Recently, I took part in a Zoom event called the Thrive Summit. One of the guest speakers said something that struck me deeply and helped me see what I’ve been going through in a new, kinder light.

For weeks, I’ve been weighed down by this heavy, unshakable dread. It’s not the usual waiting-for-“the-other-shoe-to-drop” feeling—it’s like the shoe already dropped, and I’m stuck living in that space. It’s been painful, confusing, and I couldn’t find the words or the source.

I tried opening up to my husband, letting him know I wasn’t okay, that I was hurting, but I didn’t know how to make it stop.

Much of this ties back to my daughter Lizzy. Last November, she had a surgery that was supposed to help her—but instead, it made things worse. She’s in constant pain, especially when standing or walking. I feel so powerless. I don’t know what’s causing the pain, and I don’t know how to fix it.

All I can do is keep moving forward—getting her to doctors as soon as possible, keeping everyone involved and accountable—but it’s painfully slow.

I wish there were an easy fix. But her body has multiple underlying challenges, and solving one seems to reveal another. It feels endless.

Then, today at the Summit, I was reminded of something simple but profound:

“Your feelings are real... but you are responsible for them.”

At first, I thought, Well, duh. But then I really let that sink in.

This led me to the law of relativity—the idea that situations aren’t good or bad until we compare them to something else. And that comparison has been a huge part of my struggle. Without realizing it, I was measuring Lizzy’s current pain against a time when she wasn’t hurting—when she could stand for an hour to sing and play. Holding onto that high bar, it’s no wonder I’ve been drowning in dread and hopelessness.

Recognizing that brought a tiny spark of hope. That awareness helped me feel a little lighter. I hadn’t realized how much I needed it. I needed to take responsibility for my feelings, because no one else is making me feel this way. I was letting the situation control my emotions.

Every night, Lizzy and I pray together. One night, it was her turn, and she said, sweet and humble:

“Please, Jesus, help my knees not hurt so much.”

She didn’t ask to be able to stand or walk—just for the pain to ease. That prayer tore at my heart because that’s exactly what I want for her too, more than anything.

I don’t know how to make peace with this situation. I’m not sure if it’s even possible. But I do know this: I am responsible for how I feel. I don’t expect myself to be happy about it, but I can choose not to let it make me miserable.

The situation is what it is. I can pray for peace and comfort—for Lizzy and for myself. And I’m learning I don’t have to carry the weight of the world for either of us. I’m far more helpful to Lizzy as a whole, functioning person than as an emotional wreck under a dark cloud.

Life is hard sometimes.
But we are not alone.
And we will get through this.