Still Us

The past few months have been heavy. Heavier than I’ve wanted to admit.

I’ve found myself snapping more often, the softness in my voice replaced with frustration. The days have blurred into a rhythm of exhaustion, of emotional grief layered with financial strain, each one feeding the other until I was running on fumes. Friends and family have started to say what I’ve been silently afraid to think: maybe I’ve reached my limit… maybe it’s time to consider the next step, the rest home, the letting go.

But in the stillness of the last couple of days, something shifted in me.

It wasn’t a loud epiphany or a dramatic moment. Just a quiet, honest conversation with my heart. And in that moment, I realised I had been standing too long in the shadow of my own pain. I had been so focused on what I was feeling, on what I was losing, that I stopped seeing what I still had.

Our life.
Our shared story.
The love that still exists between us, even if it’s changed shape.

He may not always remember the details. But I do. And I want to make this time count.

Not out of guilt, or fear, or pressure but out of love. Out of a deep knowing that even now, we are still us.

That realisation doesn’t magically erase the hard days, or the broken sleep, or the ache of watching him slip further away. But it softens something in me. It reminds me that this season, as painful as it is, is also sacred. A time to show up with more gentleness. To laugh when we can. To hold his hand a little longer. To meet him where he is, rather than always wishing things were different.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But I do know this: God has never stopped walking with us. Not once. And I believe He’s giving me the strength, not just to endure, but to choose joy where I can. To find moments of peace even in the chaos. To shift the weight from “why is this happening?” to “how can I love through this?”

And surprisingly, that shift brings light. A quiet kind of hope.

Because this isn’t the end of our story — it is a chapter. One I want to fill with as much meaning, laughter, and grace as we can carry. The kind of chapter that, years from now, I can look back on with no regrets, knowing I gave the best of me to the one who gave me so much.

We are still here. Still together.

Still us.