Jeremiah 29:11 says, "For I know the plans I have for you," says the Lord. "They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope." This is a promise I hold onto, but some days, it feels harder to believe. Grief has a way of making everything more complicated, and one of the things it has made even more challenging is the transition into empty nesting.
Technically, my nest isn't completely empty—I still have my husband—but my role as a hands-on mother is gone. I had the incredible privilege of staying home and homeschooling my daughter through her first year of high school. I proofread papers late at night, helped with projects, and answered the "Mom, what do I do now?" questions. My life revolved around my family of three, and I cherished every moment.
But now, Texa is gone. And though my husband and I have a strong marriage, I'm not needed in the same way I once was. The quiet in our home feels different—not like a peaceful pause, but like something is missing. Because something is missing.
Losing her changed everything. The weight of that loss has made this shift from being in the middle of daily parenting to simply "being there" feel even harder. I wasn't expecting this transition to be easy, but I also wasn't prepared for how grief would make it even heavier.
I used to have a vision for the future. I had plans for where I'd be in five years, ten years—dreams that kept me going, even when life was tough. I pictured family gatherings, holidays full of laughter, and a future shaped around my daughter's milestones. But now? Two years later, I still struggle to plan even one day at a time. It feels like I'm drifting in an ocean of possibilities, but none feel right. I stay busy and have things to do, but I don't always know if they matter.
And if I'm honest, thinking about the future scares me. I've seen how quickly life can change and how fragile and unpredictable it is. It's hard to trust anything when everything I expected is gone. I hesitate to dream again, afraid of what could be taken away.
So, I'm trying to rest in my Father's arms, to quiet my heart, and to listen for His direction. I don't have all the answers. I don't know what's ahead.
And for now, that's what I'm holding onto. One day at a time, one step at a time, trusting that He is leading me forward—even when I can't see where the road is going.