When Healing Needs More Than a Bandage

There are mornings when the weight of life rises before I do, and today was one of them. Driving to gain strength I decided to go out for groceries.  While driving, I found myself wondering why I am still struggling, why the ache inside me has not eased the way I keep hoping it will. While driving and praying, I realized that I have been expecting myself to heal from deep wounds with quick fixes, as if a simple Band‑Aid application was causing to make all things better. 

A Band‑Aid can cover a scrape, but it cannot mend a broken arm. A broken arm needs to be examined, set, protected, and given time to knit itself back together. If it is not tended with care, it could heal crooked and aches for years. Internal injuries are the same, the hidden hurts beneath the skin require deeper attention because the damage is inside, where no one can see it.

At this point, I understood something about my own heart.

Losing my husband, carrying the affairs we both us to carry, watching my mother decline and the weight of her health, her affairs was like an emotional injury.  These are not surface wounds. These are broken‑bone wounds. These are internal‑organ wounds. They reach into the deepest parts of me, and they cannot be healed with anything quick or simple application.

Yet I have been trying to use emotional Band‑Aids. My Band‑Aids come in the form of distractions and food as small comforts that soften the edges for a moment but cannot reach the deeper injury. They help me get through the day, but they cannot realign what has been fractured inside me.

But here is the light that breaks through: healing is not slow because I am failing. Healing is slow because the wound is deep. Because the love was real. Because the responsibilities have been heavy. Because my heart has been carrying more than any Band‑Aid could ever hold.

Real healing takes time. It takes gentleness. It takes the kind of care we would give to a broken bone or a fragile organ. I need to be steady and patient. And even when I cannot see it, healing is happening. Quietly. Slowly. Faithfully.

There is hope in that. There is truth in that. There is light in knowing that the same God who tends to the sparrow tends to the hidden places in us too. Nothing is overlooked. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is beyond repair.

And maybe the most important truth is this: I am healing the way real injuries heal;  slowly, carefully, and with the kind of attention that honors the depth of what I have lived through. And light is finding its way in, one tender moment at a time

God heals what is broken. Not all at once, but faithfully, layer by layer, moment by moment. He has met me in the quiet places where no one else could reach. He has turned my pain into compassion, my exhaustion into endurance, and my grief into grace. I am healing the way real injuries heal which is slowly, carefully, and with the kind of attention that honors the depth of what I have lived through. And light is finding its way in, one tender moment at a time

When the Battle Feels Heavy

This morning in prayer, after offering thanks, I found myself saying something I had not planned. I told the Lord that I felt like I was losing the battle and that I needed help. The words came from a deep place, a place I often try to push past, yet they were honest.

In the Book of Mormon we read of wars and more wars, and still the righteous are supported. They are strengthened. They receive reinforcement in ways that remind them they are not alone. As I sat with my own feelings, I realized that I too have been given reinforcement since Kelly’s passing. Family, friends, prayer, and tender mercies have carried me through days I never imagined I could endure.

July will mark two years since he stepped through the veil. Two years of learning how to breathe again. Two years of my own quiet warfare. And with the help of Heavenly Father and ministering angels on both sides of the veil, I have made it this far.

Even so, I do not fully understand why I am still struggling. I recently met with a doctor who adjusted my medication for depression, and I truly believe it is helping. Yet there are days when I still feel like I am fighting a war inside myself. Motivation feels distant. Drive feels hidden. I want to live my best life, but I am still searching for the strength to step into it.

What I long for is understanding.
What has happened to me.
Where am I.
Why do I feel like I do not belong.
Why do I feel like I have no purpose.

I want to know why my spirit feels so tired when I have come so far. But I remind myself that healing is not a straight line. It rises and falls like breath. It moves like water. It circles back to places I thought I had already passed through. And that is not failure. That is simply the shape of being human.

What I do have is hope. I am still learning how to live without Kelly. I am still learning how to carry both grief and hope in the same heart. Some days I feel steady. Some days I feel lost. Yet even on the lost days, something inside me keeps reaching for light. That reaching is a kind of faith. It is a quiet prayer all its own.

I do not know exactly where I am on this path, but I know I am still moving. I know I am still held. I know I am still becoming.

“Now ye see that God will support, and keep, and preserve us, so long as we are faithful unto him” (Alma 44:4).

A Gentle Turning Toward Purpose

After writing these thoughts, I felt a small but real change begin inside me. It was subtle, like the first warm breeze after winter, but I noticed it. I felt prompted to write immediately after my prayer, and as I wrote, I found myself pondering the nature of this battle and what it is truly about.

When I finished, I prayed again, thanking the Lord for letting me feel even a slight shift. That gratitude opened my heart to thoughts about the measure of my creation. I wondered about my purpose. I wondered what God wants me to do.

Then I came across a beautiful message by Sister Patricia Holland titled “Filling the Measure of Your Creation.” I listened to it and read it, and I felt impressed to print it and place it with my patriarchal blessing, which I have been studying more closely. It felt like the Lord was gently gathering the pieces of my identity and placing them back into my hands.

The Lord has promised in D&C 12:7 that the only qualification needed to be part of His great work is to have desires to bring it forth. And in D&C 14:4–5 He reminds us that if we ask, we will receive, and if we knock, it will be opened.

About a month ago, after praying for motivation, I received a simple message: “TO DO.” I knew the Lord was telling me to get up and act, even in small ways, and that He would move me along. And He did. That reminder still matters. I need to keep moving, even gently, and trust that He will help me.

I sometimes think of sharing my feeling, but I do not want others to worry. So I write. I pray. I hold onto hope that I can learn how to move forward in His way and according to His will. Because even though I do not understand what is happening inside me, He does.

Even though I do not have the strength to make all the changes I need to make, He does.

He will help me find, see, and do what He needs me to do. If I can be patient, look to Him, ask Him, and seek His guidance, He will help me win this battle. 

I need to trust Him.
And He will help me through this.

Closing Reflection

If you are walking through your own quiet battle, I hope you remember this. You are not failing because you feel tired. You are not lost because the path curves. You are not forgotten because the light feels faint. The Lord knows exactly where you are, and He knows how to lead you forward one small step at a time.

There is no shame in needing help. There is no weakness in reaching for strength beyond your own. The Savior has always met His children in the middle of their battles, not after they have conquered them. He walks with us in the struggle. He strengthens us in the climb. He holds us when we cannot hold ourselves.

Wherever you are today, you are still becoming. You are still learning. You are still loved. And even the smallest desire to keep moving, to keep believing, to keep reaching for Him, is enough for Him to work with.

He will guide you.
He will steady you.
He will help you rise again.

There is hope in every honest prayer.
There is purpose in every small step.
There is light ahead, even if you cannot see it yet.

And you are not walking alone.  WE ARE NOT WALKING ALONE!

When Water Wings Are Not Enough

Today I feel as if I am wearing water wings in the middle of a wide and restless ocean. The kind of ocean that stretches farther than my strength. The kind of ocean that reminds me how small I am and how quickly the waves can rise.

Water wings are bright and cheerful but they belong in shallow places where the sand is close and the water is calm. They slip on easily and make you feel safe for a moment, but they are not made for real depth. They can deflate without warning. They can slide off when the current shifts. They offer comfort without true strength.

There are days when my heart feels like that. As if I am trying to face deep water with something that was never meant to carry me. As if I am depending on my own thin little floaties to keep me steady when life becomes too wide and too heavy.

When we struggle, we often reach for our own version of water wings. Sometimes it is food. Sometimes it is distraction. Sometimes it is busyness or scrolling or anything that gives a momentary lift. These things can feel comforting for a little while, but they cannot hold us in real waves. They cannot keep us afloat when the water rises around our shoulders. They slip away just when we need something strong and steady.

That is when I remember the difference between water wings and a real life jacket. A life jacket is built for the ocean. It is tested and proven. It holds you close and keeps you lifted even when you are tired. It does not slip away. It does not lose air. It does not depend on your own strength to keep you afloat.

That is what God is for me. The true life jacket. The one presence that fits close to the heart and never loosens its hold. The one strength that stays steady when the waves rise higher than expected. The one help that keeps me above the surface when I feel myself sinking.

Water wings may look comforting, but they cannot carry the weight of a real storm. God can. God is the one who meets me in the deep places and keeps me lifted when I cannot lift myself. God is the one who stays with me in every current and every tide.

So today I am acknowledging the ocean. I am acknowledging the waves. And I am choosing the life jacket that never fails. I am choosing the help that is strong enough for every depth. I am choosing to rest in the steady presence of God, who keeps me afloat even when the water feels too wide for me.

2 Nephi 4:20: “My God hath been my support. He hath led me through mine afflictions in the wilderness and he hath preserved me upon the waters of the deep.”

Mosiah 24:14: “I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders, that even you cannot feel them upon your backs.”

When the Look‑Alike Isn’t the Real Thing

 Last summer, while working at my mother’s home, I noticed a few stray liriope sprouting in her garden beds. Since we’ve been preparing the house for the day it will eventually be sold, I decided to dig up the little clumps and bring them to my own backyard. I imagined them lining the fence where grass refuses to grow, creating a soft border of green.

This spring, I went out to check on them. At first glance, everything looked fine. But something about the growth didn’t seem quite right. The leaves were similar, but not the same. The shape was close, but not close enough. So I knelt down for a better look.

That’s when I realized the truth.

I hadn’t transplanted liriope at all.
I had transplanted a weed, a very convincing look‑alike called nutsedge.

I had been fooled.

What I thought was a bargain, a free little blessing from my mother’s yard, turned out to be something entirely different. And once I knew what it was, I had a decision to make. Should I keep it? After all, it did resemble the real plant. It filled the space. It looked tidy enough from a distance.

But the more I thought about it, the clearer it became.
I didn’t want this weed.
Left alone, it would eventually take over.
It would never produce the beauty I had hoped for.
It was an imitation, and an imitation can never give the same outcome as the real thing.

As I pulled each clump from the soil, I felt the lesson settle in.

The World Is Full of Look‑Alikes.  Life offers us many things that seem good at first glance. They promise comfort, excitement, escape, or satisfaction. They resemble the real thing just enough to fool us if we aren’t paying attention.

But not everything that looks good is good.

The world may call something harmless, even desirable, while God calls it destructive. Lust can masquerade as love. Numbing ourselves with alcohol or drugs can masquerade as peace. Temporary thrills can masquerade as joy.

But they are substitutes and substitutes never last.

They take root quickly.
They spread quietly.
And before long, they crowd out the very things that bring true life.

Real Love and Real Joy Endure. Just like the liriope I thought I had planted, imitations can fool us for a season. But eventually, their true nature shows. And when it does, we have a choice: keep what is easy and familiar, or pull it up and make room for what is real.

Real love grows deep.
Real joy produces beauty.
Real peace doesn’t numb, it restores.

Matthew 24:4  And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.

Letting Go

I did not expect the heartache that came when I finally shut Kelly’s phone down. I had kept it active for almost two years after his passing, partly for work and partly for comfort. I thought I was simply keeping a tool running, but the truth is that I was holding on to a small piece of him. His phone felt like a place where he still lived and where his world still felt close to mine.

When the time came to turn it off, I thought I was ready. Most of the people who would have called him now know he is gone. The practical reasons for keeping it had faded. But the thought of the moment the screen goes dark, creates an ache I did not expect. It feels as if another part of him slipped away. 

Letting it go brought back a heartache that never fully leaves. It reminded me that love does not disappear, and neither does the longing to hold on to anything that carries a trace of the person I miss.  I hurt because it feels like another goodbye. And I hurt because I loved him so deeply that even a small object could hold meaning far beyond its purpose.

Kelly is not in the phone. He is not in the number or the messages or the missed calls. He is in the life we built, the goodness he lived, the way he shaped my heart. He is in the memories that rise without warning and in the strength I find when I think I have none left. He is in the love that did not end when his life did.

Sometimes the things we hold on to are not the person we miss, but the symbol of them. When the moment comes to release the symbol, the love remains. Letting go of what we no longer need does not take anything away. It simply teaches us that the people we love stay with us in deeper and more lasting ways than anything we can hold in our hands.

Positive and Negative: How God Helps Me Hold the Charge

There are seasons in life when the weight we carry becomes heavier than we know how to hold. I have been walking through one of those seasons. After Kelly’s passing, the responsibilities of caring for Mom grew heavier, and the demands of my own home and work pressed in from every side. I knew what was happening inside me, yet I often felt paralyzed, unmotivated, and unable to find the energy I needed to move through my days.

I have lived with depression for many years, both chemical and, lately, deeply situational. It is something I usually hide, tucking it away where no one can see it. But I have reached a point where honesty feels like the only way forward. Depression affects the way my “battery” holds a charge. In a real battery, both positive and negative charges are necessary. They work together to create energy and movement. Negative is not “bad” it is simply part of the design. But in my life, the negative charge has been louder than the positive, and when that imbalance grows, it becomes harder for my battery to function the way it was created to. Naming this truth does not diminish my faith. It simply acknowledges the reality of my journey.

One afternoon, while driving, a memory rose up so clearly that it felt placed gently in my mind. I remembered working on cars with my dad, the smells of the garage, the warmth of the light, and the simple rhythm of handing him tools as he explained what he was doing. I remembered him teaching me about a car whose carburetor was failing. The battery kept the car alive for a while, but it was never meant to carry the whole load.

That memory opened something in me. I realized that I am the battery. My life holds both positive and negative charges, as every life does, but lately the negative ones have been overwhelming. And God,  steady, patient, and faithful is like the carburetor in my life. He is the One who gives me strength, breath, and balance. I call upon Him throughout my days, and He meets me with grace. But I also believe He is guiding me toward the things that will help my battery function the way it was designed to. He wants to work with me, not instead of me.

Every day I look for something to jumpstart my battery. Food has become one of those quick sources of energy. Some choices have not been the healthiest, but they have been the easiest ways to feel something when my battery is losing its charge. Family history gives me a spark of purpose, a reminder that I am part of something larger than the moment I am in. But even that spark fades quickly, and I find myself drained again.

I am working with a doctor now, hoping to find a way to help my body function as it was created to. I want my battery to hold steady again, not rely on temporary boosts to get through the day.

Engines are designed with intention. Every part has a purpose, and when something stops working, the whole system feels it. I believe the same is true for the soul. God created each of us with care and balance, with a way to breathe and move and live. When something inside us is not functioning the way it should, it does not mean we are beyond repair. It means we need support, wisdom, and the steady presence of the One who knows how we were made.

God has carried me through moments when I had nothing left. He continues to give me strength, and He will always be with me when I call upon Him. At the same time, I believe He is helping me search for ways to support my own body and spirit so that I can live with more steadiness and less struggle. His strength and my efforts can work together. I trust that He will guide me toward what will restore me, and that in time He will breathe life back into the parts of me that have grown quiet.

We all long for a small lift in our spirit. Even when life feels heavy and the engine inside us sputters, there is always hope. God does not leave us stranded on the side of the road. He walks with us, strengthens us, and helps us find the tools we need to keep going. Hope is never out of reach. It waits for us, steady and patient, ready to rise again.

With God nothing is impossible. He is the One who can bring life back to the places inside us that have grown quiet.