There’s a silence in my bones tonight —
the kind that doesn’t sleep.
It paces between rooms and cries without sound.
My heart…
is torn and bleeding for two.
For my daughter —
There’s a cycle trying to rise again,
but it ends here.
I am standing in the doorway,
and I will not move.
I see her.
I hear her.
And I will never look away.
She is learning her voice —
and until hers is steady,
I will echo it with mine.
She is learning her worth —
and I will mirror it back to her
until she finally believes
she was never meant to be anything less than precious.
I believe her.
I will protect her.
I will hold her hand and walk her through the storm.
No shadow will touch her without facing me first.
She is not broken — she is brave.
And I love her more than life itself.
No matter what — I will walk beside her.
And for my son —
the one holding the shattered pieces
of pain that was never his to carry.
I’m not angry, baby.
I see your 11-year-old body
fighting monsters that should’ve never made it into your mind.
You hide behind silence and rage — but I see you.
I know you want closeness,
but it scares you.
I know you crave safety,
but you don’t trust it yet.
You’ve always survived alone —
so love feels unfamiliar and trust feels like a trap.
But I’m still here.
I always will be.
You are not what was done to you.
You are not your fear.
You are not too far gone.
And I love you more than life itself.
No matter what — I will walk beside you, too.
And me?
I am a mother
trying to hold the sky up
with cracked hands
and a soul that won’t stop screaming.
Torn between two wounded hearts —
and bleeding for both, my heart keeps beating.
Still I stand.
Still I choose love.
Still I choose them.
And I will use the fire inside my head
to make the hardest decisions I’ll ever face —
all in the name of love.
And to You, God —
We need you more than ever right now.
Give me strength when I can’t lift my own head.
Give me stillness when the hurt and rage
start to roar louder than my love.
Wrap Your hand around my shaking soul
and remind me —
I am not failing.
I’m doing what’s needed to love and protect them.
Mend what they cannot speak.
Heal what they should never have endured.
Let their hearts become whole —
so mine might finally stop bleeding from the cracks.
Teach me how to love the son who now causes pain,
while still loving the daughter he helped break.
Give me wisdom louder than my fear.
Peace deeper than my most painful questions.
Abounding Grace for every misstep —
and a fire that doesn’t burn me out,
but lights the twisted path
as I stumble forward through the dark.
Please don’t let me go, God.
I can keep it together and carry them —
but only if You carry me.
If my words spoke to your heart, you can help support our journey:
Letters From the Edge 