If you had told me what I’d walk through by 25, I would’ve laughed — or more likely, cried. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the weight this past year and a half would place on my shoulders. I’ve lived what feels like a lifetime of heartbreak in a matter of months, and some days, I still don’t understand why I’m here, carrying it all.

I thought 25 would feel different. I thought I’d be building something stable — a marriage, a family, a future. But instead, I watched everything unravel.

I lost a marriage I once prayed would last.
I lost a pregnancy I never got to celebrate.
I lost my home, my friendships, my footing.
I lost my first dog — Gordon Ramsay — the one who was always there, even when everything else crumbled.

And while all of that was breaking me open emotionally, something else began to unravel physically too.

2025 has been a blur of waiting rooms and white walls. I’ve spent more days than I can count weaving in and out of doctors' offices, chasing diagnoses, trying new medications, and sitting under fluorescent lights while specialists poke and prod and try to fix a body that feels like it’s constantly betraying me. My autoimmune disease — something most people still don’t understand — has consumed every part of my life.

And if I’m being honest, the worst part hasn’t even been the physical pain — it’s how much I stopped feeling like a person.

Some days I feel more like a case number than a human being. A chart. A diagnosis. A list of symptoms to manage. I’ve been poked with more needles than I can count, and each one felt like a tiny piece of my humanity being chipped away. I don’t always recognize myself in the mirror anymore — not just because I’m tired, but because I feel so deeply disconnected from the girl I used to be.

There were days — and still are — when I’ve wrestled with my own existence. When the thought of continuing to live in this body, with this pain, felt unbearable. When the loneliness and weight of it all made me wonder if the world would even notice if I disappeared. I’ve looked at the ceiling and begged God to just take the hurt away — in any form. Not because I didn’t want to live, but because I didn’t know how to survive like this anymore.

And then, cancer.

One more thing. One more storm. And I was already drowning.

But there’s a loneliness that sits even deeper than the loss itself. It’s in the way life keeps moving when you feel frozen. It’s in the silence after reaching out and being met with nothing. It’s in watching people celebrate when your world is crumbling quietly behind the scenes. It’s in the ache of feeling invisible — like no one really sees how hard you're fighting just to stay.

Letting go isn’t about forgetting. It’s about honoring. It’s about acknowledging that sometimes chapters end before we’re ready, and healing doesn’t always follow a neat little timeline. I’m learning to make peace with the unknown — to trust that not everything has to make sense in order for me to move forward.

Grief changed me.
Loss reshaped me.
But both have made room for a quieter kind of strength — one that’s not performative, not polished, but deeply, unshakably real.

People say I’m strong. And maybe I am. But strength doesn’t always look like smiling through the storm. Sometimes it’s crying in the shower. Sometimes it’s answering a text when you want to disappear. Sometimes it’s whispering “just get through this hour” when the whole day feels impossible.

Strength isn’t always loud or pretty.
Sometimes it’s quiet.
Sometimes it’s choosing to breathe through another wave of fear.
Sometimes it’s crying in the car, or taking your meds.
Sometimes, it’s simply surviving when everything in you feels broken.

And maybe — just maybe — this isn’t the end of me at all.
Maybe this is the beginning.

Maybe God is stripping away what was never meant to stay, so He can rebuild something I can’t even imagine yet.
Maybe the breaking, the unraveling, the deep ache of loss — maybe it’s the foundation of starting completely over.
Not going back. Not patching it up.
But becoming someone entirely new. Rooted, refined, and deeply held.

I’ve begged God for answers. I’ve asked Him why He’s allowed so much loss. But slowly, in the silence, I’m beginning to understand: I don’t have to see the whole story to trust the Author. Even when I don’t feel Him — He’s still moving. Even when I don’t understand — He’s still writing.

If you’re walking through your own valley right now — I see you. If you’ve lost things you can’t speak out loud, if the people you trusted have gone quiet, if you're living in a body that feels like a battlefield — you are not alone.

Maybe we’re not meant to understand why.
Maybe we’re just meant to keep going.
To breathe. To hope.
To believe that God is still at work — even here, even now.

And maybe, just maybe… that’s enough for today.