I remember the exact moment I realized how heavy it all was.
It was late. The kids were finally asleep, and I had just finished cleaning the kitchen. I was standing barefoot in the middle of the living room, folding a load of laundry—again. I paused with a towel in my hands and just stood there in the quiet. And out of nowhere, the tears came.
Not loud sobbing. Just silent tears that slipped down my face while I stood completely still.
No one saw it. No one knew.
And that was the story of my life for a long time—doing the hard things, holding it all together, breaking down only in private.
Because I believed it was my job to be the strong one.
I grew up thinking that strength meant keeping it together no matter what. I lived by the phrase, “Never let them see you sweat.” I wore it like a badge of honor. If I could stay calm, hold the family together, run the errands, show up at church with a smile on my face—even while my heart was breaking—then maybe things would feel safe for everyone else.
But the truth? I wasn’t okay. Not then.
When I went through my divorce, that belief was tested more than ever. I had to make decisions I never thought I’d have to make. I was navigating court dates and co-parenting and finances while trying to keep a brave face.
People said I was strong. And I was. But it didn’t feel like strength. It felt like survival.
I didn’t fall apart because I didn’t have time to. I couldn’t. Everyone needed me.
And if you’ve ever felt that way—if you’ve ever carried a smile when your heart was aching, if you’ve ever held everything together so no one else would have to—then I want to speak to you.
Because I know what it’s like to cry in the bathroom with the fan on so no one hears you.
I know what it’s like to answer “I’m fine” when you’re anything but.
I know what it’s like to be the one everyone counts on—and feel like no one notices you’re barely hanging on.
Let me tell you something I’ve learned (the hard way): being the strong one doesn’t mean you have to carry it all alone.
God never intended for us to live that way. He never asked us to be unbreakable—He just asked us to come to Him. Even when we’re worn out. Especially then.
There’s a verse I’ve returned to over and over again—Psalm 61:2:
“When my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”
I love that it says “when my heart is overwhelmed”—not if. God knew we would reach our limits. He knew we would need a place to collapse. And He gave us Himself as that safe place.
That night in the living room, standing there with the towel in my hands, I realized something: I wasn’t weak for feeling tired—I was human. And even more, I was loved. Not for what I could hold together, but for who I was when I let go.
So today, I want you to let go a little too.
Let go of the idea that your worth is in your performance.
Let go of the belief that you’re only valuable if you’re holding it all together.
Let go of the pressure to be everyone’s rock, all the time.
You are strong—I don’t doubt that. But even strong women need soft places to land.
That’s why I created Hope After the Storm. Because I needed a space like this, and I have a feeling maybe others do too. A space where you don’t have to be perfect. A space where you can breathe. A space where strength looks like surrender, and faith means saying, “God, I can’t do this without You.”
If you’re reading this and nodding along, I hope you know—I see you. I get you. And I love you.
You don’t have to carry it all. You were never meant to.
Let this be your permission to rest.
With all my love,
Melissa
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