Every morning now, there’s a small ritual I didn’t expect to have.
I sit on the floor while my almost–nine-month-old daughter plays on her mat — stacking toys, rolling onto her belly, babbling to herself like she’s solving something important. And beside her, usually with one hand still hovering near her just in case, I read a passage from A Beautiful Year with Jesus.
I’m doing this intentionally.
Not because I’ve suddenly become deeply religious. Not because I have it all figured out. But because I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to learn. I’m trying to see what this faith is about as I consider getting baptized — slowly, thoughtfully, without rushing myself into something I don’t fully grasp yet.
Reading one passage each morning has become grounding. It centers me. Even if only for five minutes, it gives my day a different starting point than panic, emails, or mental math about bills. It’s quiet. It’s gentle. And lately, it’s been asking me questions I didn’t know how to answer.
One morning, I read Proverbs 3:5–6:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take.”
I didn’t read it as doctrine. I read it as a mirror.
Because long before I picked up this book, I lived my life with a version of that belief — just without religious language. For the past decade or so, I’ve believed you should try your absolute hardest. Leave nothing undone. Live without regret. But also accept that some things are destined, and no amount of effort can force what isn’t meant for you.
And yet — here I am — still gripping the steering wheel like if I loosen my hands for even a second, everything will collapse.
The reflection that followed talked about surrender. About how faith — whatever form it takes — requires loosening control. About how we plan because planning feels safe. Because certainty feels like protection. But life doesn’t care how well we prepare. It dismantles even the most carefully built futures and leaves us standing in the wreckage asking, Now what?
That landed deeply.
Because what people don’t always see is how much it took for us to get here.
Years of IVF. Years of needles, hope, disappointment, and private grief. We pursued it when we could barely afford it, telling ourselves it would somehow be worth it in the end. We’re still paying for it — financially and emotionally. Until one day, we stopped. Not out of peace, but out of exhaustion. We were done. Physically. Emotionally. Financially.
And then — when we had fully let go — our daughter happened. Naturally. Unexpectedly. In a way that still doesn’t make logical sense to me.
Her existence feels like both a miracle and a paradox. Because joy didn’t erase the struggle — it arrived alongside it.
Shortly after, reality settled back in. My husband’s residency salary. Bills that don’t pause for gratitude or timing. Rent. Utilities. Groceries. The kind of debt that isn’t strategic or impressive — it’s survival debt. The kind you carry quietly.
My husband leaves at 4 a.m. and most nights comes home close to midnight. He’s often less than a mile away from us, but it feels like a different universe. He does something meaningful — something extraordinary. He saves lives. Truly. And I am endlessly proud of him.
But the journey to get him there nearly broke us.
The strain on our relationship.
The years of living in survival mode.
The loneliness of being together but rarely present.
I am raising our daughter mostly alone — not because he doesn’t want to be here, but because the system demands everything from him. I work four jobs. Five, if you count this — writing honestly, exposing the parts of my life that are still tender. And I take care of our daughter full time.
Some days, it feels like I am holding everything together with hands that are already tired.
That passage talked about trust — not as blind belief, but as releasing the illusion that control equals safety. About how letting go doesn’t mean you stop caring — it means you stop believing that if you just try harder, nothing will hurt.
I’m trying to lean into that.
Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But sincerely.
I read these passages each morning not because I have answers, but because I need something steady while everything else feels uncertain. Because in between feedings, deadlines, bills, and exhaustion, I need a moment that reminds me I’m not carrying this alone — even if I don’t yet know exactly what I believe.
We are trying. So hard. And still, some days feel unbearably heavy. But I also know this: we didn’t get here by accident. And even when I don’t understand the path, something in me believes it’s still leading somewhere.
If this moves you — if you feel it — it’s because you recognize it. And if you choose to support us, whether through a donation or something from our baby registry, know that it isn’t charity. It’s relief. It’s oxygen. It’s help during a season where we are doing everything we can to stay afloat.
I’m learning — slowly — to loosen my grip.
Not because everything is okay.
But because holding on tighter hasn’t saved me either.
And for now, that’s enough to keep going.
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UPDATED BIO:
Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.
In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.
Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.
If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.
🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.
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Read also: Two Days After Bringing Our Baby Home, I Asked for a Divorce
Read also: Our Marriage Ended Before It Began: The Pregnancy That Shattered Everything
Read also: I’m Pregnant And Broke — My Cry For Help
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Tim Wildsmith On Unsplash
