Tag: life

When You’re Just Tired of Holding On

by Richelle Braybrook, posted in Truth-Telling

💬 “I’m tired. I’m heavy. And today, I want to give up.”

There’s no sugarcoating it today — my chest is heavy, my hope feels thin, and I’m tired of pretending it’s fine.

I don’t want to be strong today.
I don’t want to hear “you’ve got this” or “God’s got a plan” right now — even though deep down I know He does.
Right now, I just feel… done.

I look around and I’m so far from where I thought I’d be.
This dream of having a little place to call mine — a farm, a home, something steady — it feels impossible.
I’ve tried. I’ve prayed. I’ve worked hard.
And yet here I am… still stuck.
Still wondering how I’ll ever afford a future that feels like it was meant for someone else.

Why do I keep doing this?
Why do I keep holding on when everything in me says to let go?

Because deep down…
somewhere under the pain and pressure and exhaustion…
I still believe God’s not done with me.

But that doesn’t make this any easier.

There’s something about today that just feels extra heavy.
The kind of heavy that sits in your chest and makes you want to curl up and hide.
The kind of heavy that makes even getting dressed feel like too much.
The kind that whispers, “You’ll never get out of this. You’re wasting your time. Give up.”

But here’s the truth I’m clinging to, even if by a thread:

God sees me. Right now. In this exact moment.
Tired. Defeated. Mad.
And He’s not pulling away.
He’s sitting with me in it.

He’s not asking me to perform.
He’s not disappointed in my struggle.
He just wants me to bring it all to Him.
Even the ugly. Especially the ugly.

So that’s what I’m doing today.

I don’t have answers.
I don’t have a smile.
I don’t have energy to fake anything.

But I do have honesty.
And I do have faith — even if it’s shaky.

And maybe… that’s enough.

To the one reading this who feels the same:
You’re not alone.
You’re not weak.
You’re tired — and that’s okay.
This isn’t the end of your story.
You’ve been through harder. You’re still here.

Scripture:

“Come to Me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28 (NLT)

💬 If this is you too today, just type “me.” No big words. Just honesty.
We can’t heal in hiding. Let’s be real together.

I’m Not Being Buried — I’ve Been Planted

by Richelle Braybrook, posted in Faith, Truth-Telling

Some days I ask God if He forgot me.
Because it hurts.
Because it’s lonely.
Because everything I knew is falling apart and I’m the one sitting in the rubble, holding pieces that don’t fit anymore.

But He hasn’t buried me.
He’s planted me.

And planting doesn’t feel holy.
It feels like dying.
Like loss.
Like isolation.
Like everyone pulling away while you try to hold on.

Breaking Generational Pain

I was born into dysfunction.
I inherited pain I never asked for.
I watched patterns repeat that I didn’t know how to escape.

But I’m breaking it.
Right here.
Right now.
And the enemy knows it.

That’s why the fight has been so intense.
Because I’m not just healing for me — I’m healing for the ones who come after me.
I’m breaking chains that others accepted as normal.

Willpower Wasn’t Enough

I’ve tried to fix myself with willpower.
Tried to push through and act strong.
Tried to numb the pain or pretend it wasn’t there.

But I don’t want to just survive anymore.

I need spiritual power.
And that’s what God is giving me — in the quiet, in the tears, in the dark.
When all I can whisper is, “Jesus, please.”

The Shift Inside Me

My spirit is changing.
I feel it.
The people and places that once felt familiar now make me uneasy.
Not because I hate them.
But because I’m not her anymore.

The girl who stayed silent.
The girl who settled.
The girl who smiled through the pain.

She’s gone.

I’ve grown.
And some people can’t handle that.
And I’ve stopped apologizing for it.

This Pain Has Purpose

Yes, this season hurts.
But that doesn’t mean I’m being punished.
It means God is doing something deep.
Something holy.

He’s growing me.
Stretching me.
Rooting me.

Because what’s coming… is big.
And I need deep roots to hold it.

Obedience Over Popularity

God’s been stripping things away.
People I thought would stay.
Plans I thought were certain.

But I trust Him.
Because I’m not here to be popular — I’m here to be obedient.

This isn’t about a platform.
It’s about purpose.
And sometimes, that means walking alone.
Being unseen.
Feeling like you missed something.

But you didn’t.
You’ve just been set apart.

The Fruit Will Come

This is planting season.
And planting feels like death.
But it’s actually life in disguise.

The fruit that’s coming?
It’s going to be more than I prayed for.
More than I imagined.
Because it’s not about me.

It’s about what God can do through someone willing to surrender — even when it hurts.

Final Thought

If you’re in a painful season…
If you feel stripped, pruned, or hidden…
You’re not being buried.
You’ve been planted.

And the fruit will come.

💬 Comment if you can relate.
You’re not alone in this season. Keep going. You’re growing.

I Didn’t Give Up—The System Did

by Richelle Braybrook, posted in My Journey as a Mother

To the people who don’t understand why I signed my parental rights away: That’s okay. You don’t have to understand. But I hope my story opens your eyes.

I didn’t walk away from my children. I wasn’t careless. I wasn’t cold. I was a mom fighting a battle most people never see—inside my own mind, and inside a system that was never built to support someone like me.

The truth? The system says it’s about family reunification. But when you’re struggling with mental illness… when you don’t have thousands of dollars for a lawyer… when you’re in and out of psych wards trying just to survive—you don’t get the same chance. You barely get a voice.

I’ll never forget sitting in the chambers of an old-school judge, stone-faced and set in his ways. He looked at me and said, “Being an addict, you would have a better chance of getting your kids back than having a mental illness.”

That moment broke something in me. Not just because of what he said, but because of how real it was. My lawyer consoled me after we left. She cried. She held space for my pain in a way the system never did. And in that moment, I knew the battle wasn’t mine to fight anymore—not if it meant dragging my kids through more heartbreak.

So I made the hardest decision of my life. I signed my rights away—not because I didn’t love them, but because I did. Because I chose their peace over my pride. Because I wanted them to have a chance at a stable life, even if it meant they couldn’t have it with me.

I haven’t seen or spoken to them in years. I’ve respected their wish for a “normal” life. And I’m truly grateful for the family who’s raising them. But I carry them with me every single day. They are and always will be my why.

Mental illness does not make someone unfit to be a parent. Lack of money does not mean lack of love. But when both exist in a system built to work against you. Sometimes love looks like letting go.

I lean hard on God now. He’s the one who has held me through this pain, this silence, this waiting. He’s the reason I can write these words with hope and not bitterness.

One day, I believe my children will have questions. And when that day comes, I’ll be here—with open arms, truth in my heart, and love that never left.

Every day, I carry a little brokenness and an emptiness inside without my kiddos.
A part of me is missing—and that’s the hardest part of all this. But I am not ashamed of my story. This pain has purpose. And I plan to keep up the good fight every single moment of every single day. Because my story isn’t over. And neither is theirs.

To the ones who had to walk away…
To the mothers the system failed…
To those who carry silent grief and invisible strength—

You are not a failure.
You are not forgotten.
And you are not alone.

Reflection:
Have you ever had to make a choice that no one clapped for—but you knew deep down it was the most loving thing you could do?

Invitation:
If this touched something in you, I’d love to hear your story. You can comment, message me, or simply share this with someone who needs to know they’re not alone. Our stories matter—and they were never meant to be carried in silence.

The Kind of Strength No One Talks About

by Richelle Braybrook, posted in My Journey as a Mother

Healing doesn’t always feel like strength. Sometimes it feels like waking up with a lump in your throat. Sometimes it feels like walking through life with a part of your heart missing.
Sometimes it’s making choices you pray no one else ever has to make.

Years ago, I made one of those choices.

I didn’t fight a system that was never on my side. I didn’t drag my kids through courtrooms, instability, or chaos just to say I tried. I let go, not because I didn’t love them, but because I did. So much that I laid down my pride, my rights, and the very title of “mom” so they could have a better chance at life.

Let me tell you something…
That’s not weakness. That’s the kind of strength no one talks about.

Every day since, they’ve been my why. Even if they don’t see it. Even if they never understand it. They are the reason I keep choosing healing. The reason I chose sobriety.
The reason I get back up when grief knocks me down again.

I never stopped loving them. Not for a second. And I still pray for them, think of them, miss them—every single day. But I’ve also learned I have to love myself now too. Because the version of me they may someday meet…She’s worth knowing.

This journey of healing is messy. It doesn’t come with neat edges or clean timelines. Some days I still break down. Some days I wonder if I made the right choice.
But I go back to this truth: I loved them enough to let them go. And now I love them enough to become whole.

If you’ve ever had to make the kind of decision that no one claps for. One that leaves you questioning everything. You’re not alone. Your story still matters. And so do you.

You can still be a good mom, even if your story looks nothing like you dreamed.
You can still be healing and worthy. You can still be grieving and growing. And you can still hold space for hope—because it’s not over yet.

So if you’re reading this with a heavy heart, if your story didn’t go the way you hoped, if you’ve loved deeply and lost quietly. I just want you to know…

You are seen. You are not alone. And your heart still has so much left to give.

Be gentle with yourself today.
You’re doing better than you think.

From the Depths to the Light: My Journey with Mental Health

by Richelle Braybrook, posted in mental-health

There was a time when I felt like I was drowning, unable to find my way out. I was trapped in my own mind, struggling with emotions that felt too big to handle. My thoughts were scattered, and no matter how hard I tried, nothing seemed to make sense. For years, I lived in the chaos of mental health struggles, often finding myself in places I never imagined—like psych wards, where the pain seemed endless and the hope seemed so distant.

Being in a psych ward was like being in a cage—surrounded by people who were just as lost, just as broken as I felt. It was a place where I couldn’t escape the overwhelming emotions and dark thoughts. But it was also a place where I had no choice but to face myself. It was terrifying, humbling, and often heartbreaking.

I used to think that the psych ward was where I would always end up—my “normal,” my constant cycle. I didn’t believe I could ever break free from it. I felt like I was a failure, like my struggles would define me forever. But as time passed, I realized something. I didn’t have to stay there. I didn’t have to let that darkness take over my life.

Slowly, I started to rebuild myself. I took small steps—learning to trust again, asking for help, and slowly finding my way back to who I was before the darkness took hold. It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t happen overnight, but I began to see a glimmer of hope where there once was none.

It’s been a long road since those days, and while I still have moments where my mind tries to pull me back to that place, I know now that I have the tools to keep moving forward. The psych ward isn’t my normal anymore. Healing, growth, and resilience are.

Looking back at how far I’ve come, I can’t help but feel proud. I’ve learned that it’s okay to not be okay. That asking for help doesn’t make me weak, and that healing isn’t a linear path. Some days are hard, some days are good, and that’s okay. What matters is that I keep going, one step at a time.

If you’re struggling, please know that you’re not alone. There is light after the darkness. Healing is possible. I’ve walked that path, and I can tell you—it gets better. I’ve come a long way, and so can you.