I’ve never thought of myself as a weak person. That is until the day I crumbled onto the floor of my bedroom, feeling as if I had nothing left to give. Tears had flowed earlier that day, but not now. I’d been trying to reach out to my angry daughter throughout the day but to no avail.
Although her anger was directed toward me, I knew I wasn’t the source of her mad. Her “mad” had built over the years: from early trauma, being put into foster care, and feeling like a burden, rather than part of a family, part of a home. And although my mind had compassion for her, my heart felt weak, as if it had been pulled out of my chest, wrung out, and tossed to the side.
Lord, I’m not sure I can keep doing this, I whispered into the carpet. I don’t think my heart can take anymore.