There are days when I can write with clarity, when my reflections feel whole. But this isn’t one of those. This is me—still in the middle. Still uncertain. Still asking if I’m enough.
Like so many of my days since caregiving began, this piece isn’t wrapped in resolution. It’s just the next step in the fog.
I wish I could say I’ve made peace with all the parts of me. But the truth is—I haven’t.
Some days I feel strong. Other days I question everything.
Some moments I’m filled with faith. Others, I feel like I’m slipping. I believe in grace, but I also wonder if I’ve used it up. I try to do what’s right, but I still carry the weight of what I’ve done wrong.
There are no clean lines in my life. No neat resolution. Only contradictions I don’t always know how to live with. Only the ache of wanting to be better and the knowledge that I haven’t always been.
And yet… I keep going. Not because I have it all figured out. But because something in me refuses to give up.
Because even in the mess, I still long for goodness. Because I still pray, even when I’m not sure how to begin.
I don’t have a perfect faith. I have a cracked one – a faith that limps, but keeps showing up. And maybe that’s what God sees. Not the polished story I wish I had. But the real one—the torn pages, the questions, the conflict.
And maybe… just maybe… that’s enough for Him.
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