When The Weight Is Too Heavy: A Mother’s Raw Journey Through Trauma and Faith

It’s not lost on me that May is Mental Health Awareness Month. In fact, the irony is that at this moment when life feels its heaviest, there is still hope to be spoken into.

I am no stranger to the struggles of mental health. As a PTSD survivor, the world can feel lonely on a good day—forget a season of brokenness. As a mother, I am watching my 15-year-old son navigate life with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND). A disorder brought on by trauma to the body. Unfortunately, in his case, the trauma he sustained was preventable. Medical negligence altered our life in unimaginable ways.

Six months ago, he was a thriving teenager. Now, it takes every ounce of him to get through a single day—sometimes minute by minute. A new onset of challenges prevents his mind and body from working together in harmony. Instead, they are fighting each other with every sensory input he experiences. From debilitating migraines to chronic pain and neurological changes leading to cognitive decline, he is in a constant state of survival.

To an outsider, they can’t begin to grasp what this disorder is. What they see and perceive is surface-deep, rooted in their own biases of a life they don’t live—let alone understand. A trauma they didn’t witness. A logic they can’t unravel. So instead, there is judgment, disbelief, and an unwillingness to go beyond the surface. Isn’t that the irony of all mental health disorders? You never truly know what someone is walking through. You never really grasp the depth of what they are fighting for.

The past six months have taken so much from my son. And in the midst of it all, the broken medical system has stolen more from us as a family. The past few weeks have been some of the heaviest I have walked in a long time. The weight of being a mom to a medically fragile and complicated child while still wearing all my other hats as a provider, wife, mother, and entrepreneur has been exhausting—mentally, physically, and spiritually.

I think the spiritual piece may have caught me the most off guard. I found myself angry with God. I felt abandoned and forgotten. I felt like an orphan again. I felt alone in this world, pouring into others while I wondered where God was in the storm. My faith had been so strong for so long. I walked blindly in obedience, trusting God where he was taking me. Until the weight of all I had been carrying simply became too much.

Today, I found the release in no longer hiding my own pain from my son. As he broke down in frustration over all he has been through in the past six months, he screamed in anger at the unfairness of it all.  As he cried over the feeling of his brain deteriorating and his memory failing.  As he wished his life would end because the pain was too much and no one understood. As he struggled to find words to express his emotions, I recognized every feeling he was experiencing—because I shared them.

Because on the outside looking in, many don’t understand. They don’t understand the trauma and what it stole from him at 15. They don’t understand the impact and ripples inside our family. They don’t see the toll of destruction FND has left in its path on each of us. They don’t see how hard it is for his siblings to navigate all the changes and disruptions when taking mom away from them weeks on end. They don’t see the deeper layers. It’s easy to see a storm roll in or a tornado’s path of destruction left behind when it’s tangible and on display for the world. But what about when it’s fought in solitude? When the fight is internal?

I had lived this nightmare day in and day out with him. I am the one who was there when he went unconscious and I didn’t know if he would slip into a coma. I was the one doing sternal rubs, trying to keep him alert while they struggled to find an IV. I was the one he asked, terrified, between moments of consciousness, if he was dying. We both sustained trauma that day and every day since December 3, 2024.

What happened to him didn’t just affect him. It affected us all. It affected me. Walking in advocacy day in and day out. Fighting for him. Searching for answers. Carrying his pain and mine in tandem. Taking the lashings. While all the while silently wishing I could just never wake up again. It was in that moment that I told him the truth. I told him the pain I carry—the exhaustion, the panic attacks he doesn’t see, the weight of trying to hold it all together for everyone while placing my own needs aside. I told him that the next time he wants to threaten to kill himself with a knife, he can hand it to me first. I’ll go first, and he can watch. That he doesn’t get to be selfish because life is hard. That he doesn’t get to take the easy way out. That he doesn’t get that choice because I didn’t sign up to fight this hard for him for him to take the easy way out. Because when I signed up to be a mom and a wife I wasn’t given the option of clocking in and out. I show up no matter how hard it is and he will do the same.

As the tears flowed and my honesty shocked him, there was a peace in raw honesty. The Holy Spirit spoke more truth. I asked him about his faith. I said, ‘I imagine you feel abandoned by God. You feel angry with God. You feel forgotten by God. You don’t feel his presence.’ And as he nodded, I knew he wondered how I knew. How did I know the depth of his walk? How did I know what he quietly held inside?

I knew because I felt every single one of those things the past few weeks. I felt forgotten. I felt anger. I felt the struggle to even open my bible or sing praise in the darkness. I questioned where God was in the midst of all this. I questioned where God was in the midst of all this. And in that moment, my husband stood on his faith, reminding me that God was in all the details. That he hadn’t abandoned us. That He is still here, even if we don’t feel Him.

I spoke truth over Logan. I said, ‘God will never forsake nor abandon us. His character is rooted in biblical truth. All I need is the faith of a mustard seed, and God can move mountains. You have a choice. You always have a choice. The journey before you will not be easy. It will be long, messy, and hard—but you won’t be at it alone.’

The same God who showed favor to Nehemiah is the same God who goes before me now as we prepare for battle. The same God who prepared the stones for David is the same God who healed the woman who bled for 12 years. The same God who saved Daniel in the lion’s den is the same God who healed the lame man who couldn’t walk for 38 years.

He is the same God then as He is now.

Let your story be for His glory. Let your testimony speak to those who are struggling to just breathe and get through the day. Because when the world looks in from the outside, they miss what is beneath the layers. But you, my friend, never walk this life alone.

As he sat on my lap, I held him tight and looked him in the eyes, reminding him just how much I love him. If you’re walking a similar journey or feel like the weight is too heavy, join me at The Well. Rest. Receive. Restore your peace and freedom. You are not alone. 💧