Author: Hannah

Fatal Illness

Weight I Wasn’t Meant to Carry

Hannah

This week a friend stopped by with her baby whom I hadn’t had the chance to meet yet. I reached out my arms to hold her, probably more out of habit and an illusion of normalcy than having actually thought it through. I kept both arms wrapped around her body snuggly, making sure she was secure despite my lack of muscle strength. After a few minutes, when I felt my arms begin to tire, I handed her back to her mom.

Later that day I had to register for an appointment at the hospital that required me to converse with a remote employee through video, and we spoke to each other through a telephone line. Nearly halfway through the process as I held the plastic phone receiver to my ear I thought I wouldn’t be able to finish due to the shaking and fatigue in my arm. It felt like I had maxed out on pushups at the gym that day, only all I had done was 5 minutes of baby cuddling.

When I tried to explain these events to people in my life and express the fear and frustration it made me feel, I was largely met with the awkwardness of them not knowing what to say. My unmet, yet unspoken expectations led to uneasy silence and a longing to be understood.

As much as I thought and hoped this was an isolated event from pushing my arms beyond their comfort level, I have discovered a more unsettling trend. My arms continue to struggle to keep up. Folding laundry proves to be a feat of endurance, frequent breaks, and deciding pj’s will live just fine rumpled in the drawer instead of neatly folded. Holding my phone to my ear feels like a test of wills, and even typing out text messages brings the hot burn of fatigue and necessary rests.

I haven’t pulled out any art supplies in weeks now; the promise of fatigue coupled with the effort it takes just to get started has sadly been greater than the joy of creating. It feels like watching pieces of myself drift out to sea while I stand on the shoreline, completely unable to swim out and bring them back.

When your body begins to trade away simple abilities—things you took for granted just yesterday—it is easy to feel entirely abandoned. We live in a world that praises strength, endurance, and productivity. When those crumble, we wonder where God fits into the weakness. Why does a God who is capable of sustaining galaxies allow holding a phone or folding a shirt to feel like an insurmountable mountain?

In the uncomfortable silence of my own changing reality, I turned to Scripture looking for a hero, but instead, I found a scene of profound human weakness. During Israel’s battle against the Amalekites in Exodus, Moses stood on top of a hill holding up the staff of God. As long as his hands were raised, Israel prevailed; whenever he lowered them, they faltered. But Moses was human. The story reads, “When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up—one on one side, one on the other—so that his hands remained steady till sunset.”

We often preach about faith moving mountains, but here, holiness looked like needing a rock to sit on and two friends to carry the weight of tired arms. I’ve spent days frustrated that my arms couldn’t hold a baby or a telephone receiver. But God has been gently showing me two powerful truths in this valley.

The first is that His grace is perfected in our actual limits, not our imagined strength. Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians that the Lord told him, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” God does not require us to put on a brave face or pretend we are stronger than we are. When my arms shake, His strength isn’t diminished—it is highlighted. My worth was never tied to my physical endurance, my folded laundry, or my artistic output. It was, and always is, anchored in His love.a

The second truth I am being reminded of is that we were never meant to carry the weight alone. When people in my life didn’t know what to say, it wasn’t because they didn’t care; it was because physical suffering is uncomfortable to witness. But just like Moses needed Aaron and Hur, we need grace-givers who will sit with us in the silence, who don’t need us to be “fixed” to love us, and who are willing to hold up our arms when we simply cannot. And even when human understanding falls short, Jesus remains the One who understands our every weakness, leaning in closer rather than pulling away.

If you are standing in a season where your capacity feels diminished—whether through chronic illness, burnout, or quiet suffering—hear this today: You are allowed to grieve what you’ve lost. You are allowed to leave the clothes rumpled in the drawer.

God is not waiting for you to recover your strength before He draws near to you. He meets you right here in the fatigue, in the quiet frustration, and in the empty hands. You don’t have to carry it all. When our strength runs out, His grace takes over.

suffering

Hard is Hard

Hannah

I just want to belong, and I feel like I don’t.

I want to embrace community in the same capacity I did when I was well, but the truth is it’s not the same. People feel awkward around me, and I’m embarrassed that that’s what I bring to the table. People look at me with my glaringly obvious physical struggles, and they don’t know what to say. They’ve been carrying a difficult thing this week, but when they measure it against the ticking time bomb of my terminal illness, it feels insignificant, so they minimize their struggle and choose to talk about nothing.

Friends. Family. Random strangers who happen to be reading this… there is a fundamental truth I learned when I buried my daughter that holds true like the steady, blazing colors of a war-torn flag. Hard is exactly that; HARD. We shouldn’t be comparing hards, because there just is no comparison.

With the fresh wounds of having stood at the cavernous edge of my daughter’s grave, I heard things like, “I know how you feel, because my child got pneumonia and had to be in the hospital, and it was awful.” Or, “I know what you’re going through; I still haven’t gotten over losing my dog last Spring.” I watched the moving lips of these stories, but the sound was deafeningly absent because of the noise of what rose up inside of me. I seethed.

How could you compare something like that to what I was going through? And then I learned something crucial to understand. My hard is the worst thing that has happened to me thus far. Your hard is the worst thing that has happened to you thus far. You may not be able to relate to my exact story, because you haven’t been there, but you have your own story where you have experienced the most awful thing so far, and it rocked your world and shook your faith, and left you standing with gaping wounds you didn’t know how to patch yet. And that is where we find common ground. It is inevitable that we will all walk through earth-shattering hard things at some point, and when we come to those trials we each gain a little more compassion and understanding that we didn’t have before.

And maybe that is what I have been missing when I feel like I don’t belong. Belonging was never meant to come from having the same circumstances, the same bodies, the same stories, or the same kind of pain. It comes from being willing to sit beside one another in the places we don’t understand and say, “I may not know exactly what this is like for you, but I know what it is to hurt. I know what it is to be afraid. I know what it is to need someone to stay.”

So please don’t measure your pain against mine before you bring it to me. You don’t have to apologize for having a bad day because my days are hard. You don’t have to hide your grief because mine looks bigger from the outside. Your sorrow does not become less worthy because someone else is carrying something heavier. There is room at the table for all of it.

And if you don’t know what to say, you don’t have to fill the silence with a comparison. You can simply tell me the truth: “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.” You can tell me about the thing that broke your heart this week. You can let me be more than my illness. You can remember that I am still a person who wants to laugh, listen, complain, celebrate, and care about the ordinary things that make up a life.

I am not asking anyone to pretend that my circumstances are ordinary. They are not. I am asking to be met as a whole person inside of them.

I want to belong—not because my life is easy, and not because anyone can make this hard thing disappear, but because I am still here. I am still loving. I am still reaching for connection with whatever strength I have left. And maybe belonging is not found in the absence of awkwardness or pain. Maybe it is found in the brave, imperfect choice to stay present anyway.

So bring me your hard. I will bring you mine. We don’t have to compare them. We can simply sit together beneath the weight of them, reminding each other that neither of us has to carry it alone.

suffering

Even In The Mess

Hannah

There’s a chance you wouldn’t believe me if I told you what my past few weeks have looked like. One friend, grasping for what to say landed on, “I have no words for your latest mess.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the truth and ridiculousness of that statement. Sometimes, if you’re not laughing, you’re crying.

Micah Tyler’s lyrics to his song “Even Then” have been a treasure to my heart this week:

“Even in the thick of the battle 
And even through the valley of the shadows 
You alone are my defense when 
I’m standing on your promises.

Even when it feels like my world is shaken 
Even when I’ve had all that I can take 
I know You never let me go.

And even when the waters won’t stop rising 
Even when I’m caught in the dead of the night 
I know no matter how it ends 
You’re with me even then.”

What I am learning through this uncomfortable time of stretching is that affliction is not always a sign of God’s absence; it can often be an instrument of His grace. Hardship strips away temporary distractions, exposes false reliance, and refines our character so that we value divine truth over temporary comfort.

When the ground beneath us shakes, our natural reaction is to reach out and grab anything that feels stable. But so often, the things we reach for—our plans, our control, our own strength—turn out to be as fragile as the situation we’re trying to escape.

This season has forced my hands open. I’ve had to let go of the need to fix the unfixable, to stop trying to write my own happy ending, and to simply sit in the quiet reality that I am not the one holding my life together. God is. He doesn’t just show up after the storm clears to help us pick up the pieces; He is present right in the middle of the rising waters, when the night is at its absolute darkest.

If you find yourself navigating your own version of a “latest mess” right now, I hope you hear this: you don’t have to pretend it isn’t hard, and you certainly don’t have to carry it alone. It is entirely okay to laugh at the absurdity, weep over the pain, and feel weary all at once. I was reminded today that grace meets us right where we are, not where we think we should be.

The valley may be deep, and the battle may feel fierce, but the end of your strength is the beginning of His supply. Take a deep breath. You are held, you are seen, and even then—especially then—He is with you.

Uncategorized

I Need Some Help

Hannah

Hey friends, I have something you can help with… I entered an art contest, and one of the categories is “fan favorite,” which is decided by the number of votes a piece of artwork receives. If you would be inclined…

  1. Follow this link: https://www.staedtler.com/us/en/discover/staedtler-international-creative-challenge-2026/
  2. Scroll down to #3 and click on the blue rectangle that says “voting,” and click on it.
  3. Enter your email (for keeping votes fair) and you will be taken to the gallery of all the art that has been entered.
  4. In the search bar type “Hannah M,” and my submission should pop up.
  5. Hit “like!”

Thank you for your time; your support is much appreciated!

Multiple System Atrophy

Dog Years & Borrowed Time

Hannah

I never say it without a smile, “I’m living in dog years,” and I’m the first to say it’s not lost on me that I’m living on borrowed time. The diagnosis spoken over me came also with a projected expiration date, but what those doctors may not have known is that my life belongs to God, and he will have me here for the perfect amount of days, regardless of any curse spoken over my life.

Some days a long goodbye comes with torment; an aching to be done with all the hard parts, a desperation for deep and restorative rest. Most days though, I stick to my belief that a prolonged goodbye is a gift entrusted to me by God—a sacred window of time to point a captive audience toward His goodness, faithfulness, and grace.

Over the years, I’ve learned that living in this tension—between the exhaustion of the body and the eagerness of the spirit—is where the real ministry happens. It strips away the frivolous noise of the world and leaves behind a sharp, beautiful clarity: every breath is an intentional choice, every morning a deliberate mercy, and every conversation an opportunity to leave behind an echo of eternity.

A sudden departure leaves little time for final words, but a slow walk home gives you the space to write love letters with your life. It allows you to wrap your arms tighter around those you love, to forgive faster, to laugh freer, and to speak the name of Jesus with an urgency that only a ticking clock can forge. It lets you demonstrate that peace isn’t the absence of pain or the presence of a clean bill of health; it is the unwavering presence of God in the middle of the storm.

I don’t know how many pages are left in my story, and truth be told, I don’t need to. The Author of life has never miscalculated a single chapter. So on the hard days, I will lean heavily on His strength to carry me through the pain. And on the good days, I will use whatever breath I have left to remind anyone listening that death has lost its sting, grace is entirely sufficient, and the God who holds my tomorrows is worthy of every single praise I have left to give.

faith

Grace in the Gray

Hannah

I have learned much about anxiety this week. How it makes the entire body buzz with an itch that won’t be scratched. How pulsing panic sits me bolt-awake from the depth of refreshing sleep. How I can’t organize my thoughts or talk myself down from the war within me.

The vibration of my phone alerts me of words I thought I was ready to take in, but it turns out I wasn’t. Immediately I croak the words out, white-hot tears burning my cheeks, finger slicing the air as it jabs toward Heaven. “I know I said to lead me, but I don’t like this one bit. I’m angry, and I’m terrified. I don’t want what You are giving me to carry. But… I trust you. And I’ll listen… and I’ll follow… You just better pick up the pieces.”

And the next thought after my white-hot rage is the words of a familiar hymn, and I draw breath as deep as I can so my quavering voice can scratch out the words of the melody:

“When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot thou hast taught me to say, it is well, it is well with my soul.”

Anxiety means something inside of me needs to be felt. It’s an SOS telling me that I have been avoiding important emotions that I have not fully faced yet. So I pause and make space for the actual feelings to seep in. When I allow myself to feel I recognize… I’m not anxious, I’m sad. I’m sad at the weight of this week; at all the broken and hurting pieces that have jumbled their way across these days socked in by the thundering gray skies.

So through my singing I let the tears fall, not as a sign of defeat, but as a release. I let the sadness wash over me, untangling itself from the frantic knot of panic. The gray skies outside haven’t cleared yet, and my situation has not magically changed. But the war inside my chest has begun to quiet down.

Surrender doesn’t mean I suddenly love the burdens I’ve been given to carry. It just means I’m choosing not to carry them alone. In admitting my grief, I find a strange kind of ground beneath my feet; a place where faith and real, messy human emotion can finally sit together in the quiet.

If you find yourself in the storm today, buzzing with an anxiety you can’t shake, try leaning into the quiet beneath the noise. Stop running from the itch. Name the real emotion waiting for you under the fear—whether it’s heartbreak, anger, or deep exhaustion. God isn’t intimidated by your white-hot rage or your quavering voice, and He certainly isn’t afraid of your sadness.

It’s okay if your voice shakes. It’s okay if you’re angry while you yield. He is faithful enough to hold the weight, gentle enough to pick up the pieces, and close enough to remind you that even here, in the middle of the ache, it is well.

family

From Anchor to Runway: Navigating a Season of Release

Hannah

The growing up of my youngest has hit me the hardest in some ways, as I know these are the “last lasts” we are experiencing together. The speed at which it happened has all but swept my feet out from under me. The boy that was at my side for 11 years has found sure footing as he ventures and explores for himself, and discovers there is a whole world in which he feels confident and excited for. My heart smiles to see him enjoying the days with so much maturity, feeling safe to wander farther and do more with his growing tribe.

In the ticking hours that I’m alone though, there is a subtle, yet deep ache as my days of motherhood fold up quiet. I laid in the swing today, drinking in the perfect temperature and watching the shadows dance with the sunlight. It occurred to me why I feel like I’m carrying grief in this season. It’s the lie of rejection whispering scorch-hot that because I am no longer needed in the same ways, I am no longer needed at all.

It tells me that as his world expands, my place in it shrinks into irrelevance. But as the wind stirred the trees above me, God gently reminded my heart of a deeper truth; transition is not rejection, and release is not loss.

For years my arms have been a safe harbor; the primary point of reference. But motherhood in this season isn’t about clinging tightly to keep them close; it’s about learning how to love them from a beautiful, prayerful distance.

The grief I feel isn’t a sign that I’ve failed or that I’m being left behind—it’s simply the sacred price of a love that did its job well. We pray for our children to be confident, faithful, and independent. When those prayers are answered, the quiet room left in their wake can feel heavy, but it is also holy ground.

As I learn to rest in this next chapter I know that God isn’t done writing the story of my growing littles, and He certainly isn’t done writing mine. The God who held me through sleepless toddler nights and busy childhood years is the same God who holds my quiet hours now.

When the silence feels too loud and the ache creeps in, I can bring those heavy feelings to the One who understands holy transitions. I can grieve the grace of the past without fearing the future. It is okay to weep for the little boys and girls who held my hand while simultaneously thanking God for the young adults stepping into the sun.

Have you found yourself on the surprisingly lonesome road of motherhood as your children run ahead to take flight? We can trust Him with the “last lasts.” Every finished chapter in motherhood opens the door for God to reveal something new in us. The hours may feel quieter, and the days may fold up soft, but a mother’s heart remains their home anchor—no matter how far their feet wander.

marriage

Solitary Confinement

Hannah

~Dedicated to my wingman~

When my husband was on active duty in the Air Force he traveled often. Every time that he packed a suitcase I slipped a special treat inside along with a written card of my love. A piece of me to remind him what waited for him upon his return.

When he retired from the military, but still had to travel, I continued this tradition, but as the cadence of his trips grew closer together I sometimes found it difficult to come up with what to sneak into his bag. I also guilted myself about what kind of habits I was encouraging by keeping him constantly stocked on Twizzlers and Swedish Fish.

Looking through a hodgepodge of craft supplies one day, I came up with a new idea. I grabbed a big package of wooden sticks, the tongue depressor size, and a fine-tipped Sharpie. I wrote a sweet note on the stick and slipped it into his suitcase for him to find when the miles were between us. Every time he packed to leave I repeated this. Words that helped bridge the distance and time between us. Promises he could cling to.

Snacks disappear, cards get stashed away various places, but he started collecting those sticks one by one. The day I came across them I swallowed hard the thick lump that rose in my throat. My chest ached with a hollow pain as I stared at the very visual reminder of the number of times I had said goodbye just in the past 3 years.

In that moment, the tradition stopped feeling like something small and secret—and started feeling like evidence. Evidence of love that had to learn how to survive distance. Evidence of God meeting me in the in-between places, when my hands needed something to do and my heart didn’t know how to reconcile with my head.

I sat down with the sticks scattered on the bed and I began to read the notes again. Some were written with an easy smile, the kind that comes when you believe tomorrow will arrive on schedule. Some were braver than I felt. Some were shorter than I wanted them to be because my creativity struggled to come up with something new. But every single one carried the same message: you are not forgotten; you are loved; you are coming home.

And as I read, I realized something I hadn’t let myself notice. I had been building a bridge out of tiny, ordinary pieces—wood and ink and quiet prayers—because the enemy loves to tell you that distance is the end of a story. Distance is hardly the end. It is often the space where God grows the faith you can’t see yet.

The Bible says God is faithful. That faithfulness isn’t only for the mountain-top moments; it’s for the nights when you’re staring at a suitcase, wondering if the next goodbye will feel the same. It’s for the days when your hands are busy so your mind doesn’t run wild. It’s for the season when you can’t fix what you’re facing, but you can choose what you’ll cling to.

I thought about the promises hidden in those sticks. Not just promises from me to him—but the promises God had been putting in me.

So I prayed. Out loud at first, because sometimes my heart needs to hear itself surrender. “Lord,” I said, “You know every goodbye. You know how many times my throat has tightened and tears have pricked at my eyes. You know the way I’ve tried to measure love in small things because I’m afraid to measure it in time. Teach me how to trust You even when I’m counting.”

It didn’t feel like lightning or instant relief. It felt like God gently turning the lights on inside my chest.

As the days turn, the suitcase ritual has kept going, but my spirit has fought for change. I still slip sticks into pockets. I still tuck love into corners of his life. Only now, when I reach for a pen, I am not just trying to distract myself with sweetness. I am remembering that faith is a choice you make again and again—even when you’re tired.

The sticks have become more than reminders for him. They have become reminders for me. Reminders that love can be trained, like a muscle, through repetition. Reminders that grief doesn’t get removed by denial; it gets carried—one faithful moment at a time. Reminders that God is not late, even when our goodbyes feel long.

On the day I laid my eyes on that bundle of sticks and swallowed that thick lump in my throat, I also felt something else rise up underneath the ache.

Hope.

Not the kind that depends on the number of days left. The kind that depends on the One who holds the days. The kind of hope that says, This isn’t an ending. This is just distance writing its sad little sentences—while God writes something stronger beneath it.

Because whether we are separated by travels across the map or standing still in the same room, the truth has never moved— God is with us. He has been strengthening what I can’t explain. He is bridging what I can’t reach. He is turning ordinary routines into threads of grace.

Even now, when I see those wooden sticks—when I remember the weight of all those goodbyes—I don’t just feel sorrow.

I feel called.

Called to love faithfully. Called to trust steadily. Called to remember that every goodbye can become a prayer, and every prayer can become a promise we hand back to God—until home isn’t just a place we wait for. It’s a place we belong.

If you find yourself in the waiting for someone who says goodbye on purpose, don’t let the distance convince you that you’re forgotten. Let it drive you closer to the One who never leaves, the One whose love doesn’t run out when things get hard. Keep your heart soft. Keep your hands busy with what’s good. And when you don’t know what to pray, pray the simplest truth: “God, hold me in the in-between. Strengthen me for today. Teach me how to hope without losing myself.”

Because even when a person walks away, God remains. Even when goodbye keeps coming, God keeps holding the thread.

Child Loss Grief

The Weight of the Wait

Hannah

It has been more than a decade since I watched a crowded room of doctors and nurses perform CPR on my baby girl.

180 months since I held her close as her soul danced across the veil of eternity.

5479 days since I set her down for the last time and my heart cracked wide open.

It’s somewhat curious to me then, that every year as this date ticks near, my heart seems to know it whether I’ve consciously realized it or not. Like an unseen blanket, laden with weight has been wrapped around my shoulders, pressing in a deep sadness that can take me some time to recognize.

Every year as this day returns, I feel that blanket settle again—heavy, quiet, and utterly familiar. In the moment grief arrives, I don’t always have the words to explain it. I just know the ache. I know how it moves through me like weather that won’t ask permission. Some mornings it wakes me before the sun. Some nights it lingers like a candle burning down to its last wick.

And yet, even here—especially here—I have found that God is not afraid of my tears.

I used to think faith meant I would somehow get stronger on schedule, like a muscle building itself because I “should.” But love doesn’t work like that, and neither does sorrow. Faith didn’t keep me from breaking; it brought me to my knees. And in that place, I learned something I can’t unlearn: the Lord does not only meet us in the moments we feel composed. He meets us in the moments we can’t breathe properly. He meets us when our chest is too full and our hands don’t know what to do with the tenderness that’s left behind.

There are days I want to question everything. Why did it happen? Why her? Why not later, or sooner, or not at all? But even my questions feel like prayers. They are honest. They are the kind of conversation you only have when you truly believe someone is listening.

So I bring my whole self to Him—the anger I try to hide, the longing that won’t be quiet, the memories that sometimes comfort me and sometimes wound me again. I bring the moments I replay and the things I wish I could undo. I bring the silence too. And when I can’t find the right sentence, I bring my heart anyway.

Because the truth is, my faith doesn’t deny the weight. It carries it.

God has not promised that this side of heaven will always feel gentle. He doesn’t pretend that loss is small. Scripture never insults grief by calling it “not that bad.” It names sorrow, it teaches lament, it acknowledges that the heart mourns. And still, it speaks—steadfastly—of hope that doesn’t collapse when the world shakes.

I have learned that hope is not the absence of pain. Hope is what remains when pain has already done its work.

Somewhere in the deep places where my prayers echo back to me, I hear His invitation: “Come as you are.” Not as someone who has healed enough. Not as someone whose story ends neatly. Come as you are—with the ache, with the questions, with the pieces you can’t glue back together. Come, and let Me be God in your weakness.

I wish I could tell you that my heart fully understands eternity. I wish I could say I never wrestle. But I have come to believe that love is not wasted, even when it hurts. There is a kind of devotion that survives tragedy—not because it forgets, but because it refuses to stop trusting.

When I think of little Ellie, I don’t only remember the ending. I remember the beginning too: the way she made joy tangible. The way her life made room for wonder. I remember her presence like a sweet fragrance that still clings to memory. And I believe the God who called her name can also hold her now—safe, unseen, and adored beyond anything my earthly mind can reach.

So yes, this day still presses its blanket over my shoulders.

But it also reminds me that I am not walking through it alone.

Every year, as the sadness returns, so does His faithfulness. Sometimes I feel it in a quiet scripture that arrives at the exact right time. Sometimes I feel it in the strength of a friend who shows up without asking for explanations. Sometimes I feel it in the smallest mercies—breath in my lungs, warmth on my skin, a sunrise that doesn’t ask me to be ready.

And sometimes I feel it in the strange, holy truth that even when grief is heavy, God is heavier in the best way—stronger than the grave, steadier than my fear, nearer than my deepest questions.

So I lift my eyes, even when they’re wet. I whisper a prayer I have prayed before: Lord, hold her. Hold me. Keep my heart soft toward You. And then I wait—because waiting, I’ve learned, is also worship.

One day, I believe, this veil will be torn open not by my strength, but by His. One day, the tears will find their purpose. One day, the years between “then” and “now” will be healed with a joy that can’t be measured.

Until that day, I will come to the Father with my whole heart.

I will not pretend. I will not perform. I will simply love, grieve, and trust—again and again—under the weight of a love that refuses to let go.

Because the God who carried me through the darkest seconds is still carrying me through the long, tender years.

And my baby girl—my precious, forever-loved Ellianna Grace—is not lost.

She is held.