By Angie Kleven

It had been a long, grueling day—and it promised to be an even longer night. I stared at the stack of medical records on my desk, all needing to be transcribed by dawn. My energy had vanished. The momentum I had clung to earlier was gone. I had already spent hours that evening trying to decipher the fast-paced, often garbled dictation from various doctors—all while juggling the needs of my children.

Years earlier, I’d chosen this path: working from home so I could be present as a single parent. And in the years that followed, I stretched myself even thinner—starting a nonprofit, homeschooling my kids, and pouring myself into other worthy, but draining, commitments. That night, it all felt like too much. I was overwhelmed, exhausted, unsupported, and deeply unfulfilled. The weight of unmet expectations and broken dreams settled on me like cement, and tears began to fall.

The kids were getting ready for bed. I needed a break. I called up the stairs and told my 14-year-old daughter I’d be gone for a few minutes, and asked her to make sure the twins went to bed. As I backed out of the driveway, the brakes squealed—yet another thing that needed time, money, and attention I didn’t have.

I drove to the nearest convenience store, just looking for something—anything—that might help me push through the next twelve hours. A Diet Pepsi or two, maybe. A small reset.

As I stood in line to pay, I noticed a young boy and his mother ahead of me. It was 9:30 p.m. They were grabbing a gallon of milk on their way home. The mother looked like she had just come from work. Still, she gently asked her son about his day—school, daycare, the small details of his life. Her tone was kind but tired, her eyes weary.

In that moment, it hit me. My day had been long and difficult, yes—but I had been home with my kids. I’d sat with them, eaten with them, taught them, talked with them. Even when my office door was closed, they knew they could knock and I’d be there. I hadn’t had to miss the little things.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw a man pushing a shopping cart filled with all his belongings and rows of tin cans. This time, the tears came from a different place: gratitude. My heart softened instantly. I began to thank God for the countless blessings I’d overlooked in my frustration. My children were healthy. We had a home, a car, food on the table, clothes to wear, a sustaining faith, and most importantly, each other.

That night, I learned the truth of a principle I’d heard many times before:

The Law of Relativity says, "Nothing we experience is fundamentally good or bad. Bad things that happen to us are only bad relative to something better."

In just ten minutes—one late-night trip to the store—my circumstances hadn’t changed, but my perspective had. What had felt hopeless just moments before now felt sacred. My situation hadn’t shifted, but my heart had.

Life is still challenging. It always will be. Every day brings unexpected twists and turns. But now, when the pressure builds and I feel myself teetering on the edge, I pause. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and remember the faces I saw that night.

And just like that, the weight lifts. My burdens feel light again.

And all is well once more.