Carrying Two Weights

I listened to a podcast recently that felt like the host was speaking directly to me and to the experiences I write about in my book. He was talking about coping with grief whilst still carrying on, because you have to. And then he said something that stopped me in my tracks: he described it as carrying the weight of what you've lost, whilst still carrying the weight of what you're building. That line hit me like a ton of bricks. It named something I had lived but never quite put into words and there was something freeing about finally hearing it said out loud.

When my son was first ill, he was still alive, but for a long time he wasn't with me, at least not in the way I'd imagined, not in the way I needed him to be. I was grieving the life I thought we "should" have had, rather than the one that was actually presenting itself to me, and, we had to build a new one. As a mum, I felt it was important that I be the one to lead that building, even while my heart was still breaking. Looking back now, I can see that the new life we built wasn't a lesser version of the one I'd pictured, it was its own thing, full of its own strength, and I'm genuinely proud of it.

Even writing this now, it stirs something in me. There's another phrase from that same conversation that has stayed with me: a heart that's bleeding on a body that's still building – and that's exactly what it felt like. My heart hadn't stopped bleeding, but my body and my mind kept going. Looking back, I am so grateful and proud of myself for how much strength I found simply by choosing to move forward, one day, one decision, one small act of faith at a time.

So, what kept me going? What still keeps me going?

The Anchor That Holds

The honest answer is that I never believed I was doing this alone. I have faith, I have God.

There's a well-known worship song that talks about not being able to make it through without holding onto something greater than yourself and becoming stronger, wiser, better because you had something to hold onto when everything else gave way. That's exactly what it's been for me, an anchor that's invisible, but every bit as real and as felt as anything I could touch.

I've learned over time that my relationship with God isn't a nice extra I fit in around the edges of my life, it's the thing everything else is built on. I’ve also learnt that it's not enough to have that relationship in isolation. It's important to cultivate the spiritual and the in-person relationships alongside it. To have people around you who can hold you when you need to be held, and who you can be there for in return, when it's their turn to carry something heavy.

God made us to be in community with one another, and it's taken living through the hardest seasons of my life to truly understand why. Community isn't a comfort we add on top of faith; it's part of how faith is meant to work. We're not built to carry grief, or hope, or the weight of rebuilding a life, entirely on our own, we're built to hand pieces of it to each other.

What Trust Has Taught Me

Trust is something that has been tested for me in many different ways throughout my life, and never more than during the difficult seasons. I've learned that trust takes different forms. There's the trust we place in other people which can be imperfect and sometimes shaken but always worth tending. There's the trust we're invited to place in God, even when the picture in front of us makes no sense. And then the kind I didn't expect to have to learn trust in myself. Trust in my own ability to discern well and to make good choices, even from inside the fog of grief and fear. That one has been something I've had to grow into slowly, decision by decision, rather than something I arrived with.

But the greatest and most important form of trust, the one that has anchored me through everything else, is the trust that there is a plan for my life. That although things might not look the way I want them to, or the way I prayed for, they will always work together for my good. That doesn't mean the pain isn't real, or that I've had to pretend it doesn't hurt. It means I've chosen, again and again, to believe that the story isn't finished and that what looks broken now is still being written into something whole.

Choosing Hope

Hope, I've come to believe, is the best and biggest gift we've been given and one we have to actively choose to hold onto, because without hope, what's left is fear and uncertainty. Without hope, we start to feel like giving up is the only option left.

Hope doesn't erase grief; it doesn't undo what's been lost or make the carrying any lighter on the days it feels unbearably heavy. What it does is give you a reason to keep building anyway. It's the difference between carrying weight because you have no choice and carrying it because you believe there's something on the other side worth carrying it towards.

So, if you're in a season of carrying two weights at once, if you’re grieving what you've lost whilst still trying to build what comes next, I want you to know that you are allowed to feel both at the same time. You are allowed to have a heart that's still bleeding on a body that's still building. That's not brokenness. That's what it looks like to be human, and to keep going anyway.

Find your anchors, for me, it's my faith in God, held steady by the community of people He's placed around me, and strengthened by a trust I've had to grow into rather than one that arrived fully formed. Whatever yours is, find it, hold onto it, and let it steady you through the seasons that ask more of you than you thought you had to give, and trust that it will.

If any of this resonates, take a look at my book Healing & Hopeful: From Setbacks to Stepping Stones. It's the fuller story of how I found my anchor through the hardest seasons of my life, and how you can start finding, or strengthening yours too. If you're in a season of carrying two weights at once, I wrote it with you in mind, and I'd love for you to read it.

Always remember that none of us are meant to do this alone and when you're anchored to something, or someone bigger than the storm you're in, you don't just survive it you build through it and find a way to thrive.