into a beautiful young woman, how much she means to me. And she shows me love in return. This year, for my birthday, she surprised me with a cake she made herself, along with three bags of carefully chosen gifts. She gave me love—not just in words, but in action. She never doubted my love. She never stopped showing up. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t feel the absence of attention. Breaking the Cycle, Even Now The guilt will always be there, but it doesn’t have to define our future. I see her now, fully. And while I can’t rewrite the past, I can make sure the present tells a different story. I will not let another year pass without her knowing she is a priority. I will celebrate her victories with the same enthusiasm I once reserved for fixing problems. I will make space for her, intentionally—not just in passing, but in meaningful ways. Because she deserves it. Not just because she waited, but because she is extraordinary. Because she has spent too long proving her strength without being truly recognized. The Child Who Was Never Forgotten She might have been overlooked in moments, but she was never forgotten. And moving forward, that love she has always given so freely? It will be fully returned—not just in words, but in presence, in time, in the attention she always deserved. Because she is just as worthy, just as important. And now, she will never again have to wonder if she matters just as much.

When Your Teen is Expecting: Navigating Love, Boundaries, and Your Own Future

There’s a moment in every parent’s life when everything shifts—when the plans, the dreams, the imagined future take an unexpected turn. Finding out that your child is expecting a baby is one of those moments. It can bring an intense mix of emotions: love, fear, frustration, and deep concern. And beyond the emotions, there’s often pressure—pressure from family, from society, from your own heart—to step in and take responsibility. To help in ways you’re not ready for. To sacrifice your own goals because "that’s what parents do." But here’s the truth: You have the right to say no. You have the right to protect your own future. And you can do that while still loving your child. Breaking Free from Guilt-Driven Expectations One of the hardest parts of this situation isn't just the pregnancy itself—it's the expectations that others place on you. The assumptions that you will step in, become a second parent, take on the weight of raising a child you didn’t plan for. For some, this choice may feel right. But for many others, it isn’t—and that’s okay. Parenthood does not mean abandoning your own life every time someone else expects you to. Love is not measured in sacrifice alone. You are allowed to prioritize your future. You are allowed to acknowledge that this responsibility is not yours to take. You are allowed to hold firm, even when others try to make you feel guilty. Finding Strength in Boundaries Setting boundaries does not mean turning your back—it means ensuring you don’t lose yourself in someone else’s decisions. Whether it's family pressure or personal guilt, boundaries are the key to keeping your life your own. Here’s how to stand firm without shame: Acknowledge your limits. Parenting is already a lifelong commitment, and raising a grandchild—especially unexpectedly—is not something to take lightly. It’s okay to recognize that this is not a role you’re able or willing to take on. Push back against guilt. People will try to make you feel like stepping away means abandonment—but it doesn’t. Offering emotional support, encouragement, or guidance is still love. Helping someone find their own solutions is still love. Redirect the conversation. If others say, “You have to step up” or “How can you let them struggle?” you can respond with: “I love them, but this is not my responsibility. Let’s focus on helping them find the right support system.” “I’ll be here to encourage them, but I am not taking on this role.” “This is their journey, and I trust them to figure out how to move forward.” Stand firm in your own future. You have dreams. Goals. Responsibilities that still matter. You do not have to set your own life aside just because someone else’s changed. Offering Support in a Way That Feels Right Just because you’re not taking on a parental role doesn’t mean you can’t be a source of love and guidance. Here are ways you can support your child without becoming the default caregiver: Helping them find resources. Pregnancy support groups, financial aid, parenting programs—there are many ways to help without becoming the primary caregiver. Providing emotional encouragement. Sometimes, all your child needs is to hear that they can do this—that you believe in them, even if you aren’t taking over. Setting expectations early. Let your child know where you stand so they don’t rely on assumptions. Say: “I love you, and I’ll be here to guide you, but I will not be raising this baby.” Holding Onto Hope, Without Losing Yourself It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by fear—fear for your child’s future, fear for what others will think, fear that this changes everything. But you are stronger than the fear. This moment does not have to define the rest of your life. And your child? They are stronger than they realize, too. Whether they wanted this pregnancy or not, they will find their way. They will grow, they will adapt, and they will shape their own life—just as you are shaping yours. So don’t let guilt steal your future. Don’t let pressure define your choices. You are allowed to love your child without sacrificing your own path. You are allowed to say: “I support you, but this is not my role.” You are allowed to move forward with confidence. And no matter what, you are allowed to live the life you choose.

When Enough Is Enough: Stepping Back, Holding Boundaries, and Leading with Love

There comes a moment in parenting when the struggle isn’t about what you can fix, but what you must let go. A moment when love isn’t about protection, but trust. And a moment when you realize that no amount of warnings, guidance, or desperate attempts to intervene will change what needs to happen—the hard lessons your child must learn for themselves. It’s one of the hardest things to accept. Because as a mother, my instinct has always been to shield, to soften the blows, to catch them before they fall. But at some point, those hands—always reaching, always ready—must pull back. Not because I don’t love them. Not because I don’t care. But because sometimes, the only way to truly grow is to feel the weight of consequences. I have fought battles for them, stood in the way of their pain, taken on burdens that weren’t mine just to spare them hurt. But now, I stand in a different place—not as a rescuer, but as a witness. Watching. Waiting. Knowing that stepping in now will only delay the lesson they need to learn. This isn’t abandonment. It isn’t indifference. It is love in its hardest form—the kind that says I believe in you enough to let you struggle. I trust you enough to figure it out. And I love you enough to let you see what happens when you don’t listen. But love doesn’t mean surrender. It doesn’t mean letting go of boundaries or stepping aside entirely. Because even when they turn 18, even when they legally step into adulthood, the need for structure doesn’t suddenly vanish. They still need leadership. They still need accountability. And they still need a home built on respect, responsibility, and unwavering guidance. A parent’s love comes with standards, with expectations, with limits that exist not to control but to teach. Independence doesn’t mean rejecting wisdom—it means learning how to balance freedom with responsibility. And part of growing up is realizing that rules don’t disappear just because childhood ends. I refuse to fight battles that they aren’t willing to fight themselves. But I will hold my ground, keep my boundaries, and ensure that the values I’ve instilled don’t crumble beneath the weight of their choices. At some point, every parent reaches this crossroad. The place where love meets limits. The place where you say, Enough. But enough doesn’t mean walking away. It means standing firm. It means keeping expectations. It means leading even when they resist, even when they believe they’re ready to navigate it alone. And when that time comes, when the lesson begins, all that’s left to do is step back… but never step away.

A Strong Bond, A Missing Connection: Navigating the Gap in Parenthood

I know I’m a good parent. I have been consistent, present, unwavering in my love. I have fought for accountability, set boundaries, and poured myself into giving my child everything she needs to thrive. And yet, I’ve been told that while my bond with my daughter is strong, there is a connection she’s searching for that I haven’t quite found. That realization is unsettling. It leaves me questioning myself, questioning what could possibly be missing when I’ve done everything right. I see her. I know her struggles, her strengths, the weight of her choices—but somehow, there is still a space between us that I can’t quite bridge. And to the parents who feel this too—I want you to know, you are not alone. I am walking through this same uncertainty, trying to understand what connection means from her eyes, not just mine. I wish I understood exactly what she needed. I wish she could simply say, “This is the missing piece,” and I could fix it the way I’ve tackled every other parenting challenge. But connection isn’t a problem to be solved—it’s a feeling to be recognized, nurtured, and built in a way that makes sense to her, not just to me. Maybe she’s searching for something that exists beyond structure, guidance, and responsibility. Maybe she longs for a connection that feels effortless, one that isn’t tied to rules or expectations but simply allows her to exist as she is—without conditions, without pressure. This doesn’t mean I’ve failed. It means there’s room to listen differently. Room to ask questions I haven’t asked before. Room to sit in the unknown without trying to control it. Connection isn’t about forcing understanding—it’s about learning what it looks like through the other person’s perspective. A scripture that resonates with this process is Proverbs 20:5: "The purposes of a person’s heart are deep waters, but one who has insight draws them out." Her heart the connection she longs for exists in deep waters that I haven’t yet reached. And maybe the journey isn’t about pulling her toward what I know but learning how to meet her where she is. Parenting isn’t about having all the answers it’s about learning, growing, and adapting, even when the path isn’t clear. And if you are feeling this too, wondering why love and presence don’t feel like enough, I want you to know: you are not failing. You are learning. And that’s what love looks like.

Mental Health Crisis

Letting Go with Love: Choosing Peace in Parenthood

Parenting is a journey filled with love, lessons, and moments of deep connection. But it also comes with challenges, especially when a child chooses a path that leads to distance. As parents, our role is to guide, support, and provide a foundation, but at a certain point, we must also trust that the lessons we've given will take root—whether we see the results immediately or not.  Q

Letting go doesn’t mean love disappears. It means allowing space for growth while ensuring love remains steady, even from a distance. It means recognizing that sometimes, guidance has to come in the form of experience rather than conversation. When a child chooses independence, a parent must allow them to step into it fully learning responsibility, facing challenges, and understanding what it means to build their own path.

In many ways, this journey resembles a winding road uncertain, full of turns, stretching out into the distance. Just like the road in the image, parenting often brings moments when we watch our children drive away from the foundation we built. The path they take is theirs alone, and though it may feel bittersweet to see them leave, we trust that the road ahead will teach them what we could not.  

This chapter isn’t about shutting a door. It’s about reshaping the relationship in a way that respects boundaries while keeping love intact. It’s about recognizing that love doesn’t always mean contro it can mean trusting that, in time, understanding will come. Mistakes don’t erase love. Distance doesn’t erase love. And no choice will ever remove the care that has been given.  

A scripture that reflects this transition is Jeremiah 29:11  

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

This is a reminder that life unfolds in its own time. That even in uncertainty, there is hope. That every journey whether taken together or apart is leading toward growth. Love is not lost; it is simply finding new ways to exist.

Trust Is Fragile: How Broken Boundaries Affect Us

Trust, to me, feels like the quiet comfort of a cat curled up in a safe spot settled, secure, and undisturbed when everything is as it should be. But when someone ignores boundaries, that peace disappears, replaced by frustration, disappointment, and the lingering question: Do you understand why this matters? 

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about trust not just in relationships but in daily life. When agreements are broken, the issue isn’t just the rule itself it’s the impact. It’s how it makes people feel, how it shakes the foundation of respect and responsibility.  

I believe boundaries aren’t about control; they’re about care about creating a sense of security, just like the cat in the photo feels safe in its space. It stays there because it understands its environment, but that security doesn’t happen by accident. It exists because limits were established and respected.  

But what happens when limits aren’t respected? When agreements feel optional instead of necessary? That’s when trust erodes not all at once, but piece by piece, until what was once dependable becomes unstable.  

I’ve learned that trust isn’t something people automatically owe each other it’s something earned through consistent responsibility. And when it’s tested, the real question isn’t, How do we punish? but rather, How do we rebuild?

This isn’t just about rules it’s about respect. About understanding that boundaries matter because they protect relationships, not just individuals. Trust can break, but it can also be repaired if both sides are willing to acknowledge the impact and work toward something stronger.  

If I could choose one lesson from all of this, it would be that boundaries are not barriers, they are foundations. And trust, though fragile, has the potential to be reshaped, re-earned, and strengthened when we commit to understanding each other. 

The Weight of Guilt: Choosing Work in the Midst of a Crisis

A desk sits by a window, its surface covered with the necessities of work—a monitor, a notebook filled with notes and decisions, scattered papers waiting for attention. Outside, the world continues, trees swaying gently in the breeze, untouched by the weight pressing inside this space. A chair, draped with a knitted yellow blanket, offers warmth, but it doesn’t erase the tension in the air—the quiet pull of responsibility against the emotions that refuse to settle.  

This is the space of decision, of duty, of choosing work in the midst of crisis.  

Returning to work wasn’t easy. My days away had been dedicated to my daughter walking alongside her through the twists and turns of her mental health journey, doing everything in my power to make sure she had what she needed to heal. But there came a moment a breaking point where reality forced a choice: homelessness or work.  

That was the moment I had to make the impossible decision. To leave her home alone and pray that she would be safe.  

The weight of that choice was suffocating. A mother’s instinct is to protect, to be present, to never let go. But reality does not always allow for instinct to rule. And as much as I wanted to stay, to hold her hand through every step, survival meant moving forward even when my heart screamed to turn back.  

There’s a moment, just before you step out the door or open your laptop, where the weight of everything settles on your chest. You know you need to work. Bills need to be paid, obligations met, stability maintained. And yet, something inside pulls at you the feeling that in this moment, when life is unraveling, when crisis looms, you should be somewhere else. Doing something else. Anything but this.  

Guilt creeps in like an uninvited guest, whispering: *How can you focus on tasks when your child is struggling? What does it say about you that you're here, working, when your heart is elsewhere?*  

The truth is, this conflict is deeply human. Responsibility doesn’t pause for hardship, yet neither does the aching need to be present for those in pain. You may tell yourself that work is necessary an anchor in the storm, a form of survival. But even logic does little to quiet the emotional tug-of-war.  

Like this workspace structured, purposeful, but filled with quiet emotion—you sit with the choice you’ve made. You balance the necessity of work with the ache of knowing where your heart longs to be. But choosing work in crisis does not mean choosing to abandon care. It does not make you selfish or careless. It means you are doing what you can within the circumstances you are given. It means you are providing stability financially, emotionally, or structurally even if it doesn’t look the way you imagined.  

There will always be moments when guilt tries to convince you that your choice is wrong. When you feel torn between obligation and emotional presence. But honoring your responsibilities doesn’t mean abandoning love. And sometimes, stability itself is an act of care an effort to ensure that when the crisis passes, there is still something left standing.  

You are doing your best. And that is enough.

A Mother’s Journey Through Tough Choices and Mental Health

Two budgerigars sit side by side, their feathers vibrant, their presence comforting. They are close, yet confined, separated from the larger world by the thin bars of a cage. In their eyes, there is a quiet longing, an instinct to spread their wings, to move freely. And yet, their world exists within boundaries. They are safe, protected from the unknown, but the trade-off is undeniable restriction, limitation, an existence shaped not by their own choices, but by the choices of something greater than them.  

Much like these birds, my child and I exist within the space of both love and limitation. And though she is not behind physical bars, the disconnect between us is just as real felt deeply in the silence, in the unspoken frustrations, in the way my decision to take away her phone has reshaped the way we interact.  

As a mother, keeping my child safe is my highest priority. Every decision I make, even the hardest ones, comes from a place of love and protection. That’s why I took away her phone. Not as punishment, but as a boundary a choice made because I saw risks she didn’t, dangers she couldn’t fully grasp, and patterns that I knew needed to change.  

But in taking it away, I also took something else: her access to the world she had built through it. And now, I feel that weight pressing into our home the silence, the distance, the way she moves through the day with frustration and resignation. We are disconnected not because of technology itself, but because of my choice to remove it from her life.  

I wrestle with that reality. She sees it as isolation, as loss, as an unfair restriction. I see it as protection. And yet, somewhere in the middle, there is hurt on both sides. She is navigating emotions she can’t always express, and I am standing firm in a decision I believe is right, even as it shifts the way we communicate.  

Mental health plays a powerful role in this. Without the phone, she doesn’t just lose entertainment she loses connection, a sense of autonomy, and access to the friendships she has built in a way that feels natural to her. That loss stirs feelings of resentment, frustration, and even withdrawal. And I see it not just in her words, but in her silence, in the way she avoids me, in the unspoken weight of what this change has done to our relationship.  

And yet, my love for her hasn’t changed. If anything, it has deepened, made more urgent by this growing distance. So I lean into presence. I try to remind her, not through lectures but through actions, that connection doesn’t require a screen that love is here, waiting, even when she feels cut off from the world she once had. It’s not always easy. There are hard conversations, moments of resistance, days where it feels like we are speaking different languages. But I refuse to let disconnection win.  

Like the birds, we are still here still existing within the same space, still searching for understanding, still waiting for the moment we can come together again without barriers. And perhaps, in time, as trust rebuilds, as emotions settle, as new ways of connection emerge, we will find a balance one that allows freedom without fear, structure without isolation, and love without limits.  

The world may feel fragmented, but love remains the thread that holds us together. Even when decisions are hard, even when words are met with silence, even when we don’t always see eye to eye I hope my child knows that everything I do is rooted in love. And that no matter the distance, no matter the disconnection, I will always be here, reaching across the gap, waiting for her to take my hand.

The Ripple Effect: How One Person’s Mental Health Impacts the People Around Them.

At first glance, you might see a scruffy, unkempt cat fur tangled, eyes wary, a presence that seems too much to handle. But once you take the time to clean him up, to care for him, to see past the surface, he transforms. He’s not just an abandoned creature; he’s soft, warm, and full of life. The shift is unmistakable and the change doesn’t just belong to the cat. It belongs to the person who cared for him, to the space around him, to the ripple of kindness that moves outward.  

Mental health works in much the same way. The struggles someone faces can make them feel untouchable, withdrawn, like they are too much for others. They hesitate, unsure if reaching out will make them a burden. But human connection thrives on understanding and just as the act of caring for a vulnerable creature changes the way we see it, caring for one another in moments of emotional hardship shifts the way we experience relationships.  

Picture a small stone dropped into a still lake. The first impact is immediate, felt by the one in distress the weight of anxiety, depression, or uncertainty pressing heavy against their chest. Yet, as the waves extend beyond the initial drop, they reach partners, friends, family members, coworkers anyone within their orbit. For loved ones, witnessing someone they care for wrestle with their inner turmoil can stir emotions of helplessness, worry, and sometimes even exhaustion. Emotional energy is exchanged in ways that are both visible and invisible through words, through silences, through the quiet sighs of someone trying to be strong for another.  

And yet, one of the most challenging aspects of mental health struggles is the internal conflict of wanting to reach out but fearing that we might be a burden. We hold our emotions tightly, convincing ourselves that others have their own worries and that ours might be too much. But the truth is, emotions are meant to be shared. Holding everything inside can feel like carrying a storm alone one that only grows heavier over time. Venting, expressing, allowing ourselves to be vulnerable can be healing, not just for us but for the relationships we cherish.  

At the same time, respect for boundaries is key. Not everyone will have the emotional capacity to listen at a given moment, and that’s okay. Finding supportive spaces whether through trusted friends, therapists, or journaling can help bridge that gap. Mental wellness flourishes in environments where communication is open but also mindful. When we check in with others before unloading, we create a space where empathy is mutual and care is exchanged in a way that uplifts rather than overwhelms.  

But here’s the beautiful truth: just as struggle ripples outward, so does healing. Small acts of kindness, moments of vulnerability, and intentional efforts to nurture mental wellness send positive waves throughout relationships and communities. When someone finds the courage to seek help, to voice their needs, or to set healthy boundaries, it creates a blueprint for others to do the same. One person prioritizing their well-being can inspire another to take stock of their own mental health. A compassionate conversation can break cycles of emotional suppression and replace them with understanding.  

Mental health is not an isolated experience it is a shared journey, one that shapes the way we connect with others and build relationships anchored in empathy. The impact of one person’s emotional state does not exist in a vacuum. Whether through pain or healing, we affect one another in ways that linger far beyond the moment. And perhaps that’s one of the most profound reminders we can hold onto: that none of us are truly alone in what we feel. We are part of an ever-moving current of human experience, capable of sending out ripples of hope, kindness, and resilience ♥️

Celebrating Small Victories and Holding onto Hope

Amid the challenges, it is crucial to celebrate the small victories. Every step forward, no matter how small, is a testament to our resilience and our children's progress. Embracing moments of joy, however fleeting, can provide the strength we need to keep going. Self-care is not a luxury; it is a necessity. As caregivers, we must prioritize our well-being to continue supporting our children effectively. Taking time for ourselves, seeking support from friends and family, and finding healthy outlets for stress can help us recharge and maintain our own mental health. Above all, hope is our guiding light. Even in the darkest moments, hope reminds us that there is a path forward. It encourages us to keep fighting, to keep believing in our children's potential, and to envision a future where they can find stability and happiness. To all the weary parents out there, know that your love and dedication are powerful forces. You are not alone, and together, we can navigate these turbulent waters with courage and hope. By sharing our stories, supporting one another, and holding onto hope, we can create a brighter future for our children and ourselves. Remember, calm seas lie ahead. Keep pushing forward, and never lose sight of the hope that guides us.

( PT 2) Empowering Parents: How to Advocate for Your Child's Needs When the System Feels Like It's Failing

In the first part of this blog, we discussed the importance of educating yourself, documenting everything, building a support network, communicating effectively, and seeking second opinions. Now, let's dive deeper into understanding your rights, advocating for comprehensive care, utilizing advocacy organizations, and more.

6. Know Your Rights

Understand your child's rights, especially regarding education and healthcare. The Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act provide protections and accommodations for children with mental health conditions in schools. Familiarize yourself with these laws and how they can support your child.

7. Advocate for Comprehensive Care

Demand a comprehensive care plan that includes not only immediate treatment but also long-term support. This may involve therapy, medication management, educational accommodations, and transition services as your child approaches adulthood. Ensure that the plan is personalized to meet your child's unique needs.

8. Utilize Advocacy Organizations

Reach out to advocacy organizations that specialize in mental health and children's rights. The Bazelon Center for Mental Health Law and Disability Rights Education and Defense Fund (DREDF) are excellent resources. These organizations can provide legal assistance, guidance, and support in navigating the system.

9. Be Persistent and Resilient

The journey of advocating for your child may be long and challenging. Stay persistent and resilient. Keep pushing for the services and support your child needs, even when faced with obstacles. Your unwavering determination can create positive change.

10. Practice Self-Care

Advocating for your child can be emotionally and physically draining. It's essential to take care of yourself as well. Seek support from friends, family, or a therapist. Engage in activities that help you relax and recharge. Remember, you need to be well to continue advocating effectively.

Conclusion

The path to getting the right support for your child can be fraught with obstacles, but it's a journey worth taking. By educating yourself, documenting everything, communicating effectively, seeking second opinions, utilizing advocacy services, knowing your legal rights, building a support network, advocating relentlessly, and practicing self-care, you can make a difference in your child's life. Remember, you're not alone in this fight, and together, we can create a better future for our children.

Stay strong, stay hopeful, and keep fighting for what your child needs. Your dedication and love are powerful forces that can help navigate even the stormiest seas.

(PT 1) Empowering Parents: How to Advocate for Your Child's Needs When the System Feels Like It's Failing

As parents, our foremost duty is to advocate for our children's well-being, especially when they face mental health challenges. It can be incredibly disheartening when you feel like the system is failing your child. However, your voice and persistence can make a significant difference. Here are some strategies and resources to help you fight for what your child needs:

1. Educate Yourself

Knowledge is power. Educate yourself about your child's condition, treatment options, and the rights you and your child have. Websites like the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) and Mental Health America (MHA) offer valuable resources and information.

2. Document Everything

Keep detailed records of your child's medical history, treatment plans, communications with healthcare providers, and any incidents that occur. This documentation can be crucial when advocating for your child's needs. Create a binder or digital folder to organize all this information.

3. Build a Support Network

Connect with other parents who are facing similar challenges. Support groups, both in-person and online, can provide emotional support and practical advice. Organizations like NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) offer family support groups and resources.

4. Communicate Effectively

Maintain open and honest communication with your child's healthcare providers. Be clear and concise about your concerns and the outcomes you hope to achieve. Don't hesitate to ask questions and seek clarification. Remember, you are your child's best advocate.

5. Seek Second Opinions

If you feel that your child's current treatment plan is not working, don't be afraid to seek a second opinion. Different healthcare providers may offer new insights or alternative treatment options. Always explore all available avenues to ensure the best care for your child.

Struggling to Find Help for My Daughter: A Journey of Frustration and Determination

Being a parent is never easy, but when your child needs help and you can’t seem to find it, the challenge becomes even more daunting. This is a glimpse into the struggle I’ve been facing, trying to get the support my daughter desperately needs.

It all started when I noticed my daughter was having difficulty in school. Her grades were slipping, and she seemed more withdrawn. As any concerned parent would, I reached out to her teachers and school counselors. While they were sympathetic, the solutions offered were inadequate.

Determined to find the right help, I began contacting various professionals—therapists, tutors, and educational specialists. Each phone call and email brought a glimmer of hope, only to be followed by disappointment. Long waiting lists, exorbitant fees, and lack of availability were common responses.

This journey has taken a significant emotional toll on both my daughter and me. Watching her struggle and feeling powerless to assist her is a weight no parent should bear. The frustration of hitting dead-end after dead-end is disheartening.

Despite these challenges, I refuse to give up. I continue to seek out resources and advocate for my daughter. Recently, I found a local support group for parents in similar situations. Sharing experiences and advice has provided a sense of community and hope.

The path to getting my daughter the help she needs has been incredibly tough, filled with obstacles and setbacks. But through it all, my determination remains unshaken. For any parent going through a similar struggle, know that you’re not alone. Keep pushing, keep fighting, and never lose hope.