I’ve been hit hard by some kind of cold or flu that’s left me feeling utterly drained. It all began last Friday night when I lost my voice—talk about bad timing! I had been eagerly anticipating a weekend of heartfelt conversations, where I could ugly cry and share everything swirling in my mind with my best friends over wine in my big, cozy bed. Even though a couple of our crew couldn’t make it, I felt certain this was my moment for some much-needed healing. But of course, the universe had different plans.

Despite my raspy voice, I managed to have a fantastic time exploring Savannah with the girls. I didn’t feel sick until Monday morning, and I thought the worst was behind me. After waving goodbye to my friends, I ordered some flu medication and promptly nestled back under the covers. And let me tell you, I’ve been glued to my bed ever since.

Wednesday came, and I thought about getting up to fetch my grandkids, but even that felt like too much effort. Here’s the thing: I am sick—physically, yes—but what truly brought me to my knees was the realization that the people I love, those I’ve always held close, the ones for whom I’ve sacrificed so much… they don’t choose me. It stings, and while I could let anger take over, I know it wouldn’t be fair. Life doesn’t pause just because I lost my husband.

So, for days, I’ve been in my safe space, trying to come to terms with the fact that the only person who ever truly chose me is gone. I haven’t showered, haven’t brushed my teeth, and I’m still in the pajamas I slipped into when I returned home on Monday. Sure, I’ve gotten up to feed my pets, let Charlie out, change the litter boxes, and grab my DoorDash. But beyond that? I’ve got food containers, soda cans, and energy drink bottles cluttering my dresser and nightstand, and honestly, I just don’t care. My animals are safe and happy, and that’s what should matter, right?

But deep down, I know I matter too. Over the last five months, I’ve felt like I’m drifting away, like I’m lost at sea. In the beginning, I fought hard to swim toward the shore, desperately calling for help and for Bill. At times, I felt like I couldn’t go on without him, so I would stop swimming, convincing myself that if I was meant to be saved, someone would come. Even during those desperate moments, I reached out to people I believed would rescue me, even paying them to care and love me when I felt utterly alone. 

There were days I thought the shore was just within reach. I wanted to believe that I could move forward, that Bill would want me to find my way. I pushed myself to swim harder, only to realize the shore kept moving further away.

Last night, as I lay snuggled with my cats—who were less than thrilled about being locked inside but settled on top of me, purring—and Charlie, who’d hidden away in my closet under a weighted blanket, it hit me: I was never going to reach that shore. So, I gathered all the shattered pieces of my heart and curled up in my fancy bed, surrounded by our cherished pillows and cozy blankets, and I drifted off to sleep.

No, I didn’t down a bunch of sleeping pills like I might have in darker times to escape the pain. This isn’t depression; it’s a wound that runs deeper than that. I didn’t write any farewell notes. Instead, I did the one thing I’ve been taught since childhood—the one thing I’ve been running from for decades. I surrendered it all to God and went to sleep.

Did I care if I woke up today? Not really. But I didn’t want to die either. I had no expectations for the new day, but deep down, I yearned to be chosen again. I craved that kind of love—unconditional, genuine, not tied to money or future benefits. I wanted to feel loved simply for who I am, for the fact that I am worthy of being chosen.

I woke up at 2:51 AM, a time that’s become all too familiar. It’s the hour when my nightmares reach their peak, and I often find myself screaming for someone, anyone, to wake me up, desperate to escape. I’ve called this experience sleep paralysis, but in my heart, I refer to it as the gates of hell—something my preacher vividly described during my teenage years. 

Last night was different, though. I didn’t scream for help; deep down, I knew there was no one to answer. My mother had always taught me to keep a Bible close to fend off the night’s demons, to utter the words, “Get thee behind me, Satan.” At 50, I still cling to this ritual, but I’ve kept it a secret from my husband, who doesn’t share my faith. I would stash my Bible under the bed, hoping that even as I strayed from my beliefs, it might shield me from the horrors of my nightmares.

But last night, as the clock struck 2:51, I found myself unable to fight any longer; the energy had drained from my spirit, leaving me too exhausted to confront even the demons of my past—the ones I’ve carried since high school. Instead, I remained in my cozy prison of grief, paralysis gripping me. The only movement I could muster was to pick up my phone resting on my chest. 

I turned off the audiobook that had been playing and, almost instinctively, opened Apple Music. I searched for Brandon Lake and Jelly Roll, adding their albums to my playlist. I hit play and surrendered it all to God, allowing the music to wash over me as I slipped back into a restless sleep. 

I drifted in and out, but come 4 AM, I was awakened not by screams but by the soothing sounds of praise. The song “Hard Fought Hallelujah” filled the air, and unexpectedly, tears began to flow. In a moment of pure grace, I found my hand instinctively reaching towards heaven in worship. It was a gesture I hadn’t made in decades, yet here I was, reminding myself that I had been chosen for love—an everlasting choice made long before last night. 

Even in my darkest moments, He never stopped choosing me, even when I ran from Him. And in that vulnerable space, I, too, made a choice. With a heart full of gratitude, I surrendered it all again and drifted back to sleep, knowing that this was not just a fleeting moment but a hard-fought hallelujah echoing through the embers of my past. I choose God. 

I’m standing at a crossroads, uncertain of what tomorrow holds. But one thing is certain—God knows the way. As I take my first brave step onto this new journey, I can feel the warmth of your support. I know so many of you are ready to cheer me on, to welcome me with open arms, to share your faith, and to invite me to church.

Yet, I ask for your understanding—I’m not quite ready for that yet. What I am ready for is the profound act of declaring my decision: “I choose God. I am returning home.” And I want you to know, I am not alone in this journey; I truly feel chosen. I have a story to tell.

Keep Your Hard Things, I'm Going Home