Finding Calm in the Chaos, and a Message in the Mess

In January, I chose “Restored” as my word for this year, clinging to the hope and the promise of Joel 2:25-26. The second chapter of Joel speaks closely to the journey of my own life in many ways: single mom struggles, sensory overwhelm of PTSD in motherhood, emotional burnout, mental exhaustion. Often, people around me see only the woman who prays her way through every problem, the one surviving the hard days with delicately balanced grit and grace. I teach faith, growth, and the power of personal boundaries—sharing my own healing while parenting alone.

Earlier this year, as I entered what I prayed would be a season of peace and growth in my life, those verses sounded beautiful. Healing. They held the blooming potential of fresh harvest after devastation. But in these last months, the earth under my feet has so often felt torn. Blistered. Thirsty. I’m not rested, I’m wrestling. And I’m not reaping—because I’m rearranging everything in my life. Again.

There are days when the winds of change are fragrant with the scents of almost unimaginable joy, days when my cup of life truly runs over. But as carefully as I still guard myself from the world, there are still days when life is too loud, when peace feels impossible. When I’m just an everyday overwhelmed mom, carrying the mental load and emotional clutter of fires I didn’t light and storms I never chose to be caught in. Some days, like many of you, I feel like I’m barely surviving.

And yet, in the middle of PTSD decompensation, trauma triggers at home, decluttering setbacks, and nervous system overload, I keep thinking of Matthew 8:23-27…and of buffaloes.

Lately, the winds have carried the acrid scent of smoke—a fire smoldering in the distance. One I did not light but will be expected to fight. Skies don’t look as blue, clouds don’t stay as white—and the red tones of blood stain a world perhaps more ill than it yet knows. The threat of danger floats on the air, covering the ground in a powdery film of impending doom.

Thunder rolls, the power of its rattling cry shaking the earth, raising the dust. Lightning strikes, illuminating the landscape in jagged streaks of weaponized worry and wanton weariness. Surrounding rocks shaken loose by the coming storm tumble and drop from long-settled places, and I wish for the peace of the valley beyond this rugged terrain, where the land lies waiting—so long ravished and grieving lost peace, only recently rested and ready for planting, nearly desperate for bountiful harvest.

Somewhere in the hidden depths of my heart, frustration whispers, “This isn’t what restoration was supposed to look like.”

The grunting bellow of a lone buffalo confirms the coming storm, but he doesn’t cower, doesn’t seek the safety of shelter. The terror pounding in his great heart must mirror mine, and yet he doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t run. Instead, he raises his face, nose shifting as he fills his lungs, testing the air. Scenting the storm.

He lowers his head, snorting, and as his dark eyes light with determination, I know it’s time. The skies tear open above us and the buffalo freezes, briefly bracing himself against the downpour—then suddenly, he’s on the move.

I can’t saddle his wild strength or harness him to pull me along. And despite my desperation to follow this single sign of life in such a lonely place, I cannot hope to keep up. Breathless and alone, I squint into the driving rain, hoping to gauge his speed, his direction. I cannot use him…but I can follow his example.

I break camp and cover myself in the best of my armor, mustering courage as the storm grows stronger. My instincts are to run—or at least to hide—but the buffalo is an ancient species grown wise with time, and his facing the storm carries something far more valuable than the meager tools at my belt. The quickest way out of the storm…is through it.

*****

Life has been more chaotic than usual. My youngest daughter is facing new health problems with implications I’m not yet ready to talk about. On the heels of a declutter that cleansed old memories and quieted stinging wounds, I’m entering a brand new season of feeling overwhelmed by clutter—the house is a mess again, with every space being reorganized and reassigned. My oldest daughter is moving back home, and while I hope it will be a positive experience all around, the fact is, adult children moving home reshapes the layers of motherhood and transition—each moment a plot twist in balancing grace for adult kids and boundaries that guard against upheaval.

I’m grieving a writing rhythm I’d finally found…only to lose it again in the summer routine chaos. I’m re-learning how to care for myself when everything in my life feels upside down. I’m revisiting the coping skills that helped me balance motherhood, mom guilt, and the realities of life with complex trauma. I’m respecting my own emotional capacity, honoring my own limitations, allowing myself to be honest even when it isn’t always appreciated, and digging deep for extra grace.

Because this is what it’s like to prepare for a storm. You rest up, charge your batteries, watch the radar, prepare your safe space. You choose peace wherever you find it, even if that peace feels more like a battle than a balm. And you don’t stop showing up—even when your heart’s stretched a little too thin and the physical clutter around you mirrors emotional clutter you can barely contain.

You draw inspiration from the buffalo, the only animal that walks instinctively into a storm, head down as it plods along, one step at a time, because it knows that the fastest way out is to dig for courage and find the faith to muscle through.

Maybe I’m idealistic, but I haven’t given up. I haven’t stopped believing in beauty, and I haven’t stopped trusting that healing is possible. Still, I’m giving myself permission to be honest about the mess in the middle, because that’s where so many of us are right now. In the storm, searching for the valley, choosing to believe there’s rest on the other side—even if we can’t see it yet.

And if you’re like me, maybe you wonder if that’s what restoration really looks like in a year like this one. Not the expectant bloom of new growth or the adventure of a fresh harvest, but the soul-deep celebration of welcoming a prodigal back into the fold—and the wonder of every faithful, God-dependent step along the way.

If your nervous system feels fried and your soul feels a little forgotten...if you’re doing your best to love the people in your life without losing yourself in the process…if you’re quietly grieving peace you worked so hard to build only to lose sight of it again…you’re not alone. I’m right there with you. And I’d like to remind you (and myself, too!) that restoration might not only be the calm after the storm…it might also begin with what’s breaking inside us as we walk through.

So today, we stay the course. We carry the weight. We inch forward, head down and heart open, like the buffalo. And as always, we…