For the Woman Picking Up the Pieces

There’s a kind of silence that follows heartbreak.

Not the soft kind. Not the healing kind.
But the kind that screams at 2 a.m. when your son  is finally asleep and the apartment is too quiet.
The kind that echoes with questions like “How did I get here?” and “Why wasn’t I enough for him to stay?”

This post is for her.
For the woman who gave her all to a man who couldn’t see the worth in what he had.
For the mother who now tucks her children in alone and then cries into her pillow because she doesn’t want them to see her breaking.
For the woman who still shows up—with swollen eyes, a bruised spirit, and a soul stitched together by sheer will.

You were loyal.
You forgave things you had no business forgiving.
You bent until you were almost unrecognizable, hoping he’d notice, hoping he’d change, hoping the love you gave would teach him how to love you back.

But he didn’t.

And now?
Now you’re trying to make a home out of what? (Still trying to figure that out)
Now you’re playing the roles of mother, protector, provider, teacher, and healer.
And somehow…
You’re still standing.

I don’t think people understand the kind of strength it takes to keep going when your heart has been shattered by someone you trusted with it.
To cook dinner, help with homework, pay bills, smile at the school pickup line—and still carry the weight of being abandoned, disrespected, or used.

You are doing the sacred work of rebuilding—while mothering, grieving, and growing all at the same time.

And even though you feel overlooked, even though the world has tried to shame you for staying too long or leaving too soon—hear me when I say this:

God sees you.

He saw the tears you cried when no one showed up for the parent-teacher conference.
He heard your whispered prayers when you didn’t know how you’d pay rent.
He caught the pieces of your heart as they fell, and He’s holding them close.

This isn’t the end of your story.

You are not broken beyond repair.
You are not foolish for loving.
You are not weak for hoping.

You are a warrior in disguise.
A mother with scars and still, somehow, wings.
A woman rising—not because it’s easy, but because you have children watching and a God who’s walking with you through the fire.

So if no one has told you lately:

You are seen.

You are valuable.
You are not alone.
And you will not just survive—you will thrive.

Even if today all you can do is show up—barely holding it together—that is enough.

You are enough.