kiranaarf

[kiranaarf]

“Why Do Kind-Hearted People Always Go First?"

Someone said that to me the other day.

“She was so kind-hearted,” they said, speaking of someone they’d just lost.

“Why do kind people always go first?”

I nodded quietly, but the words stayed with me.

Not because they were new - I’ve heard them before.

But this time, they struck something deeper.

And strangely, they came right when I had just started to feel… a little better.

Not fully well. Just… not drowning. Not as much pain. A little more space to breathe.

That was when the overthinking began.

If the kind-hearted go first, then what does it say about me?

About the fact that I’m still here, after everything?

Does it mean I’m not one of them? That I’m not “that good”?

That somehow, I deserve to stay and suffer?

It sounds ridiculous when said out loud. But thoughts like that don’t arrive with logic.

They creep in through exhaustion, through long nights and quiet moments when you’re just barely okay enough to think again.

And then it spiraled, like it always does.

I thought of my husband. Of the way he puts aside his needs, day after day - not prioritizing healthy meals, skipping the gym, skipping rest - to take care of me and our daughter.

I thought about how long our lives have revolved around my health. And how tired he must be.

At first, it was:

“If I were well… maybe he could live better.”

But then, it turned into something heavier:

“If I weren’t here… maybe he could live better.”

That thought landed like a quiet punch to the chest.

I didn’t want to be thinking it. I didn’t want to mean it. But there it was.

Not because I want to go. Not because I don’t love my life or my family.

But because sometimes, when you’ve lived long enough in pain, and watched the people around you carry it too, you start to wonder if you’re the weight they never asked for.

And that’s when the guilt tightens its grip - not in moments of worst suffering, but in the small spaces where there’s finally enough breath to reflect.

When your body is quieter, your thoughts get louder.

-

Not long after, my husband and I were talking - nothing heavy at first. But somehow, I let it slip.

That quiet thought I’d been carrying:

“Sometimes I wonder if life would be easier for you without me.”

I didn’t mean to say it. I was just tired, and we were talking, and it slipped out before I could catch it.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t argue. He just looked at me and asked,

“When I’m sick, or when I need help - do you ever think I’m a burden?”

“Of course not,” I said, without hesitation.

He nodded.

“Then I feel the same.”

That was it. No big speech. Just a quiet, steady truth.

And it hit me - how easily I offered him grace, and how hard it was to offer it to myself.

I’ve never once seen the people I love as burdens, no matter what they’re going through. So why did I think I was the exception?

That moment didn’t take the guilt away completely - but it softened it.

It reminded me that love doesn’t measure worth by how “easy” we are to care for.

Love shows up.

Love stays.

And here’s what I’m learning - slowly, gently, painfully:

Maybe survival isn’t a measure of failure.

Maybe being the one who stays isn’t less noble than the ones who go.

Maybe kindness isn’t about how early we leave - but how deeply we stay, even when it hurts.

Maybe I’m not a burden.

Maybe I’m just tired.

And maybe that’s allowed.

I don’t know why some people leave too soon.

I don’t know why I’m still here.

But I do know this:

There is a kind of courage in continuing.

In showing up to the day even when you’re full of doubt.

In loving your people through the guilt and the questions.

In still being tender, still being soft, even when everything aches.

Maybe I’m not here because I’m less kind-hearted.

Maybe I’m still here because love takes many forms.

Sometimes, it’s staying. Quietly. Softly. Even when no one sees.

And maybe, just maybe -

being here, loving through it,

is the kindest thing I’ve ever done.

[kiranaarf]

Letting Go, Gently

This morning, my daughter woke up quietly around 6:45 am. She looked around, blinked the sleep from her eyes, and snuggled in for a moment. And then - she simply got up and asked for her pink teddy bear.

She didn’t ask for nursing.

She didn’t reach for me or lift my shirt like she always had.

She just… moved on and snuggled.

For the first time in nearly 2 years and 8 months, our day didn’t begin with our morning cuddle feed. And somehow, the silence of that missing moment said more than any milestone chart ever could.

I didn’t expect weaning to begin this way - gently, almost silently.

And I didn’t expect it to stir such a deep ache in my chest.

Nursing has always been more than feeding for us. It was comfort. It was pause. It was connection - especially during the hardest seasons of my health. When my body felt weak, when I couldn’t move as freely, when I couldn’t always be the energetic mama I wanted to be, nursing was our language of presence. It was how I told her: “I’m here. I love you. You’re safe.”

And for her, I think it was how she told me the same thing.

-

The shift began quietly, when we started gentle sleep training. We made the choice not because I was done nursing, but because we both needed better sleep. My health needed it. Her growing body needed it too. We chose a dad-led transition, one rooted in gentleness and patience. My husband took the lead while I stepped back - my heart was full and breaking at once.

There were tears. Resistance. Crying in the dark asking for what used to be.

But there was also strength. Trust. A new rhythm emerging.

And slowly, the night nursing faded.

At first, we held onto the morning nursing as our last thread.

Just once a day, I thought. Just to ease the shift.

But even that began to loosen - not from force, but from readiness.

Over the span of ten slow and tender days, we watched the change unfold, one bedtime at a time.

What began as gentle sleep training - simply a step toward better rest for both of us - slowly became something more.

We didn’t set out to wean, not yet. I thought we’d hold onto our morning nursing a while longer, just one feed a day to stay close.

And for 9 days, we did.

Each morning, she still asked. She still reached for me with sleepy eyes and nestled in, nursing as the world woke up around us.

It was our ritual, our softness, our way of beginning.

But then, on the 10th morning - this morning - she didn’t ask.

She simply stirred, snuggled in for a while… and moved forward without it.

-

I miss it already. That closeness, that stillness, that little world of just us. I won’t pretend I don’t.

But I also feel proud - of her, and of me. Because this didn’t come from shutting her down.

It came from building her up. From showing her that love doesn’t disappear with change.

We still have our connection - more than ever, really. It’s in our bedtime stories and play time giggles. In how she rests her head on my shoulder while I pray. In how she reaches for my hand when she’s unsure.

Our bond didn’t end with weaning.

It simply found new ways to speak.

So today, I’m honoring what we had - and celebrating where we are.

Because the quietest goodbyes are sometimes the most sacred.

And the most lasting love doesn’t need to be held the same way forever.

July 10th, 2025

[kiranaarf]

We’re So Connected It Hurts (and Heals): A Journey Through Shared Emotions

It started like many other quiet mornings. I wasn’t feeling my best — one of those heavy days when my body needed extra rest, and everything inside me moved a little slower. I curled up on the couch, hoping to stay as present as I could while giving my body what it needed.

My daughter, usually full of energy and curiosity, seemed… different. She refused breakfast, pushed her toys away, and burst into tears over small things that normally wouldn’t bother her. She clung to me more than usual, but even that closeness felt a little unsettled, like she wasn’t sure what she needed either.

At first, I chalked it up to a bad mood or a bad sleep. But the more it happened, the harder it became to ignore.

Later that evening, my husband said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“She’s always like this when you’re not okay.”

He wasn’t criticizing — he said it gently, more like an observation than a concern. But my heart dropped. I nodded, trying to look thoughtful, but inside, guilt was already wrapping itself around me.

I knew he was right. I had seen it too.

And instead of feeling touched or grateful that she was so in tune with me, I felt… responsible.

Is my pain affecting her too much?

Am I too visible when I’m unwell?

Am I doing something wrong?

The questions came quickly and quietly. And the guilt, as always, came with them.

It’s a specific kind of guilt — one I think many mothers carry, but in my case, it feels heavier when you’re living with chronic illness. I don’t want her to carry what I carry. I don’t want her lightness to dim because of my heaviness.

So when I saw her mood shift, her appetite disappear, her usual cheerfulness fade alongside my own symptoms, it didn’t feel like connection. It felt like failure.

I know I’m doing my best. I know I’m present, I’m loving, I’m showing up in all the ways I can. But guilt doesn’t operate with logic — it whispers that even your honesty, even your truth, might be too much.

And yet — beneath the guilt, something else was quietly asking to be heard.

A Gentle Shift in Perspective

Over time, and through quiet reflection and soft conversations, I started to see this mirrored behavior not as a burden, but as a kind of bond.

What if her crankiness, her loss of appetite, wasn’t just a reaction to discomfort — but a reflection of our closeness?

What if this wasn’t something to feel guilty about, but something to honor?

She’s two. And still, she notices when I’m quiet. She reaches for my face when I lie down. She pulls the blanket up to my shoulders or offers me the toy I always call my favorite. Her love doesn’t speak in full sentences yet — but it speaks, powerfully.

It took me a while to see that her “difficult” behavior wasn’t about acting out.

It was empathy.

Raw, wordless, beautiful empathy.

And I realized: we are so connected, it hurts.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s also how we heal.

What I’m Learning Along the Way

I used to think I had to protect her from every wave inside me. That if I was tired, in pain, or emotionally low, I needed to mask it for her sake.

But I’m learning that protection doesn’t always mean hiding.

Sometimes it means being honest in a soft, safe way.

Sometimes it means letting her see that even mamas need care.

I still have moments when guilt creeps in — when she skips a meal, cries more easily, or becomes unusually clingy during a flare. But I’m learning to meet those moments with more grace. I’m learning to whisper to myself what I whisper to her:

“You’re doing your best, and that is enough.”

I’ve started reading more about emotional attunement in young children, and everything confirms what I’ve been witnessing: toddlers may not have the words, but their ability to feel is deep. Their connection to their primary caregivers — especially their mothers — is profound. Their reactions, even the hard ones, are often expressions of care, not harm.

So I try to hold that truth now, even on the hard days.

Especially on the hard days.

A Quiet Kind of Strength

And so, the next time I felt a flare coming on, I didn’t rush to hide it.

I moved gently.

I told her, “Mama’s a little tired today,” and sat beside her while she played. She looked at me for a moment, as if checking something invisible, then leaned against me and kept playing in silence.

And it was enough.

We didn’t need words.

We just needed each other.

This bond we share — this tender, almost invisible thread — feels like both a weight and a gift. It hurts when she hurts because of me.

But it also heals something in me to know that love runs this deep.

If you’ve ever felt this kind of connection — the kind that hurts and heals — I hope you know you’re not alone.

Because even though some days are quiet or messy, that doesn’t make them any less meaningful. Being there for one another is sometimes all we need.

[kiranaarf]

The Unseen Weight He Carries

The other night, my husband looked at me with concern in his eyes and said, “You need to know yourself better - the patterns, the pain scale - so you can predict what might happen next.”

I knew he meant well. But in that moment, I felt overwhelmed. My head ached, I had a high fever, and all I wanted was to be okay. To be healthy. To not have to think so hard about my own body, when simply living in it was already exhausting.

But later, when the fever faded just enough for my mind to clear, I found myself thinking about him - not just as my husband, but as the man who carries a weight no one really talks about. The quiet, unseen weight of being a caregiver to someone he loves.

My husband knew about my condition before we got married. He understood that life with me would mean hospital visits, flare-ups, and days when I wouldn’t be able to function. And yet, he still chose me. He chose us. People say “in sickness and in health,” but few truly understand what that means until sickness becomes a part of everyday life. My husband lives that reality.

He works all day and comes home, not to rest, but to take care of our daughter and check on me. When I have bad days, he steps in without hesitation - holding everything together when I can’t. He carries the mental and emotional weight of making sure I’m okay, of hoping that I’ll have more good days than bad ones, of wondering if this will be one of those times when things get worse before they get better.

The Weight He Carries

No one really talks about caregivers - especially not husbands who take on that role. People ask how I’m feeling, but they rarely ask him, “How are you holding up?” He doesn’t always get the space to say, “I’m tired too.”

He once told me that his happiness is simply coming home to a healthy, happy wife and daughter. As beautiful as that is, I also know what it means: his happiness is tied to something neither of us can fully control. That’s a heavy burden to carry though it taught us a lot about relying on God more.

I think that’s also why he pushes me to understand my own body better. I understand that he hopes if I can predict my flare-ups, we won’t have to be caught off guard again. But sometimes chronic illness doesn’t work like that. And that's frustrating - for both of us.

When he asks me questions I can’t answer, I feel like I’m letting him down. I want to be okay - not just for myself, but for him and for our daughter too. For the life we’re building together. And when I can’t be okay, I feel guilty.

I realize that his frustration isn’t with me - it is for me. Because he wants me to be okay just as much as I do. And when he can’t fix it, when all he can do is watch, it weighs on him too.

A Love That Stays

Something that I never want to take for granted is the fact that despite of it all, he stays. Through the hospital visits, the sleepless nights, the uncertainty.. He stays not only out of obligation, but out of love.

So to my husband - my partner, my steady hand, the one who holds everything together when I can’t - I see you. I know this isn’t easy for you either. And even on my hardest days, I am grateful for you.

Because your presence in my life is nothing short of a miracle ♡

[kiranaarf]

The Unexpected Hero: How Shared Moments with My Daughter Empowered Me

Living with chronic illness is a journey filled with both physical and emotional challenges. Being a mother on top of it all means navigating the delicate balance between the demands of parenting and the limitations of my health. It’s a constant dance, one that can leave me exhausted, frustrated, and sometimes even consumed by guilt.

Yet, in these moments of vulnerability, my connection with my daughter has only grown deeper. She’s not just my child - she’s my little light, helping me through the darkest of times, even when I can’t find the energy to do much more than rest beside her.

This article is a reflection on how, even in my weakest moments, my daughter and I share a powerful bond. It’s a bond that grows stronger when words are few, and love is all we need to keep us connected.

The Unexpected Hero in My Struggle

One of the most surprising lessons I’ve learned on this journey is just how deeply my daughter understands me. There are countless moments when she shows me that she understands more than I ever expect, offering love and care in ways that leave me in awe. On days when I can barely keep my eyes open, she seems to sense exactly what I need. Whether it’s a hug, or just simply a quiet moment together. The way she looks at me with such empathy, without needing me to explain what’s going on, speaks volumes about the unspoken bond we share.

One of the moments I could never forget was during one night, while my husband was on a night shift, I woke up with a high fever and low oxygen. Earlier that night, she had woken up to use the potty, and even though I wasn’t feeling well, I helped her. When we returned to bed, she stayed awake, sitting quietly by my side as if she knew that something was wrong.

As my breathing grew heavier, I asked her to help me find the tube from my oxygen machine. Without hesitation, she jumped into action. First, she brought me the oximeter, then the thermometer. Each time, I softly explained it wasn’t the right one, and each time, she listened and kept trying. Finally, she found the oxygen tube and handed it to me with such focus and care. She even insisted to put it on by herself.

As the cool air filled my lungs, I felt relief - but more than that, I felt a deep sense of gratitude. My two-year-old, with her tiny hands and big heart, had stayed calm and determined to help me. It wasn’t just the oxygen that kept me breathing that night- it was her love and her courage.

Turning Vulnerability into Strength

There’s a certain kind of strength that comes from being vulnerable, something I never fully understood until I became a mother. When I’m unwell, I often feel at my weakest, but my daughter has shown me that vulnerability isn’t a sign of weakness - it’s a bridge to connection. There’s a special kind of strength in allowing someone you love to see you at your most fragile, and instead of pulling away, you draw closer to one another.

I’ve learned that it’s okay for her to see me rest and prioritize my well-being. I want her to grow up knowing that caring for yourself - both physically and emotionally - is not a sign of weakness, but a true sign of strength. By being open about my struggles, I hope to show her how to face her own with grace and resilience.

Through her, I’ve learned that there’s power in being vulnerable, showing her that it’s okay to rest, to slow down, and to just be.

The Power of Motherhood

Motherhood has a way of uncovering a resilience you never knew you had. Even on my most difficult days, when my body feels like it’s betraying me, I find strength in my daughter. She’s my motivation to keep going, to fight through the exhaustion, the pain, and the frustration. Her love is a reminder that, no matter what challenges I face, I am still her mother, and that bond is unbreakable.

Through my struggles, I’ve learned that the true power of motherhood lies not in perfection, but in presence. It’s not about always being the mom I imagined I’d be. It’s about showing up - being there, even when I’m not at my best. It’s about finding strength in my vulnerability and allowing my daughter to see the real me, flaws and all. And in doing so, I’ve found a deeper connection with her, one that continues to grow stronger with each passing day.

Looking back, I realize that these quiet moments - when we are simply together - have been some of the most meaningful moments of my life. These are the moments that define our relationship, and they are the ones that I will hold onto forever. Because in the end, it’s not the big events that matter most. It’s the love we share in the small, everyday moments that truly make this journey worthwhile.

[kiranaarf]

More Than Milestones : How Potty Training Deepened Our Bond

Potty training is a milestone that every parent approaches differently, and for me, it became so much more than just teaching my daughter how to use the toilet. It turned into a journey of patience, trust, and deepening our bond - especially during the times when I wasn’t feeling my best.

At two years old, my daughter and I started the 3-day potty training method by Lora Jensen. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I knew we’d learn as we went along. What I didn’t anticipate was how much this process would reveal about our connection and how much we’d grow together.

By the end of the third day, she was confidently peeing in the toilet and staying dry most of the time, even when we went out. That felt like a big win! But pooping in the toilet was another story. She was afraid, and I quickly realized that pushing her wasn’t the answer.

Her fear of pooping also started affecting her progress with peeing. She began holding everything in, which led to accidents when she couldn’t hold her pee any longer. I tried to stay patient, knowing that this wasn’t just about potty training - it was about helping her navigate her emotions and fears.

Little by little, with gentle encouragement and reassurance, she eventually pooped in the toilet. That breakthrough felt monumental. Almost immediately, everything seemed to click into place. Her confidence returned, and she started peeing smoothly again, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

Of course, it hasn’t been perfect. She’s still had occasional accidents, especially when playing with her friends or when I wasn’t feeling well. Those moments reminded me that setbacks are normal and that progress isn’t a straight line. Offering her gentle reminders without interrupting her play has helped, but mostly, I’ve learned to meet her where she’s at and go at her pace.

The Impact of My Health

This journey also showed me how much my own well-being affects my daughter. When I had a rough few days with my health, I noticed she started having more accidents. At first, I didn’t connect the dots, but I realized that she was picking up on my emotions and energy.

As soon as I started feeling better, so did she. It’s a powerful reminder of how closely our children are connected to us - not just physically, but emotionally too. It’s taught me to be kinder to myself during tough times, knowing that taking care of me also helps her.

Lessons I’ve Learned Along the Way

Every child and family is different, but here are a few things that have helped us:

1. Patience Goes a Long Way: Accidents will happen, and that’s okay. Staying calm and reassuring makes it easier for your child to move forward.

2. Celebrate the Little Wins: Whether it’s staying dry for an hour or sitting on the toilet, every step forward is progress.

3. Offer Gentle Reminders: Especially during play, reminding your child to check in with their body can help prevent accidents without feeling like a disruption.

4. Listen to Your Child: If they resist going, it’s usually better to wait and offer again later. The goal is to help them feel in control.

5. Take Care of Yourself Too: Kids are incredibly attuned to their parents’ emotions. Supporting your own well-being can make a world of difference in their progress.

More Than Milestones

I have learned that potty training isn’t just about learning a new skill - but it’s also about navigating a process together. It’s about the small moments of trust and growth that happen along the way.

For me, this journey has been a reminder to let go of perfection, embrace the ups and downs, and focus on the connection we’re building. My daughter and I are still learning together, and that’s what makes this experience so special.

To any parent going through this, you’re not alone. Take it one step at a time, be kind to yourself and your child, and remember that it’s not just about the outcome - it’s about the bond you’re creating along the way.

[kiranaarf]

How It Takes a Village to Raise My Child, and Why I'm So Grateful

There’s a saying that “it takes a village to raise a child,” but I didn’t truly understand its depth until I became a mother. As someone juggling parenthood, health challenges, and everyday life, I’ve come to realize how essential my “village” is - not just for me, but for my daughter as well.

I remember one particular moment when I had to go to the hospital for my regular appointment. My two-year-old daughter was sad as I left, but thanks to my helper and the kindness of my neighbors, she was soon laughing and playing at their house. Knowing she was safe, loved, and surrounded by people who cared gave me the peace of mind I needed.

This simple yet profound experience made me reflect on the role of community in raising children. It’s not just about having help - it’s about building connections that nurture children and support parents through the challenges of parenting.

The People Who Make It Possible: My Support System

In my own life, I’m blessed to have a strong and caring support system. My husband has been my rock, stepping in whenever things get tough and ensuring that our daughter always feels his presence. Then there’s our helper, who has become an extension of our family, helping to care for my daughter with love and patience.

Our neighbors have also become an integral part of this village. When I have to leave for my hospital appointments or any other emergency situation, my daughter often spends time playing at their house. Some of them have children her age, so they have a built-in playmate. Others are simply loving adults who have welcomed my daughter into their homes as if she were their own. Their kindness has made those moments of separation easier for both of us.

Through these interactions, I’ve seen my daughter grow more confident and resilient. She has learned to trust others, form relationships, and adapt to new environments - all invaluable lessons for her future.

The Power of Community: More Than Just Help

What I’ve experienced in my own life is a microcosm of something much larger - something I now deeply believe: no parent should have to do it all alone. It’s easy to feel like we have to be self-sufficient in today’s world, but I’ve learned that leaning on others, and letting others lean on us, is what truly makes parenting easier and more rewarding.

For me, the village I’ve built around my daughter goes beyond just my immediate family. When I can’t be there for her, I know she’s in good hands with our helper and neighbors. This kind of village, where kindness and trust thrive, makes all the difference.

I realize now that it’s not just about having help when things get overwhelming - it’s about giving our children the gift of a wider community. It’s about them learning that the world is full of people who care and that love and support don’t come from just one source. My daughter is already seeing that, whether she’s playing with her friends or being nurtured by our neighbors, and I know these experiences will shape her into a compassionate, confident individual.

The Struggles of Parenting Alone: Why We Need Each Other

Reflecting on how much my support system has helped me, I can’t help but think of how difficult it would be if I didn’t have this village around me. Without the support of my husband, my helper, and my neighbors, I would be overwhelmed, constantly juggling between my health struggles, the care of my daughter, and managing daily tasks. The weight of doing it all alone is something that many parents, especially single parents or those without close family nearby, know all too well.

The emotional strain of raising a child without a strong community can be isolating. It can leave parents feeling alone in their struggles, unsure of where to turn for help, and exhausted by the constant pressure to be everything at once. Not having a reliable support system can also create feelings of guilt or inadequacy, as if parents are failing their children by not being able to give them everything they need.

Building a village may seem like a daunting task, but it’s worth it. Whether it’s reaching out to neighbors, or seeking help from closest families, there are always ways to connect with others. It’s not about being perfect - it's about building a network of people who are there when you need them most.

The Importance of Building Our Village

Looking back on my own journey, I’m filled with gratitude for the incredible village that surrounds my daughter and me. From my supportive husband to the caring neighbors who embrace her as their own, I’ve seen firsthand how much a community can lift us up. It’s a reminder that, as parents, we don’t have to carry the weight of it all alone.

Parenting isn’t about doing everything perfectly - it’s about having the courage to lean on others and allowing our children to grow in an environment rich with love and support.

So, whether you’re already surrounded by a village or working to create one, remember that it’s not the size of the support system that matters - it’s the connections and the care that make all the difference.

[kiranaarf]

The Trap of Comparing Pain: Learning to Validate My Struggles

I’ve always been able to empathize deeply with others who are struggling. It comes naturally to me - when I see someone in pain, my heart aches for them, and I want to help. But recently, I realized that this same compassion can turn inward in unexpected and harmful ways.

When I went to the hospital, I bumped into someone who, like me, lives with a chronic illness. They were in the middle of a flare-up, visibly in pain, and talking about their struggles. Not long after, I also met someone whose condition was far worse than anything I had ever faced. As I listened to their stories, I couldn’t help but think back to my own journey. But instead of feeling solidarity, I felt doubt.

Was my pain ever as severe as theirs? Did I deserve the care and attention I received? Was my suffering real enough to matter?

This spiral of self-questioning brought me face-to-face with a concept I didn’t even realize I was grappling with: comparative suffering. It’s the trap of measuring our pain against someone else’s and, in doing so, invalidating our own experiences.

When the Doubts Crept In

I had always believed that empathy was my strength - that my ability to connect with others in pain was a gift. But in that moment, as I stood face-to-face with both the person in the midst of their flare-up and the one enduring a far worse condition, I felt a strange shift. My natural response was to feel for them deeply, to offer whatever support I could. But instead of simply offering empathy, my mind began to spiral in a way I hadn’t expected.

How could I complain about my own pain when they were struggling so much more? Why should I seek attention for my suffering when others have it so much worse?

It wasn’t that I didn’t feel compassion for them - I did, wholeheartedly. But there was this lingering voice in my head, telling me that perhaps my own pain wasn’t as significant, that I didn’t deserve to acknowledge it in the same way.

I found myself in an uncomfortable position: I was simultaneously questioning the validity of my experiences while deeply feeling for the people around me. The comparison didn’t just affect my perception of them - it made me question my own worthiness of care, empathy, and even my right to speak about my struggles.

Navigating Comparative Suffering

As I grappled with my doubts, I began to realize that what I was experiencing wasn’t just a fleeting feeling - it was a pattern. I had fallen into the trap of comparing my pain to others’. And in doing so, I was invalidating my own experiences.

We all experience pain differently. For some, the physical pain might be excruciating, while for others, the emotional toll is more overwhelming. My condition had its flare-ups, but it didn’t look like others’ struggles. I’d often push my own discomfort aside because, compared to some, I felt like I had it “easy.”

But this kind of thinking isn’t productive - it’s damaging. When we measure our pain against someone else’s, we’re not acknowledging the full weight of our own experiences. We’re silencing our struggles and minimizing our right to feel hurt, to need help, or to ask for support.

Finding Peace with Both Sides

After some time spent reflecting on my feelings of doubt, I began to understand that it was possible to hold both empathy for others and compassion for myself. I didn’t have to diminish my own pain in order to support theirs. It was about finding balance - a way to acknowledge my struggles without feeling guilty for them.

One of the first steps I took was to remind myself that pain isn’t a competition. Just because someone else’s condition appeared worse didn’t mean mine wasn’t significant. Each person’s experience is unique, and each struggle, no matter the severity, deserves care and attention. I needed to accept that my pain was valid, even if it didn’t look like someone else’s.

In the end, I realized that both my pain and my empathy are valid. I can honor my own journey while still being present for others. It’s not about comparing - it’s about supporting, understanding, and offering compassion where it’s needed, including to myself.

Writing about this experience has been a reminder that we are all worthy of care, no matter the intensity or visibility of our struggles. I’ve learned that pain doesn’t need to be measured against anyone else’s in order to be real or deserving of compassion.

If there’s one thing I want anyone reading this to take away, it’s this: Your pain is valid. You don’t need to compare your experiences to anyone else’s to know that what you’ve been through - and are still going through - is real. We each deserve empathy, support, and the chance to heal.

So, the next time you find yourself questioning whether your struggles matter, remember: they do. You are worthy of care, no matter what. And no matter where you are on your journey, you don’t have to walk it alone. ❤️

[kiranaarf]

What Motherhood Has Taught Me

Being a mother with a chronic condition comes with it's own set of unique challenges. We all suffer from mom guilt from time to time, but I am learning to let go of a lot of the motherly stress and guilt caused by my condition. I am learning that this disease affects my life and my experience as a mom in ways I simply cannot help, and in ways that sometimes other people don't realize or understand.

When I have difficult days, my husband steps in to do more around the house to allow me to rest. He has to take on a lot of day-to-day parenting, as well as cooking and cleaning. I am beyond grateful to be married to a husband who does more than his fair share of parenting and chores, but I could imagine that it takes a heavy toll on him, too, having to look after me and our daughter when I barely get off my bed - and having to be the breadwinner for our little family as well.

And the truth is that every day has some level of difficulty for me. A "normal" or "easy" day will still have some shortness of breath, anxiety, medications, and restrictions. Then, there are the "hard" days when there are hospitalizations, procedures, hours lying in bed, unaccomplished chores, and canceled plans. Sometimes the difficult days turn into weeks or even months. 

But I have discovered that chronic illness doesn't define me or make me a bad mother. I may feel like walking on a thin line, but I have learned to be more cautious with my limitations now - and still make every effort to be present and available for my daughter. I also set realistic expectations for myself and, if I'm in the middle of a bad pain day, I learn to ask my husband, helper, family, or friends for help.

Yes, there are times when I was too sick to even do anything more than just meet daughter's needs, and at that point I would need to ask for help. I know that it may sounds simple - and I am even blessed to have a great support system like my husband, helper, family and friends, but sometimes it can be difficult to swallow my pride and call in backup. 

On the flip side of this, what I realized is that I think it would be beneficial for my daughter to see me receiving help from others. I hope my daughter will be learning what it looks like to help and support others. I hope to raise someone who will be compassionate and empathetic. I hope she will be an adult who will offer grace and understanding to a friend, spouse, or loved one - and know that it is also ok to receive help from others. There truly are wonderful lessons my daughter will be learning too and having these thoughts in mind has helped me to accept my condition as it is.

My health journey has taught me a lots of things - including what is really important, and it makes me wonder if it may be time to change the narrative of the superhero mom. Moms are, after all, humans. We make mistakes and feel overwhelmed at times, just like everyone else, whether we are healthy or not. We don't always need to power through. Sometimes, what takes the most courage is setting healthy boundaries and allowing ourselves to rest. What moms really need is the loving encouragement we bestow upon our children. We need to know that even if we can't do it all, our contributions still matter.

Lastly, perhaps the greatest blessing of parenting when you have a chronic illness, are the children themselves. God blessed me in immeasurable ways allowing me to be a mother. My daughter gives me strength. She makes me laugh on hard days. My family make fighting through pain worth it.

It is always on my mind that I hope I can model for my daughter how to suffer well. By that I mean, that even on “bad days,” I hope she sees me doing my best, living my life with joy and gratitude. I hope she never think the focus of my health issues outweighed my love for her. I hope that in the future, as an adult, she can look back and find some level of her own gratitude and be able to say that she learned things and grew from being parented by a mother who she will be proud of.

My faith, having gratitude, and keeping challenges in perspective have been keys for me to find joy and contentment when parenting with a chronic illness - and I hope that I could always hold on to these keys tightly as we grow through many more years to come.

[kiranaarf]

Maintaining Mental Strength While Physically Weak

Staying in bed resting the day away may seem amazing for those who aren’t chronically ill. But for me, it feels like a brutal reminder that my body is having a hard time keeping up with daily living. On these days, my bed doesn’t become a place for me to simply take a nap and rest my tiredness away. It feels more like I’m in prison for something I didn’t do. When I am unable to do what I want, I start thinking about all the things I wish I could be doing. And it becomes easy for me to feel sorry for myself and what I am missing out on.

One of the greatest challenge for me is maintaining my mental strength while I'm physically weak. I have learned that my mental health needs just as much attention, if not more, than my physical health. Because when I'm stuck thinking about how I feel and about how much physical distress I am in, it just makes it worse.

But lately, even though I have experienced many physical ups and downs, I have gained my mental strength in some ways, like making time for self-care, allowing myself to feel my emotions even if they are difficult, and acknowledge my physical limits without any judgment.

Lately, making time for self-care has been important to me and has drastically helped to improve my emotions and overall feeling of well-being, even on days I am hurting. My version of self-care can be as simple as writing and journaling. Self-care also looks like setting and communicating boundaries in my life. I have been making time for things I love, especially when life starts to feel overwhelming. I make plans that soon when I start to feel better I would take trips to the beach to swim in the ocean or just get away for a few hours and escape from stress. On particularly difficult days, it’s important to remember that it may not always be this bad. Find distractions that you can do while having a physically difficult day, whether that is watching some of your favorite shows, listening to music, or reading. Invite a friend over or have your family keep you company.

Take this time to focus on the little things that are making your day better. For me, the little things I focus on are my daughter's hugs, ice cream, a simple get-well message or text, a phone call from a friend, and my favorite music.

And allowing myself to fully feel all my emotions has freed my mind from a lot of added noise and distraction. I usually struggle with feeling the most anxious when I let my emotions build up over time. Typically, instead of expressing my emotions in the moment they are warranted, I bottle them up. It helps to shove my emotions to the side temporarily, but long term it only leads to more internal conflicts and external arguments that are blown out of proportion. Giving myself permission to feel my hurt and talking about my difficult emotions in has really helped.

Not only have I been allowing myself to emotionally feel, but I have also been allowing myself to acknowledge my physical hurt. On my worst days, I struggle with feelings of defeat. I obsess over the thought of my body failing me and all it is not doing for me at that time. I have always been my own worst critic when it comes to my body and all it can or cannot do. Working to accept my limitations on a day-to-day basis has eased the anxiety surrounding physical symptoms. I have acknowledged what my body needs daily and sometimes hourly. Treatments and self-care are not easy, but I am learning that they are worth it.

It is important to remember that although I have no control over my body and how it feel day-to-day, I can do things to take care of our mental health, and I know that it will eventually leads to a better physical symptoms too.

I am grateful that even when I am feeling physically weak that it could make my mind naturally shifts toward negativity, but I have found ways to make it better in the last couple of days.

I surely need to keep in mind that making time for myself, acknowledging my emotions, and accepting my physical limits as they happen will help me maintain strength during my most challenging moments.

[kiranaarf]

Little Bundle of Hope

I have dreamed of becoming a mother for as far back as I can remember. I also used to believe that I have to be perfectly healthy, physically and emotionally, to be a perfect mother to raise a perfect child - and I thought that could probably never happened to me with my condition.

Excitement could immediately overshadowed by fear and anxiety when you experience pregnancy and a chronic condition at the same time. Ever since the day I found out that I have a baby inside of me, I have been feeling so anxious and worried. What if I couldn't give the baby enough nutrients and oxygen that she/he needs in order to grow?

But I realized now that all I need is to trust, to take another leap of faith - that I can go through this, despite of the flaws, despite of the turmoil.

For God has chosen my body to be a first home, I shall trust my body too, and my growing child, that we can survive and thrive together.

For once, I feel like I can accept all the pain and all the symptoms no matter how hard it is because I know that there is hope - a little bundle of hope.

I'll take the nausea, vomiting, and the large sore breasts. I'll even take the cant-get-off-the-bed-if-my-life-depended-on-it first trimester fatigue. Because it reminds me that I'm still pregnant. It reminds me that my baby is still growing inside my belly.

I'll also take if I have to wear my oxygen for as long as I need to get my oxygen saturation back to normal, or to go through any horrible treatment plan so that I could be somewhat better - because now I'm not only responsible for myself, but also for my growing child. I couldn't thank him/her enough for teaching me this valuable lesson.

Dear my little bundle of hope,

I am learning to appreciate the little growth that I made with you throughout this journey, in hope that I can cherish all, even the little baby steps you will make - though it might be far from perfect - 'til the day you realized that I was just, and maybe still, an imperfect mother too, who don't really well prepared or knowing well about everything ahead, but not wanting to give up and wish to grow together with you.

I am learning to embrace all the uncomfortable changes this journey has made to my body, or forgiving myself for the mistakes I've already done, for being too anxious or worried or stressed, even when you were still a little dot in my stomach - and prepare to forgive the little misstep you will make as you learn to be an independent human being - in hope that you will forgivingly embrace me too.

You, my little bundle of hope, have been tearing me down and fulfills me at the same time.

You made me feel like my life is on pause but also giving me a new purpose in continuing my life.

You are growing inside my belly but occupies all my head and my heart.

My dear child, I really can't wait to meet you and I will go through whatever it takes to get there.

Through all the stages of life, I hope I can show you that I love you. ❤️

[kiranaarf]

Reflection Reminds Me That I Can Overcome My Worst Days

I remember the time when the voices inside my head were saying something like: “Hey, so far, you’ve survived 100% of your worst days.”

I have questioned my strength during so many moments in my life - moments that left me feeling tired, defeated, and hopeless. I questioned how much physical and emotional pain I could handle. During these times, my mind and body tested my strength and willpower. As I wondered, “How much more?” it felt like my mind and body started to take the question as a challenge.

Although it is difficult to recall painful and suppressed memories of the most horrific parts of my life, I am thankful for the time to reflect. Reflection leads me to the realization that I have overcome all of my worst days. I have survived everything I thought I couldn’t. Every time I fought for my life and doubted my strength, my strength never failed me. I overcame every sleepless night of pain, anxiety, and the worst depression I have ever felt. My worst days and my most terrible, unexplainable experiences have shown me that I can get through anything life throws at me.

I started down the path of reflection when I saw a picture that I took of myself just a few weeks ago. In the picture, I look pale, tired, worn-out, and weak. I had oxygen in my nose, dark circles under my eyes, and lips tinted blue. I almost did not recognize myself. I painfully recalled the fatigue that ripped through my body, and I saw the sadness behind my eyes.

The picture was taken at a time when I had lost hope and had completely given up on doctors ever finding a solution or a treatment plan for my declining health. It was a time in my life when I told my husband, family members, and closest friends, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” It hurts to think that I said those words just a few weeks ago. I’m reminded of the depression and the hopelessness I felt about my future.

Although my body was exhausted and tired of “hanging in there,” my mind was not ready to quit. My mind is a source of a lot of mental and emotional pain, but it is also where I find strength and determination on my darkest days. My mind allows me to remember the times when I questioned how much more I could take. My mind forces me to remember the times when I chose to keep pushing forward, even when it felt impossible.

When I look at myself today and compare the woman in the picture to the woman I see now, I feel so much gratitude. Although I am not at my physical best, I am not at my worst. Although I am taking medication to manage my pain and to help me sleep, at least there is some type of treatment plan in place. At least there is hope for something better. There are days when I wake up exhausted, but at least I wake up breathing so much better than I was a few weeks ago.

Sometimes it is hard to reflect on a period of my life that was so painful both physically and emotionally. Lately, reflection has been a good thing. It reminds me of all I am able to overcome and that pain of any kind is relative. I have made it through 100% of my worst days. Here’s to making it through 100% more.

[kiranaarf]

To My Support System: Thank You

Yesterday and many many days ago, I had some difficult nights. I wasn't expecting that there will be some setbacks at the end of the year.

But today, I want to pick myself back up.

Isn't that how life goes though?

Living with chronic disease is a challenge in itself. Some nights I cry in pain and other nights I sleep comfortably. I have experienced so much heartbreak but I also have experienced more joy than I ever thought possible.

This year, I am beyond grateful that I've gone from being dependent on others for my care, to living mostly on my own. I've gone from not being able to do anything at all, to being able to go to the beach and swim once in a while. But I didn't know how long that will last, and that is actually the scary reality that I tried to deny. So when that happened, I found myself at the rock bottom.

Chronic illness often leaves me feeling frustrated with my physical and mental health. When I am feeling overwhelmed by my body’s symptoms or experiencing emotional distress, I know that I'm not the best person to be around. I started not liking myself when I wasn't able to do much. I have a hard time articulating what my needs are. And I know that it makes it hard for you to know exactly how you can help. I might have become moody, argumentative, and aggressive. I struggle to find hope in these moments.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes have a “what's the point?” mentality. When I am thinking this way, I take on an “I’m done” attitude. I convince myself that I am done taking medications, done going to hospitals, and done with doing the right thing if it isn’t going to lead to positive outcomes. Being in this state of mind is not fun. It can feel isolating and depressing, and it doesn’t leave much room for positive thinking. I eventually realized that the only person this attitude hurts is myself. Well, and I guess you too. So I want to say that I'm so sorry for the times when I act, think, and feel that way.

But in these moments, I am so grateful for you, one of my support system, for being my strength in the hardest times. You show me patience, sympathy, empathy, and compassion. You are the ones who help me out of this toxic headspace. I am so thankful to have you in my life who express love and encouragement even when I’m agitated and confrontational.

And knowing that there are medical professionals who are fighting for my health makes me want to continue fighting, too. My support system, consisting of my husband, family, friends, and doctors, is a constant reminder that people aren’t giving up on me, even when it’s hard. This helps me regain hope, strength, and a desire to keep hanging in there.

This year, I choose to make the best next choice for myself. I choose to get the procedures, to take the medication, to keep fighting for a life that I want for myself.

And I want to tell myself that setbacks are completely ok, because I'm going to pick myself back up again and again, with the help of my support system. So please bear with me for a little while, ok?

I may have setbacks, but I have lived. For once, I'm ok with the sadness and anxiety that I face. I'm ok with knowing there will be pain. I'm ok with this because I know there will be so much joy if I keep going and keep this heart ticking through these moments. I want to keep going because I want you, my loved ones, to have me around for as long as possible. I want to see what God has planned for me for many many years to come.

To my support system, thank you for being there and being the reason why I want to keep going 🤍

[kiranaarf]

Reminders that Help Me Get Through Difficult Days

I have been through a variety of difficult days, including days when I feel I can’t fight this disease anymore. They are the days that make me question my own physical and mental strength. On these days, I think to myself, “How could it get any worse than this?” My hardest times have taught me that even though these days seem impossible to overcome, I always do.

I find that it helps to give myself reminders to keep a positive attitude. Following are some reminders I give to myself and to anyone who struggle with any types of illness, whether physical or mental.

You’re not a burden.

Many times, I worry I’m a burden to others. It’s easy to isolate myself when filled with these negative thoughts. But then I realized that it’s better to talk about my hard days with people who truly care. Because if I don’t open up about my symptoms, I’m becoming a burden to my own body.

You’re worthy of rest.

Taking time to rest doesn’t mean you’re lazy. When your body tells you that you need to rest, you have to listen. Without the guilt. I constantly fight with thoughts that tell me I’m not doing enough. No matter how “lazy” I feel, rest is a crucial part of healing.

This too shall pass. Just because you’re having a physically terrible day doesn’t mean it will be like this forever.

It’s difficult to recall feeling better in the midst of having a tough day. When I feel as though I’m caught up with the emotional and physical energy it takes to push through these days, I try to remember times when it was better. I remind myself that I’ve struggled before and was able to get through it. It will improve.

Reach out for support. Your support system is there for you and wants to help you.

The unconditional love from family, friends, and my husband have helped me overcome adversity and I am forever grateful for that.

You are still in control of your health.

Taking care of myself means I am valuing my health even on my worst days. That’s true self-love.

Focusing on the small victories will provide you with encouragement to keep pushing forward.

I put my focus on small victories throughout the day, like getting out of bed without assistance. If I put my focus on achieving larger goals when I’m not at my best, I set myself up for failure and disappointment.

It’s your body — you can cry if you want to. It’s OK to express feelings.

Never apologize for being sensitive and showing emotions. This is difficult.

There’s no need to compare your bad day to anyone else’s.

Just because people “have it worse” doesn’t mean your suffering isn’t valid. Comparison in any form will never help you feel better.

Remind yourself why you stay strong on your hardest days.

When I am feeling defeated by my hard days, I remember those who I fight so hard for and who give me the motivation to keep “hanging in there.”

You matter.

It may be hard to realize this on my most difficult days, in the midst of a breakdown or physical pain. I always remind myself not to let fears, doubt, hopelessness, and sadness convince me that I don’t matter.

On the hardest days, it’s important to hang onto these small reminders. We must try our best to find happiness, hope, and positivity, even if it seems out of reach at the moment. That’s the true strength of those of us living with chronic illness. We know that there will be terrible days, yet we continue living.

[kiranaarf]

Day 22 : He said “I choose you”

Today my mind went back to the time when my husband and I were still in a relationship. It was the time when my health started to take a turn for the worse after living my life full of adventures. I remember telling him : “I don’t have a choice, but you do. You don’t have to choose this type of life.”

At the time, I had been in a relationship with him for just a year. And during that first year, he has supported me through an emergency pacemaker surgery, carried me after I lost consciousness, and saw me at some of my weakest moments.

I have offered him the choice of leaving on many occasions. I’ve told him, “You don’t have to choose this.” I’ve even asked, “Why would you want this?”

I wondered how someone would want to be with me when they see me going through health challenges. How can someone love me when I don’t have much strength to love myself? I felt flawed in all aspects of my life, as if they were beyond my control. I often hated my disease and resented the sacrifices that my life partner would have to make to be with me in the ways I needed him to be.

After many emotional arguments relating to my health and our relationship, he reminded me that it’s his choice. He assured me that he knows how bad it gets. He knows that on some days I spend most of the time in bed and can’t socialize with friends. He knows that we need to live close to the hospitals that care for me. He’s aware of my limitations. He realizes that having children with me won’t involve a typical surprise pregnancy announcement, because we’re gonna have to really think it through.

Many aspects of life are different for us. I used to think that this was a bad thing, but he’s reassured me that it’s just our plan. He believes that things will get better because God has the best plan for us. 

I find it hard to accept the many personal and physical limitations in my relationship and my life. I struggle to make peace with it and say, “OK, this is the life I get. Let me make the best of it.” It’s difficult to keep a positive attitude, especially on days when I feel worn down. But it’s easier to accept my reality when I have someone in my life who is always hopeful and wants the best for me and our future.

I have spent countless nights wondering how someone could love me like this. Why would someone want to marry me when I don’t know where my health will be in five years? My husband and I have been together for two years, and I am forever grateful that he continues to choose me every single day. He chooses a life with me and all that it comes with it: the good, the ugly, and the traumatic.

In June 2020, I became his wife, and the moment we got married, I felt so thankful and blessed to have someone in my life who helps to tune out the static and worry in my head. To have someone who reminds me over and over again, “I choose you.”

[kiranaarf]

Day 21 : The side of me most people don’t see

Expressing vulnerability has always been difficult for me. I thought that “showing my brave face” would keep others from worrying. I have always been more concerned with how everyone around me was feeling, and never gave myself permission to show worry, sadness, or fear. I focused on the positive if something awful happened. I’m the one who provides comic relief, no matter the circumstance. This way of thinking and acting provides temporary distraction in the moment, but the bigger and more difficult emotions are pushed to the side for another time.

Living with chronic illness has made me more aware of the complexity of emotions that go along with health management. There are parts of me that I am not afraid to show and parts that I keep hidden.

The side that most people know is the optimistic and hopeful me. It’s the side that allows me to feel like I have a voice. This part of me helps me acknowledge my mental and physical health without shame.

It is the side I show most often on my social media accounts. Most people see the girl who has “been through a lot,” but is overcoming it and “handling it well.”

The other side is what isn’t seen as often. It only comes out in front of those closest to me, most often my husband. These are the emotions I keep inside until I can’t anymore. Most people aren’t aware of my crippling fear of the unknown. They don’t know the anxiety that keeps me up at night. Most people don’t see this side because it’s a part of me that doesn’t feel like “me” at all.

The side that others don’t see is hidden by a brave and positive exterior. It’s hidden by inspirational quotes or a photo caption highlighting my strength during the hardest of circumstances. What I don’t let everyone see are the sleepless nights and the panic that woke me up at 3 a.m. Others wouldn’t know that I needed Ativan (lorazepam) through an IV multiple times during a hospitalization just to get a few hours of a false sense of calm.

Some days my symptoms are well managed with medications. When you see me with or without the oxygen my levels of oxygen are in the 70s and 80s when I'm up and moving.

The oxygen helps with more than just oxygen levels. It helps move blood to places it should be going, it reduces the work of my heart allowing energy for other things besides staying alive. It keeps my brain functioning and allows me to inhale o2 and get rid of the co2 that I retain. When I have co2 retention from lack of breathing it impacts my psychological state and alters my personality. I quickly become another person both physically and mentally. When you don't see me with oxygen you may assume I'm "fine" or having a "good day". With or without oxygen my levels drop. When I'm without oxygen, that means my other symptoms including dizziness, headache, muscle fatigue, weakness, are being managed by the dozens of medications you don't see. It means my body isn't exerting itself enough to feel these symptoms to put my oxygen on. 

This part of me is hard to write about. But even though it is hard to reveal so much about my emotions, it’s the real, messy, and confusing reality of living with chronic conditions. It is hard for people who care about me to see me at my most vulnerable. The truth is, the side of me that most people don’t see is also a source of my strength and bravery.

People don’t always see how hard it is to get the other side of “me” back. The side of me that is upbeat and optimistic doesn’t happen with as much ease as one might imagine from my social media posts.

With chronic health conditions that bring about various health scares, it’s impossible for me not to have intense emotional breakdowns. But as hard as it is to live with fear of what’s to come, getting through these feelings and acknowledging them allows me to move forward.

[kiranaarf]

Day 20 : What I am grateful for

I’m well aware that it has been weeks since I skipped this writing challenge. I know that it’s supposed to be daily challenge but things happened and I eventually forgot about this... haha

Well I’m back now!

I have been helping Tante Ruth with some translation works for 31 Days of Praise and it inspired me to include this as a part of this writing challenge, as something to reminds me that there are a loooot of things to be grateful for even in times like this. I know that this year held a range of experiences for everyone, but personally I just think that we’re all doing a pretty good job here, surviving this difficult times.

Anyway, so here goes my praise :

Dear God, I choose to thank You for my weakness, my infirmities, and my inadequacies (physically, mentally, and emotionally).. for the ways I fall short of what people view as ideal.. for my feelings of helplessness and inferiority, and even my pain and distresses. It is a comfort to know that You understand the feeling of my weaknesses. And that in Your infinite wisdom You have allowed these in my life so that they may contribute to Your high purposes for me.

Today I specifically thank You for : 

My wonderful husband. 

A really good anniversary week.

Being able to go to the beach and touch the water again.

Being able to keep my oxygen level not too low even when I’m doing a lot of things like going to the beach, singing and playing guitar.

And the chance to learn about the meaning of resilience and hope through the ups and downs in my life. 

Thank You that many a time my weaknesses cut through my pride and help me walk humbly with You.. and then, as You’ve promised, You give me more grace – You help and bless and strengthen me. Thank You for all the ways I’m inadequate, for they prod me to trust in You and not in myself.. and I’m grateful that my adequacy comes from You, the all-sufficient God who is enough.

Thank You for giving me hope that my purpose and passion in life would be restored, despite of the turmoil I had experienced.

Thank You that I can trust You to remove or change any of my weaknesses and handicaps and shortcomings the moment they are no longer needed for Your glory, and for my good, and for the good of other people.. 

and that in the meantime, Your grace is sufficient for me, for Your strength is made perfect in my weakness.