Then, we got the call to foster. And someone threw a big rock into the smooth pond of our lake. The ripples went everywhere. Our placement was tough, and emotional. It happened a week before school, so we were racing around getting him vaccinated and registered, and ready to go.

Then, three weeks later, one of my kids started reacting to all the stress of the family changes. He started refusing to go to school, being afraid to leave my side. It was hard. Like, crying myself to sleep every night hard. Those ripples in the placid lake became tidal waves.

Then, three weeks after that, right when I thought I could finally draw a breath, the job I loved so much… was gone. All the skills I thought I had to offer the world, all the relationships I had developed through that wonderful place, all the support systems I thought were rock solid, Vanished. That lake evaporated, and I found myself in the desert.

I was decimated. Squashed flat like an empty soda can. It was all I could do to put clothes on and get out of bed every day. My eyes leaked tears everywhere I went. I was a walking, talking, shell of a human.

And here is the part where I wish I could give you the pithy, clever, two-sentence solution to my problems. But here is the thing. The only way to get through hard times is to GET. THROUGH. THEM. One day at a time. One breath at a time. One Taylor Swift song at a time. You don’t see the way out when you are lost in the woods. You just must keep breathing and trust that somewhere, somehow, you will find a path.

I have never been in a cocoon, but I have a feeling the transformation process is pretty darn uncomfortable for a butterfly. I doubt a caterpillar is born knowing it has the capacity to take flight, and it would rather keep all 177 of its legs planted firmly on the ground thank you very much. And I (and I am willing to bet a lot of YOU), also have a hard time believing you are meant for dazzling transformation. You are used to being a walking worm, and you even kind of have the hang of it. You see butterflies, but you feel like that life is literally and figuratively out of reach.

In order to transform, your life as you know it sometimes needs to burn. The burning isn’t comfortable. It isn’t satisfying or triumphant. Usually it’s pretty damn traumatic. But it’s only out of ashes that phoenixes rise.

My life now isn’t what I had planned. I’m not sure it’s even close to what it may look like 5 years from now, or five years after that. But. I can tell you one thing. I. AM. STRONGER. I worry less about what others think. I am more willing to take a risk. I am more able to see those down on their luck with compassion and love, and without judgement. I don’t feel like I have to say yes all the time. I feel like I know a lot more who I am, apart from what others want me to be.

And my family? Stronger. 3 kids now. All with the same last name. All loving school and friends, and playing in the mud of the outdoors. My marriage? Stronger and more vulnerable. There is more trust, because of the storm we weathered. Would I go backwards? Not for one minute.

If you are feeling like the floor has disappeared from underneath you, and you are in freefall, I UNDERSTAND. I can’t tell you what’s about to happen or how to fix it, but I can tell you that we are here for you as you fall.