You know that feeling when you finally start to overcome something? When you feel stronger, braver, more confident—like you’ve finally made it to the top of the mountain?

That was me this weekend.

We had a calm, beautiful few days. The boys were loving, kind, and funny, and they didn’t fight much, which in itself felt like a win. I took them out to stores by myself, handled everything, and for the first time in a long time, I felt capable again. I felt like I was finally starting to conquer motherhood again—like I was getting pieces of myself back that I thought had been stripped away from me over the past year.

This weekend felt like bright threads in my quilt—warm, colorful, full of light. The kind of threads you notice right away. The kind you want to hold onto. I felt strong and confident, like maybe—just maybe—I had made it to the top.

And then Monday came.

I’ve never been a fan of Mondays, but this one hit differently. I opened my email and saw it—a motion to change custody. And just like that, I was pulled right back into the mindset I was in a year ago. What happens now? Will my boys have to go somewhere they haven’t been—somewhere they haven’t stayed overnight, stay with someone they haven’t even seen for more than a few hours alone since May 11, 2025? Will they be taken so far away from me that I can’t get to them if they need me? A 22-hour drive… twenty-two hours between me and my children. I won’t be able to just run down the road if they call me upset, scared, or worse—hurt.

And suddenly, all those bright threads faded, replaced with darker, heavier ones. The kind that feel dull and overwhelming. The kind I don’t want stitched into this quilt at all. I want my bright colors back—the warmth, the sunlight from the top of that mountain.

How does this keep happening? You feel like you’ve finally climbed the mountain, like you’re standing at the top wearing your super-mom cape, covered in all the little achievement badges you fought so hard to earn… and then you take one more step, thinking you’ve made it, only to realize there’s another mountain you didn’t even see. Bigger. Steeper. Waiting.

And I’m standing here thinking—I need a map. Not just any map, but a topographical one. The kind that shows you what’s really ahead. Something that says, “You made it up that hill, but this next one is going to take everything you’ve got.” Something that helps me prepare, because if I’m being honest, I don’t feel ready for another climb—not physically, not mentally, not emotionally.

In moments like this, I find myself asking God if He can give me that kind of map. If He can show me what’s ahead so I can brace myself. If there will ever be a moment where I hear, “You’ve made it. You’re at the top. You can rest now.” Or if this is just what life is—climbing, falling, and climbing again.

Maybe faith isn’t about having the map. Maybe it’s about trusting the One who sees it, even when I don’t feel strong enough, even when I’m tired, even when I wish I could stay in those bright, neon threads just a little longer.

Because right now, this part feels heavy. But I’ve made it up mountains before, and somehow, even when I didn’t think I could, I still did. So maybe this isn’t the end of the climb. Maybe it’s just another part of the journey, another stretch of trail I didn’t expect, another set of threads being woven into my story—even the darker ones.

And maybe one day, I’ll be able to look back and see how they made the bright ones stand out even more.

Until then, I’ll keep stitching, I’ll keep climbing, and I’ll keep trusting that the light isn’t gone—it’s just waiting for me a little further up the mountain.