Ordinary Grief: A Lenten Reflection

40 things I've grieved since becoming a parent, getting my diagnosis, and shifting my career

1. The friendships that faded | Sometimes, my capacity ran out. I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t show up. Or sometimes I was “too much.” Sometimes I missed a cue, caused an offense I’m still not sure I understand. Some friendships faded quietly. I didn’t mean for them to. I wonder what it would feel like to grieve these friendships without blaming myself. Jesus welcomed those who were weary. Whether we’re too much or we can’t keep up, we are still beloved.

2. The career I thought I wanted | Sometimes, I wonder if I could have sustained it, anyway. I thought calling meant pushing through. I wonder if work I loved would have become work I couldn’t do. I wonder what it means to belong even when we can't produce or perform. I wonder if there’s still blessing in the quieter life we didn’t plan. Jesus didn’t ask the exhausted to keep proving their worth. Maybe rest is holy, too.

3. That my family isn’t like everyone else | Not because they aren’t wonderful—but because the world isn’t always kind. I grieve the misunderstandings. The systems that weren’t built with them in mind. I watch the gaps widen when I hear my children’s peers make comments about them. And still—we believe God delights in them. That their worth was never up for debate. I wonder how God holds both delight and heartbreak at once. I wonder how we hold space for both: the deep joy of knowing them, and the grief of knowing that the world doesn’t understand them or accommodate them.

4. When acceptance is conditional | “We love you, but…” “You’re welcome here, as long as…” How exhausting it is to navigate spaces where belonging must be earned. But God’s love is not like that. There are no conditions. No fine print. No hoops to jump through. Just an open invitation to come as we are.

5. The pressure to explain everything | he questions never stop. “Why do you need that?” “Are you sure it’s that bad?” “Can’t you just try harder?” “Are you sure she’s autistic?” “Have you tried avoiding gluten?” The weight of explaining, justifying, and proving our reality over and over again is exhausting. I long for spaces where I am simply believed. Jesus never demanded explanations before offering compassion. I wonder what it would feel like to fully rest in the truth that God already understands.

6. When our joy is questioned because it doesn’t look “typical”| Happiness doesn’t always look like laughter. Sometimes it’s quiet. Steady. Small. Sometimes it’s in the in-between moments—the peace of a familiar routine, the comfort of a weighted blanket, the relief of a space where we don’t have to explain ourselves. But the world often doubts joy that doesn’t look the way they expect it to. God sees the fullness of it. And that is enough.

7. When “miracle” language erases disabled bodies | When healing is held up as the highest hope, what does that say to those of us whose bodies or minds will not change? What does it mean when wholeness is only defined as “fixed”? Jesus never demanded healing as a prerequisite for love. And neither should we.

8. The family rhythms we imagined | When holidays, church, or daily life look nothing like we pictured. Quiet corners instead of big meals. Leaving early. Staying home. Keeping things small. I remind myself that the smallest spaces can still hold holy things. That Jesus met people in homes, at tables, in hidden places. I choose to believe that God delights in our unexpected rhythms. That the sacred shows up even in the smallest, quietest moments.

9. Infertility, secondary infertility, and miscarriage | The waiting, the hoping, the unanswered prayers. I was certain I just needed to pray more, believe more, try more. It can feel like an invisible grief—especially in spaces full of promises and testimonies of answered prayers. I believe God sits with us when the longing stays. Jesus wept beside those who grieved. He never rushed them past their sorrow. I wonder what it would feel like to believe our grief matters deeply to God, even when no one else knows what to say.

10. The fear of future care needs | The unknown can feel like a weight pressing in. Who will help? Who will understand? What if the systems fail us? It’s a grief that lives in the “not yet,” but it is still real. God does not dismiss our fear. He holds it. He does not demand blind trust. He walks with us through the uncertainty.

    

    Photo by Özcan ADIYAMAN on Unsplash

11. The exhaustion of masking | The constant work of making myself easier for others—of hiding the ways I cope or stim, stuffing down the overwhelm, trying to disguise the ways my brain works differently. The exhaustion of always translating myself, always performing. But God never asked me to be less of who I am. I wonder what it would feel like to truly believe that.

12. What neurodivergence has meant for my marriage | There are layers of stress and strain that no one prepared us for. Sensory needs. Miscommunications. Different ways of expressing love. Sometimes we’re tired, or lonely, or we just need to cope and decompress in different ways. It’s taboo to say we grieve what we thought marriage would be. I choose to believe God honors the small moments of trying. The choosing to stay. The imperfect love we offer anyway.

13. The guilt of needing help | I want to do it on my own. I don’t want to be a burden. I grieve the independence I wish I had, even as I am grateful for the people who step in. Jesus let others help Him. Maybe I can, too.

14. The moments I missed because I was surviving | I wanted to be present. To savor the time. But survival took all my energy. I grieve the conversations I was too exhausted to have, the memories I wish I could have held more fully. And still, I trust that God was with me, even in the haze of just making it through.

15. The pressure to always be grateful | As if gratitude can just erase grief, I’ve often been told to “just be thankful” for what I have. But I can love my life and still wish parts of it were different. Sometimes faith is allowing those feelings to sit side by side without needing one to cancel the other. I can believe that God holds space for both joy and sorry. That Jesus knows what it is to cry out and still give thanks.

16. When my body feels like too much | I want to love this body. But sometimes I just want a break from it. How hard it is to remember that God’s love holds even the parts I find exhausting. How hard to feel at home in a body that’s always overstimulated, always on edge, always tired. How to hard to rest in the knowledge that God understands what it feels like to carry a body that feels like too much. I wonder if Jesus’ own weariness is part of why He called us to rest.

17. The times when faith stops feeling simple | Sometimes the answers unravel. Or the questions stay, getting louder and louder in my brain. What once felt so solid within me feels fragile, and I miss how things used to be. Even when I can’t feel it, I try to believe that God stays close when our belief is complicated. I try to believe He honors the wrestling, the questions, and He meets us with kindness.

18. The capacity I wish I had | Sometimes I picture the life I want to live. The friendships I want to nurture. The projects I want to finish. The energy I wish I had. And then I hit a wall, again. There’s so much I can’t do. I find it hard to accept God’s invitation to rest. I find it hard to remember our worth was never in what we could or couldn’t do.

19. That some people will never understand | Not everyone will understand us. Not everyone will try. Some people will choose their assumptions over our reality, and no amount of explaining will change that. That’s grief, too. But it’s also a kind of release. Jesus knew what it was to be misunderstood. He loved anyway—but He didn’t stay where He wasn’t received.

20. That parenting looks different than I expected | Parenting isn’t always what we imagined. The milestones don’t look the same. The advice doesn’t apply. We find ourselves creating a new path, because the old ones don’t fit. And that’s grief, but it’s also beauty. We release the story we thought we’d live. We remember that Jesus welcomed the children, just as they were. God is in the paths we didn’t plan. Love grows here, too.

    

    Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

21. The person I thought I’d be | I thought I’d have more to show. More energy. More success. I wonder how it would feel to lay down the “shoulds” and rest in being. Just being. Maybe God already sees me as whole. Maybe God isn’t measuring us by output or milestones. Maybe being here, being present, is enough.

22. The exhaustion that doesn’t end | Caregiver fatigue is real. And it’s heavy. Always planning ahead. Always meeting needs. Rarely resting. We do it out of love, but love doesn’t cancel exhaustion. And sometimes we need someone to notice how tired we are. Sometimes I am angry, sometimes I doubt God sees just how much I’m holding. But Jesus washed tired feet. Maybe He washes ours, too.

23. The scars we can’t see | Medical trauma can live in the body for years. The appointments that went wrong. The doctors who didn’t believe us. The fear that lingers long after the treatment ends. I lost trust. I lost safety. I lost time I can’t get back. And still, we’re expected to keep showing up, explaining, advocating, surviving. But I believe God saw it all. And I believe Jesus knows what it’s like to live in a body that’s been through so much.

24. The loss of spontaneity | There’s a grief in losing the ability to be spontaneous. To say yes without thinking. To leave the house without packing for every possibility. Some of us have built our lives around carefulness and preparation because we had to. And we’re grateful to have the capacity to be so thoughtful, so careful, so prepared—especially when every outing takes effort, when every change feels risky. But maybe holy things happen in the slow, steady, intentional spaces.

25. The space I thought I wasn’t allowed to take up | There’s grief in feeling like you’re “too much” for other people. So we quiet our needs. We edit our words. We take up less space. God delights in the fullness of who I am, the unmasked and unfiltered version of myself. Jesus never told anyone to be smaller. There is peace in the expanding, too.

26. When sacred spaces cause sensory overload | The sounds. The lights. The overwhelm. I wanted to worship. My body said no. I didn’t realize until recently I could wear headphones and accommodate myself the same way I do my children. Jesus slipped away to rest, too. Holiness is not just in the noise. I believe God meets us in the quiet places outside the crowd. That He honors the quiet, solitary worship of those who find Him on the margins. I think the hush is holy, too.

27. The feeling of being understood | There were times I couldn’t explain myself. I felt misread, misjudged, misunderstood. There’s grief in feeling unseen. In trying to explain the way your brain works or how your body feels, only to be brushed aside. It’s exhausting. But God knows the version of us we can't always put into words. And that version is deeply loved.

28. The calm I wouldn’t find | Parenting through crisis is its own kind of heartbreak. You want so badly to fix what hurts, to shield your child from the hard parts, to show up perfectly. But sometimes all you can do is survive the moment. And even that is holy. Even that is love. Peace to the parents in the thick of it, the ones holding everything together. You’re already enough.

29. The pace I can’t keep up with | They’re getting promotions. They’re going on trips. They’re growing. And I’m… here. Still. It’s hard to watch others fly forward while we feel stuck in survival mode. Grief shows up when life feels like a race we never wanted to run—or one we couldn’t keep up with even if we tried. But God isn’t in a hurry. And we’re not late to our own life.

30. The loneliness of being different | Loneliness hits differently when you feel fundamentally misunderstood. Even in a crowded room, when spaces feel full, in community, surrounded by love—it’s possible to feel deeply alone when no one shares your reality. But I believe God draws near to those left on the edges. The ones overlooked. The ones forgotten.

    

    Photo by Sebbi Strauch on Unsplash

31. The years I didn’t know about my diagnosis | There’s a unique grief in realizing how long I went without answers. Who would I be with earlier support? What harm could have been avoided? The names that would have helped. The care that came too late or that I’m too old to access. Jesus healed, but He also named. Peace to us, the ones reclaiming our story.

32. The apologies I never got | The harm was done. The hurt was real. And the acknowledgment never came. I grieve the closure I will never receive, the justice that won’t be spoken. And I remind myself that Jesus sees what others won’t admit. He holds what is still unresolved.

33. The energy it takes to keep going | Some grief isn’t loud or obvious. It’s the quiet ache of getting through another day when everything feels heavy—managing sensory overwhelm, social fatigue, unexplained pain, or endless decisions no one else notices. This is the grief of carrying too much for too long. But maybe it’s actually holy work to admit it’s hard. God isn’t asking us to push endlessly. God invites us to slow down, breathe, and release the weight we were never meant to carry alone. Yes, even those of us who are exhausted just from being alive.

34. The words I can’t always find | I write. I pray. I speak. But sometimes my mind is too loud, sometimes the words won’t come out. My thoughts won’t settle. My body is overwhelmed. But I believe God hears my sighs, my silence, my tears. He is with my every breath.

35. When stories and Scripture feel inaccessible | For some of us, traditional Bible study can feel like a barrier. Processing language, metaphors, and abstract ideas takes energy we don’t always have. And it can leave us feeling disconnected from a book that’s supposed to comfort us. But God is bigger than pages and chapters. We’re allowed to take it slow. We’re allowed to find our own way through the words.

36. When rest doesn’t feel restful | I stop. I pause. I sleep. And I wake up just as weary. Yes, rest is good and holy, but what about when it doesn’t work? When chronic exhaustion or burnout means you never fully refill the tank? Jesus knows what it is to carry a heavy load. He stays with us. In the emptiness. In the fatigue. In the longing for renewal.

37. The exhaustion of constant advocacy | Speaking up, pushing back, explaining again and again—it’s necessary, but it’s also exhausting. The fight for inclusion, for justice, for basic dignity shouldn’t have to be endless. But here we are, weary from the weight of it. Even Jesus withdrew to rest. Even God does not demand unceasing effort. So we name the exhaustion, we grieve the cost, and we trust that our worth is not measured by how hard we fight.

38. How scripture has been weaponized against difference | When words meant for love have been used to wound, when scripture has been twisted to exclude, it is no wonder that reading it can feel like walking through fire. But God is not a weapon. And if we need space, if we need distance, He does not leave us.

39. My own moments of internalized ableism | There’s a voice that says we are too much, too different, too burdensome. I hear it often. It echoes in every area of our life. I choose to believe it is not God’s voice. Even so, it is a voice we have learned and internalized well. Unlearning it is slow. There is grief in seeing the ways we have measured ourselves by standards never meant for us. But there is also grace. So much grace.

40. The love I didn’t know how to accept | The kindness that felt undeserved. The friendships I pushed away. The grace I rejected because I thought I had to earn it. I wonder if God’s love is still holding all the places where I struggled to receive what was freely given.

    

    Photo by EVGEN SLAVIN on Unsplash

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Bits & Bobs

• Good Grief | This post by

  Kari Burch
  was a solid reflection on dealing with heavy things and persisting in a heavy season.

• A few books about grief, loss, and being human | A few recommendations that come to mind are Finding Meaning by David Kessler (and also his book with Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, called On Grief & Grieving); A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis; Being Mortal by Atul Gawande; The Long Goodbye by Meghan O’Rourke; The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion; Modern Loss by Rebecca Soffer and Gabrielle Birkner

• What is Lent? | I thought this primer from Anglican Compass was helpful, accessible, and informative. Check it out.

• Writing Workshop | One more plug for Words for the Season You’re In: A Writing Workshop for Parents of Neurodivergent Kids. I have a few more spots left! I also want to add that if you could really use a space like this, but the price point just won’t work for whatever reason, please email me. We can work something out—no questions asked. Just tell me an amount that works for you, and I’ll send you a coupon code.

• Open for coaching clients | I’ve joined Amanda Diekman’s team as a Low Demand Certified Coach. I’m excited to support families like mine, especially when navigating cultural dynamics or seeking support and understanding within their faith communities. Use SUNITA15 to get $15 off your first pay as you go session or first package of sessions. Set up a free 20 minute intro call and get all the details here.

As always, thanks for being here, friends. Until next time. 👋