Stop, Drop, and Grow: Holy Ground in the Middle of Heartache and Estrangment

Psalm 34:18 (ESV):

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit."

Stop, Drop, and Grow: Holy Ground in the Middle of Heartache

I didn’t see it coming—not like this.

Life had been hard. Even disappointing. There had been moments of hope, sure—but more often than not, I felt like I was just surviving. I carried so much pain and hurt. The loss of my mama still aches deep in my bones. Watching her slowly slip away from me while battling dementia was one of the hardest things I’ve ever walked through. Years of caregiving took a toll that no one saw but God.

Layered on top of that were the financial struggles, the weight of trauma that stretched across my lifetime—things that were never truly resolved. It all collided into one massive tidal wave of overwhelming responsibility. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t find solid ground.

And then came one terrible day.

A day I wasn’t sure I wanted to live through. I couldn’t see a way out of the pain. It swallowed me whole.

I called my therapist. I sent texts to my children, telling them how much I loved them—just in case.I messaged my closest friend, who’s more than a brother to me, and asked him to be there for my adult children… because I was in trouble.

And then, I went quiet. I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t respond to the frantic calls or desperate messages. I was drowning.I hurt my family. I was in a deep hole.And that very day, my adult estranged daughter stopped talking to me. A new pain began.

Weeks went by, and I didn’t hear from her.

But right before Christmas, she called to find out if she could come over on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, which she did. It was painful and awkward, and I worked hard to put on a good face.

When my adult children left, I sobbed. Everything was different. My heart had shifted. There was such a distance between me and my adult estranged daughter. I knew it would never be the same.

I spent months having panic attacks and seizures. I would collapse on the floor, sobbing and sobbing, crying out to Jesus for help. I had trouble functioning. Inside of me, something died. I felt empty and lost.

Only when my first child died had I felt such grief. Only when my son died had I felt such a heartbrokenness.

Then came the anger—anger at being abandoned. During a time when I needed my family around me, when I needed support, I was angry at her seeming indifference. I wanted to scream, to demand answers. But all I had was silence. And that silence stung deeper than I could ever put into words.

Even in the midst of this pain, I knew God was with me. I could hear the whisper of the Holy Spirit: He has not given up on me.

I asked my family, the two other adult children who are not estranged, and my husband if they would be willing to attend family therapy. They all wanted to. My adult children especially—they had thought we had needed that for a long time.

We started going. At first, I hated it. It felt like a session of let's tell mommy all the bad things she has done to us. It was torturous to hear how my children had been hurt over the years by things I had done—and things Nelson had done—unintentionally, but still hurtful. Again, I had panic attacks. I never, ever wanted to hurt my children. I was blind and deaf to my own shortcomings, to the past traumas that had been a catalyst to their pain—and to my own.

Over time, I learned to stop feeling that way and listen. I prayed and prayed and prayed. I knew that change is painful, and growth is hard, and before I could do anything else, I had to stop and listen. A new way of communication began to emerge. Though it is still hard and awkward, it is working.

But there was even more that I needed to do. I needed to learn to STOP—to truly stop and give myself space to hear God, to hear my family, and to listen to the deep, quiet calls in my soul. This wasn’t just about stopping to breathe, it was about stopping to listen, to understand, and to embrace change, even when it was difficult.

Stop.

I had to stop pretending. Stop pushing through. Stop putting on the brave face. I was not okay—and I finally allowed myself to admit it.

In stopping, I found stillness. And in the stillness, God met me.

Not with judgment. Not with shame. Just presence.

Drop.

I dropped to my knees in desperation. I dropped every ounce of pressure I had been carrying for far too long. I dropped the grief, the guilt, the rage, the hopelessness. I dropped it all like shattered glass at His feet.

And that place—where I felt like I had nothing left? It became holy ground.

The kind of sacred space where God does His deepest work. Where healing doesn’t always shout—but it shows up, quietly, faithfully, powerfully.

Like Moses standing before the burning bush, God whispered: “This is holy ground.”

Not because it was perfect, but because He was present.

Grow.

I never thought growth could happen in a place that broken. But it is.

Little by little, breath by breath, I started to grow—not in spite of the heartache, but because of it.

I grew into someone softer and stronger.I grew into someone who could look pain in the face and still speak life.I grew into someone who knows now—I am still here. And that means something.

If you're reading this and you’ve ever felt that kind of darkness—you are not alone.

If today feels too heavy, too hard, too much—I see you.

Stop. Breathe. Drop. Let go. Grow. Even here. Even now.

Because the soil of sorrow can still grow something sacred.

Even this… is holy ground.

Let me know if you need anything else! We are still estranged from our adult daughter. None of what I wrote today has changed that part of our lives. It has changed me. Nothing is perfect, It never will be while I am in this life. Even on Holy Ground, I still struggle. Not me Lord! Not me! That is what I say to Him. What is His reply?

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go."

— Joshua 1:9 (NIV)

Remember you are loved and enough. Comment below and let us know your story. We want to hear from you.