Here’s a throwback to 2012:

I’m sitting in a swirl of mixed emotions today, so I’m writing to sort through the fog.

I’m about to begin working with a new client in my Profitable Author Coaching program—helping her bring her book to life. As part of my prep for our first call, I’ve been reading through her blog.

And to be honest… I’m feeling overwhelmed.

I already care deeply about helping her reach her goals, but this project may be especially tender. Her book is about grief—deep, raw grief. Less than two years ago, she lost her 16-year-old son to a heart condition, and her writing is full of heartbreak, healing, and the quiet courage it takes to simply keep breathing.

Reading her words cracked something open in me. A quiet fear crept in… Am I doing enough to truly cherish the time I have with my own kids—especially my teenage sons?

In just five days, I’ll be sending my oldest, Jacob (19), off on a two-year church service mission. I’ve told myself it’ll be fine—he’s already out and about all the time—but the closer we get, the more I feel the ache of letting go. I catch myself wondering if I really soaked in our time together. Have I let too many ordinary moments pass by without realizing how sacred they were?

And then there’s Nathan—my 16-year-old—who was born with a rare heart defect (TAPVR). At just a few days old, he underwent open-heart surgery. The veins from his lungs weren’t connected to his heart properly, and there was a dangerous obstruction making it worse.

Thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, his heart was repaired. And I still marvel. For thousands of years, a baby like him wouldn’t have survived. Even 50 years ago, his odds were slim.

I’ll never forget his 3-month checkup—when I overheard the doctor quietly tell the intern,

“Children with his defect and obstruction don’t typically make it past 3 months, even after surgery.”

But there he was. Alive. Thriving. Defying the odds.

Now he’s sixteen. He sings in the choir, plays tennis every chance he gets, and makes me laugh in ways only he can. And still, I wonder… Am I making enough memories with him? Am I living in a way I won’t regret? Is that even possible?

Even when we’re doing our best, does regret still manage to find us?

What I do know is this:
There is a time to mourn.
And a time to rejoice.
Without sorrow, we couldn’t truly comprehend joy.

I’ve had 19 years with Jacob. I don’t know what life looks like without him in our daily orbit. But maybe—just maybe—this next chapter will help me see the beauty of what we’ve had all along. Sometimes, it takes a shift in routine to make us stop and really see.

Jacob and Nathan, I love you more than words can hold. I’m so proud of the young men you’ve become. And I pray—always—that you’ll feel just how deeply grateful I am that you’re mine.
Now. And forever.

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