Journal Entries
There is a kind of grief no one prepares you for.
Not the grief of losing a person but the grief of losing the life you thought you were going to live. The future you assumed was waiting for you. The version of yourself you trusted without question.
I know that grief intimately.
I live with two chronic illnesses that have no cure. Not a season. Not a setback. Not something you “push through” with enough grit or positivity. There is no finish line here only management. Only quality of life. Only learning, day by day, how to live inside a body that no longer does what it once did.
And let me tell you something most people never talk about
the hardest part isn’t the pain.
It’s the unanswered questions.
It’s sitting across from specialist after specialist. Enduring test after test. Scan after scan. Hospital visit after hospital visit. Carrying hope into every appointment that this time someone will finally say, “Here’s what’s wrong and here’s how we fix it.” Only to hear, again and again, the same words delivered gently, almost apologetically:
“This is how it is now.”
“This is something you’ll have to live with.”
“There is no clear solution.”
In 2016 was my Testimony never shared!
In 2017, everything changed.
Before that, I was the girl who lived in the gym. A personal trainer. Years of kickboxing. Four kids and I still got back into shape every single time. Movement was my language. Strength was my identity. My body was something I trusted.
Then pancreatitis entered my life.
And later, a chronic pelvic condition that cannot be fixed, reversed, removed, or operated on not even by the best doctors. Not even with endless opinions. Not even with hope layered over science.
So I grieve.
I grieve a career I loved.
A body I trusted.
A future I assumed was guaranteed.
I grieve the version of me who didn’t have to think before standing up. Who didn’t have to calculate energy like currency. Who didn’t have to choose between pain and exhaustion. Who didn’t have to rest before she was tired.
And in that grief, I went looking for healing not just physical healing, but soul healing.
Because when no human being can give you answers, when no doctor can give you certainty, when no relationship can give you safety, you either break… or you go deeper.
And I went deeper into God.
My faith isn’t a hobby.
It isn’t a phase.
It isn’t something I reach for when life gets convenient.
It is the only place I have ever found real peace.
Not in relationships.
Not in friendships.
Not in validation.
Not in being chosen by another human being.
I wanted that believe me. I still pray for a partner one day equally yoked, faith centered, kind, steady, safe. Someone who sees my illnesses and doesn’t turn them into a burden. Someone who doesn’t love me in spite of my reality, but within it.
But I’ve learned the hard way that people can promise you forever and still pull the rug out from under you.
Two relationships in almost nine years.
Four engagement rings from one.
Marriage promises from another.
Both ended with me questioning my worth.
Both ended with me feeling like I wasn’t “enough” to be loved long-term.
And that kind of pain doesn’t leave quietly.
It teaches your nervous system to brace.
It teaches your heart to wait for loss.
It teaches your inner child to expect abandonment.
So yes I’ve done years of counseling.
Yes I carry inner-child wounds.
Yes I’m too kind sometimes.
Yes I open up to the wrong people.
Yes I give too many chances.
But do you know why?
Because I know what it feels like to not be seen.
To not be heard.
To not be protected.
To be emotionally abandoned.
And I refuse to make anyone else feel that way.
That’s why I’m transparent.
That’s why I share my journey.
That’s why I talk about the pain, the faith, the struggle, and the hope.
Not for attention.
Not for pity.
Not for sympathy.
But so that someone out there, scrolling in silence, thinks:
“Oh… it’s not just me.”
So someone feels seen.
So someone feels less alone.
So someone realizes they’re not broken they’re human.
And here’s the part that confuses people:
I suffer.
I grieve.
I cry.
I have days where I don’t leave my bed.
I’ve cried for hours today not a good day.
But I am not lazy.
Even from bed, I’m applying for jobs.
Even in pain, I’m still trying.
Even exhausted, I still believe I have something to offer the world.
I don’t drink caffeine.
I don’t drink energy drinks.
I don’t smoke.
I don’t do drugs.
I don’t numb myself.
I go to prayer.
I go to the Word.
I go to God.
And some days, I don’t even know what to say I just cry.
And that counts as prayer too.
I am 49 years old.
With two chronic illnesses.
And somehow, I still carry more fire than people half my age.
Not because my body is perfect but because my spirit refuses to die.
I still believe.
I still hope.
I still love.
I still show up.
I still try.
Yes, I get frustrated.
Yes, I get tired of being kicked when I’m already down.
Yes, I get tired of people saying “I understand” and then hurting me anyway.
Yes, I get tired of faith being used as a mask for cruelty.
Because being Christlike doesn’t mean being loud about God.
It means being kind when it’s inconvenient.
It means being gentle when it’s undeserved.
It means loving when it costs you something.
And if my light makes someone uncomfortable that’s not my problem.
I’m not here to dim myself to make others feel safe in their darkness.
I’m here to live my truth.
Even when it’s messy.
Even when it’s painful.
Even when it doesn’t look like the life I imagined.
Because when there are no answers…
When there is no cure…
When there is no clear path forward…
I choose faith.
Not because life is easy but because God is steady.
And I am learning slowly, imperfectly, honestly to stop being so hard on myself. To stop giving my softness to people who don’t protect it. To trust that if something keeps breaking me, it was never sent to stay.
God’s timing is always perfect.
Which means if someone leaves, they were never meant to finish the story with me.
And maybe the real miracle isn’t healing my body.
Maybe it’s this:
That after everything I’ve lost…
I still believe in love.
I still believe in purpose.
I still believe in God.
I still believe my life matters.
Even like this.
Especially like this.