My Strength. My courage. My Producer.

They call her strong, like it’s a simple thing.

Like strength is something she chose one morning and never put down.

But her strength wasn’t built all at once. It came in layers—over years of motherhood, in the middle of raising children, in the rhythm of ordinary life that was, at one time, full and intact.

She didn’t begin her journey in loss.

She built a life first.

She raised her children, carried the weight of their needs, navigated the complexities of motherhood—especially for the child whose life, from the very beginning, came with medical challenges. Appointments, uncertainty, long days that required more patience and resilience than most ever see.

She learned early that motherhood, for her, would not be simple.

It would be constant.

It would mean stretching herself in ways no one else quite understood.

And she did it—mostly on her own.

Not because it was easy. Not because she was never overwhelmed.

But because there was no other option.

She became the steady place.

The one who made sure everyone was fed, cared for, held together.

The one who stayed up when someone was sick, who carried both the visible and invisible weight of a family that relied on her completely.

And then, later—after years of loving, raising, building—

loss entered her story.

Her child, just 16 years old, gone in 2004 because of a drunk driver.

There is no preparing for that kind of moment. No way to make sense of something so sudden, so unjust. One day your child is here, and the next, the world is permanently divided into before and after.

Grief doesn’t ask if you’re ready.

It simply arrives.

And still, there were other children who needed her.

Still, there were lives depending on her ability to keep going.

So she did.

Not because she wasn’t shattered—but because love doesn’t end when loss begins.

Years passed.

Time moved the way it always does—forward, whether you’re ready or not. There were moments of healing, moments of strength, moments where life, in pieces, continued.

And then, in 2018, loss came again.

This time, her child grown—37 years old. A different kind of heartbreak, but no less devastating. Because no matter how old they are, they are still your child.

Still yours.

Still a part of you.

And again, she carried it.

Not by forgetting. Not by moving on.

But by moving forward—with both of them woven into her life in ways no one else could fully see.

There were days when grief sat beside her at the kitchen table. Days when it followed her into quiet moments, into long nights, into the spaces between one responsibility and the next.

Moments when loss felt layered—one grief resting on top of another.

And yet, she remained.

For her children.

For her family.

For the life that still needed her.

There were moments, I’m sure, when exhaustion pressed in so heavily it felt unbearable.

Moments when grief and responsibility collided.

Moments when she could have asked, How much more can one person take?

But she didn’t stop.

Not because she wasn’t hurting.

But because love kept calling her forward.

And somewhere in all of that—in the loss, in the pressure, in the quiet sacrifices no one else fully saw—she held onto something deeper.

Her faith.

Not the kind that ignores pain.

Not the kind that pretends everything is okay.

But the kind that whispers, God is still here, even when life feels anything but gentle.

It showed up in small ways.

In prayers spoken under her breath when the day felt too heavy.
In moments of surrender when she didn’t have answers.
In the decision to trust, even when she didn’t understand.

“The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him, and He helps me.” (Psalm 28:7)

Not someday.

Not when everything is fixed.

Now.

In the middle of it.

Her strength didn’t come from having an easy story.

It came from continuing to walk through a hard one—without letting it take away her ability to love, to care, to believe.

She is not strong because nothing broke her.

She is strong because things did—and she kept going anyway.

Because she chose, again and again, to show up for her children.

Because she carried grief and responsibility and still made room for faith.

Because even in the darkest chapters of her life, she never let go of the quiet belief that God was holding her, too.

And maybe that’s what real strength looks like.

Not perfection.

Not invincibility.

But a woman who has every reason to give up—and instead, finds just enough strength for one more day.

And then another.

And another.

Until somehow, through all of it, she becomes the kind of mother whose love tells a story louder than anything she’s lost.

She is my strength. My courage. My Producer. My Mom.