Over the past two weeks, I’ve been sharing the reflections that came after my son broke his leg back in May. At the time, people kept asking how we were doing. And I kept answering honestly: “It’s been hard. He’s in pain. I’m carrying a lot right now.” I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. I was just telling the truth.

But I noticed something. Every time I said it out loud, that things were hard, that I was tired, that I felt stretched thin, I felt this subtle fear creeping in: Was I saying too much? Was I reinforcing something I didn’t want to keep living in? Was I slipping into self-pity… just by being honest?

I didn’t want to pretend I was strong anymore. But I also didn’t want to say something about myself that would keep me down. And that’s where this whole internal struggle began.

I thought I was learning how to trust God. And in many ways, I was. But lately, I’ve realized He wasn’t just leading me into trust. He was inviting me into something lower.

Lowly.

The posture I didn’t know I needed, but the one my soul was starving for. It’s been like a slow unraveling of self-sufficiency, an undoing of everything I thought I had to hold together.

It started with layers of pressure, financial strain, emotional weight. And then my son broke his leg. Just one unexpected accident, and suddenly the thin scaffolding I’d been standing on collapsed.

And it hit me: I’m not strong. I’ve never been strong. I’ve just been good at keeping it together.