Being a single mom, navigating POTS, and realizing just how much my body has been carrying.
There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes with being a single mom.
The kind where you wake up already tired. Where your feet hit the floor before you've even had a chance to process the day ahead. Where three little people need you, regardless of how much sleep you got, how you're feeling, or whether you have anything left to give.
And then imagine navigating all of that while your own body feels like it's working against you.
That's what this season has been teaching me.
I've been dealing with POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome), a condition that affects how your body regulates things like heart rate when you change positions.
But what has been even more overwhelming than understanding the condition itself is realizing that this may have been happening for years.
Years.
And suddenly, so many things about my life are starting to make sense.
The exhaustion I couldn't explain.
The moments I felt physically overwhelmed by things that seemed so simple for everyone else.
The times I genuinely felt like I couldn't keep up, no matter how hard I tried.
For so long, I thought I was just tired. Just stressed. Just overwhelmed by motherhood and everything life had thrown at me.
And while those things were certainly true, I'm beginning to realize there may have been something else happening in my body all along.
And that realization has brought up emotions I wasn't expecting.
Because when I look back at the years I spent in an abusive marriage, I see things differently now.
I think about how often I was already physically exhausted, already struggling, already trying to function through symptoms I didn't understand.
And then, on top of that, I was navigating an environment that didn't feel emotionally safe.
The stress.
The anxiety.
The constant emotional weight.
The feeling of never being able to fully relax.
I was trying to survive circumstances that were already incredibly difficult, while potentially dealing with a physical condition I didn't even know I had.c
I wasn't just emotionally exhausted. I may have been physically struggling in ways I didn't even have the language to explain.
And when I think about the times I was made to feel like I wasn't doing enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't handling things well enough, I wish I could go back and hug that version of myself.
Because she was trying.
My goodness, she was trying.
She was raising babies, working, maintaining a home, navigating an unhealthy marriage, and desperately trying to hold everything together.
All while her body may have been quietly asking for help.
And the hardest part of that realization is understanding how much more vulnerable that made me.
Abuse is devastating on its own.
But experiencing it while physically depleted, while your nervous system is already struggling to regulate itself, adds another layer of difficulty that I am only now beginning to understand.
It doesn't excuse the abuse.
It doesn't mean my health caused it.
And it certainly doesn't mean I somehow deserved what happened because I wasn't strong enough to withstand it.
It means I needed compassion and care during a time when I was experiencing the opposite.
That realization has been both heartbreaking and validating.
Because for years, I questioned myself.
Why was I always so tired?
Why did everything feel so overwhelming?
Why couldn't I just handle things better?
And now I'm learning that perhaps the answer was never that I wasn't trying hard enough.
Perhaps I was asking far too much of a body that was already struggling.
Now, as a single mom of three, life hasn't exactly slowed down.
There are still lunches to pack, little people to dress, a job to show up for, bills to pay, and a household to manage.
There's no calling in sick to motherhood.
But I'm learning something I wish I had understood years ago.
Just because I can push through something doesn't mean I should have to.
I've spent so much of my life measuring strength by how much I could endure.
How much I could carry.
How little help I needed.
How well I could keep functioning when everything around me felt like it was falling apart.
And now my body is forcing me to redefine what strength actually means.
Sometimes strength is getting up and doing the hard thing.
But sometimes strength is sitting down.
Sometimes it's asking for help.
Sometimes it's recognizing that the laundry can wait.
Sometimes it's admitting that you are not okay and allowing that to be true without immediately trying to fix it.
And I think God has been teaching me that my worth was never dependent on how much I could withstand.
"My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness." — 2 Corinthians 12:9 (KJV)
That verse has taken on an entirely different meaning for me.
Because weakness isn't always spiritual or emotional.
Sometimes it's physical.
Sometimes it's your heart racing when you stand up.
Sometimes it's feeling exhausted before the day has even begun.
Sometimes it's wanting desperately to be the energetic, present, capable mother you envision yourself being, while your body has other plans.
And yet, God is still there.
I'm beginning to see that God was present in those years I didn't understand what was happening to me.
He saw the exhaustion.
He saw the tears.
He saw the moments I questioned whether I was enough.
He saw the things nobody else saw.
And even when I didn't understand my own body, He knew exactly what I was experiencing.
I think about that a lot.
Because there is something incredibly comforting about knowing that even when I couldn't explain what I was going through, I was never invisible to Him.
And maybe part of healing is finally learning to look at myself with the same compassion I believe God has always had for me.
Not as someone who failed to be strong enough.
But as someone who endured far more than she should have ever been asked to.
Someone who deserved gentleness.
Someone who deserved rest.
Someone who deserved to feel safe.
Someone who still does.
I don't know exactly what navigating POTS will look like moving forward. And I know that understanding my health doesn't erase the emotional damage of what I've experienced.
But it does give me a new perspective on my story.
It helps me extend grace to versions of myself I spent years criticizing.
It helps me recognize that my exhaustion was real, even when I couldn't explain it.
And it reminds me that healing isn't just about leaving the environment that hurt you.
Sometimes it's about finally understanding what your mind and body have been trying to tell you for years.
I'm still learning how to be a single mom.
Still learning how to care for a body I spent so long ignoring.
Still learning that rest isn't something I have to earn.
Still learning that I don't have to prove my strength by suffering silently.
And perhaps most importantly, I'm learning that I can be grateful for how far God has brought me while still grieving what it cost me to get here.
Because I can look back and see His protection without pretending that what happened wasn't painful.
I can recognize His faithfulness without minimizing what I endured.
And I can believe He is restoring me, even in the parts of my life that are still difficult.
For years, I thought being strong meant surviving everything.
Now I'm beginning to understand that strength can also mean giving myself permission to heal.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Spiritually.
And for the first time in a long time, I don't just want to survive my life.
I want to be well enough to truly live it.
For myself.
For my children.
And for the woman God is still helping me become.
Still healing. Still learning. Still growing.