This post is part of the 10-part series: The Grace to Make Changes. You can read the full series here.

I used to think grace was mostly about forgiveness. A quiet covering for my mess-ups. A soft voice telling me, “It’s okay, I still love you.”

And it is that.

I’ve been learning that grace is also grit.

It’s the only reason I’m still standing after everything I didn’t think I could carry. The long seasons. The quiet battles. The mental exhaustion from being needed in too many places at once. The roles I didn’t ask for but knew I had to show up in anyway. Sometimes grace isn’t a soft place to land—it’s a steady push to keep going when you’re past your limit.

What Grace Really Feels Like

We don’t always talk about this side of grace. The side that shows up not just to heal—but to hold. The kind that keeps your hands steady when you’re building in a storm. The kind that equips you to face what others avoid—not because you’re stronger, but because you’re graced for it.

And here’s the thing: comparison will lie to you.

It’ll tell you that if it’s hard, it’s not from God. That if someone else couldn’t handle it, maybe you’re crazy for trying. That grace should feel like ease.

But grace doesn’t always feel like ease.
Sometimes it just feels like enough.

Enough breath for today. Enough courage to try again. Enough power to do what you cannot do alone.

The Season That Should’ve Broken Me

There was a stretch in late 2022 where everything felt like it was falling apart—and I didn’t have the option to fall with it.

Desmond had just come home from deployment. That kind of transition is never simple. There were adjustments happening on every level—emotionally, logistically, relationally. And then, almost immediately, we got the call that his mother, Pat, had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. They wanted to start treatment right away. I wanted to be strong for her, for him—but inside, I felt like I was already at capacity.

Pat, in treatment but still smiling. Strength runs deep.

Amy was going through an intense emotional season—frequent outbursts, big feelings that overwhelmed her little body. Lily had just turned one. I had just found out I was pregnant again.

Lily turning one—a bright spot in a hard season.

The test that shifted everything.

We were still living in North Carolina, with no real support system—our closest family nine hours away. I was commuting back and forth to Alabama each month for my National Guard duties. I was working full-time in HR, trying to stay afloat at a job that had just introduced a new president whose leadership style was—well, let’s just say it required constant bracing. I never felt like I could fully exhale.

And then? I caught a bad case of MRSA. The kind that knocks you down when you’re already holding too much. The kind that says, you really can’t afford to rest—but your body says otherwise.

At the same time, we were launching a small embroidery business. And by God’s grace, it was working. Orders were coming in. Demand was growing. But with the success came more work—more boxes, more inventory, more long nights. And in the middle of it all, Lily was potty training.

The business that grew alongside the chaos.

Desmond, working hard on our embroidery machine.

What success looked like—boxes stacked, grace in motion.

There were days when I genuinely didn’t know how I was going to keep functioning. But I still had to. I still had to be a wife. A mom. A daughter-in-law. A service member. A business owner. A full-time employee. I was managing the house, the laundry, the school meetings, the therapy appointments, the meals. I took Desmond to therapy. I took Amy to therapy. We went as a family. I even tried going for myself—but the therapist spent the whole session criticizing another clinic, and I never went back.

Us smiling through it all. This is what grace carried.

For a long time, I didn’t tell this story—not because I was hiding, but because I didn’t want to relive it. But now, with distance, I see it more clearly.

That season should’ve crushed me.
But grace met me in the cracks.
Not the Pinterest-perfect grace. Not the tidy devotional kind.
I’m talking about the gritty, quiet, sustaining kind.

The grace that holds you together when your life is coming apart.
The grace that says, you’re not okay—but you’re not alone, either.
The grace that fuels tired hands and gives breath to a weary body.

That’s what grace became for me: not a soft landing—but a steady push forward.

Scripture Anchor:

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”
2 Corinthians 12:9 (NIV)

Something to Consider

If you’re in a season that feels like too much, you’re not weak. You’re just human. And that’s exactly where grace shows up best.

What would shift if you stopped seeing grace as a backup plan—and started seeing it as your source?

What if the very thing that feels like it’s breaking you… is also the thing building you?

Grace won’t always take the weight away.
But it will make you strong enough to carry it.

Reflection Prompt:

• Where have I mistaken grace for ease—when it’s really been my source of strength?
• What season in my life looked impossible, but somehow I made it through?
• What might God be growing in me, not after the pressure lifts, but while I’m still under it?

Closing Prayer:

Lord, thank You for the grace that doesn’t just forgive—but fortifies.
For the kind that meets me in exhaustion, in transition, in silence.
Help me stop comparing what I carry to someone else’s load.
And when I forget how I’ve made it this far, remind me: it was always You.
Amen.