Loss has a way of finding all of us. Some losses are loud and public: the death of a loved one, the end of a friendship, the closing of a door we hoped would stay open. Others are quieter: the fading of a dream, the slow unraveling of trust, the loss of a role or title that once felt like home.
For many of us, this feeling is all too familiar, a presence you know in a particular way. It’s the bittersweet closing of summer, the last late nights and long slow mornings, the adventures that now live only in memory. It’s watching your children outgrow a season you prayed through. It’s the silent weight of wondering if you soaked it in enough, cherished it enough, gave them enough of yourself before the days slipped away.
I’ve carried all of these. Loss of friends and family, some to death, others to distance. Loss of a dream, what once looked like a future running my own preschool slipped away, replaced by a different calling to motherhood. Loss of trust, first in relationships I once respected, and now in the day-to-day work of parenting through hard seasons. Loss of connection to places that once felt like home. Loss of loved ones, grandparents, a father-in-law who shaped so much of our family’s story. Loss of identity, wondering who I am when titles like teacher, mom, or wife start to feel invisible, like they aren’t enough to matter.
I’ve coped in different ways. Sometimes through writing, letting the ache bleed onto the page. Sometimes by seeking new dreams or finding new connections. Sometimes just by sitting in the grief, not trying to fix it, but letting it be what it is.
The truth is, sadness is not a failure of faith. It’s part of being human.
In the Bible, Elijah, Naomi, and Job grieve deeply. They wrestle, they question, they cry out. Jesus Himself, fully God and fully man, weeps over Jerusalem, grieves in the Garden, and cries out from the cross. His sadness isn’t a weakness. It’s a window into His heart, a heart that is tender, compassionate, and unafraid to feel.
I imagine Jesus in those moments: His face etched with sorrow, His hands clenched, His breath heavy. I don’t see a distant Savior. I see one who draws near to pain, who understands loss from the inside out.
And if Jesus was free to grieve, so are we.
Sadness has been louder lately. The closing of a season I’ve loved. Family ties stretched thin by loss and rebellion. The ache of parenting through grief I can’t fix. The quiet losses that don’t have neat endings: the students you miss, the community you long for, the dreams you quietly released to make space for today’s calling.
I carry sadness for what I hoped would be and for what is. Some days, I try to outrun it with busyness, people-pleasing, and perfectionism, but it lingers, waiting for me to slow down and let it breathe.
I’m learning sadness isn’t the enemy. It’s the beginning of healing.
When I stop running, I see what I’ve been fighting: fear of vulnerability, fear of loss, fear of being seen in the cracks. But Jesus invites us to bring all of it to Him, the questions, the ache, the mess.
Sadness strips away the illusion of control. It teaches me to open my hands and trust that even when I don’t see the way forward, God does.
The old vows to protect myself, to avoid pain, to keep everyone happy are slowly breaking. In their place, I’m finding permission to be human, to grieve, to hope.
There are still dreams tucked in my heart: writing, creating spaces for healing, and saying hard and holy things. I dream of Grace in the Disarray becoming a resource available to every educator (homeschool, private, and even public) offering encouragement, tools, and truth for the work that shapes generations. These are dreams I have been scared to chase because the risk of loss felt too great. But maybe faith begins right there, not in certainty, but in the courage to step forward anyway.
Sadness will visit all of us. Loss will change us. But it doesn’t have to undo us. With God, even grief can become the soil where something beautiful grows.
You are allowed to grieve. You are allowed to name your sadness. You are invited by the Savior who weeps and stays to bring it all to Him. We don’t have to walk through it alone.
Let’s take the next honest step together.
Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning. — Psalm 30:5
Grace in the Disarray 