I’m so glad we are talking about it, so relieved my children live in a world where therapy is normalizing and stigma is being removed. So unbelievably grateful to attend a church where counseling and medication is not viewed as a flaw in my faith. And I’m so tired of being that woman who is still talking about it. Still fighting it.
Her voice made so much sense. Everything she told me sounded true. And no one else was saying anything to me to contradict her. And so I listened as she told me that I was unworthy, unlovable, broken, wrong.
Remind me that this is a celebration, a milestone of achievement and happiness and success, and not a moment to be mourned or feared. Give her the grace to tolerate my moments of tears, and give me the strength to let those moments be few.
Life is always busy. Always messy. Always chaotic. But this season is even more so for us, and we honestly didn’t plan in advance for the level we’ve been living in for the last few months. And without a plan. . . .I don’t do well. I crumble, panic, hide. I alternate between tears and rage as my frustration begins to spiral out of control and bleed into anxiety.
I’ve been trying all week to find time to write about Easter. The Holy Week. Something. Anything. And while life has been prohibitively busy, I’ve also found that something is stopping me. A heavy settling in depth of my chest, that rises up close to tears when I try to find the words.
But let us also recognize, that for some women of faith, there is an additional area where they may feel as though they have been reduced to something smaller, something less than, something unimportant. That the very body of believers that they meet with, has diminished their gifts, talents, treasures. And then - let us recognize and proclaim that this is not Jesus.
I will raise a hallelujah even in the darkness. Even when the chaos descends. Even if my peace gives way to my anxiety. I will raise a hallelujah. He is with me. He's got this. I will keep singing. Hallelujah.
I know these things, and these things tell me that I’m definitely screwing this up. I’m definitely not Good Enough. And I’ve not been Good Enough for quite a few years. My oldest is 17, and as I think about launching her into adulthood I feel the questions bubble back up and catch in my throat again and again. “Am I doing this right? Am I screwing this up? Is this Good Enough? Am I Good Enough?”
I’m making a concerted effort to give myself credit. I did this. I fought through this. I lived through this. And you did too.