By Jaree Williams 
The sun was warm that morning. I was outside with the dog, rooted in the grass, soaking up a rare moment of calm while my boys ran around nearby. Then came the Slack ping.
A call? Out of nowhere? Something in my gut shifted.
I rushed the boys inside, told them we were going in for a bit, and opened my laptop. My fingers were still warm from the sunlight.
Then the words: “We’re eliminating your position.”
Just like that. No warning. No gentle lead-in. One day before my birthday, and the job I thought would finally stabilize us was gone. My breath was lost while the tears started to fall. They came anyway—hot, silent, steady.
Behind me, my kids played quietly on the floor, completely unaware that their mama’s world had just tilted.
When the call ended, I closed the laptop, walked away, and cried from the shake in my chest. My heart was heavy, but my kids still needed me. They still wanted their playtime. So I wiped my face and told them, “Let’s play in your playroom.”
I mothered with tears still drying and rolling down my cheeks.
That week, I grieved quietly—but I didn’t collapse.
There was no dramatic breakdown, no big announcement, no viral story of resilience. Just me, in the tension of heartbreak and responsibility, showing up because I had to. Because motherhood doesn’t wait for healing.
Still, I made space for beauty.
We went to parks. We soaked in sunshine. I watched my husband walk in answered prayer as he stepped into a new role he’d waited years for. I celebrated my birthday out to dinner with my husband, still processing hitting 30 but with no plans. I cleaned our space. I did my nails. I applied for jobs. I built out my to-do list. I moved forward, one small task at a time.
Not because everything was okay. But because I refused to stop believing that it could be.
Motherhood didn’t pause to let me grieve. But my kids held my hand—sometimes literally—as I walked through it anyway.
You can feel the weight of loss and still do your best to get up. You can cry and still take your kids to the park. You can sit in uncertainty and still decide to make dinner.
It doesn’t make you numb. It makes you brave.
This season taught me that obedience often looks like movement in the dark. That trusting God doesn’t mean I won’t cry—but that I don’t have to collapse. That grief doesn’t make me a bad mother, and neither does softening when I’d rather rage.
I’m still climbing toward the life I imagined, and I’ll admit, it stings to be back in survival mode. But my kids are watching. And while they don’t know the details, they see me keep going.
So I will. Not because I have to—but because I can.
One dish at a time. One lesson at a time. One breath at a time.
Because even when the rug gets pulled out from under me, motherhood has taught me to land on my feet.
by Jordan Harrell 
by Katie Revai LeFevre 
by Brandon Janous 
