Out of Order: Dealing with the REALITY of My World Now

Sunday, July 26, 2026, was the beginning.

The beginning of realizing that grief had found another way to introduce itself.

Not through tears.

Not through another funeral.

Not through another anniversary.

But through my MIND.

Sunday, I felt like I was living in the Twilight Zone. I was physically here, but mentally somewhere else that I still can't fully articulate or communicate. My body was present, but my thoughts were distant, scattered, and consumed by a heaviness I had never experienced before.

It felt as though every loss, every responsibility, every memory, every unanswered prayer, and every expectation had collided at once. My mind became so overwhelmed that it simply stopped knowing how to process it all.

The sadness had been drowning me.

For days, I had been living beneath what felt like a black cloud. I woke up with it. I carried it throughout the day. I went to bed with it. Even while smiling, working, writing, serving, and encouraging others, that cloud never seemed to leave.

People often ask, "How are you?"

The truth is...

I don't always know how to answer that question anymore.

How do you explain a pain that has no visible wound?

How do you describe a heart that's still trying to make sense of a reality it never wanted?

How do you tell people you're physically present, but mentally exhausted?

That day, something happened that scared me.

I got on the expressway with every intention of going where I needed to go. Somewhere along the drive, I became so consumed by everything I was carrying internally that I lost awareness of where I was. Before I knew it, I had driven all the way to Sarasota.

When I finally came back to reality, I looked around in complete disbelief.

I wasn't anywhere close to where I was supposed to be.

I just sat there.

Confused.

Emotionally exhausted.

Trying to understand how I had traveled so far while feeling so disconnected from the present moment.

That moment made me realize something.

My mind wasn't simply tired.

It was overwhelmed.

It felt like there was no room left inside my brain for another thought, another responsibility, another decision, another conversation, or another burden.

Everything felt full.

Overloaded.

Out of order.

One of the hardest parts about sharing this is knowing people may misunderstand it.

So let me be clear.

The last thing I wanted was to hurt myself or the people who love me unconditionally.

I didn't want to die.

I didn't want to leave my family.

I wasn't trying to disappear.

I simply wanted the weight to stop pressing down on me.

There is a difference.

And if you've experienced profound grief, you may understand exactly what I mean.

Imagine crying out for help while everyone continues calling you "the strong one." Imagine feeling like there's no room left in your brain for anything else.

Imagine silently battling an invisible weight every single day while everyone around you applauds your strength. Imagine surviving instead of living.

Strength can be deceiving.

Sometimes what looks like strength is actually survival.

Sometimes what looks like resilience is busyness.

Sometimes what people call perseverance is simply a person doing everything they can to make it through another day.

People see the nonprofit.

They see the books.

They see the speaking.

They see the events.

They see the smiles.

They see me encouraging grieving families.

What they don't see is what happens after everyone goes home.

They don't feel the tension that lives in my neck, shoulders, and back. They don't see the tears that come without warning. They don't experience the emotional exhaustion that makes even the simplest decisions feel impossible. They don't see the invisible labor it takes just to function.

Grief has taught me something I never expected.

It doesn't always look like crying.

Sometimes grief looks like brain fog.

Sometimes it looks like physical pain.

Sometimes it looks like forgetting where you're going.

Sometimes it looks like emotional numbness.

Sometimes it looks like staying busy because slowing down means facing everything your heart has been trying to carry.

And sometimes...

Grief simply looks like existing.

For fourteen years, my life revolved around caring for the very daughter that’s gone! Every decision made for us as a family, revolved around Jahmya’s well being.

Every appointment.

Every hospital stay.

Every celebration.

Every prayer.

Then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, that assignment changed.

Yes I’m still a mother, but I’m no longer the medical mom! I always will be a mother of three but the one who needed me for everything is gone!

But now I'm learning how to care for the woman who was left behind after unimaginable loss.

That journey is messy.

It is exhausting.

It is lonely.

It is sacred.

Some days I feel hopeful.

Other days I simply try to make it until tomorrow.

Yet somewhere beneath this black cloud, I still believe God is with me. Just sometimes!

Not because everything feels okay.

Not because I understand His plan.

But because He has continued to hold me together on the days I have felt like I was falling apart. He continues to give me the thoughts to write! He gives me the drive to push even when I want to shut out the world!

I’m learning that faith doesn't mean pretending I’m okay. Faith sometimes sounds like this:

"God, I don't understand this."

"I'm overwhelmed."

"I'm tired."

"My heart hurts."

"But I'm still holding on to You."

Maybe healing isn't pretending everything is back in order. Maybe healing begins the moment we stop pretending we aren't struggling.

Hell is HEALING even apart of the GRIEVER PLAN!

Today, I'm giving myself permission to say what I've been afraid to admit: I AM OUT OF ORDER! And it scares me!

Not because I've given up.

Not because my faith has failed.

Not because I don't love life.

But because grief has interrupted every part of the life I once knew.

If you've ever felt physically present but mentally somewhere else, this is for you!

If you've ever smiled while silently carrying the weight of the world, this is for you!

If you've ever wondered why your body hurts while your heart is grieving, this is for you!

If you've ever felt like a black cloud was following you no matter how hard you prayed, this is for you too!

Please know this:

You are not weak.

You are not alone.

You are not failing.

You are carrying something incredibly heavy. And heavy things were never meant to be carried alone.

Today, after my therapy session, I choose honesty over pretending. I'm choosing to acknowledge the cloud instead of acting like the sun is shining. Asking for help instead of suffering in silence.

The cloud hasn't completely lifted.

The heaviness is still real.

But I'm still here.

Still breathing.

Still trusting.

Still believing that one day, this season won't define me, it will become part of my testimony.

Until then...

I'll keep taking one step at a time at every given moment! Because even when my world feels out of order, I know without a shadow of a doubt, God is still writing my story.