Eugene Peterson’s Run With the Horses found me the summer of 2021, a few weeks after an emotional meltdown on the shores of the Florida Keys. Our family vacation had been too long and too full. Tension was high and being the family thermostat, I was over it. The sun was beginning to set over the water, but I was headed the opposite direction, fuming my way toward the parking lot. A few weeks prior, I’d had an epic outburst in my driveway, milliseconds after tapping the back of my car into the side of my daughter’s car. A month before that, I’d noticed the symptoms of post-traumatic stress.
I was getting my butt handed to me in the parenting department, resulting in massive dysregulation and disappointment. Throughout my 24 years of motherhood, I’d been relatively self-assured and quick to assume I knew what I was doing. Suddenly, I was questioning myself and my appointed role nearly every day. It was frustrating to feel inadequate in a role that had always felt comfortable. It was heartbreaking to view my home as depleting and unsafe.
My façade was calm and collected, but my insides were in perpetual frenzy. I resented the challenges God had allowed, how they made me feel uncertain and dependent. I longed for the good ol’ days…
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