Rebuilding Life with Grace

Tag: healing

  • “Mom, why did we stop visiting them?”

    “Mom, why did we stop visiting them?”


    My youngest asked me this question when we got in the car after a funeral—the funeral of one of the children she had played with when she was younger.

    I don’t remember what I said in response. Maybe I mumbled something vague or tried to redirect her attention. But I remember clearly how I felt.

    Guilty—because I hadn’t seen the family in years.
    Hurt—because I knew my youngest was hurting in this. I was hurting too, because I felt like I had abandoned my friend without explanation.
    And scared—because the truth was that I had stopped visiting out of fear of my husband’s reaction.

    It was one of those moments that catches you off guard, a gut punch you weren’t prepared for, even though the ache had been lingering in the background for years.

    I had no words for her that day.
    But I have words now.

    We stopped visiting because I was afraid. Not of the people or the friendship—but of what would happen at home if I stayed too long, laughed too freely, or connected too deeply. I lived under the constant pressure to explain, justify, and preempt the next outburst. Slowly, I started withdrawing from the people who mattered most. I told myself I was being cautious. Protective. Wise. But really, I was shrinking. Disappearing.

    And now, sitting at a funeral, I was face to face with a consequence I hadn’t expected: the cost of fear isn’t just ours—it ripples out to the people we love.

    That question from my child still echoes in my heart. It was innocent, but it was also a mirror—reflecting what had been stolen, not just from me, but from her.

    But here’s the truth I’ve had to hold onto: the past may shape us, but it doesn’t have to define us.

    That day, I resolved—again—to keep healing. To keep facing the hard truths, not with shame, but with the fierce love of a mother who wants better. I can’t change what was lost. But I can live more honestly now. I can rebuild trust. I can hold space for conversations I once avoided. And I can choose to stop letting fear dictate the course of our lives.

    If you’ve found yourself grieving relationships lost to fear or silence, I want to gently remind you: God restores. Even the parts of us we thought were too far gone.

    “He will restore the years that the locusts have eaten…”
    —Joel 2:25

    If this resonates with you, take one small step toward connection today. Call a friend. Write a letter. Tell your child the truth in a way their heart can hold. Healing begins when we stop running from our stories—and start telling them with courage.

    You’re not alone.
    You are worthy of safety, love, and peace.

    Need support? Here are some trusted resources:

    Take the next right step for your healing, however small it may be. Grace meets you right where you are.

    With heart and hope,
    Michaela Noelle Grace
    Founder of Rebuild Life with Grace
    rebuildlifewithgrace.org

  • “When will you be home?”

    “When will you be home?”

    “When will you be home?” he said angrily on the phone.

    Upset woman talking on her smartphone.


    “I-I told you it would be a couple of hours at least,” I responded, stuttering. “The kids are playing, and they haven’t seen each other in months.”

    It was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon—a rare playdate with one of my homeschooling friends, someone who understood the chaotic beauty of raising children while trying to hold onto slivers of adult conversation. Our kids were laughing, running, and reconnecting like no time had passed. But in the pit of my stomach, the joy was already turning sour.

    Because I knew what that voice meant.
    Because I knew I’d pay for this “freedom” later.
    Because this would be the last time I’d feel safe enough to plan something like this again.

    Looking back, I see now that it wasn’t just about a playdate. It was about control. Isolation doesn’t always come with locked doors or blocked phone numbers—it often comes dressed in subtle moments like this, where fear creeps in under the surface of something ordinary.

    That day should have been a breath of fresh air. Instead, I spent the drive home rehearsing explanations, hoping the kids’ laughter in the backseat wouldn’t remind him how long we’d been gone. I shrunk a little more inside, the way I always did after being made to feel guilty for simply living.

    It wasn’t the first time I canceled plans, and it wouldn’t be the last. Over time, I stopped reaching out. I stopped making new friends. I stopped saying yes to things that brought me life, because it was just easier—safer—not to risk the fallout. The isolation wasn’t immediate. It was slow. Strategic. A thousand tiny compromises I made to keep the peace.

    But each one chipped away at the person I used to be.

    I didn’t realize I was disappearing until there was almost nothing left of me.

    But healing began in those quiet, broken spaces—when the loneliness became too loud to ignore, and I dared to wonder if life could be different. It didn’t start with big, brave steps. It started with whispers of truth—soft reminders that isolation wasn’t love, that fear wasn’t safety, and that I wasn’t created to live this small.

    I started reconnecting with people slowly, carefully—testing the waters of trust. I journaled in secret, prayed with desperation, and clung to the hope that God still saw me, even when I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror. Little by little, I began to say yes again—to myself, to my worth, to life beyond survival.

    Healing wasn’t linear. It was messy, sacred, and full of setbacks. But it was also holy ground. Each moment I chose to show up for myself became a stone in the foundation of the woman I was rebuilding.

    And I am still rebuilding—with grace, with grit, and with the quiet courage of someone who finally believes she deserves to be free.

    If you’ve found yourself slowly fading in the shadows of someone else’s control, I want you to know—you’re not alone, and this is not the end of your story. You were created for more than just surviving. You were created to live in freedom, in love, and in truth.

    Start small if you have to. Reach out. Speak up. Journal your truth. Pray the raw, unfiltered prayers. Healing begins with one brave choice—and you don’t have to make it alone.

    “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
    —Psalm 34:18 (NIV)

    With you on the journey,
    Michaela Noelle Grace