How I Got Here

I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell this story.

Not because I don’t know what happened.

I know. I lived it.

But there’s something strange about putting your life into words when, for so long, you were just trying to survive it.

If you had asked me years ago where I thought I would be today, this wouldn’t have been my answer.

I thought I would still be married, raising our babies together, building a home and growing old with the person I had chosen.

I never imagined I would become a mom of three who was also learning how to start her life over.

And I definitely never imagined I would be writing about it.

My marriage didn’t fall apart in one dramatic moment.

There wasn’t one single day that changed everything.

It was a collection of moments.

Things being said and done that slowly became normal when they never should have been.

There were moments when I knew something wasn’t right, but I kept hoping things would change.

And I stayed.

I stayed because I loved him.

I stayed because we had children.

I stayed because marriage meant something deeply to me.

I stayed because of my faith.

I stayed because I didn’t want my kids growing up between two homes.

And I stayed because every time things got better, I wanted so badly to believe that this time they would stay better.

So I forgave.

And tried again.

And prayed.

And tried again.

There were times I left and times I went back.

There were apologies. Promises. Hope.

And then, eventually, we would find ourselves back in the same place.

I became really good at carrying on.

I could take care of the kids. Work. Show up. Take pictures. Laugh. Post something online. Handle whatever needed to be handled.

And at the same time, behind all of that, I was exhausted.

I was losing myself.

Leaving isn’t always empowering.

Sometimes it’s devastating.

Especially when you didn’t choose this.

I think that’s something I’ve struggled to explain.

I didn’t leave because I suddenly stopped caring.

I didn’t wake up one morning excited to start over.

I didn’t dream about being a single mom.

I wanted my marriage to work.

I wanted my family.

There were times when my faith made the decision even harder. I wrestled with what God wanted from me and what it meant to honor a marriage while also recognizing that what was happening inside of it wasn’t okay.

I wondered whether I needed to forgive one more time.

Pray a little harder.

Be more patient.

Give another chance.

I carried an enormous amount of guilt.

But eventually I had to confront a truth I didn’t want to confront:

Wanting something to become healthy doesn’t make it healthy.

Loving someone doesn’t erase what is happening.

And forgiveness doesn’t require pretending that something doesn’t hurt.

Eventually, I reached the point where I couldn’t keep living the same story and expecting a different ending.

So I left.

And then came the part nobody prepares you for.

The logistics.

The emotions.

The kids.

The finances.

The guilt.

The loneliness.

The questions.

The moments when you’re completely confident in your decision followed by moments when you wonder how your life became this.

There have been nights when I’ve looked around after my kids were asleep and thought,

“How am I going to do this? Three little people depend on me.”

There isn’t always another person to hand things off to when I’m exhausted.

When someone gets sick, life doesn’t stop.

Work doesn’t stop.

Bills don’t stop.

Motherhood doesn’t stop.

There have been moments when it has felt incredibly lonely.

But there has also been something else happening.

Slowly, quietly, almost without me noticing…

I’ve been coming back to life.

I’m learning who I am outside of survival mode.

I’m a mom.

But I’m also a woman with dreams.

I’m a photographer.

I’m creative.

I want to write.

I want to build things.

I want to travel.

I want to laugh.

I want to make a beautiful home for my babies.

I want them to grow up remembering a mom who was present—not a mom who spent her entire life trying to hold together something that was breaking her.

And I’m beginning to understand that starting over doesn’t mean starting from nothing.

I’m starting with everything I’ve learned.

Everything I’ve survived.

Three incredible little people.

A faith that has been questioned, stretched and tested—but is still here.

And a version of myself I’m finally getting to know again.

That’s where this space comes from.

Not from someone who has everything figured out.

Definitely not from someone standing on the other side telling you that everything wrapped itself up beautifully.

I’m still in it.

I’m still figuring out motherhood.

I’m still figuring out what my family looks like now.

I’m still healing.

I’m still wrestling with God sometimes.

I’m still learning what peace feels like after living without enough of it.

And some days I’m doing really well.

Other days I’m just getting everyone fed and into bed.

But I’m beginning to believe that growth doesn’t only happen when life is beautiful.

Sometimes the deepest growth happens after everything looks completely different than you thought it would.

This isn’t the life I pictured.

There are pieces of my story I wish I could rewrite.

There are things I wish my children never had to experience.

There are things I’m still grieving.

But there is something I know now that I didn’t know before:

A life can break apart without you being broken beyond repair.

You can lose the future you pictured and still have a future.

You can grieve and laugh in the same season.

You can question God and still reach for Him.

You can be terrified and keep moving.

You can start over.

And even here—

in the messy middle,

in the rebuilding,

in the life you never expected to be living—

you can still grow.

And I think that’s why I’m finally ready to tell my story.

Because maybe someone reading this is standing where I once stood, wondering if there could possibly be life beyond the chapter they’re in.

I’m still finding out what mine looks like.

But I can finally say this:

There is.

Still healing. Still becoming. Still held.

Still, we grow.