Grit over Feelings

Some days, making it through is all I can do—just getting to the end, still standing, still breathing, ready to face another day.

Some days I find glimpses of joy. Other days, I sit in the weight of sadness, letting it wash over me. And more times than I can count, I’ve asked the same question: How is this my life?

Our daughter is a miracle—truly, undeniably a miracle. She was conceived through IVF, a path we never imagined but were clearly led down. The Lord guided us to the right doctors and made a way through insurance that covered nearly everything. Even in the details, His hand was there.

We were pregnant with twins. We lost one. But our miracle remained.

And still, some days I look back at all the appointments, the waiting, the heartbreak, the hope—and I wonder why this is our story. Why couldn’t it be easier? Why couldn’t our path have looked different?

Some days, life just feels unfair.

And then I am quickly reminded of Romans 11:36: “For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things. To Him be glory forever. Amen.”

It isn’t about me. It never was. I am not owed ease or comfort. I deserve nothing—and yet, I have been given so much.

In fact, the Lord tells us plainly in John 16:33: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

So where did I lose my way, believing life would be easy…or even should be?

So what now?

It has been over a year since I’ve heard my daughter’s voice, kissed her cheek, or wrapped my arms around her neck. Even as I write those words, sorrow rises up and overwhelms me, tightening in my chest.

My mind drifts back to the first moment I held her—the joy, the fear, the overwhelming awe all wrapped into one sacred instant. I remember thanking God, fully aware that I would do anything for this tiny, precious life placed in my arms.

And there lies the tension—the painful juxtaposition. I would do anything for her… and yet, I cannot do everything. There are limits.

As our children grow and begin to find their own way, the relationship shifts. It is no longer about total sacrifice, but about allowing them to build resilience—to develop their own strength, their own fortitude.

And for me, it means surrender. It means honoring the Lord above all else.

I know this. I have known this.

But letting go—giving up my daughter—was never part of my plan.

But coming back to the beginning… it was never my plan. It was never my will.

“Thy will be done.” — Matthew 6:10

And so here I stand again, at another fork in the road.

His will is not easy. It is steady, unyielding. It calls for surrender and requires sacrifice—far beyond anything I would have chosen, far beyond what I ever imagined I could bear.

And still…

By God’s grace, I keep going.

Not all at once. Not flawlessly. But step by step, one day at a time.

Trusting that even here—especially here—He is still writing a story that is good. And it isn’t good, then He is not finished.

I remind myself of this. I hold onto it. I choose to believe it.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” — Romans 8:28

“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.”- Jerimiah 29:11

These are the truths I stand on. The ones that carry me through.

When the enemy tries to isolate me—pressing in with regret and shame—I come back to these words. I hold onto them. I let them steady me.

And I stand a little taller, reminding myself that God holds the future… not me.