Why God did not answer our prayers for peace

 We prayed. Oh, how we prayed.

When my dear husband came to me in October of 2017 and told me that his job was killing him, and suggested a complete upending of our lives, I went into high-level stress. I was appalled at the idea of leaving our home of over twenty years, our lives in the wonderful small town where we'd raised our four kids, our son who still lived in town, and our daughters and other son who were a short day's drive away- the youngest still in college and coming home for summer and winter breaks, my work in ministry at our church, and my community of wonderful friends- women who were true sisters of the heart. I had a whole rich, rooted life there; a life of connection and purpose. I was known and loved and welcomed there. I had not imagined we would ever leave. I pictured growing old together in that same house with its worn-out carpet and its view of sunsets over the western hills. I could not fathom leaving all this, but when my husband asked me to consider it, I said that I would. I committed to praying about it. I believe that my exact words were, "I can't leave my whole life because you're having a bad day at work...(what a sweet, compassionate, loving response, right?)...but if God tells me to, I will and I'll do it without complaining." That was my bottom line: if this was God's plan, not just my husband's, I would agree and I would not fight it or complain about it. I had learned to trust God, at least that much.

Thus began months of intense prayer. I could see how the unbearable stress of the job was tearing my husband to pieces. I also hated the idea of leaving. I pounded on the floor of heaven, begging God for peace for him, for wisdom and strength to endure; for the godly character to persevere in a challenging situation.

It didn't come.

When I speak of that time in our lives, I have had people respond in ways that disparage the character, strength, or faith of my husband. That makes me so angry. Anyone who was not actually inside that situation has no idea what it was like. He did, and does, have strong faith. He diligently sought God, prayed earnestly, and continued to show up faithfully to this job that was destroying him. There were a number of fine people in that place, who were good to work with. He was just put in a position where it was nearly impossible to do his job, based on decisions made by other people. He cared deeply about the well-being of those who depended on his role, and having his hands tied so he could not do what was needed...was unbearable. His integrity was the very thing that made it so hard.

We had more than one conversation about the tension of not knowing whether he needed to dig deep into God for the grace to carry on, or whether God was using the stress as a sharp stick to prod us out of our nest. For those first months, we honestly didn't know which it was.

Years ago, my childhood pastor told a story about how eagles will line their nests with down from their own bodies to make it soft and warm and safe for their babies. As the chicks grow, and the time approaches for them to leave, the parent starts removing that comforting fluff. Soon, sharp ends and elbows of sticks emerge, making it less and less comfortable to sit in the nest. Only this discomfort could get the babies to leave their life of ease and comfy provision and embark on their adult lives.

Now, I don't know if what I've remembered is ornithological fact, but the framework of the story has stayed with me and it came back to me in those months of desperate seeking. Did my husband just need to take it to Jesus and trust him more? Or was God really using this intense discomfort to pry us out of our settled rut and move us in a new direction?

A few months into this ongoing conversation, two things happened that gave me great clarity. First, my husband told me that he'd started having chest pains every morning before work. This was a classic symptom of heart attack and it scared me. He went to our doctor and had a thorough work-up. The conclusion? There was no sign of heart disease. It was "just" stress. The stress of his job had become that unbearable. The second turning point was when I realized that my appalled horror at the idea had faded away and I had peace about it. I had exactly zero desire to agree to any of this. When I realized that I, rather suddenly, felt a measure of peace about it...I knew that was the work of God on my heart.

 Why did God not answer my desperate prayers for peace and all the other things my husband needed, in order to survive his job? Well...because him staying in the job was no longer God's plan. He allowed it to become aggressively uncomfortable for my husband, to prod him in a new direction. He allowed the stress to have a serious effect on my husband's health, to move my heart out of its selfish clutching of the familiar and comfortable, to a place of willingness. For the first few months after he shared his idea with me, I raged against it in my heart. I was resentful and very scared. We had told very few people, only our kids and a few others, what we were considering. Of course, there were lots of thoughts and feelings about it, and I was the one having all those conversations. It was hard. There I was, trying to find answers to questions about something I had no desire to do or to defend. 

When I learned that not only was my dear husband feeling the pain of a heart attack every morning, but that it was tied directly to his job stress, my own heart changed abruptly. I contacted our kids, told them what was happening, and said, "I care very much about how this change affects all of us, but Dad just shot to the top of the list. I will do whatever it takes for him to be okay." Of course they agreed, because they love their dad. We talked about how our family is one that makes sacrifices for one another; about how their dad had stayed in the same place and the same job, even through times when it was the last thing he wanted to do, solely for their sake. We both wanted them to get to grow up in one town, not having to move around and be the new kids in new schools, trying to find new friends and places to belong. He did that for them. He gave twenty-four years of his life so they could have that stability. As I said to the kids, "It's his turn."

As my heart changed, we moved forward with our plans. It was still hard, and scary, and full of blistering unknowns, but at least I now believed it was, somehow, God's plan for us. We got our house ready and listed it for sale. We moved ahead with research and plans for the new shape our life would take. 

This is the year in which we lost our older son. In the midst of unbearable stress and immense change, we got the news that he had taken his life. The timing made it, yet again, abundantly clear that this new plan was God's doing. We got this devastating news four days before my husband had planned to give his notice at work. Basically, after we were leveled by the nuclear bomb of this heart-breaking loss, my husband never had to go back to that job. He did go in a few times, and tied up the necessary loose ends, but that road came to an abrupt end. All those months of discussion and earnest prayer and slow acceptance and preparation led to this great mercy- him not having to go back to work after our hearts shattered.

In the five years since that time, I have thought that God did not answer my prayers for my husband. I knew God used those unanswered prayers, and the extreme discomfort, to pry us out and move us in this new direction. I thought that his answer had been productive silence.

Suddenly, this morning, the lights dawned. Actually...God did answer my prayers!!!!

I begged God for his protection and help for my husband; for wisdom and safety and peace and integrity and direction. I thought God didn't answer my prayers...because I was looking for the answers in the wrong place! I kept looking at our current situation, expecting God to pour his provision into it and fix everything!

As I thought about it this morning, I realized that God did answer every single one of my prayers. The provision of peace and wisdom and every other thing I begged God for did come. It came when I asked, but it came where I wasn't looking. It came on the new road, poured out to carry us well in the new direction God had given us.

I picture me, standing at a Y in a gravel road. My back is turned to the intersection, and I'm staring back the way I've come, yelling at God, "Where are you??!!!" Behind me, standing on the new road that branches off of the old, stands God, smiling with gentle love, "I'm right here," he says.

 

Grief is weird...a.k.a...My address book is a mess.

 

Who would have thought that a simple tool could hold such emotional weight?

I'm sure we've all been through that moment when we go to the address book and see the name of a dear one who is gone and feel yet another edge of that loss.

This is always a sad moment, but after our son took his life in 2018, flipping the pages to check the addresses of family members became almost unbearable. 

I could certainly not erase his beloved name from the page. 

I may never be able to do that.

I also could not keep having my heart lacerated every time I wanted to send a card to any of our other family members.

It was too much.

I found a little pocket-sized address book that I think my mom gave me one time and decided to use it. I went through the pages of the old book, transcribing names and addresses to the new one. Our last name falls early in the alphabet, so I was in rough shape for most of this project.

This is why the book is a mess.

I was still in shock, exhausted, and battered by the pain of passing by Michael's name; not carrying it forward.This was, of course, the whole point of what I was doing. It was still heavy and hard.

In the four years since that day, I have found strings of names in the wrong sections, and worse, names and addresses I somehow failed to transfer. I have had cards to dear people come back to me, because I'd jumbled the address in the new book. I lost the addresses of two long-term friends, and only re-found the through roundabout means in recent months.

I look at the mess I made of this much-needed information and I feel frustration, but also...compassion for the sad and battered self I was on that day.

Grief is messy and hard and it complicates our lives. It shows up in weird ways, throwing wrenches in unexpected gears.

May we extend gentle grace to ourselves and to others in similar state.

When broccoli feels aggressive

[I wrote most of this post last year, on June 25th of 2022, the fourth anniversary of the day we learned of our son's death. As it turned out, I did have Covid- for the third time- and it laid me flat. I didn't have the mental or emotional wherewithal to come back and finish this post at the time. Now I do, and I have, and I think it's worth sharing. As I post this, we are staring down the straight stretch at a weighty fifth anniversary of our loss. It is a good time for me to revisit what I learned last year. May we be gentle with our own hearts, and give them room to just...need what they need.]

 

Is it because I'm sad?

Because I'm sick?

Either? Both? 

In the face of this fourth "deathiversary," four years since our beloved son took his life, being sick feels just plain insulting. 

Yet here we are.

My dear husband has Covid again, given to him by an inconsiderate co-worker. (People! Seriously! Stop going to meetings and events, feeling ill, and *then* going to the doctor!) I have had three negative Covid tests, but I definitely have ...something. Maybe a cold? Not sure. 

I already have feelings about what food to eat when I'm passing a heavy emotional milemarker. These foods need to be gentle...comforting. Comfort food is a gift. It is a simple, tangible way to be gentle and kind to our physical bodies as they carry the weight of our emotions.

Knowing that this deathiversary was on its way, I planned ahead for what I would cook; gentle old favorites, made ahead so I could subsist on leftovers through these couple of hard days.

Chicken soup with gluten-free noodles. Homemade biscuits. Creamy noodles with broccoli and ham.

Leftover from earlier in the week, everything-free waffles with link sausages.

 

That all sounds delicious, doesn't it?

Well...not anymore. My waffles, made from a recipe of my own development, are one of my favorite foods. In fact, four years ago as we reeled in shock and pain over the news of Michael's death, my waffles were one of the few foods I could (barely) stomach.

They seemed like a shoo-in for this week. Nope. Yesterday morning, I had to force myself to finish my breakfast...because I am sick, on top of sad, and my body objects.

The idea of protein right now, or vegetables, is not only unappealing. It feels...aggressive. My body is deeply offended at the very idea of sausage or chicken (or heaven forbid- beef!) and the thought of broccoli? One of my all-time favorite veggies? Horrible. 

 My body assures me that any attempt at eating broccoli will be taken as an act of aggression. It has issued a firm request for what earlier generations would call "light fare." Since toast is not an option for me, this will look like...broth. With gluten-free noodles. And fruit. Fruit sounds acceptable.

People have asked me how the anniversaries of Michael's death go; how we observe them and how they feel. Here is my answer: inconsistent and reliably unexpected. 

I can plan and prepare. I can consult the deep places of my heart and arrange my world around what feels comforting and safe. 

For all my planning and care, though, there is no way to prevent "life" from rudely intruding into this sacred space. 

Three years ago, on the first deathiversary, my dad was admitted to the nursing home. He still lives there. The weight of that, on an already painful day, was a lot to carry. This year, it is the nagging weight of illness, and all its added implications and stress, that has twisted these days out of shape.

These hard anniversaries, like death itself, hit in unexpected ways.

I think we all, as our own hard dates approach each year, try to anticipate what will be the "right" way to handle them. Some plan heartfelt observances, or parties overflowing with love and memories. Others plan seclusion and rest. What I have learned these past four years, and especially this year, is that, no matter how well we know ourselves and our grief, and how carefully we plan, the reality of the hard days can still come at us sideways. 

Sometimes, waffles are soft comfort. Sometimes, they feel like soul betrayal. The best we can do is listen to our own hearts, prepare for what we think might help...and be ready to roll with what we actually end up needing. A gentle willingness to adapt is one of the best gifts we can give to our own hearts.

Four years Eight months...how am I still here? Here is the answer.

 

 

Four years and eight months ago, at almost this exact moment- 10:30 AM, on what was that year a Sunday morning, our beloved son Michael, twenty-six years old, ended his life.

The heavy weight and razor-sharp edges of this loss never change. Sometimes we feel them more acutely and sometimes they sink below the surface, but they never diminish and they never leave.

The closest thing I can think of to living with loss, especially a shocking and brutal loss, is the sudden amputation of an arm or leg. Over time, the initial wound does heal, and the person learns to adapt to life without that limb...but the arm or leg never grows back. That place is permanently empty, and that void affects life in big and small ways every moment of every day for the rest of the person's life.

This is how the death of our son feels to me, nearly five years in. 

Yes, there has been solid, deep healing of that initial bloody wound. We are not as shell-shocked and wide-eyed with horror as we were in those first days. Our lives look...normal, now. This is where my amputation analogy breaks down. Unlike with a missing limb, our devastating loss is not readily visible. Its impact is felt, though, in many ways.

I have learned that my reserves of energy- physically, emotionally, socially, mentally- are limited. Those tanks are far shallower than they used to be, and they leak.  I seem fine to those who don't know better and that confuses people. Looking at my seeming strength and capability from the outside, they may be puzzled that I don't do more. They can't see, and don't know, unless I - again - explain the tragic why behind my limits. They don't know that, emotionally, I am missing a leg and that makes it hard to run the way others do.

What enables me to function so "normally?" There are two answers to that question, both springing from the same source: Jesus.

 ***I have intense, unbearable regrets as a mom. Every parent fails their child in some ways, because we are imperfect humans. Those failures are thrown into a painfully bright spotlight when that child dies, and if they leave by suicide that hindsight only gets more vivid and harsh. No kind and comforting assurances can change the raw facts of my failures in my relationship with Michael. Nobody else actually lived that relationship. I did. Michael did. He and I are the only people who really know the ways I let him down. Yes, I fought for that relationship and did some things very right and loved him and hung in there with him when it wasn't easy. I did the best I knew how, to love him well. I loved him and he loved me, and I found out from others after he was gone that he was very proud of me, and that means the absolute world to me. I also let him down in important moments and ways that only became clear in blood-stained hindsight. 

There is only one thing that makes this hard truth bearable: the mercy of God. The first time I deliberately waded into these hard waters of truth, a friend threw me a lifeline of God-laced hope: "That's rough. I'm so glad God has mercy on our failures." Those simple words were a spark of help and hope that I needed desperately. To this day, this truth is the only thing that helps me keep breathing when those regrets hit hard. If I could look Jesus straight in the eyes and say, "Lord, look at the ways I failed my boy," I think he would not pat me on the head or try to brush away my regrets. He would look at them honestly with me. He would speak hard truth, and as he did so many times in Scripture, he would say it with love and follow it with mercy. He might say something very similar to what my friend said; something like, "Yes, beloved, while you got some things right you also let Michael down in ways that hurt him." And he would turn to me, and rest his hand gently on my shoulder and look me in the eyes and say, "Beloved, I forgive you for your failures. They are covered by my mercy. I know they pain you deeply, but I will hold that pain for you." 

There are aspects of our loss of Michael that are actually unbearable. This is how we are able to bear these unbearable things: Jesus carries them for us. When I am overcome by the searing weight of pain or regret, I let the pain out through tears and then I turn to Jesus and say, "It's too heavy for me. Will you carry it for me, please?" This is what I do with my regrets as a mom. The weight is unbearable, but I am not alone and I do not have to try to carry it on my own. Jesus carries all my sins and failures, and this one is no different. He looked down the halls of time before I was even born, saw every single way I would ever falter and fail and said, "Beloved, if you'll let me, I will carry that for you."

 

***"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18) "When you go through deep waters, I will be with you; when you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown." (Isaiah 43:2) "Yet not I, but through Christ in me..." (lyrics from a song, paraphrased from Galatians 2:20)

These words of life and truth have kept me sane and breathing for the past four years and eight months. The only reasons I am functional at all are the powerful tenderness of Jesus, that carries me when I can't walk and holds me close when my heartbreak boils to the surface, and his love that holds my deep and painful regrets and covers that bleeding wound with his mercy. 

God doesn't shy away from the hard truth of our failures, but while he looks at our messy lives under the clear, revealing light of his holiness, his eyes do not hold scorn or disgust or condemnation. He looks steadily at us with clear eyes that lay bare our most uncomfortable truths. He may look at us seriously or sadly. He may get intense in his urging us away from paths of destruction. But all of that, always, is fully infused with his intense love for us, and our pain and regret and repentance are met with unbelievable mercy. 

This is how I am able to live with apparent normalcy-

The mercy of God for my failures.

The tenderness of God for my great grief.

The comfort and strength of God to hold me close and keep my chin above water.

His capacity pouring through me, to enable me to carry on when I do not have what it takes.

The mercy of God and his tender care for my heart are the answer; the reasons I am still standing. They are the reason I am not only sane and mostly functional, but able to laugh and love and live.

The "yes-and" of holidays and grief

 Holidays bring into sharp relief the "yes-and" nature of living with grief, the hard, now uncomfortably familiar dance of holding joy and sorrow simultaneously. 

On a large scale, every holiday shines a light on the one who is missing and prods that deep, sore wound.

On a smaller scale, the wretched weather pummeling the Columbia Gorge has prevented us from gathering with our other children to celebrate Christmas.

The yes-and of this Christmas is layered. It holds the same sharp edges of the past four years, of feeling the heavy loss of our elder son while also celebrating and savoring with our other loved ones. It also holds this added weight of sadly longing to be with our other children...while treasuring having spent Christmas day with my mom and stepdad, who are 81 and 92 years old. 

Yes, I am heart-sore and teary over the frustration of our happy plans with our kids...and after decades of living too far away for this, spending a winter holiday with my mom is absolutely priceless. 

One way I cope with this awkward juggling act is something I've written about before: I do something tangible...physical...visible...to acknowledge the hard things. This is nothing big, that would be obvious to others. It is just the way I make room for the true story going on in my heart. When I give real space to the hard and painful weight I carry, it actually frees up room for...joy. 

Today, this looked like the careful choosing of jewelry.

This has been, from the first early days of our loss, the most common way I honor my heart's suffering so I can function. Instead of just stuffing the feelings down, I give them official, private recognition. 

I had the joyous opportunity of going to Christmas morning church today, with my husband, mom and stepdad. What a precious joy that was! Also...we were supposed to spend today with our younger son, our younger daughter and her husband, looking forward to our elder daughter and her husband joining the party tomorrow. It is hard to lose that. It is precious to be here.

Here is how I told my heart's story today:

The colored bracelet and the black one with the heart are about our children; the one who is gone and the ones we planned to be with today. I carried all of them very much in my heart today. The little gift-bow earrings were a deliberate choice, reminding my heart to not dwell only on what I don't have. I sometimes need a reminder to also be happy; to let the joy be big and real, too. The other earrings are small black crosses that I bought in the first wave of our grief. I often wear them when my heart is heavy. The bracelet with the silver feather  is my "hope" bracelet. You know the poem that says, "Hope is a thing with feathers...?" The feather on this bracelet makes me think of hope. I almost always wear it when I wear the silver heart bracelet, a reminder to myself that while our loss is devastating and real...hope is also powerful and true. 

If you are also walking this hard yes-and of grief in this season of special holidays, I just want to say that I see you. I see the weight on your heart. I feel the energy it takes to smile and to celebrate and while you truly love this special time, the extra effort it requires leaves you exhausted. I see the careful dance you do of making sure your special people know how you love being with them, while also holding the deep ache for the ones who are not there. 

Hold on, dear ones. 

This is hard. 

You are doing a good job.

It is okay to feel happy in spite of your sadness.

It is okay to feel sorrow in the midst of happy celebration.

We hold both joy and sorrow at the same time.

It is difficult, but it is what we do.

Not helpful? Telling me I'm doing it wrong...

A very few people have essentially (or actually) told me that I'm doing this wrong. 

Of these few, 100% of their children are walking around alive. This is an important point.

A friend of mine lost an adult son a couple of years after we lost Michael. He left this earth in a different, but equally sudden and tragic way. She is also a mental health counselor. She knows a lot about healthy ways of handling emotions. Do you know what she does not do? She has never once told me, or even implied, that I am doing grief wrong.

Why is it that these other folks have tried to push me in a different direction?

It's because I'm still sad...because Michael's death still, daily, has an impact on me. Because I still think about it and talk about it. Because...his death still makes my life harder.

The reason for their words is rooted in their pain at seeing me suffer. They love me and they want so badly for me to not suffer so much. For them, and for others, their motivation is a deep desire to help. They want so badly to say something that will ease my suffering and make this not so heavy for me.

None of this is ill-intended. 

These are all people who love me.

Their desire, I fully believe, is rooted in love and caring and a longing to somehow help me in this.

The problem?

No matter the depths of love and kindness that drive the words, the words still land hard and crosswise on my heart.  I do my level best to respond with patience and grace, believing that the motivation is loving, and not wanting to hurt these people who matter to me. Still...their words hurt.

What should we all not do? Tell somehow whose heart is broken that they're bleeding the wrong way.

There is no "fix" for my pain. Michael is gone and nothing will bring him back. His absence is the cause of my pain, and nothing changes that. 

Grief is not something to fix or to solve. Loss is an unyielding fact.

My continued sadness is not an indication that I'm doing something wrong. It is the most natural reaction to the loss of my child.

What prompted me to sit down and write this? A memory of someone- again, someone who loves me and deeply desires to help- suggesting that my use of words is somehow...an avoidance of really working through my feelings.The comments were well-intended. The problem? 

I am a verbal processor. Words are the best and deepest way that I dig down to and wade through my thoughts, feelings, and emotions. I talk, I write, I pray- all ways I use my words to understand my own heart. While it may be true that for some folks, talking about things can be an avoidance of doing something about them, for a verbal processor, words are the most direct and effective way of sorting, learning, and understanding. For someone whose mind and emotions work this way, words are doing something.

I know that because I am writing this and sharing it, there will be a few people who will (or who will badly want to) come to me  privately and suggest that I shouldn't have. They will be concerned that my words will hurt someone's feelings or make them feel bad. They will want to remind me that everyone means well and is just doing their best. 

May I just gently point out the irony of telling me I'm wrong for talking about how it hurts when people tell me I'm doing this wrong?

 

My opening up about something that has hurt me is not the problem. The hurtful words are the problem.

 

Why is it my job to protect people from the discomfort of knowing that their words have made my burden heavier and harder to bear? It's...okay for others to hurt me, but I'm not allowed to mind? It's okay for them to hurt me, but not for me to say, "That hurt?"

 I am not writing this to be mean, to get revenge, or to shame or embarrass people.

So why am I writing it?

Because nothing will get better if we don't talk about the things that hurt us.

Because we all need to do better, at walking alongside the grieving.

Because people have asked me to share my experiences, so they can learn better ways.

Because before my own huge loss, I have also said all the wrong things to grieving people.

 

Now that I, sadly, know better, here is what I want to say:

Please, please oh please, stop telling, suggesting or implying that grieving people are doing grief wrong.

It doesn't help.

It really hurts.

It only adds to an already terribly heavy burden.

Grief is not a problem to be solved.

Expressing sadness is not a request for helpful solutions.

Maybe, instead of trying to fix or solve the grief, or advise the hurting person on how to hurt the right way, we could just...listen? 

You don't have to have the right words in response to grief or the expression of grief.

There are no words that make it not sad and hard.

Words are not what is needed.

What is needed is compassion, grace, and room to just be sad without people trying to fix it.

Dawn of Slow Healing

 

Four years, four months since that horrible day.  

On June 25, 2018, we got the shattering news of the death of our son Michael. He had taken his life the day before, on a Sunday morning. A friend of his, also a co-worker, went to check on him after work on Monday, because he hadn't shown up and wasn't answering his phone. We got the news soon after.

Every month since then, for four years, I've gone into a decided slump as those dates rolled around. This wasn't some private drama I invented but a pattern I noticed over time. The first time I realized this was happening came maybe seven or nine months after his death. My hubby Lee and I were
watching TV one evening and I suddenly felt like I was about to burst into tears. I turned to him and said, "I feel like I'm about to cry, but I don't know why." 

Then we realized what date it was, and the time. It was the twenty-fifth of the month, and almost the time when the officer knocked on our door to deliver the news.

After that, I recognized the pattern. Every month, as the dates of his death and of our receiving the news rolled around again, my physical energy and emotional reserves would take a dive. I learned to build my schedule around this cycle, keeping my calendar clear around those dates. I learned to be extra gentle with my grieving self through those days. Even on the few months when I didn't realize the date, everything in me downshifted to a low, heavy idle. There's a saying, "The body keeps the score," and I've found that very true. Even when my conscious mind was not paying attention, my body and my emotions were very aware of and very affected by the return of those dates.

...until recently.

I didn't say anything for a while, even to my closest people, because I though it might be a fluke; a temporary reprieve. 

It wasn't. 

It has now been four months.

June of this year, the fourth anniversary of Michael's death, is the last time I got pulled into dark, clammy quicksand on those dates. I am...cautiously celebrating. After four years of living through that downward pull and the slow climb back to the light, I'm a little afraid to jump for joy quite yet.

Still...for four months now, those dates pass, and I am...okay. I'm actually fine. 

Let me clarify: I am still, forever, intensely sad and miss our beautiful son deeply.

I'm not saying that I'm done grieving. 

What I am saying is that the monthly cycle of exhaustion and depression has...lifted. 

That bone-deep weariness has not hit me a single time since June. 

I have not needed to retreat to my dark corner of our bedroom for two days straight, to sleep for hours and to stare bleakly at shadows as I did early on. I have not struggled (or failed) to carry out the most basic of tasks, like eating, taking a shower, and getting dressed. Though still a little more tired than usual on those days, I have had the physical and emotional energy to carry on with normal daily life. Rather than my sailboat of life nearly capsizing every single month, it has stayed upright and gently on course.

I am so grateful.