Between doctor visits, physical therapy schedules, and work demands, I found myself caught between two recoveries: his and mine.
I tried to keep it all together. That’s what mothers do. That’s what women like me, single, self-reliant, entrepreneurial, are forced and conditioned to do. We push through. We tell ourselves that needing help is weakness, that exhaustion is simply the price of independence.
But life, in its strange wisdom, had other plans.
When my car sat immobile in multiple shops, I couldn’t be everywhere anymore. I couldn’t play the hero, the provider, the everything. And that’s when the village arrived, quiet at first, like a whisper. A friend offered rides to the grocery store or to pick up my sons from school or the train. A client assured me it was okay to work remotely instead of in person. My neighbors offered their cars for weeks so I could stay mobile, along with words of comfort and invitations to prayer groups. Even my sons’ coaches checked in, offering patience, support, and understanding as I tried to find my rhythm again.
They all fed us.. not just with food, but with grace.
And then there was my youngest, Seraph. The one we affectionately call our old man. His humor became the soundtrack of our recovery. While his brother worked through his slow mobility and pain, and I juggled logistics, Seraph delivered one-liners that disarmed tension and moments of quiet wisdom beyond his years. He was and is our personal home therapist, calling things as they were, reminding us that healing takes time, and that laughter counts as medicine too.
Between his dark humor and his pragmatism, he continues to help both of us heal, holding the space that words sometimes couldn’t reach.
I realized that strength isn’t about driving through storms alone. It’s about knowing when to pull over and let someone else take the wheel.