All I Ever Have to Be — A Reflection of Grace in the Middle of the Battle

When the weight of all my dreams is resting heavy on my head, I feel it not just in my thoughts but in my shoulders, in my back, in my bones. That weight—the pressure to hold everything together, to be strong when I feel like crumbling, to carry both my dreams and my husband’s pain—feels unbearable some days. And no matter how many kind words people say, no matter how many times someone tells me “you’re strong,” “you’re brave,” or “you’ve got this”—the ache doesn’t always ease.

Because here’s the truth they don’t see: I’m tired.

Not just physically tired, though there are nights I fall asleep before my head hits the pillow. But soul-tired. Worn down from carrying a weight that no one can see unless they really look—and most don’t.

They don’t see what it’s like when you’re broke and still trying to be generous. When you’re afraid and still trying to be hopeful. When you’re watching the person you love most be taken hostage by a disorder no one fully understands.

PNES—those four letters have become part of our daily vocabulary now. They’ve rewritten the script of our life together. They’ve stolen moments, shattered plans, rerouted our road map, and reshaped our identities. And yet, somehow, through all of it… we’re still here.

I remember who I was before all of this. I had dreams. I still do, though sometimes they feel buried beneath medical paperwork, financial stress, and sleepless nights. But I used to believe in a version of myself that would do big things. I still want to. But when every day is about survival, dreaming feels like a luxury.

There are mornings I wake up and think, Will I ever become the woman I thought I’d be? The one I was on my way to becoming before this storm came crashing down?

And that’s when I hear it—not always out loud, but deep in my spirit:

“All you ever have to be is what I made you.”

That whisper of grace reaches me when I need it most. It reminds me that I was never meant to carry this all alone. That even though I may feel invisible, unheard, or lost—I am known. I am held. I am not forgotten in the whirlwind.

And maybe—just maybe—what I thought were the best parts of me weren’t the parts that mattered most after all. Maybe the real strength is in showing up when it hurts. In loving my husband through seizures and silence and despair. In being kind when I’m exhausted. In keeping faith even when I’m scared.

I’ve learned that you can be sad and still be soft.

You can be poor and still be rich in love.

You can feel lost and still be on the path.

You can be overwhelmed and still be grounded.

You can be angry and still be faithful.

You can fall apart and still be whole in God’s eyes.

This life we’re living—Tim and I—it isn’t what we thought it would be. It’s harder, yes. But in some ways, it’s also more sacred. There’s a kind of beauty in the brokenness we never would have known without the struggle. There’s a depth to our love that only comes from surviving the fire.

And I’ve had to learn how to let go of the illusion that I have to be perfect.

Because the harder I try to be “the best,” the more I see all the ways I fall short. And yet, God meets me there—right in the middle of my mess—and reminds me: I made you. And that is enough.

Sometimes I look back and wonder where the people went. Siblings, friends, even some of my children—people I thought would walk this road with us. But the battle scared them off. Or maybe our pain was too heavy to carry with them. Either way, it hurt. It still does.

But I’m learning to see those empty spaces not as proof of my failure but as room for grace to move in. For healing. For something new.

Because every time someone walks away, the silence that follows isn’t the end of the story. It’s the beginning of something deeper between God and me.

In that space, I find the strength to keep going.

In that space, I learn again and again that all I ever have to be… is His.

Not perfect.

Not famous.

Not unbreakable.

Just His.

That’s what holds me when the world is spinning. That’s what steadies me when Tim has a seizure and I feel helpless. That’s what carries me through the fatigue, the fear, the financial chaos.

Being what He made me means I can be soft without being weak.

It means I can fall down and still rise again.

It means I can feel everything—and still be faithful.

It means I don’t have to have it all figured out.

And isn’t that the most freeing truth of all?

This world tells us we have to keep hustling, striving, proving. But grace says, Be still. You are already enough.

So if today you’re hurting—if you feel like you’re trying and failing, if the weight of your dreams feels too heavy, if you’re wondering whether you’ll ever become who you thought you’d be—let me remind you gently:

You already are.

You are not your bank account.

You are not your pain.

You are not your husband’s illness.

You are not your family’s rejection.

You are not your past.

You are love.

You are light.

You are proof that God is still in the business of writing redemption stories.

And all you ever have to be is who He made you.

So breathe, dear heart.

Let the pressure lift, if only for a moment.

And remember: even when everything feels like it’s falling apart, something sacred is being built in you.

Not in your strength—but in your surrender.

Not in your striving—but in your stillness.

You are not failing.

You are becoming.

And He who made you, sees you.

Loves you.

Delights in you.

Exactly as you are.

Exactly in this moment.

And that is more than enough.

“For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.”

—Ephesians 2:10

Let this be your reminder today, sweet soul.

Even with the battle raging,

Even when your dreams are heavy,

Even when you feel like you’ve lost yourself—

You are still His.

You are still enough.

You are still becoming.

And all you ever have to be… is what He made you.