Eden & Ashes

Mothering While Mending

“Your greatest contribution to the world may not be something you do,
but someone you raise.”

That line caught me off guard when I first heard it.
It gave words to what I’ve been living quietly for the last two and a half years.

My daughter was born in the aftermath of the worst kind of loss.
I was five months along when sorrow became my shadow,
and survival became my rhythm.

There were days when the only reason I ate or moved was because of her.
Even before she took her first breath,
she became the reason I kept breathing.

When she was born, the grief deepened,
not because she wasn’t enough,
but because she was everything.
And that made the absence louder.

Watching her grow, I started to see how instinctively she reached for men,
how naturally she looked for the presence of a father.

Every time she did, it broke something in me.
Because I couldn’t give her that.
And I couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter.
So I had to choose wholeness.
Not just for me, but for her.

She didn’t ask to come into a broken world.
She didn’t ask for a mother rebuilding from rubble.
She came into the storm,
but she didn’t deserve the fragments.

She became my reason to heal,
my motivation to fight for joy again.
Not performative healing,
the kind that looks polished but is crumbling underneath,
but real healing.

The kind that confronts the wounds,
sits with the sorrow,
and still chooses to get up anyway.

Breaking Patterns

Being a New Zealand-born Samoan often meant living between worlds,
too much for one, not enough for the other.

Love wasn’t always safe.
Survival often looked like silence.
Shame was used to teach us,
and perfection was praised more than presence.

I didn’t always have words for it,
just the feeling that something wasn’t right.

Therapy helped me name it.
Faith helped me break it.
And motherhood gave me a reason to rebuild it differently.

There have been many nights where I’ve laid awake,
whispering prayers over her.
Asking God to fill the void I never could.
That He would become the Father she reaches for.
That His presence would meet her
in the places where mine runs out.

That as she grows older
and begins to ask questions,
she’ll somehow know,
not just through my words,
but through her own encounters,
that her story is still held by love.

I watch her sometimes and quietly mourn
the fact that her dad will never get to know her.
She’s effortlessly funny,
a little chaotic, dramatic, boisterous,
but impossible not to laugh at.

Like the time she tried to give Elmo a bath,
and I walked in to find her dunking him in the toilet.

Or when we lost the TV remote,
and she wandered around calling out,
“Remote?! Remote?!”
as if it had legs and a GPS tracker.

Moments like that make me laugh until I cry.
And sometimes I do,
because I wish he could see it too.

I see him in her,
not just in her face,
but in her energy.

Becoming a parent helped me see God the Father more clearly…

Not as a distant figure,
but as a Father who delights in His children
simply because they are His.

It changed how I saw love.
It made grace real.
It made me want to parent Eden with that same tenderness,
to reflect, even in glimpses,
the Father who never leaves.

And in that process, I’ve begun to understand my own parents too.
They loved me in the best way they knew how.

Even the most devoted parents love through human lenses.
But God’s love, it’s different.
Perfect.
Unconditional.
Not based on behaviour, but belonging.

The story of Abraham hits differently now.
The ache of offering your child,
it’s no longer just a story.

It’s a weight I can imagine.
And it reminds me,
God didn’t just ask for a child.
He gave His own.

The more I grasp that,
the more I understand the kind of love I’ve been held in all along.

There are moments I feel unequipped, unqualified, undone.
Yet even then, grace finds us.

God is in the gaps.
In the whispered “help me” at midnight.
In the hallway tears.
In the softness that returns after I’ve been too hard.
In the laughter that breaks the tension.

One surrendered day at a time,
He’s healing generations.

I can’t promise I’ll never fall short.
But I can promise that I will keep showing up.
I will keep healing.
I will keep choosing love over fear,
wholeness over hiding.

Because she deserves a mum who is present, not perfect.
A mum who doesn’t just survive for her,
but lives fully with her.

If my greatest contribution to the world
is not a book I write,
a career I build,
or a stage I stand on,

but the way I raised her,
with tenderness, truth,
and with the God who held us both,
then that will be more than enough.

And maybe,
she’ll grow up not only knowing who her father was,
but who her Father is.

Jesus and Therapy

This is the final part of The Unraveling series.

By the time you reach this post,
we’ve walked through masks and memories,
heartbreak and hidden grief.

We’ve named betrayal
and wept through fractured relationships.

But beneath every unraveling,
there’s been a question humming quietly in the background:

“How do you come back from this?”

This is my answer.

Not a perfect one.
Not a packaged fix.
But a real one.

Because healing didn’t come in one moment.

It came gently, in parts.
Through unexpected places.
In therapy rooms.
In Scriptures I’d read a hundred times
but only just begun to understand.
In the whisper of God reminding me
I didn’t have to carry this alone.

So before I close this chapter,
I want to talk about the part that changed everything:

Jesus and therapy.

Not one or the other.
Not prayer instead of tools.
But both, together.

This is how the replanting began.
How God helped me rebuild from the roots up.
And how I came to believe,
in the deepest parts of me,
that what tried to break me
would not have the final word.

“Do not conform to the pattern of this world,
but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
Romans 12:2

I always loved that verse.

I had it underlined in my Bible,
scribbled onto sticky notes,
posted on my wall.

But for years, I didn’t know how to actually do it.

I prayed, journalled and tried to “think better.”
But my thoughts ran rampant
with anxiety, fear and self-criticism.

It wasn’t until I began counselling and therapy
that I started to understand
how deeply my thinking was shaped by unseen beliefs.

It gave me the tools to renew my mind.
And Scripture gave me the truth
to replace the lies I had been living under.

Let’s Talk About the Taboo

For some reading this,
especially those outside of Polynesian culture,
therapy may not seem like a controversial choice.

But in many Samoan circles,
counselling can carry a quiet stigma.

It is sometimes viewed as unnecessary
if you just “pray more” or “have enough faith.”

There is a deep respect
for strength and silence in our culture.

Family matters stay in the family.
Pain is internalised, not spoken aloud.
We are taught to endure quietly,
not seek help publicly.

But that silence nearly killed me.

I thought I was being strong
by carrying it all on my own,
but it only led me deeper into isolation…
and eventually, suicidal thoughts.

And I know I am not the only one.

This silence,
the unspoken pressure to keep things hidden,
has cost lives in our community.

Too many of our people are dying in the dark
because we’ve made vulnerability taboo.

Because we’ve told each other,
without saying it outright,
that healing is weakness
and seeking help is shameful.

But Jesus never shamed the broken.

He sat with them.
He touched the untouchable.
He called them healed.

So if this part makes you uncomfortable,
I say it with love:

Silence is not strength.

Speaking up saved my life.
And if you are struggling,
it might just save yours too.

Therapy was not a replacement for God.
It was one of the ways He met me.

Both can coexist.
They should.

Counselling and therapy helped me understand the roots.
Scripture handed me the seeds.
And God,
He did the growing.

That First Session

I still remember my first therapy session.

It was over video call
as she lived too far,
and I didn’t have the energy to drive.

I hadn’t planned to say much.
Just enough to make it look like I was coping.

But somewhere between my exhaustion and her kindness,
the truth came pouring out, layer after layer.

I told her things I hadn’t told anyone.
An unfiltered level of honesty.

She didn’t flinch.

But I saw it in her eyes
her softness,
the thickened voice that said,
“You’ve been through so much.”

Then she gave me a name for it: complicated grief.

Loss layered with betrayal and trauma.
With questions that didn’t have easy answers.

And something about naming it
helped me breathe again.

It didn’t erase the pain.
But it gave it shape.

And what you can name,
you can start to heal.

Some therapist circles say,
“Name it to tame it”.

Digging Into the Roots

In Cognitive behaviour therapy (CBT),
we talk about core beliefs,
deep, often hidden convictions
that shape how we see ourselves, others and the world.

These are not thoughts we say out loud.
They are the quiet ones we live by.

For me, those beliefs sounded like:
“I’m not good enough.”
“If I mess up, people leave.”
“I have to keep everything under control.”

These beliefs were not planted by truth.
They came from past wounds,
unmet needs,
and experiences that taught me to survive
but not to thrive.

They were the roots of my anxiety,
perfectionism,
and shame.

Taking Every Thought Captive

“We take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.”
2 Corinthians 10:5

In CBT,
one of the things you learn
is how to notice your thoughts,
write them down,
and challenge them.

It’s called a thought record.

But what surprised me most
was how biblical it felt.

CBT gave me questions to ask myself:
Is this thought true?
Is it helpful?
Is there evidence for it,
or against it?

And through Scripture,
I began replacing those beliefs
with something better.

CBT helped me examine the roots.
Scripture handed me the seeds.
And together,
they began to replant
what was never meant to grow wild.

The Pain of Uprooting

Here is something I didn’t expect:
letting go of old beliefs hurt.

Even the painful ones had become part of me.
They were familiar.
Predictable.
Safe.

But God never called me to comfort.
He called me to transformation.

“Every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.”
John 15:2

CBT taught me how to prune.
God gave me the courage to let Him.

And the more He pruned,
the more I began to understand
what Jesus meant when He said:

“So if the Son sets you free,
you will be free indeed.”
John 8:36

Not just free from sin,
but from the lies I had lived under for years.

From shame masquerading as humility.
From the need to perform, please or prove.

Freedom did not come in one loud moment.
It came gently,
in therapy rooms,
in quiet prayers,
in daily surrender.

And it was real.
It was deep.
It was mine.

Rewiring the Wounds

Now this might sound a bit sciencey,
but stay with me,
therapy helps rewire the neuropathways in the brain.

The fancy term for this is neuroplasticity.

Think of your mind like a field.
The more you walk the same path,
the deeper it becomes.

But with therapy and the Word of God,
you begin to create new tracks
ones that lead to peace, not panic.
Hope not fear.
Truth not shame.

And over time,
those old paths grow over,
while the new ones become
the roads you run to first.

It doesn’t mean the pain disappears overnight.
But it means your brain can learn to believe again.
Your heart can learn to trust again.
And your thoughts can be trained
to follow truth,
not trauma.

Growing New Roots

Transformation is not instant.

In CBT,
I had to practise new thoughts over and over
until they began to feel true.

In faith,
I had to trust God’s Word
even when my feelings did not agree.

Slowly, things began to shift.

I became more grounded.
Less reactive.
More kind to myself.
More trusting of God.

I still have hard days,
but now I know how to meet them
with truth,
not just emotion.

Reflection Prompts

What unspoken beliefs have shaped your thoughts?
What old lies are you still living under?
Which biblical truths speak directly to those places?
What would it look like to let God transform even your inner dialogue?

A Prayer for Renewal

Father,
Help me notice the thoughts
that do not align with Your truth.

Expose the lies I have believed,
about myself, others, and even You.

Teach me to take every thought captive
and submit it to Your Word.

Let Your voice grow louder than my fears,
and Your truth deeper than my pain.

Transform me from the inside out.

Root me in Your love,
and renew my mind daily
until I begin to think, speak, and live
like someone who is deeply known and truly free.

In Jesus’ name, amen.

A Declaration for the Chain-Breakers

This post may look like a story,
but it is really a sword.

A breaking of silence.
A breaking of chains.

What bound me will not bind my daughter.
What silenced me will not silence the next.

Let it be known
this is where it ends.
And this is where healing begins.

Author’s Note

Thank you for journeying through The Unraveling with me. As I enter a new season of study, ministry and solo parenting, I may not be writing as frequently but I pray this post leaves you with insight for the next steps, wherever you are planted.

Let the healing continue.

Unspoken Goodbye: A Sibling’s Tribute

You deserved better.
More love.
More light.
More time.

The world wasn’t always kind to you.
I see that more clearly now than I wish I did.

I didn’t know it then but that call would mark me forever.
When the phone rings at night, my spirit flinches.

The road blurred through tears.
I kept pleading with God,
Why?! Why have you taken a third time?!
How much more can one heart hold?

It had only been three years since Mum left.
Only a year since Ivan.
And now, my baby brother.

This one cut different.

You weren’t just my brother.
You were my constant from the start.
My first best frenemy and partner in crime.

We weren’t the affectionate type.
If anything, we were “boys” and I just happened to wear a skirt.
We’d start off playing and somehow end in chaos
with one of us crying
or the other chasing with a knife.

It wasn’t graceful, but it was us.
Wild. Messy. Loyal in ways only siblings understand.

I remember the time I dropped a full tray of plates and tea.
Everything shattered.
You took the blame just because you were nearby.

In a household where “spare the rod” was gospel,
that wasn’t small.
That was love
loud and quiet all at once.

When I was overwhelmed with work,
you’d help out by sending my emails,
lightening my load.
When I was wedding planning,
stressed and needing my invites sealed with wax stamps before the day ended.
I asked you for help.
You said yes without hesitation.

But when I came back, I got frustrated
it wasn’t to the standard I had in my head.
Still, you didn’t get annoyed.
You just shrugged, tried again, and kept going.
That was you
steady, willing, unfazed by my antics.

When Jen came into your life,
you somehow started offloading your errands onto her too.
Poor girl.
I’d walk into the house and find her cleaning or doing things
I had told you to do.
To this day, I don’t know how you managed it,
but it makes me laugh every time I think about it.

She never complained either.
Just quietly loved you by stepping in.

I often think about how much of my story you’re tied into,
even the parts you probably never meant to shape.

You were the reason Ivan and I started talking properly.
You’d had a disagreement with Matt and went missing for a few hours.
We were all worried, driving the streets looking for you.
I messaged Ivan.
He was more your friend than mine at the time and he helped us search.

When we finally found you, I messaged him to let him know.
We were back home when he called me straight away.

That phone call changed everything.
I haven’t met anyone who could make me laugh the way I laughed that night.
And it all started because of you.

Losing a sibling isn’t like losing a parent,
who holds your foundation.
It’s not like losing a partner,
who holds your future.

It’s losing someone who holds pieces of you
that no one else does.
The ones who remember who you were
before the world told you who to be.
The ones who know your story
from the inside out.

In the weeks that followed your passing,
I wept until even the tears felt tired.
I prayed and pleaded for peace.
I asked God,
Please tell me, Simon’s ok.
Give me assurance he’s found rest.

And in His quiet mercy, He answered.
Not through my own dream,
but through Dad and Jen.

Both of them, on separate nights, dreamed of you.
You were smiling.
Calm. At peace.
You said you were with Mum.

And in one of those dreams, you said my name.
Before the moment faded, you said,
“Fea Nancy? Alofa ia Nancy.”
(Where’s Nancy? Love to Nancy.)

I didn’t dream up those visions.
I asked God for a sign,
and He surprised me,
using Dad and Jen’s dreams to bring me peace.

That’s how I know you’re safe now.
That’s how I know you’re home.

For the ones learning that love doesn’t end where life does

I know some of us have found it hard to be around family lately, maybe even friends.
When someone we love is gone
and the world keeps moving like nothing happened, it can feel unbearable.

You look around and think,
Does no one remember?
Why does it feel like I’m the only one still carrying him?

If that’s you, I want you to know:
Simon hasn’t been forgotten.
Not by God.
Not by me.
Not by the ones who truly loved him.

May I speak something soft over you?

You don’t have to hold all of it by yourself.
You don’t have to live in grief to honour the depth of your love.
Grief may have shaped you but it doesn’t have to house you.
Love doesn’t disappear when you let yourself breathe again.
Grief doesn’t lose meaning when joy returns.

Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting him.
It means letting God hold the parts of him we can’t anymore.

It means trusting that the love we shared with Simon hasn’t ended.
It’s just found a new way to exist.
In memories.
In laughter.
In the way we carry one another forward.

Simon didn’t need a platform to make an impact.
He touched lives in garages,
in conversations,
in quiet one-on-ones.
He knew the Word,
He reflected the faith quietly.
That’s the part that still humbles me.
Heaven saw what was overlooked.
And the ones he helped lead to faith will never forget it.

He is fully known.
Fully loved.
Fully whole.

To Jen

Thank you for loving my brother in ways that brought him joy.
For all the unseen ways you stood by him, especially when it wasn’t easy.
For showing up.

I know this grief has cut deep for you too.
You carried part of his heart.
And your dream brought me peace in a moment I desperately needed it.
It reminded me that God speaks through whomever He chooses
and in that moment,
He chose you.

Some people may mistake your strength for moving on.
But only those who’ve been there know,
it’s not moving on, it’s surviving.
Behind the camera, behind the smiles,
you’re still learning how to breathe,
how to function in a world that keeps going without him.

I see that.
I see you.
And I’ll always be here for you.

You may not have had a ring,
but to us, you’ll always be family.
We honour the love you shared,
and one day, should you choose (and the Lord allow) for love to visit your address,
our love for you will remain.
Nothing changes that.

The weight of losing him lives in many of us.
But I know he would’ve wanted you to live fully.
To laugh again.
To breathe again.
To love again.

And when the grief rises without warning (as it does),
I hope you feel the comfort of knowing
that Simon is held by the One who never lets go,
just as He holds you now.

To my brothers

Thank you for carrying this loss with me.
We may grieve differently, but I see you.
I love you.
And I’m proud of how we keep showing up
for Simon
and for each other.

Even in our silence,
even in the sting,
we’ve never stopped being a team.

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain,
for the old order of things has passed away.”
— Revelation 21:4

Rest well, my dear brother.
One day, I’ll cash in that bear hug.
Until then,
I miss you deeply
with a love that never learned how to say goodbye.

A Prayer for the Grieving

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18

If you’re reading this while carrying your own grief,
whether for a sibling, a parent, a partner, or a friend,
this is for you.

Heavenly Father
For every heart weighed down by loss, be near.
For every soul aching with questions, be gentle.
Wrap them in a comfort only You can give.

When memories rise and sorrow feels too heavy,
let Your peace rise higher.
Whisper reminders that love doesn’t end with goodbye.
And that You are always near to the brokenhearted.

In the quiet moments, be our peace.
In the heavy ones, our strength.
And when loneliness creeps in, remind us
we are not alone.

In Jesus name, Amen.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for holding space with me.
Loss can feel isolating,
but I hope this reminds you that your pain isn’t invisible.
That healing comes in slow, surprising ways.
That the God who met me in grief can meet you too,
even if you’re unsure how to ask.

Wherever you are in your journey:
in the quiet missing,
in the unexpected wave,
in the trying-to-hold-it-together,
I pray peace finds you.

And if nothing else,
may these words help carry your heart,
even for a moment.

With love,
Nancy

Mourning the Living

When letting go isn’t death but it still hurts.
Part II of The Unraveling series. You can read part one here: Teine Lelei: The Weight of Perfection

Not all grief wears black.

Some of it walks around in the shape of people who are still alive…
just no longer part of your life.

This is the grief no one prepares you for,
the one that comes without funerals, shared meals or collective comfort.

I remember the first time I felt it.
The ache of watching someone I once trusted,
once confided in,
slowly shift from “safe” to “stranger.”

There were no sharp words,
no dramatic ending.
Just a slow erosion of trust.
A pattern of moments where things didn’t line up…
and I kept brushing it off until the damage was too loud to ignore.

I still held hope.
For clarity.
For honesty.
For some kind of mutual understanding.

But what I got was silence.
And that silence spoke volumes.

There is a unique kind of heartbreak that comes from betrayal.
Not just from friends but family too.
Especially the ones you thought would never…
and yet, they did.

I’ve learned that some people are good people.
But they’re not good friends.
And they’re not always safe places.
Even love doesn’t guarantee loyalty.

I used to believe that if I loved someone enough,
forgave enough,
stayed gracious enough,
that it would be enough.

But what I have learned is this:

You can love someone deeply and still need distance to heal.

Sometimes, walking away is not bitterness.
It is boundary.

I did not want to become someone who hardened my heart.
I still don’t.
But I also can’t keep shrinking myself to preserve peace that was only ever one-sided.

I thought grieving the dead was hard.
But grieving the living?
(the ones who chose to walk away,
or worse, stayed in your life
but twisted the truth of who you are)
that’s a different kind of pain.

I had to stop trying to prove my heart
to people who were committed
to misunderstanding it.
I had to stop expecting apologies
from people who don’t believe
they did anything wrong.
And I had to stop bleeding for relationships that wouldn’t even acknowledge the wound.

That doesn’t mean I hate them.
It means I no longer abandon myself to keep them comfortable.

I was sitting in a CBT session after Ivan passed.
She asked if I had anyone to confide in…
and it hit me. I didn’t.

The people I once trusted
had already shown their colours.
Things I shared in confidence
found their way back to me.
It pushed me further into isolation
not just from others,
but from the version of me
that used to feel safe being seen.

For a season, the sessions gave me room to breathe.
But over time, God became the only place I exhaled fully.
The One who listened without judgement.
Held without condition.
And stayed, even when others left.

History doesn’t equal covenant.

We can be bound to people out of memories,
out of shared hardship,
out of loyalty…
but if God is gently untying the cord,
no amount of history will justify staying.

I once heard someone say,
“Sometimes God removes someone not because they are bad,
but because the season is.”

And I think that was true for her…
and for me.

I remember my late husband saying once, with gentle concern,
“She’s not a good friend.”

I didn’t want to believe him.
But now I think he saw what I couldn’t yet name
the quiet jealousy,
the passive pull away,
the way I was shrinking in her presence and calling it humility.

By then, I had already bound myself to her.
Not because of who she was…
but because of who she used to be.
Because of what we walked through.
Because of the years.

But the truth is… sometimes God asks us to lay down even long-standing relationships.
To release the familiar.
To honour what was, while refusing to be held hostage by what no longer is.

And that is its own kind of mourning.

Mourning not just the loss of a friend,
but the version of me who stayed too long.

The one who thought loyalty meant silence.
Who believed love meant self-abandonment.
Who didn’t know you could bless someone’s journey and still choose a different road.

There are no bouquets for this kind of grief.
No formal farewells.
Just healing.
Boundaries.
A quiet turning of the page.

I think of David and Saul
how David honoured a man who betrayed him,
but still kept his distance.
He refused to touch what God had once anointed,
but he also refused to stay where he was no longer safe.

And I think of Jesus and Judas
how love and betrayal sat at the same table.
And how even the Son of God didn’t chase someone who chose to leave.

Some people are like doves.
They draw near gently.
They carry peace with them.
They don’t try to fix you,
they just sit beside the ache.

Others are like parrots.
They mimic.
They repeat.
Sometimes they even mean well…
but they don’t always know when silence is more healing than words.

Grief will show you who the doves are.
And who the parrots have always been.

There came a point where I had to make peace with what I couldn’t change.
The story wasn’t mine to fix
only to bless and release.

I still carry questions.
But not bitterness.
I still remember the friendship
the good parts, too.
But I no longer grieve what I hoped it would be.

This is what boundaries do.
They don’t erase love.
They protect it from bleeding into places it was never meant to be stretched.

Forgiveness doesn’t always look like reconciliation.
Sometimes it is choosing to bless someone from a distance
and release them to God.

Not as punishment but as protection.
For them.
And for you.

So if you’re in that space now:
grieving someone still alive,
quietly holding the weight of what never got resolved
I want you to know this doesn’t make you weak.
It makes you human.

And healing?
It is still available here.
Even in this quiet kind of grief.
Even in the absence of closure.
Even when the “what ifs” and “why nots” still linger in the silence.

God sees even this.
He tends to what others overlook.
And He’s still crafting glory out of grief.
He saw Hagar in the wilderness.
He sees you now.
And the well has not run dry.

A Prayer for the Quiet Grievers

Father,

You see the wounds no one else does.
The ones that linger not from death, but from distance.
From silence.
From fractured trust and broken connection.

Help me to forgive without forcing reconciliation.
To release without resentment.
To grieve without growing bitter.

Thank You for the friendships that taught me
even the painful ones.
And thank You for being a God who never leaves when others do.

Remind me that healing isn’t proof of strength
it’s proof of grace.
And as I lay down what was,
help me to make room for what will be.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

Teine Lelei: The Weight of Perfection

This series was birthed from counselling sessions not in clarity but in collapse.

It came from the places where I finally stopped trying to hold it all together.
Where I stopped pretending grief was tidy,
where I stopped shrinking myself into old expectations
that no longer fit the woman I was becoming.

The Unraveling is not just about what fell apart.
It is about what was finally laid bare.
What had to break open for healing to begin.

This is where it started for me,
with the weight of perfection
and the unspoken pressure of being the teine lelei.

Perfection was stitched into the seams of my girlhood,
not as decoration, but as expectation.
Not softly.
Not kindly.
But tightly, like a dress I was never meant to grow out of… only into.

In the world I was raised in,
being the girl came with a script.
The only daughter.
The teine lelei.
The ‘good girl.’
It meant silence more than it meant virtue.
Obedience more than it meant joy.

Say the right thing.
Smile the right way.
Walk as if you carry no weight at all.

If only you were like so-and-so…
I heard it so often it settled into my marrow.
They had perfected the performance,
those older cousins, those kids at church,
but I had seen the truth peeling at the corners.
Double lives behind starched Sunday clothes.

Still, I tried.
Tried to match the impossible.
And when one of the elders leaned in and asked,
O e teine lelei a?
(Are you a good girl?)

I always answered,
Ioe, o lea lava.
(Yes, I still am.)

I said it without pause.
Because that was what was expected.
Because that was what kept me safe.
But looking back now, it unsettles me
how strange it was to ask a child
if they were still good.

To be conditioned to believe that goodness had an expiry date.
That your worth depended on how well you performed,
how closely you followed the rules.

And the standard?
It was always moving.
Every time a cousin broke the mould,
every time a church kid strayed from the script,
the person I was compared to… changed.

I collected fragments of each one who came before
not realising I was gathering from their performance,
not their peace.

I mirrored their behaviour,
not knowing what it cost them to maintain.
How close they were to breaking,
how much of themselves they had to bury
just to be praised.

It was never really about character.
Just keeping up appearances.
Keeping in line.

There were other rules too.
Worn like tradition, held like law.
Minimal skin.
Nothing above the knees.
No visible chest.
No fitted tops.
No makeup until… well, maybe never.

As I moved into my early teens, my body became a battleground for modesty.
Mum started dressing me in long puletasi and eventually full suits.
Not the tailored kind but the ones from the 80s—shoulder pads, stiff lines, heavy fabrics.
I wore them so often to church that people began gifting them to me.
I would hide them in the back of my closet,
hoping Mum wouldn’t find them.
I laugh now… but I despised them then.

Even nail polish was a sin.
In high school when the goth/emo trends were everywhere,
I painted my nails black for the first time.
We were driving home from church when Dad noticed and said,
‘Only witches wear black nail polish.’
I don’t remember wearing black nail polish after that.
Because when something small is labelled sinful,
you learn to hide the parts of you that feel loud.

I wore the dresses.
Hid the suits.
Scrubbed off the nail polish.
Because that was the responsibility of being the only daughter.
Obedience even at the expense of my voice.
Respect even at the cost of self-expression.

I want to be clear,
my parents loved us deeply and did the best they could with what they knew.
But they weren’t the only ones shaping those expectations.

Part of it was culture.
Part of it was legalistic religion dressed as tradition.
The quiet rules whispered through looks, through dress codes, through gossip.

The weight didn’t come from one voice but from many…
And it settled over time,
like dust on everything I touched.

I share this not to shame but to shed light.
Because the effects of that kind of upbringing are real.
And healing begins when we name them.

The seams began to split.
Not all at once.
Not loudly.
It started with grief.

I lost Mum.

Somewhere in the silence after the funeral,
I lost the version of myself that was trying to hold everything together.

I was there when she took her last breath.
They had already placed her on palliative care,
but my heart could not just let go.
I tried to resuscitate her
(my hands trembling, heart racing)
as if love could breathe air into her lungs.
As if effort could reverse time.

Grief counselling was the first time someone sat across from me and listened to it all.
How I had paused my work.
Taken her to every appointment.
Stood in the gap as her advocate.
Was prepared to leave my job entirely if it meant caring for her.

And then he asked me the one question no one else had:
‘What more could you have done?’

I sat there, blinking through tears, and whispered,
‘I don’t know.’

He paused.

Then gently said,
‘There’s your answer.’

And then words that caught me off guard:
‘There seems to be an unrealistic standard in your head. Even after doing everything in your power, it still feels like it wasn’t enough.’

And something in me broke open.
Because I had done everything.
That question finally gave me permission
to lay down the grief-soaked garment stitched with guilt.

Then I lost Ivan.

That was the undoing.
The breaking open.
The beginning of everything unravelling…
and everything true rising to the surface.

I started Cognitive Behaviour Therapy,
but it was not just grief I was unpacking.
It was everything.
All the roles I had held.
All the expectations I had folded myself into.

The teine lelei was grieving and undone,
and the weight of perfection cracked in my hands.

Becoming a mother made it even clearer:
I could not carry that pressure and still carry Eden.
I could not wear the title and still walk freely.

Because I don’t want her to conform to anything less
than what God has destined for her.
I don’t want her to feel like she has to perform to be accepted,
or shrink herself to be loved.

I’m protective of the fire in her;
her humour, her boldness, her untamed joy.
She is wild and fully loved.
And I pray she becomes everything and more
of who God calls her to be…
not who the world expects her to become.

Part of that identity (that code) meant caring for your parents.
At all costs.

Even in the thick of survival,
when I made the choice to move in with my in-laws,
there were still voices (cultural and religious)
telling me that, as the only daughter,
it was my role to move back home.

Both our families lived nearby.
They didn’t know the memories I’d be returning to.
But the weight of expectation still spoke louder
than the tenderness grief required.

My in-laws had since moved out of that area.
And while I still carried sorrow into their home,
it wasn’t soaked in the same memories.
It wasn’t bound to the same streets.

There was breathing room there.
And I needed that more than I needed approval.

It’s always easier to judge someone’s decision…
until grief takes the final word.

Always.
No questions.
No breaks.

I didn’t mind honouring that.
I still don’t.
I take Dad to his appointments.
I sign his forms.
I show up in quiet faithful ways.

But not the way I used to.
Not at the cost of my breath.

After my second-to-last therapy session, I called him.
Not as the obedient daughter.
But as the woman beneath all of it.
I sobbed.

What follows is not word-for-word,
but a gentle translation of a conversation spoken entirely in Samoan.

I tried my best to move us and no matter what, the door kept closing.
So I applied for just me and Eden… and a door opened for us to move.
I don’t know what to do but I want you to know what I’ve been carrying.
Why I can’t come back and stay there anymore.
Every time I return, I am reminded of him…
“Ua matua mafatia lo’u loto…”

He cut me off before I could finish.

The words don’t translate neatly.
But they meant something like,
My heart is deeply afflicted by what has happened.

In Samoan pain carries more weight.
It’s not just spoken, it’s felt.
It reaches places English cannot touch.

For the first time my dad did not correct me.
He did not offer a verse.
He did not remind me of duty.
He just listened.
And then he said he understood.
He sits with his own pain over Mum too.

And then the thing I did not even know I needed,
he gave me his blessing.
Not just to move out.
But to move forward.

Ou te iloa le mafatiaga nae nofo ma oe. O lo’o mafatia pea lo’u loto i le alu o lou tina. Ae peitai o lo’u manaoga ia e manuia ma maua le loto fiafia.

(I know the pain you sit with. My heart still aches over your mother too. But what I want most is for you to live well and be happy.)

And something clicked in me.

After everything-all the trying, striving and grieving,
that is what it came down to.

That is what every good parent wants for their child.
Not perfection.
Not performance.
Just peace, joy and to see us whole.

There have only been two times I’ve let my dad see me truly broken.
In the house we grew up in, emotions and conversations weren’t encouraged.
We were expected to comply.

But this time was different.
It didn’t end in silence or striving.
It ended in release.
In peace.
In a deeper revelation of how our Heavenly Father loves us,
not for how well we hold it together,
but for how fully we let Him in.

Here is what I have learned in the unravelling:

That holiness is not perfection.
That faith is not performance.
That love does not demand you to disappear.

Jesus never asked me to be like so-and-so.

He asked me to come.

And I did.
Not with perfection but with pieces.
Not with clarity but with pain.
Not with strength but with surrender.

And He met me.

To every woman who followed the rules but lost herself along the way, I want to say this:

You are not more loved when you perform.
You are not less loved when you fall apart.
You are not alone in the pressure.
You are not the only one who has cracked under the weight.

Let it fall.
Let it break.
Let it go.

Some weights are meant to be released,
not worn like legacy.

You are allowed to be both gentle and wild.
Both broken and beloved.
You are allowed to rise slowly.
To walk forward freely.
To heal loudly, or quietly, in your own time.

And when you do,
may you find joy that does not demand perfection,
but welcomes your whole heart home.

Jesus doesn’t want the version of you that has it all together.
He wants you.
The real you.
And He’s still saying…

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Author’s Note:
This piece is not shared to shame but to shed light on the kind of pressure that often goes unspoken in our families and communities.
It was written with love for the culture that raised me and for the generations still trying to make sense of the weight they carry.

Some parts may be confronting, especially for those who know me personally. This isn’t a call-out, it’s a calling in. An invitation to reflect, make space for honesty and to begin healing the parts of ourselves that learned to survive by staying silent.

I believe we can honour our families and still name what hurt. I believe in a love big enough to hold both.
I pray this piece reaches whoever needs it most with grace, courage and a hope that always points back to Jesus.

A Hymn in the Hollow

If “I Call Him Dad Now” was the boldness, this piece is the stillness in between. Both are part of the same journey, one that’s still unfolding.

This piece is written in the same spirit as The Deeper Series but this one stands on its own.

I wasn’t expecting it, just another drive, another day.
Head full of noise, heart weighed down in the quiet.
Then a song came on the radio, one I’d heard a thousand times.
But this time, I really listened.

“It is well with my soul.”

And something in me came undone.
I’ve heard the song my whole life,
but this time it cracked something open in me.
Tears came without permission,
without warning.
A quiet undoing that felt strangely holy.

I didn’t always know this kind of peace.
I grew up around the Christian faith,
but not the kind that brings rest.
It was more rules than relationship.
So when my world first fell apart,
I didn’t even know where to look.

But in the quiet wreckage of grief,
where certainty failed and the formulas didn’t work,
I found Jesus waiting.
Not with answers,
but with presence.

Later that day,
I looked up the story behind the song.
The words that had broken me open
were written by a man who had lost everything.

Horatio Spafford.
A man who lived over a century ago.
He buried his young son,
lost most of his business in the Great Chicago Fire,
and then watched his four daughters drown at sea
after sending them ahead on a ship to Europe.
His wife survived.
He boarded the next boat to be with her.

And somewhere over that same stretch of water, he penned these words:

“When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.”

How does someone say that after all that?

That line stayed with me.
Not because I understood it
but because I didn’t.

You don’t have to believe everything I do
to know what it feels like to be broken.
Or to want something more,
a peace that holds
when everything else falls apart.
Maybe you’ve never prayed.
Maybe you gave up long ago.
Still, if you’re here,
reading this,
I believe it’s for a reason.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Job either.
The man in the Bible
who lost it all.
His family,
his health,
his wealth.
His friends tried to explain it away.
His wife told him to curse God and die.

But Job didn’t try to clean up his grief.
He asked the hard questions.
He wept.
He wrestled.
And still,
in all his pain,
God didn’t abandon him,
He met him.

The story of Job isn’t just for the religious.
It’s for the grieving.
The ones who’ve lost everything.
Who’ve asked,
“Why me?”
“Where is God in this?”
Job didn’t get neat answers.
But he found something better.
The presence of God in the ash heap.

I relate to that more than I ever thought I would.

Sometimes peace doesn’t arrive with explanation.
It arrives like that,
in the silence,
in the middle of wreckage,
with no answers,
but enough grace to breathe again.

I still have days where I can’t say “It is well” out loud.
But I’m learning it doesn’t have to mean
“I’m okay”
or
“This doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Sometimes it simply means,
“I’m still here.
God is still with me.
And somehow,
that’s enough.”

I know not everyone reading this
believes what I believe.
That’s okay.
I’m not here to convince you.
I’m just here to share
what I’ve lived.
And maybe,
if you’re searching for peace too,
this might be the breadcrumb
that leads you home.

Because healing,
real healing,
doesn’t mean forgetting what you’ve lost.
It means learning to carry it differently.

And peace,
it isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it whispers,
“Even this, even here,
you are not alone.”

So wherever this finds you,
in the ache,
the doubt,
the quiet wondering,
I pray you feel this truth settle deep.

Peace isn’t the absence of pain.
It’s the presence of God
in the middle of it.

Not a quick fix.
Not a bandaid.
But a peace that holds
when nothing else does.

You don’t have to earn it.
You don’t have to understand it.
You only have to receive it.

Even if your faith feels small.
Even if you’re not sure what you believe anymore
you are still seen.
Still loved.
Still invited into something deeper.

Something steady.
Something sacred.
Something that can say “It is well”
even when it’s not.

And so I leave you with this promise:

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

— Philippians 4:6–7

If you’re still reading, thank you.
Not every story needs a clear ending, and not every heart needs fixing.
Sometimes, we just need to know we’re not alone in the ache.

May peace whisper through the cracks.
And may it find you, even here.

Prayerfully yours,
Nancy

I Call Him Dad Now: The Boldness, the Shift, the Cost

What began as a whisper in prayer became a quiet declaration of faith, a costly one.

This piece has been sitting with me for a while. It wasn’t easy to write, but it felt important not just for me, but maybe for someone else who’s been unlearning, relearning, and slowly moving closer to God in a different way than they were taught.

If that’s you… I hope you find yourself in these words. Not perfectly, but honestly. This is where I am now. And this is the faith I’m choosing to live out loud.

I didn’t grow up calling God “Dad.”

In the church I was raised in,
we honoured God with formality,
with structure,
with reverence wrapped in tradition.

We called Him “Heavenly Father”…
never casually,
never too close.
He was holy,
and holy felt distant.

But lately,
without planning to,
I’ve found myself
saying something different in prayer.

Not “Heavenly Father.”
Not “Lord.”
Just…
Dad.

And at first,
I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to.

The religious part of me
whispered that it was too familiar,
too informal,
too much.

But then I remembered
what Jesus said
in the garden.

“Abba, Father.”

The same Jesus who taught us how to pray also showed us how to come close.
“Abba” wasn’t formal.
It wasn’t rehearsed.
It was personal.
Intimate.
A word for children.
A word for those who belonged.

And in that moment,
Jesus didn’t perform holiness…
He stepped into relationship.

Maybe this is what God’s been leading me into all along.

Not away from reverence,
but deeper into closeness.

Not rebellion,
but relationship.

Leaving the Samoan church
wasn’t a single decision…
it was a slow release.

A quiet, aching shift
that took months to settle in my heart.
I didn’t broadcast it.
I wasn’t sure if I needed to.

But somewhere along the way,
my prayers started to sound different.
My worship felt different.
And then last Sunday, during service,
the preacher said something that stopped me.

He talked about how many Christians are ashamed
to be bold about their faith.
How we hold back,
worrying what others (especially our families) might think.

And then he said it…
“Your family already thinks you’re nuts.
So why not go all in?”

I don’t know why that hit me the way it did.
But it did.

It was like someone flipped a switch.
I’ve always known people probably thought I was different,
but something about hearing it said out loud
made me realise… they already know.
So what am I still hiding for?

This post, these prayers, calling God “Dad”…
maybe some believers will read it and think I’m strange.
But I don’t care anymore.
If I’m going to be called a little crazy,
then let it be for being completely His.

I still carry the songs,
the scripture,
the rhythm of how I was raised.

But now, there’s something new threading through…
a closeness I never knew I was allowed to have.

I call Him Dad now.
And I mean it.

I carry this quietly,
but I pray often for my family,
the ones who grew up in the same spaces I did.

I pray that they experience God
in the way their hearts most need,
personally, tenderly, unmistakably.

Not because I have something they don’t,
but because I know what it’s like
to feel close to Him…
after feeling far.

I know it’s God who draws hearts,
and He does it in His own perfect timing.
But still, I hope…
I hope for that closeness for them too.

This isn’t about changing churches,
it’s about a heart that’s finally come home.

Not to a place,
but to a Person.

And now when I say “Dad,”
it’s not out of rebellion,
it’s out of love.

Out of healing.
Out of truth.

Because this is the same holy God,
but I am no longer a stranger at His table.

I am a daughter.
And He is my Dad.

“The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’”
— Romans 8:15 (NIV)

This post cost something.

Not because it was dramatic,
but because it was real.

It cost me comfort.
It cost me quiet.
It cost me invisibility.

But like the woman with the alabaster jar,
I’ve chosen to pour it all out.
Not privately, but publicly,
not because I need to be seen,
but because He is worth it.

And if it speaks to even one person,
if it makes someone pause and wonder if they can be bold too,
then let that be its fruit.

Because what costs something in surrender,
often carries the most weight in the Kingdom.

Authors Note:
As I share this piece, I want to acknowledge something quietly: my earthly dad is still here, deeply loved, and still a steady presence in my life. This shift in how I speak to God doesn’t replace the respect I carry for him. It’s simply the reflection of a faith that’s become more personal. I hold both with honour.

Dear Reader

If you’ve stumbled across this blog, I don’t believe it’s by accident.

Maybe you clicked on a link, or a friend sent it to you, or it just appeared while you were scrolling. However it found you, I want you to know… you were meant to read this.

Whether our seasons are similar or wildly different, perhaps there’s something here you’re meant to carry with you. Maybe this is the week God wanted to remind you that He sees you. That even in the quiet, the chaos, the grief, or the waiting… you are not forgotten.

I know what it’s like to walk through seasons where the light feels dim and the way ahead feels unsure. But I also know what it’s like to be met by a whisper when I least expect it; a whisper that brings peace, clarity, or just enough hope to make it through the next day.

So if you’re tired, take heart.
If you’re grieving, I grieve with you.
If you’re waiting, don’t give up.
If you’re healing, be gentle with yourself.

You’re not behind. You’re not too late. You’re not too broken.
You are becoming.
And the One who began the work in you will be faithful to complete it (Philippians 1:6).

Even if you feel unseen by others, you are fully known by God. Not just for who you’ve been, but for who He is calling you to become.
The valley you’re walking through might feel endless, but even here, He walks with you.

Let this be your reminder today:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
– Psalm 34:18

“Even to your old age and grey hairs I am He, I am He who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”
– Isaiah 46:4

“I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”
– Psalm 27:13

You are not alone. You are not forgotten. And this… this is not the end of your story.

With love,
Nancy

Firsts After Loss: The Ones You Don’t Prepare For

Content note: This piece contains themes of grief, depression, and passive thoughts of death.

For the ones who never had the space to speak this aloud, this is for you.

I watched a movie recently, Love Again.
The story of a woman who texts her late fiancé’s number,
just to feel a little less alone.
And it brought me back…
Back to the nights I did the same.
Typing out the things I couldn’t say,
hoping they’d land somewhere beyond the silence.

There’s a scene where she finds a box of his things.
She pulls out a shirt that still smells like him,
slips it on,
and hugs it like she’s holding him again.
And I remembered…
the night he passed,
after the tears slowed and the silence settled in,
I turned and saw his hoodie,
the one he had been wearing just the night before.
I reached for it,
brought it to my face,
and held it like it was him.
Because in that moment,
it was the only thing that still felt like him.

Grief does that;
it makes you reach for what’s no longer there,
and hold tight to whatever still remains.

This piece was born from that place,
the ache of the “firsts” after loss,
and all the quiet ways we learn to survive them.

They say the first year after loss is the hardest.
What they don’t say is that grief doesn’t just show up at anniversaries or birthdays.
It hides in the mundane.
In the everyday things that used to be ours.

There were many “firsts” after Ivan passed,
not the kind you celebrate,
but the kind you brace yourself for,
even when you don’t realise you’re bracing.

The first movie without him happened a week after we buried him.
My brother and a close family friend took me,
probably hoping it would lift my spirits,
or at least pull me out of the house.

They didn’t know they were taking me to the same cinema
Ivan and I used to go to regularly.
I wasn’t really talking much in those days,
so I didn’t say anything.
I just went along, quietly breaking on the inside.

The movie?
John Wick 4.
Which also happened to be the last movie Ivan and I watched together,
when it first released.

He picked me up from work that day.
We went straight to the cinemas,
no plans, just us.

It got cold halfway through.
I took off my long coat and we used it as a blanket.
He kept inching his feet closer to mine,
even though I was already annoyed at how cold they were.

He didn’t care.
He started teasing me with his cold hands too,
just to get a reaction.

Little things.
Soft things.
The kind of moments that drive you mad,
and make you feel safe at the same time.

I wasn’t naturally affectionate.
For most of my life, I hated being touched.
Hugs made me tense up.

But Ivan was patient.
He didn’t force it.
He just kept showing up in quiet, consistent ways,
offering affection without demanding it.

And slowly, I softened.

By the time we were married,
I had learned to lean into him.
He was secretly affectionate.
Most people didn’t see that side of him,
but I did.

He’d probably hate that I’m even telling people he had a soft side.
He worked hard to pretend it didn’t exist.

He was hilarious.
The funniest person I’ve ever known or met.
People still say that about him.

The way he could insult someone was insane.
It wasn’t just bold, it was creative.
Like an art form.

His words could leave you stunned,
laughing,
and slightly offended all at the same time.

He was sharp,
quick,
and completely unserious about everything,
except the people he loved.

And now here I was,
sitting in the same theatre,
watching the same film,
without him.

It was eerie.
Like time had looped back just to mock me.

I sat in the back seat on the drive there,
staring out the window,
trying to hide the tears I couldn’t hold back.

They probably thought I was just quiet.
But in my mind,
I was somewhere else entirely,
replaying that last movie night,
the way he was excited,
the cold air,
rolling my eyes at his teasing,
and how neither of us knew
it would be our last.

The screen blurred behind my tears.
And all I could think was,
he should be here.

The firsts kept coming.

I tried to go back to church twice in the months after Ivan passed.
Both times,
I couldn’t even get past the carpark.

I would sit there,
paralysed,
then drive home before anyone could see me.

A month after Eden was born, Father’s Day rolled around.
It was the first one without Ivan.
He passed in April.
Eden was born in August.
Father’s Day was in September.

We all went to the same church (it’s how we met).
I wanted to be there for my dad.
I told myself this time might be different.
I was wrong.

As I pulled into the carpark,
Eden cried for a feed.
I jumped into the back seat and nursed her,
but as I sat there,
it hit me like a ton of bricks.

The memories.
The ache.
The silence.

I don’t remember how long I sat there crying.
I just remember whispering to myself,
“Get it together. You need to be in there for Dad.”

I made it inside and sat quietly at the back.
I thought I had pulled it together,
until they began preparing for communion about an hour into the service.

Pastor spotted me
and asked us to come forward so they could bless Eden.

I was already fighting back tears when we sat down.
Maybe people thought I was just moved by the worship.
I hoped they couldn’t tell.

I hated crying.
I wasn’t a crier… until he passed.

When Pastor called us up,
I couldn’t hide anymore.

I broke.
Tears streamed down as they prayed over Eden,
and no one knew that it wasn’t just worship,
it was mourning.

That day should have been Ivan’s first Father’s Day.
And yet, here we were.
Alone.

Then there was the first time I got exciting news,
just a few days after he passed.

I was sitting at the table with my brother listening to him share something.
For a split second,
my brain did what it always did.

I reached for my phone to text Ivan.
And then it hit me.

He wasn’t there.
Would never be there again.

And what started as joy
became a gut-punch.

I stood up and walked out.
I don’t know if Matt noticed the shift,
but in that moment,
it pierced me.

The loss wasn’t just in the sad moments,
it was in the happy ones too.

The first road trip without him felt foreign.
He loved driving,
so he was usually in the driver’s seat.

We had made a plan to visit every town in New Zealand before going overseas.
We even had a checklist.

By the time he passed,
we only had Gisborne left in the North Island.
I went there with Eden when she was three months old.

And then there was the wedding.

One of my childhood friends (who was also Ivan’s cousin) was getting married in Samoa.

We were meant to be there.
We had all talked about it,
planned for it.

But when the time came,
I couldn’t do it.

I wasn’t in the mental state to be around people.
I didn’t want to be seen.
And more than that,
I didn’t want to be pitied.

I hated what I had become in people’s eyes.
The pregnant widow.

A few months ago, I walked down the aisle,
radiant, hopeful, believing in forever.
Today, I stand as proof
that forever can be fleeting.

I tried to watch the livestream,
just for a moment.

But as soon as the music played,
I broke.

I closed the video and sobbed.
It was too much.
Too soon.
Too cruel.

Weddings used to make me happy.
Now they felt like slow heartbreak.

There’s something people often don’t understand,
even those who have walked through grief.

I’ve lost people before.
I’ve buried family.
But losing a spouse?

Losing the person you build your everyday with
shatters something deeper.

When a parent dies,
you lose part of your foundation.

But when your spouse dies,
you lose your present and your future in one breath.

You lose the one who held your secrets.
The one who knew your routines,
your flaws, your dreams, your inside jokes.
You lose the person who was supposed to grow old with you.

And for me, I was carrying his child.
Living proof of love,
and grief,
inside the same body.

And here’s what made it even harder,
I couldn’t take anything for the pain.

No sleeping pills.
No alcohol.
No escape.
Not even the gym.

The hormones heightened every emotion.
The grief was unfiltered.
Raw.
There was no buffer between the breakdown and the outside world.

Just me,
God,
and a baby growing inside me,
while everything else was falling apart.

Someone once told me unborn babies feel everything the mother feels.
And that haunted me.
Because some days all I had was sorrow.

I remember placing my hands over my belly,
tears streaming down my face,
and whispering,
“I’m so sorry.”

Sorry that love and loss had collided like this.
Sorry that her story started in the ruins of mine.
Sorry that I couldn’t protect her from the pain I was still learning how to carry.

I tried to walk every day,
just to clear my mind.

But even the walks felt hollow.
He used to join me and our dog.
And now, without him, every step echoed the silence.

Even my dog seemed to sense it.
She slowed down, stuck close,
like she knew I couldn’t keep up the same.
Like she was grieving too.

Eden was getting heavier,
especially as I entered months seven and eight.
She wasn’t as active as she had been.
I wasn’t eating much.

Because who wants food
when your mind is stuck playing reruns?

I lived off sandwiches and the occasional sushi,
my one pregnancy craving.

But after Ivan passed,
I only ate to make sure she was fed.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered.

There was also my first midwife appointment without him.
I went with my mother-in-law.
She was steady beside me,
even though I knew she was carrying her own ache.

We sat in the waiting room,
surrounded by other expectant mothers,
and I remember thinking how strange it was,
to look like any other pregnant woman on the outside,
while internally I was falling apart.

When the blood test results came back,
the midwife said my iron levels were dangerously low.
I needed to start iron tablets immediately.
She explained the risks of severe bleeding during birth if I didn’t.

But instead of panic,
I felt… peace.
A twisted, aching kind of peace.

Because in that moment, I thought,
So if I don’t take them… and I bleed out… I get to leave too.

That thought didn’t come with drama.
It came quietly.
Like a whisper in a heavy room.

It didn’t feel like a threat.
It felt like…
hope.
Even though it was dark.

The midwife interrupted my train of thought with a question.
I don’t even remember what she asked.
But it snapped me back.
To the room.
To the weight I was still carrying.
To the baby I was still carrying.

And in that moment, I said nothing.

But later, I would cry for that version of me.
The one who wanted to go.
The one who stayed anyway.

Looking back now,
I sometimes wonder if that’s why God had me deliver Eden via caesarean.
Maybe He wasn’t going to leave even that risk in my hands.
He knew my thoughts,
and loved me too much to give them room.

It wasn’t until I moved in with my in-laws
that I started eating properly again.

And I thank God for my mother-in-law.
She got me through a lot of the dark days,
without even knowing it.

Even while she was grieving her own son,
she showed up in small, steady ways.
And those moments carried me.

Sometimes I think God intentionally made sure I was carrying
when Ivan left,
because He knew I’d try to numb it all.

He knew I’d reach for anything to silence the ache.
And instead,
He wanted me to reach for Him.

There’s no map for this kind of pain.
No shortcut through it.
Only moments you walk through,
holding your breath,
and praying you’ll survive.

But I did.
Not all at once,
not gracefully,
but little by little.

And if you’re reading this in the thick of your “firsts” too,
I just want you to know:

You’re not broken for feeling this way.
You’re not alone for wishing you could skip this chapter.

These “firsts” don’t mean you’re moving on.
They mean you’re still here.
Still loving.
Still remembering.

And somehow,
that’s a kind of strength, too.

These “firsts” don’t mean you’re moving on.
They mean you’re still here.
Still loving. Still remembering.
And somehow, that’s a kind of strength, too.

If this piece resonated, you may also want to read:

For the ones who never had the space to speak this aloud, this is for you.

The Deeper Redirection: Caught, Not Taught

Part Three of the Deeper Blessing, Deeper Healing Series

If you’ve ever felt lost in grief, this is for you.

Grief doesn’t ask for permission.
It arrives, suddenly or slowly,
and settles into places
you never thought it would reach.

It’s not just the absence of someone you love.
It’s the absence of the life
you imagined
with them.

The milestones you thought you’d share.
The everyday moments
that now feel hollow.

After Ivan passed,
I was lost in that absence.
The future we dreamed of
slipped through my hands,
and I couldn’t stop it.

We had imagined
raising our daughter together,
growing old side by side,
travelling the world,
but that life
was no longer ours.

Some days,
I felt like I was floating outside my body,
just trying to make it through.

There were moments
I didn’t want to be here.
The pain was too loud.
The silence even louder.

But in the quiet of those crumbling moments,
God whispered something that changed everything:

Redirection.
This too shall pass.

Not a booming voice.
Not a dramatic shift.
Just a gentle whisper,
barely audible, but clear enough to catch.

That word, redirection, began to root itself in my heart.
Not as a solution,
but as an invitation.

Looking back now,
I realise
it was never about returning to the life I lost.
It was about discovering the one still ahead,
one I hadn’t imagined,
but one God
had gently been preparing me for
all along.

Healing didn’t rush in like a flood.
It came like morning dew – soft, slow,
almost invisible at first.

It came in the form of
a tiny kick from Eden when I was at my lowest.
It came through a Christian therapist whose wisdom and compassion
met me right on time.

It came through Scripture I had read before,
but now it pulsed with new life.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18

There’s a quiet truth in that verse.
God doesn’t always take us out of the valley,
but He joins us in it.
And His presence became my anchor.

Not long ago,
a close family member said:
“Some things are taught. Some things are caught.”

I think about that often.
How the most meaningful lessons
aren’t always explained, they’re lived.

Caught in the quiet ways people keep showing up.
Keep loving.
Keep going.
Even when it hurts.

I never set out to teach anyone how to grieve.

But I’ve learned that showing up
with my broken pieces,
my shaky hope,
my slow steps toward healing,
is a kind of teaching in itself.

It’s not a lecture.
It’s a life
lived in the open.
A story
someone might catch something from.

And isn’t that how Jesus loved?

Not only through sermons and parables,
but through presence.

Sitting with the hurting.
Seeking out the overlooked.
Kneeling beside the broken.

“If a man owns a hundred sheep,
and one of them wanders away,
will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills
and go to look for the one that wandered off?”
— Matthew 18:12

That verse felt personal
in my grief.

Because in my wandering,
in my pain,
I felt found.

Not because I was strong.
Not because I was doing well.
But because of grace.

I wasn’t forgotten in the crowd.
I was sought after.

And so are you.

Redirection, for me,
was walking forward with the plans we made together – without him.

Just weeks before he passed,
we talked about me moving in with family
for my pregnancy and Eden’s first year.

It was hard to say yes.
I didn’t want to be a burden.
But after he was gone,
it was the only way that made sense.

I honoured him through the decisions
that made no sense to others
but made perfect sense to me,
to us.

Queenstown was part of those plans.
We had talked about going after Eden was born.
So we went.

Our families joined us for her first birthday.
We returned to places Ivan and I had once been.

And I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t ache the whole trip.

Flying over Queenstown,
seeing the snow-capped mountains,
whispering through tears,
“I did it.”

Placing Eden in the Cookie Time car
where her dad once sat.

Riding the Skyline gondola,
at the top, inside the café,
we watched the luge chairlift glide past,
the same one Ivan and I rode
after we raced down the track.
But he almost crashed into the barrier.

He laughed as they told him off.
He was carefree, unapologetic,
like the rules never applied to him.

We had a lot in common,
but in this, we were opposites.
I measured every step. He ran free.
And somehow, that worked.

Grief and joy both showed up.
Neither asked permission.
But they made room for each other.

And then, Samoa.

He once texted me:
“Can we go to Samoa after baby?”

We went this year.
Not for a holiday.
But to support my dad and brother at their Saofa’i (chief bestowal).

Still, being there took me back.
Especially with Eunice beside me.
It felt like a meant-to-be moment.

Before we left, I prayed for something simple – cheap flights.
But God,
knowing what I truly needed,
gave me more.

As a solo parent,
planning a trip felt impossible,
the logistics, the timing, the uncertainty.
But God knew.

A quiet answer,
wrapped in grace:
A three-day stopover in Fiji,
where Ivan and I once honeymooned.

This time,
I walked those paths with Eden.
Not through nostalgia,
but through her wonder-filled eyes.

Flights that typically cost
$900–$1,000 NZD
dropped to $761.93 NZD round trip,
booked just one month before departure.

A gift wrapped in prayer.

And then, a second miracle.

I had hoped someone would come with me.
Just a quiet wish.
Unspoken
until after a seven-day fast
(seven days of prayer and surrender).

As the flight page loaded, I whispered,
“If it’s meant to be. It’ll be cheap.”

$545.53 NZD.
Round trip.
Booked 13 days before departure.

Two days later,
the price jumped back to over $1,000.
$1,293.33 to be exact.
I remember because I screenshot it.

I called Eunice.
We booked it.

Some would call it luck.
But I call it love: precise, quiet, intentional.
The kind only God could weave into place.

As we drove through the villages
Ivan once told me about,
Eunice shared the same stories.
The waterholes, the mischief, the simplicity.

And I saw it all,
not just in words
but in colour, shape, scent, and sound.

I finally understood the roots of his humility,
the life he lived beyond what I’d ever known.

I wish he had been there
so I could turn to him and say:
“I get it now.”

It wasn’t closure.
But it was something close.
A gentle turning
not away from him,
but toward what’s ahead.

With him in memory,
and God leading the way.

And along the way, the small mercies continued.

Three times
once in New Zealand,
once in Fiji,
again on our return.
Each time, I breathed a version of the same prayer:
“Lord, let us get through gently, quickly”
Just the quiet plea of a mother
travelling solo with a toddler,
a storm always close to the surface.
And each time,
God made a way.

In Auckland, a woman pulled me from the middle of a long line.
There were families ahead of me and behind me.
But she picked me.
Her name — same as mine.
And as she ushered us through, her supervisor called out,
“Go on break after this one.”
As if she was meant to catch me,
just before she left.

My mother-in-law said it’s normal for people with children.
And maybe it is.
But for me, in that moment,
it felt like grace: quiet, simple, and perfectly timed.

On the way back,
when Eunice had flown home five days ahead of us,
a Samoan man (not airport staff, just a fellow traveller)
stepped in to help me unfold Eden’s pram.
We’d waited for the plane to empty while she slept,
and in that small moment,
he made the weight a little lighter.
We passed through customs with small talk,
nothing grand,
but it felt like grace showing up again
in the quiet company of kindness.

And just before all that
on the way there, during our stopover in Fiji
before Eunice joined us
I met a Fijian man while trying to set up a SIM card at Digicel.

I needed to get cash out,
and he offered to watch my luggage while I stepped away.
His name?

Savaiinaea.
Ivan’s family name.

Spoken like any other introduction,
But in me, it echoed.
A quiet moment where time felt thin.
He couldn’t have known what it meant.
But I believe God did.

Another thread,
tucked into the fabric of this redirection.

Wherever this finds you
in the middle of sorrow,
in the slow walk of healing,
or even in a place of peace

I want to leave you with this:

“Because of the Lord’s great love
we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
— Lamentations 3:22–23

You are not forgotten.
Your pain is seen.
And there is still beauty
to be found.

Let this be your reminder:
Some of the most powerful truths
aren’t shouted.

They’re whispered.
Caught in quiet moments.
Lived
one day at a time.

Take heart.
Healing
isn’t the end of your story
it’s part of the redirection.

P.S.
I never planned to write a series, just to share pieces of my heart as they came.
If there’s ever a Part Four, it’ll be because something deeper stirs again.
Until then, I’m grateful you’re here.
May peace meet you in your own unfolding story.
If any of these pieces have moved you, feel free to share them with someone who might need them too.

Prayerfully yours,
Nancy