There’s a strange kind of clarity that comes when you realize you were cast in a role you never auditioned for.

At first, I believed it.

I overanalyzed everything.
I let anxiety run my life.
I watched what I said, how I said it, what I wore, what I posted, what I had with me, how I carried myself, and how my face looked.

I filtered myself constantly, convinced that if I could just adjust enough, the tension would disappear.

When someone consistently tells you you’re the problem, you start searching for proof.

And if you’re a medical mama, you already know how to do that.

Trauma trains you to look inward first.

When your child is diagnosed with cancer, you replay everything.
The symptoms.
The appointments.
The moments you almost waited.
The questions you didn’t know to ask.
The things that were happening that you knew weren’t your child and weren’t right.

Even when doctors tell you it isn’t your fault, something inside still whispers,
“But what if I missed something?”

So self-examination becomes survival.

You Search yourself.
You Fix it.
You Adjust.
You Carry it.

That wiring doesn’t disappear when the crisis ends. It follows you into other relationships, other conflicts, other accusations.

So when blame showed up, it felt familiar.

I searched myself again.
I prayed.
I asked God to reveal anything in me that needed refining.
I took responsibility, even for things that weren’t fully mine.

I thought maturity meant absorbing it.
I thought being me meant handling it all.

So I tried harder.

And it still wasn’t enough.

No matter how careful I was.
No matter how much I monitored myself.
No matter how small I made myself.

It was never enough.

At some point, the anxiety turned into numbness.
And the numbness turned into a quiet frustration:

Why am I the only one bending?

So I stopped.

Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
I didn’t give a speech.
I didn’t burn anything down.

I just slowly disappeared into the night.

I stopped over-explaining.
I stopped trying to pre-correct misunderstandings.
I stopped carrying blame just to keep the peace.

And here’s what I discovered:

Nothing changed.

The same issues were still there.
The same tension.
The same narrative.

That’s when it finally clicked.

I wasn’t the problem.
I was just the one who was easier to blame.

Because I cared.
Because I reflected.
Because I would actually consider the accusation.
Because I was already trained to look inward first.

But not everything spoken over you is truth.

Joseph was made the villain in more than one story.

His brothers blamed him for their jealousy.
Potiphar’s wife blamed him to protect herself.

He was misrepresented, misunderstood, and falsely accused not because he was the problem, but because he was convenient.

And yet, the brokenness in their hearts didn’t begin with Joseph. And it didn’t end with him.

Genesis 50:20 says,
“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good.”

God was never confused about Joseph’s character.
And He is not confused about mine.

You made me the villain in your story.
Yet Your story didn’t need me to fall apart.

Before St. Jude existed

Before the hospital doors opened, before millions of children were saved, before Hudson walked through those red doors.

There was a prayer.

Danny Thomas was broke, desperate, and unsure of his future when he knelt and prayed to St. Jude Thaddeus, the patron saint of hopeless causes. His prayer was simple but bold:

Show me my way in life, and I will build you a shrine.

That prayer wasn’t answered with ease or comfort.

It was answered with purpose.

Years later, that answer became St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital 

A place built not just of walls and medicine, but of promise, faith, and relentless hope.

And because that prayer was answered, my son is alive.

Hudson walked through the doors of St. Jude with bags packed for two weeks and odds stacked against him. He was tiny. Sick. Brave in ways no child should ever have to be. But he was met with a place that believed his life was worth fighting for, no matter the cost, no matter the outcome, no matter the resources required.

St. Jude didn’t just save my child.

It saved us.

What I didn’t know then…

What I couldn’t have known…

Was that the answer to Danny Thomas’s prayer would someday become the answer to mine, too.

Because when childhood cancer doesn’t take your child, it doesn’t just leave you with relief. It leaves you with questions. With responsibility. With a future you didn’t plan but were entrusted with.

Scripture tells us this about moments like that:

“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.” Jeremiah 29:11

Hope didn’t end when Hudson came home.

It began asking something of me.

Slowly, quietly, unmistakably, my way started to take shape.

Advocating.

Speaking up.

Refusing to let children be statistics or bargaining chips.

Telling the truth 

Even when it’s uncomfortable.

Standing in the gap for families who are too tired, too scared, or too overwhelmed to stand alone.

I didn’t choose this path.

It was revealed to me the same way Danny’s was.

There is a quote from Danny Thomas that has stayed with me, one that perfectly captures the heart of St. Jude and fuels everything I do. It is my favorite quote of his: 

“No child should die in the dawn of life.”

Those words are not poetic fluff. They are a declaration. A line drawn in the sand. A refusal to accept what once felt inevitable.

They summarize the mission of St. Jude in one sentence and they help summarize my why.

And Scripture tells us exactly what to do with a calling like that:

“He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Micah 6:8

Advocacy is justice.

St. Jude is mercy.

And walking this road

Loud

Honest

Faithful

is humility in action.

Danny Thomas prayed for direction.

God answered with a hospital.

I prayed for my son’s life.

God answered that prayer and then showed me what to do with the life we were given back.

This is my way forward.

Turning pain into purpose.

Advocacy into action.

Faith into forward motion.

And it all traces back to a prayer whispered decades ago 

One that is still saving children at the dawn of their lives.

This break didn’t look the way I thought it would.

Instead of outings and plans and soaking up time the way I imagined, I spent the second half of it in bed, healing from surgery, moving slowly, watching the days pass quieter than expected.

And somewhere in that quiet, guilt found me.

I saw a post about winter break 

“slow mornings, sleeping in, snuggling kids, lingering over breakfast. No backpacks. No schedules. No rushing out the door”

And it hit harder than I expected.

Not because it was wrong.

But because it reminded me of what I thought this break was supposed to look like.

I found myself wondering if my kids deserved more.

If resting meant I failed them.

If needing my body to heal somehow took something away from them.

But the truth is, my body didn’t ask for permission.

It asked for care.

Rest wasn’t optional.

Healing wasn’t a luxury.

It was necessary.

Still, that doesn’t erase the ache and the quiet grief of watching moments pass differently than planned, the comparisons that sneak in looking at everyone’s pictures on Facebook, the feeling that rest somehow equals falling short.

I’m learning that two things can be true at the same time.

I can be grateful for healing and sad about what we missed.

I can love my kids deeply and feel limited in my body.

I can rest and wrestle with guilt.

We did have slow mornings they just weren’t the picture-perfect kind.

We had togetherness just shaped by a body that needed stillness.

Love didn’t disappear because I was in bed. It simply showed up quieter.

Like Hudson cuddling up beside me, or Penelopi making sure I could reach my cup. Or all of us watching paw patrol.  

This is the kind of tired that sleep alone doesn’t fix.

It’s the tired that comes from carrying a lot for a long time.

The tired that needs mercy more than motivation.

I keep reminding myself — sometimes softly, sometimes on repeat — that God is not disappointed in my stillness. 

He is not measuring my motherhood by productivity or performance. 

He sees the unseen work of healing, the surrender it takes to slow down, the courage it takes to listen when your body finally says enough.

Maybe this season wasn’t about making the most of a break.

Maybe it was about making room for grace.

For myself.

For my body.

For a version of motherhood that looks quieter right now 

but is no less full of love.

“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28

If rest feels like failure today, I’m trying to believe this instead:

Sometimes rest is faith.

Sometimes rest is obedience.

Sometimes rest is exactly what love looks like.

This is a follow up post to the blog “When the “healthy” child gets sick” I suggest reading it first.

https://miraclebabysmama.family.blog/2025/10/06/when-the-healthy-child-gets-sick/

The last few months have been a blur of appointments and prayers, of trying to stay strong for everyone else while quietly breaking inside.

In June, during Penelopi’s yearly checkup, her pediatrician felt a lump near her collarbone. That one moment began a long trail of blood tests, antibiotics, X-rays, two ultrasounds, a CT scan, and eventually surgery.

Every step brought a new reason to hope and a new reason to fear. My body and brain immediately linked it to all the worst things possible 

When the doctor came out of surgery into the room with me, I had braced for anything except what he actually came in and said.

There was nothing to biopsy. Nothing to remove. Just… a funky rib. 

Penelopi’s first rib on her left side has two little knuckles in it and loops back on itself something he’d never seen before and was just as shocked by. 

It feels perfectly fitting that my girl would keep life interesting.

When I heard “nothing to biopsy,” my body remembered how to breathe. Not the shallow kind that gets you through the day, but the kind that fills your lungs with relief, gratitude, and tears you didn’t realize you’d been saving up.

The tired doesn’t vanish overnight. The months of tension still underneath everything. But now, each breath feels like a promise a quiet reminder that the storm passed and we’re still standing.

Standing one day at a time. 

Maybe faith looks like that sometimes. The shaky inhale after chaos, the whispered “thank You, God” that feels almost too small for the miracle it carries. Because even when fear steals your breath, grace has a way of giving it back.

“I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears.” Psalm 34:4

To every friend and family member who prayed, checked in, and carried us through these last few months thank you. Your love made the waiting bearable and the relief even sweeter.

If you’ve been holding your breath for something, too waiting for answers, for peace, for that one sign that it’s going to be okay. 

This is your reminder to breathe again. Even if it’s shaky, even if it’s slow. God still meets us in the exhale. 

My blog has always been the one place (other than therapy ha) where I don’t feel like I have to censor what I say.

It’s where I can be completely myself.

Where I can say all my feels, even the ones that sound too heavy or too honest out loud.

A therapist I had in 7th grade once told me that writing is a great coping skill, and I’ve held on to that ever since.

It’s more than coping now, though, it’s a way of processing. 

It’s the space where I make sense of the world when nothing else does.

There are so many things I want to say right now, and this is the only place that feels safe enough to say them.

Not because I don’t trust people. But because sometimes, the weight of my thoughts feels like too much for conversation.

Writing gives me permission to let it all out without worrying how it lands. Without worrying who reads it.  Without worry what people think. Without Judgement and cruelty

Here, I can tell the truth.

Here, I can remember the hard things and the holy things.

Here, I can be me an unfiltered hot mess just trying to heal, learn, and try again.

Maybe that’s the beauty of a safe space: it’s not always quiet, or tidy, or understood.

Sometimes it’s just the place where you finally stop editing yourself long enough to breathe.

What triggered this post was A few weeks ago, during a St. Jude research study about how Parents of children with cancer are seen and treated, I was asked a question that caught me completely off guard:

“Has anyone treated you differently since your child’s diagnosis?”

It should’ve been simple to answer, yes or no.

But instead, it sat heavy in my chest. And is still sitting heavy in my chest. 

Because the truth is… yes. Absolutely yes.

And not always in the ways people might think.

Some people disappeared. Some grew quiet.

Some tiptoed around my pain, afraid to say the wrong thing.

And some showed up so fiercely it felt like God sent them Himself.

But there were also the ones who stayed the friends and family who didn’t leave, but who somehow changed.

Their words carried a new carefulness.

Their hugs felt shorter, their eyes lingered longer, like they weren’t sure which version of me they’d get that day.

They loved me, I know they did, but the air between us just wasn’t the same anymore.

The relationship changed. 

Somewhere along the way, I think I became a little misunderstood.

My honesty started to sound like bitterness.

My boundaries started to look like attitude.

My story because obnoxious and over told.  And somewhere in the mix of grief and exhaustion, I think a few people decided I was the problem. 

They decided I wasn’t worth understanding anymore. 

It’s strange, isn’t it? How the very season that shows you who your people are also shows you who you make uncomfortable.

The truth is, I’m not the same person I was before all of this and sometimes, that alone is enough to make others pull back.

I never meant to change, I had to change. 

But it wasn’t everyone.

The true friends and family the ones who love me for me no matter what stayed.

They saw past the hard days and the new versions of me and continue to love me anyway.

They didn’t need me to be who I used to be.

They just met me right where I was, right where I am and stayed there.

And that kind of love? That’s holy ground.

That question from the study pulled at something I hadn’t said out loud, that grief doesn’t just change you, it changes your circles.

It redraws the lines of who feels safe.

The people you thought would always be there sometimes don’t know how to stand beside the version of you that’s been through fire.

And maybe that’s why I write.

Because here in this space I can say all of that without apology and without expectation.

Here, I can talk about the loneliness that comes after the roller coaster stops. 

Here, I can admit that healing is quieter than anyone warns you it will be.

Here, I can remember that God never needed me to be understood. 

He just needed me to be honest.

Writing has become the bridge between my heart and the world

the one place where I can still meet people where I am, even if they never show up in person.

The place I feel like I am helping people the most. 

And somehow, in this little corner of words and faith, I’ve realized something:

God meets me here too.

Every time I show up with my whole hot mess and unspoken thoughts, He’s already waiting ready to remind me that I’m still seen, still safe, and still held. 

To remind me that he already knows and has a plan. 

Because maybe this is what Psalm 62:8 really means:

“Pour out your hearts to Him, for God is our refuge.”

This space my words, my tears, my truths they’ve always been safe, not because they’re hidden, but because they’re held.

By Him. 

Always by Him.

I was on the phone when it happened. Normal every day phone call with my boyfriend talking about how he got in a fight with a possum. 

My mom suddenly yelled for me, and my heart immediately dropped. Without even thinking, my first thought was, Hudson must be hurt.

But it wasn’t Hudson. It was Penelopi. She had fallen off the zip line at the Back To School Bash.

I ran toward her, helping her walk out of the way of other children to check her out and bracing for the kind of crisis we’ve come to expect without even realizing I was, the kind that changes everything.

But this time was different.

She had a broken arm. Painful, yes. Scary, yes. But not life-threatening? Not forever.

We didn’t race to the ER. We went to Urgent Care, where kids with sprains, coughs, and broken bones sat with their parents. The doctor set her arm, gave her a splint, and said words that almost felt foreign, “Follow your with Ortho but She’ll be fine in a few weeks.”

Fine. In a few weeks.

I didn’t know what to do with that kind of answer.

My mind is used to the long road, the endless follow-ups, the pain that never really leaves.

But here I was, in the exam room like any other mom, with a “normal mom” injury, an injury that heals.

And maybe that was the lesson tucked inside the cast: not every fall is forever.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” (Psalm 147:3)

Her arm will heal stronger. And maybe, so will I.

Today she is out of her cast and just fine.

Fine in a few weeks

Just like I was told.

For years, our family’s focus has been on keeping Hudson alive. Every day since his diagnosis, my heart has been wrapped around the words scan, treatment, hospital, oncology. It’s almost like my mind made a deal with my body, This is where the worry belongs. This is the child we have to fight for. This is the child that will always be medically complex.

But then life throws you a curveball.

Penelopi my “healthy one” compared to her brother now faces her own surgery. Two nodules have appeared near her collarbone. We found these over the summer and have finally reached this point. The doctors will biopsy them, and if possible, remove them during the procedure.

I keep repeating the facts to myself: This is not a search for cancer. This is precaution. This is about answers. My conscious mind knows the truth. And yet…

My anxiety went through gtg rid about everything in my life, without any reason as to why.

My therapist gently pointed out something I hadn’t realized. In my subconscious, the words biopsy and cancer are fused together. They feel like the same word, the same outcome, the same heartbreak. Even though I know they’re not.

It’s like my body is holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, because we’ve walked this road before.

My body is panicking internally and I didn’t even know it.

This time it’s different, and yet my chest feels the same tightness. The anxiety doesn’t ask for facts. It doesn’t pause for reason. It just moves forward, carrying the weight of every hospital hallway, every doctor’s word, every memory of when life turned upside down the first time.

But then God meets me right in the middle of that storm.

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:6–7)

My flesh may tremble, but my spirit knows where to run.

So here we are, the “healthy” child gets sick, and I’m learning that my heart and my brain doesn’t separate them.

Both children carry my prayers, my fears, my desperate hope for tomorrow. And more than that, they both are covered by the peace of God that surpasses my understanding, even when the future feels uncertain.

I don’t have a neat ending for this story yet. Just a mama sitting in the middle of it, whispering prayers, clinging to His Word, and trusting that His peace will guard us through whatever comes.

So tomorrow, Hudson starts Kindergarten.

This isn’t his first day of school he’s already done 2 years of preschool, but somehow Kindergarten feels different.

Preschool was dipping our toes into the water. Kindergarten feels like stepping into the current of a river that will carry him forward whether I’m ready or not.

I’ve spent his whole life, 1,900 days fighting to keep him alive, safe and loved. 1,370 of those days with the added bonus of cancer.

That number still takes my breath away. Every day of medicine, appointments, hospital walls, and sleepless nights has been counted. Every day of laughter, Mickey Mouse, Pancakes, and silly Hudson-isms has been counted too.

People keep telling me I should just be happy he’s here to start Kindergarten, Which don’t get me wrong I am. I am deeply, wildly, unspeakably grateful. When we started his journey we truly didn’t think Kindergarten was going to happen.

But gratitude doesn’t erase the ache. It doesn’t make it easier to watch him walk into a world I can’t control. It doesn’t quiet the voice that whispers: What if cancer takes more from him than it already has? What if I blink and I miss something precious? What if the world doesn’t understand? How do I hand him over to someone else to keep him safe, alive and loved?

The What ifs run wild.

Kindergarten isn’t just a milestone. For me and I’d assume other cancer mama agree, it’s a reminder that time doesn’t pause, even for kids who have fought battles bigger than their years. It’s joy and grief, hope and fear, gratitude and mourning, all tangled up together.

Tomorrow, when he puts on his backpack and walks through those doors, I’ll carry every ounce of thankfulness that we made it here and every tear that knows just how fragile and sacred this moment really is.

And again I remind myself of the promise and Hudson’s Theme Verse:

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10).

Surviving cancer doesn’t make motherhood easier. It just makes every step feel like a miracle. A miracle held in the hands of the One who has carried us this far and will keep carrying us still.

A Miracle that’s story was written long before we knew.

My mama used to say, “If I can’t trust you with the little things, how can I ever trust you with the big ones?”

Back then, it was about curfews, chores, and telling the truth about who I was texting. But now? It means so much more.

Lately, that lesson has been echoing in my ears louder than ever.

A few weeks ago, my home church, the place I’ve worshipped, cried, and poured into forgot to write something down. Just a date. A simple calendar entry. A little thing, right?

Except it wasn’t.

That forgotten date was the key part of an event I had worked hard to plan. An event that has happened years in a row. An event that wasn’t just important to me, but to the people I’m trying to serve, to honor, to love well. Because of that slip, I had to scramble to reorganize the entire thing. And while I did it with grace (or at least, I tried), it didn’t come without pain and stress. 

Not because it ruined my event. Not even because I feel like it makes me look silly. 

But because it shook something deeper, trust.

It’s not about perfection. We all fall short. I do. You do. The church does. 

But what I’m learning is this sometimes it’s not the “big betrayals” that hurt trust. Sometimes it’s the little oversights, the things that get brushed off as no big deal. The “oops, we forgot.” The “sorry, we missed that.”

Because if I can’t trust you to write something down how can I trust you to stand beside me when the waters rise? How can I trust you will have my back if something goes wrong? 

If the little things fall through the cracks, how do I believe you’ll be dependable when I need prayer warriors at 2am, or when life breaks wide open and I need more than just a Sunday smile?

The Bible says 

“Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much.” – Luke 16:10 (NIV)

This fits perfectly with what my mama told me for years.  

This isn’t about completly about being upset. This is about reflection.

This is about wanting better for the Body of Christ, not because we want to criticize it, but because we love it too much not to.

I still believe in grace. I still believe in second chances. And I still believe in my church. 

But I also believe in integrity, and showing up, especially when it’s “just the little things.”

Because sometimes it’s “just the little things.” That makes the biggest difference.