I can’t even tell you the number of well meaning people who have told me how strong I am this past seven months.
I don’t know how you do it, getting through every day. You’re so strong.
You’re stronger than I ever could be.
I’m proud of you. Stay strong.
Like I have a choice.
Like not getting up and getting through the day is an option.
Like I’m not hiding in the van, driving in circles, crying my eyes out on the regular.
Like I don’t turn into a puddle every time my kids fight or scream, “I hate you!” at me because they also have big feelings and I’m their safe place and while they don’t really hate me, they hate hurting and I’m their best outlet.
Like I don’t break down at least five times a week.
Like I can actually finish a single thing I start lately. Like it hasn’t taken me three months to paint one wall in my bathroom. Because I. just. can’t.
Like I don’t hide out, curled in a ball in the bottom of the shower, so my kids can’t hear my sobs.
Like my hair isn’t falling out.
Like I can get through a single day without wishing things were different.
Like I haven’t downloaded so many stupid “merge three” apps on my phone and spent hours escaping from this life by crushing candy and merging dragons.
Like I’m not overeating.
Like I don’t miss Vance more than I ever thought possible.
Like this is the life I dreamed of. Widowed and single parenting in my forties. Livin’ the dream right there, folks.
Like any strength that I might possibly have is my own. Like I’m not just barely holding on to Jesus these days.
I’m so tired of hearing people use that word to describe me. It’s not accurate. Strong, I am not.
I am weak.
So weak. So desperately clinging to hope and God and the promises in the Word. So desperately repeating to myself, “In my weakness, he is made strong.” Singing out loud, under my breath and in my head, “You’re gonna be okay. Hold on. Don’t let go.”
So please don’t tell me I’m strong. I’m simply surviving.