I’ve been quiet here lately. Not because there’s nothing to say—but because there’s been too much. The kind of “too much” that leaves you staring out the window long after the coffee’s gone cold. The kind that makes writing feel like shouting into the wind.

These past few weeks have been heavy.

Parenting has been hard. Life has been harder. And I find myself in a space I didn’t expect to be this year—grieving, stretching, and surrendering more than I thought I could.

Let me back up a bit.

I recently made the decision to leave a teaching job I’ve held for a long time. One that once brought purpose and identity. I loved the students. I believed in the mission. But somewhere along the way, higher education stopped feeling like the place I belonged. The system has shifted, and with it, my ability to keep showing up with integrity and heart. So I stepped away.

It sounds clean when I write it like that, doesn’t it? But the truth is, it felt like losing a limb. A part of me I thought would always be there. I’m grieving. And like most grief, it’s messy and confusing and inconvenient.

And then, in the midst of this emotional upheaval, parenting decided to throw a few extra layers on top.

My six-year-old son recently watched someone he deeply looked up to—a personal hero—fail him in a big way. It was the kind of moment that forces a child to grow up a little too fast. He looked at me, eyes wide and unsure, and said, “But I thought they were good.”
And I didn’t know what to say. Because I get it. Sometimes the people we trust most make choices that hurt. And when the grown-ups break, we’re left trying to put pieces together for the little hearts watching us.

My daughter, now in those tender pre-teen years, is navigating her own emotional maze. Relationships are complicated. The world our kids are growing up in is saturated with fantasy—pixels and avatars and performative friendships. Authentic connection is harder to come by, and girls can be so mean. I watch her try to be herself in a world that constantly tells her to be something else, and it aches. I want to shield her. I want to fix it. But more than anything, I want her to know that she’s not alone—even when it feels like everyone else is playing a game she doesn’t want to join.

And as if those layers weren’t enough, my mother is dying.

There’s not a poetic way to say that. It’s just the truth. She’s fading, and I’m trying to be present while still homeschooling, still parenting, still carrying it all. Some days I do okay. Other days, the weight of anticipatory grief just sits in my chest like a stone.

I guess I’m writing today not with answers—but with honesty.

If you’re in a season where everything feels fragile and uncertain—me too. If you’re grieving a loss you didn’t see coming—me too. If you’re parenting through your own heartbreak—me too.

What I’m learning, slowly and imperfectly, is that sometimes the most powerful lesson we can teach our children is how to keep showing up in the middle of the mess. To keep loving when it’s hard. To keep choosing connection when disconnection feels easier. To be honest about our humanness.

There’s grace in that. There’s growth in that. Even in the grief.

So today, I’m holding space for all of it. And maybe that’s enough.

But maybe it’s also more than enough.

Because this—the showing up in truth, the parenting through imperfection, the naming of sorrow without rushing to fix it—is what real learning looks like. This is the heart of home education. Not just teaching math or history, but teaching our children how to be human. How to sit with complexity. How to feel without being consumed. How to stay soft in a world that keeps trying to harden us.

I share this not to burden you with my heaviness, but because I believe in the power of naming what’s real. I believe in the quiet courage it takes to say, “This is hard, and I’m still here.” And I believe that when we tell the truth, we light candles for each other in the dark.

So if you’re walking through your own hard season, this post is for you.

You are not failing just because you’re struggling.
You are not broken because you’re grieving.
And you are not alone in the ache.

There is still beauty here. In the small moments. In the tired hugs. In the lessons we don’t plan, but our kids learn anyway because they’re watching us keep going. There is still a story unfolding. And though this chapter may feel heavy, it doesn’t mean hope isn’t alive on the next page.

We’re all just doing the best we can, with what we have, in the moment we’re in. And that, dear friend, is sacred work.