This is shaping up to be a challenging summer at the Kennedy house. Emotional exhaustion is taking a toll, my complex PTSD triggers seem to be lurking around every corner, and the mental load of motherhood during a health crisis has me revamping the coping skills that taught me how to stay strong in hard times.
It's ironic that all of my writing is about this. Whether it's here on my blog, out on social media, or in the books I write, the focus is always on how to heal from past trauma—even if life doesn't always get easier. Whether they're my personal stories or those of the characters I create, every word is an exercise in choosing faith over fear and finding grace for yourself in hard seasons.
Sometimes, like lately, when I find myself feeling stuck in life and writing through grief...when crisis fatigue gets too heavy and I feel like even on my best days I'm barely surviving the storm...I turn to real stories of healing and search them for inspiration.
And sometimes, as silly as it may sound, the story I find the best inspiration in is mine.
Shoving a sundress aside, I frown at a pair of jeans before pushing those away, too. Coffee with my younger self is shaping up to be more stressful than expected. I want to look put together, to show up with a gentle smile and a mouthful of encouraging wisdom. The clock says I'd better get on with it if I want to be on time.
But my life feels like a mess, and even though I can't cancel the date with ten-years-ago me, the fact is, I don't want to go. Not in my yoga pants. Not in my embarrassingly un-fancy car. Not with such obvious stress dimming my eyes and straining the smile on my face. Meeting with her right now feels like a pretense, because a decade of living, spiritual growth, and trauma healing stand between her experience and mine...but we still have so much in common. Maybe even too much.
I show up in my yoga pants. She shows up in hers. We're both late.
I can feel her insecurity as we make our way to the counter—and the gratitude underlining her shame as I offer to buy both our drinks. We chose a table for two, and the tension breaks as we angle our chairs, backs to the wall. She sips her drink, sets it on the table between us, and sighs. "That part never changes, huh?"
I shrug. "Some days are better than others. I understand it more now, though. Therapy helped."
"Therapy?" She looks disgusted, then embarrassed...and then suddenly very afraid. "I end up in therapy?" Her voice is small, her eyes locked on the condensation slowly puddling around her cup.
"Yep, and it was just as hard as you think. But it was worth every second."
She frowns, disbelieving. But she's not ready yet, and that's okay. Her hands tremble as she slides a napkin beneath her drink, and I know the words running through her mind, painful words spoken in the voices of people she still wants to trust. Words I no longer live by. People I haven't seen or spoken to in years. Finally, she looks at me, eyes searching the face of her own future, and asks the very same question that's circled my mind so often lately. "Does life ever get easier?"
We talk about the highs and lows of life as a single mom, the value of spiritual encouragement. And I nod when her eyes fill unexpectedly with tears—because I know where she lives and who she lives with. I still remember the desperate grief she's trying so hard to hide. "You know," I say, taking her hand, "it's okay that you're struggling right now. Trusting God when life is hard can be challenging, and I know that being surrounded by people who hurt you in his name doesn't help."
"I don't even know if I'm doing the right thing," she whispers. "And I'm just...I'm trying so hard. Does any of it even pay off in the end? Is it...is it even worth it?"
I think of the tightness in her chest, the way she squares her shoulders every time she enters the house she can't bring herself to ever call home. The people in that house, who tell her how unwanted she is there, but shame or outright sabotage her every effort to leave. The pieces of herself she gives away as she tiptoes through every moment in the name of a peace that always seems to elude her. And I think of the years she will endure that place before she's strong enough to walk away. I think of the fear she feels when she looks at her children, wondering if they'll be okay, if they'll ever be healthy, if the people who cover her in horrible accusations might actually be right. And I know there's a part of her that believes she's the problem. So I grip her hand a little tighter, and I lean in with all the hard-won wisdom and confidence I have.
"Look at me," I say, and she does. I tell her about her beautiful daughters, and who they are now. How impossibly strong they are—like her. Like me. Not in spite of their challenges, but because of them. I tell her about the apartment I call home, and how it's always a little messy but sometimes I can't help smiling as I open the door. "It's freeing," I say, smiling without forcing it for the first time in days. "It really is. Letting go of mom guilt, realizing you've done the best you could. Learning to love yourself again, because you deserve that just as much as anyone else does."
She nods quietly, equal parts hope and fear. "That's something. But I know there are things you're not sharing. Nothing ever changes for us, does it? Not really?"
The time between her age and mine has been so full. Grief and celebration have both come and gone. Money has increased—and decreased again. There have been times of relative health, broken by periods of crushing sickness. Weeks that felt like sunshine and grace, months so torn by turbulent storms they felt hopelessly unending. Looked at from that perspective? No. Nothing changed. Nothing changed at all.
But she and I are more different than I thought, and it's more than the creases on my face or the gray in my hair. The best changes are the ones no one can see: the confidence to keep trying, the determination to make the most of every moment, the faith that promises hope for tomorrow even if today's a hard one. And finally, I know exactly what she needs to hear. "Even when nothing changes, you do. And that makes all the difference."
*****
Sometimes, I still wonder if life will ever stop feeling like a raging storm. I wonder if I'll ever see a season that’s truly easier—where emergencies stop stacking up and grief isn’t as close to the surface and I finally feel like I’m "past the hard part."
But as I sat with that younger version of myself, even just in my heart, I realized that even if lots of things look the same, I’m not stuck in her world anymore. I’ve walked miles since then. Grown roots. Shed layers. Built a life. And my life is a good one, even if it doesn’t look like she wanted it to.
I’m still navigating hard things. This week has added more emotional weight than I ever thought I could carry, complete with flat tires and full medical schedules and summer chaos I didn’t ask for. But I’m giving myself grace for the personal growth journey I'm still on, and patience for messing up as an overwhelmed mom juggling too many balls with not enough hands. I'm not the same woman I was ten years ago—I'm stronger, more confident, more resilient. And yes, more faithful.
So if you’re tired of waiting for external change and some days even one more step feels like too far to go, take some time to sit down with your younger self, too. Maybe those talks with our younger selves aren't about giving the promise of ease, anyway. Maybe our younger selves just need to see us still standing and showing up. Finding beauty and choosing hope.
And maybe sitting with our younger selves is the best way to show our present selves that some things do change.
If all you’ve got left today is the courage to keep going, that’s more than enough. So keep going. Hold faith, and give yourselves (both past and present) a little more grace. Walk into every storm like a buffalo, knowing that future you is waiting on the other side. And as always...
P.S. Yes, Still Fighting For Freedom is coming along. Not as quickly as I wanted, but it's coming. And it's incredible. Stay tuned for next week's post, where I'll share a little more of how my life became such a part of Christine's story.
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