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I sat by the window, watching the raindrops race down the glass, lost in thought. The sky outside mirrored the storm brewing inside me—dark, heavy, relentless. I used to love the rain; it felt refreshing, washing away the dust and grime of life. Lately, however, it seems like the rain has never stopped. My heart ached, and I couldn’t shake the suffocating weight of worry.
It wasn’t the financial struggles or the daily pressures of life that wore me down. It was something deeper, something much harder to fix—my children’s pain. The spark in their eyes had dimmed, replaced by something darker, something I couldn’t reach. They were young, and yet, I could feel their sadness like a tangible presence in our home. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t lift them out of the fog that seemed to be pulling them under.
The days blurred together, each one weighed down by the silent tension that filled the house. I worried constantly—about their future, about whether I was doing enough, about what more I could possibly do. I was their mother. I was supposed to protect them, to make everything better. But no amount of love or effort seemed to reach them, and that realization broke me.
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Tom, my husband, didn’t seem affected. He went about his days as if nothing was wrong, calm, steady, unshaken by the storm that was swallowing me whole. It frustrated me. How could he be so unbothered when our children were struggling so much? I was sinking under the weight of it all, and he just stood there, solid as a rock, like none of it touched him. It felt like I was carrying the burden alone.
Then, one evening, as I sat on the couch, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Tom. I hesitated, unsure if I even wanted to hear what he had to say. But I opened it anyway, and as I read his words, something inside me shifted.
“Darling, what is life without learning? What is life without tribulations? It is through them that we appreciate life. Every situation that does not break us, teaches us. It may seem dark, but I am optimistic dawn is near.”
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. I had always thought Tom wasn’t as concerned as I was—that maybe he didn’t understand the gravity of what was happening to our children. But here he was, telling me that he did. That he saw the darkness too but believed in the light at the end of it.
His message continued: “It is not easy, but deep inside me, I know we will overcome it. I may appear least perturbed, but I am greatly concerned. One day, someday, we will be victorious and the dust will settle. You are so strong, a woman. I love you, dear.”
Tears filled my eyes, but this time they weren’t from despair. They were from relief. Tom wasn’t indifferent. He wasn’t ignoring the storm. He was just weathering it in his own way. While I fought, desperately trying to fix things, he stood firm, holding space for the belief that we would come through this.
He reminded me that a tree that can bend cannot be broken.
I realized then that we weren’t alone in this battle. We were both fighting, just in different ways. I had been so caught up in my own pain and fear that I hadn’t noticed how much Tom had been holding for us. His quiet strength wasn’t detachment—it was faith. Faith that we could make it through. Faith that no storm lasted forever.
As I sat there, staring at his message, I felt a weight lift off my chest. It wasn’t that things were suddenly okay—they weren’t. My children were still struggling, and the road ahead was still uncertain. But I wasn’t alone. Tom was with me, and together, we were strong enough to face whatever came our way.
I typed out a reply, my fingers trembling slightly as I did.
“Wow, thanks sweetheart. Thank you for always being a phone call away. I do love you too. I am sure that you know. Be blessed. I can’t wait for the day all this will be history.”
As I sent the message, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. The storm was still raging, but now I knew we would survive it. One day, the dust would settle, and we would stand victorious, stronger than before.
For now, I had my husband’s hand to hold, and that was enough.
