Here’s another throwback to when we were grappling with the effects of the Great Recession:

This is the third installment of my personal exposé, which began with "Getting Personal Here" and continued with "Something's Gotta Change."

In my last post, I left off with:

"It’s nearly 3 am again – I’m eager to share what those extra lessons turned out to be, and you’re probably wondering, 'so, what about the debts?' or 'what are you going to do with your business now?' but I’ll have to save those details for next time."

Well, it’s finally "next time," so here we go...

About those lessons learned—no doubt I haven’t learned all that I need to (and I’m sure there’s more ahead), but here’s what I’ve gathered so far:

First, I recognized at least one major blessing hidden inside my meltdown. As I mentioned in the first post, I dropped off the map for about six months while my husband and I reassessed our roles and found a more sustainable long-term plan for our family.

By November, I was breathing again—just in time to shift my focus to helping my oldest son prepare for a full-time two-year service mission for our church. He applied and was assigned to a region covering Northern Colorado, Southern Nebraska, and Wyoming, with a report date of February 8, 2012.

Helping him get ready was no small task: we had to gather serious winter clothing (we owned next to none), complete piles of paperwork, and schedule countless doctor and dentist appointments to get all the required permissions and medical records in order.

Looking back, it doesn’t seem like it should have been that time-consuming—but in the middle of juggling all the other children's activities, Christmas concerts, Christmas preparations themselves, and especially trying to help my junior survive AP Chemistry, it was huge.

(And once Christmas was behind me, business commitments that had been simmering on the back burner came roaring back to center stage.)

Once my son was settled into his mission assignment, I was able to step back and see how perfectly the timing of my meltdown had allowed me to carve out the space I needed to have some really special, meaningful experiences with him before he left. It's possible that he’s left the nest for good, and I’m profoundly grateful for the sweet memories we created together during those last few months.

Another lesson I learned was about letting go.

Let me explain with a story about my 16-year-old son:

At the beginning of the school year, I encouraged him to sign up for AP Chemistry. He had loved regular Chemistry, was showing more dedication to school, and had proven he was willing to work hard.

It seemed like a golden opportunity—his teacher had even won a national award! I pictured an experience kind of like Stand and Deliver, with a dedicated, heroic teacher like Jaime Escalante guiding him through it all.

I believed that with enough hard work—and by taking full advantage of the help an award-winning teacher could offer—he could do it.

What I didn’t bank on were the unexpected obstacles. Had we known what we were up against, I definitely would have thought twice:

• His teacher was rarely available outside of class. There were two lunch periods, but my son's lunch overlapped with one of the teacher's regular classes. He was invited to come in and work independently during that time... but the teacher usually taught right up until the bell, leaving no real time for help.

• He couldn’t get help before school (the teacher had an A-hour class) or after school (reasons unknown).

• There was a student mentoring program... but AP Chemistry wasn’t covered. None of the mentors knew it well enough.

• Homework was assigned through WebAssign, an online program that sometimes rejected correct answers. (Once, after hours of struggling, we called the teacher at home. He said, "Oh yeah, that one’s buggy. You got the right answer, but you have to put in this [wrong] number to get it to accept it.")

• Another time, stuck on a problem, my son was told, "Have you tried Yahoo Answers?" (Yes, that Yahoo Answers, where desperate students posted homework questions hoping strangers would respond.)

• We hired a professional tutor—who still couldn't get WebAssign to accept her answers.

• We hired a fellow student who seemed to be doing a little better—until even he got stuck.

• The teacher told students, "If you’re stuck more than X minutes, call me!" Which sounds nice—until you realize my son could have been on the phone for hours every night if he actually did that. When he did call, the teacher often rushed through the problem or just told him the answer so they could all move on.

• And the last time the teacher invited him to call, he added, "I’ll probably be grumpy about it, but I’ll help you." Super encouraging, right? My son, already feeling like an enormous burden, still mustered the courage to call—and got voicemail. No return call. Days later, still nothing.

We knew this was a college-level course, but at least in college, you can go to the science lab for help!!

Despite the odds, my son hung in there and managed to keep a passing grade. It wasn’t an "A," but under the circumstances, the fact that he was passing made me one seriously PROUD MAMA.

Then one day, just as I was feeling like we might be turning the corner, I got a call from his math teacher.

She said she was concerned—he was failing math.

MATH?! One of his strongest subjects.

Apparently, he had been neglecting math just to survive Chemistry.

I asked, "Are there any assignments he can make up?"

"No," she said. "We don’t accept late work or retakes. Department policy."

That was the last straw. (As a former secondary math teacher myself, I couldn’t believe it. If a student wants to learn—even late—that's a win! Let them learn!! Especially if they're triaging just to survive another brutal class.)

She continued, "He’ll just have to do really well going forward. Now, if he’d like to come in at lunch..."

Lunch? He was already supposed to be using that time to beg for Chemistry help.

In that moment, the impossibility of it all hit me. We had fought the Chemistry battle for seven months, always believing there had to be a way through. But now, no matter how hard he tried, it was clear: the resources he needed just weren't there. He couldn't win this one on effort alone.

(Because of what I teach, I still believed the material could be conquered—but it didn’t matter what I thought. What mattered was that he had lost hope. And who could blame him?)

At the peak of my anxiety, as I stressed about how to help him conquer the unconquerable, a quiet, peaceful impression came to me:
"Let it go. There's a better way."

I caught my breath. For the first time all year, it suddenly felt okay to consider withdrawal. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. In fact, it might even be the beginning of a better lesson.

I remembered something my mother had once said:
"Leslie, if he has to retake a class, even that will be a valuable life lesson. It's all going to be okay."

I realized how attached I had become to the perfect, ideal outcome. He had chosen the public-school path, and I had determined to support him. But in doing so, I had unknowingly locked onto the expectation of a flawless journey—and that only made things harder.

My tenacity—a good trait in the right context—had blinded me to a better alternative.

I was reminded of the principle of agency: we are free to succeed, and we are free to fail.
And some of the most powerful life-lessons come through failure.

It became clear to me that I hadn’t been truly at peace with my children experiencing failure—at least, not in the way I thought I was. And that needed to change.

A good parent has to be willing to detach from certain outcomes so that the child can experience the full lesson.

A good parent has to detach themselves from certain outcomes in order for the child to experience the full lesson.

The next day he texted me from class: "Mom, this class is killing me, I can't take it any more!"

So when he came home from school I shared with him the sense of peace that had come over me - how I felt that God was helping me see that it's okay to look for and find a better path. We talked about what it would mean if he failed the class, what he'd have to do next year to make up for it, what his other options might be, and what it would mean to withdraw and have a study hall for the last few months of school.

His countenance lightened significantly, and after a meeting with his counselor to find all the options and consequences, he, of his own decision, determined to hang on at least for another two weeks until the end of the quarter, and then reassess.

Freedom to choose is foundational to a person's happiness—and sometimes the fetters we feel aren't even visible. I had been holding him back without realizing it. Much of his stress had come from my unspoken expectations, and once he felt released from them, he found the strength within himself to make a courageous choice completely independently.

What does this have to do with my meltdown and what's happened since? I think I had been feeling fettered, too. I needed to reclaim my agency and find out if I still had any.

Like I said, a good parent has to detach themselves from certain outcomes in order for the child to experience the full lesson it contains for them. Perhaps that’s exactly what God was doing with me. He let me feel that it was finally okay if I wanted to stop teaching the principles. He set me free—and for the first time, I truly feel free to choose for myself. I feel His encouragement and His unconditional acceptance, which is allowing me to rediscover joy in the work when I choose to spend time with it.

Because I'm not conducting teleclasses every week or traveling for speaking engagements twice a month, the business income has declined. We've sold assets and are preparing to downsize if necessary. But honestly, I wanted to breathe more than I wanted the money. I still believe that "there's always a way," but I’ve learned that sometimes the objective just isn’t worth the sacrifice.

On the other side of these lessons, as I find my breath again, I’m finding my joy again, too. I'm not numb anymore. There’s tremendous joy in lofty achievement—but there's also a sweet, gentle joy in simply appreciating what is, just as it is right now.

I'm noticing the little things again. I'm getting to know my kids better. My days are filled with conscious care for each of their needs, and my time is spent setting and pursuing goals that directly support those needs.

It's a leap of faith to focus more on my mothering role than my business roles, but it’s coming more naturally than ever before—and that's a dream come true. I have no regrets about how the last ten years were spent; it was exactly right for us at the time. And this change is exactly right for us now.

I've discovered that my teenagers need me even more than they did when they were little. I'm grateful that most of my heavy business-building years happened while they were young—a foundation I can return to more actively later, as they grow and leave the nest. For now, I still work a little each week, and it’s the perfect pace for our family in this stage of life.

As for our debts, we reinitiated conversations with each creditor to explore how we could start getting everything paid. I stayed in contact with every one of them—some weekly—not because I had much to offer yet, but because I wanted them to know we were committed to making things right.

In fact, more often than not, I'd call a creditor and say, “I can’t pay what you’re asking, but I do have ‘x’ I can send you right now...” and they'd respond, “No, keep it. We’d rather settle with you when you have a larger chunk to lay down.”

So I’d tell them what business activities were on the calendar and promised to keep them updated after each event.

Long story short: just like with my son's Chemistry class, even after all we could do, our best efforts still weren't enough. But when you know—deep down—that you've done everything in your power, and it still isn't enough, a sweet peace settles in. It reassures you that everything is going to be okay, and that a better path is waiting ahead. Maybe it does mean withdrawing from "class"—abandoning a goal—and finding a pace you can actually live with. After all...

Life is not a sprint.

We’re still finding our path, but we’re gathering clues along the way. And we definitely feel guided. A refinement is in process, and we know it’s good.

Life’s disasters are like forest fires: they release new seeds and always mark an exciting new beginning.

Every life lesson has value. It's all about finding joy in the journey. Our successes teach us a little—but our failures teach us the most. In a way, my husband and I are starting over, but with more wisdom, more experience, and more clarity about what we really want together. We feel more patience with ourselves and with each other. We've realized that long-term goals don’t need to be realized in three months... after all, they’re long-term goals.

And after hitting our breaking point—and discovering we're still alive, still able to think, do, and choose—we feel freer than ever before.

Our bank account may not reflect financial freedom yet, but we believe it will. We've shaken off society’s expectations, freed ourselves from the need to "look successful," and addressed so many of the unfair expectations we had placed on each other. If it took a major financial setback to bring these hidden issues to the surface so they could be healed, then I’m grateful for those setbacks.

Life is sweeter. Our relationships are more tender. Our family is stronger. Our future is brighter. And best of all, it feels like our relationship with God is more alive and present than ever before.

I’ve come to realize that the peace I felt about my son possibly failing Chemistry is the same peace I feel from my Father in Heaven about our financial failures: it’s going to be okay.

It’s all just a spider showing up—moving us to a better place (figuratively speaking) where, I believe, we can receive greater blessings in the long run. It will be exciting to see where this journey leads.

To wrap up:

I’m grateful I was able to let go of the impossible expectations I had for my son, because it freed him to discover his agency and step into new levels of personal leadership. They had been stifled as long as he had me to answer to for his performance in an impossible class. Whether he fails or succeeds, it’s okay, because I know another new day will come either way.

Just the same, after dropping off the map, my Father in Heaven helped me finally feel permission to release all the impossible expectations I had placed on myself. It has reopened the door for me to rediscover my free agency and new levels of personal leadership—stifled for so long by my own relentless pressure.

Through this metamorphosis, I’ve gained priceless wisdom—and an increase in happiness—especially because I've felt the Lord’s assurance that my failures aren’t fatal.

My disasters are simply like forest fires: they release new seeds, and always mark an exciting new beginning.

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