The Life I Never Planned to Live

If you had asked the younger version of me what my life would look like at 38, this definitely wouldn’t have been my answer.

I never thought I would be divorced.

I thought I would be happily married with three kids in school, raising a family on my property. I pictured kids running around the same backyard I grew up running around in. Family. BBQs. A husband beside me. Probably a little chaos.

I knew life would throw curveballs. Everyone knows that. I just never imagined mine would be so intense. I never imagined having a medically fragile child. I never imagined getting the phone call that she had stopped breathing. I never imagined losing my daughter. And I never imagined losing my marriage. Losing a child changed everything.

There is a very clear line in my life between the person I was before Aubrey and the person I became after her. Life will never be the same. I live with a giant, patched hole in my heart, and I always will. But I’m incredibly proud of the way I have grown through it all.

I like to think I do a pretty good job of letting people see the real hurt inside me without allowing myself to drown in the sorrow. I have extremely hard days. But I also have some of the most beautiful days because of what I’ve gone through.

Loss changed the way I see things. I notice the small things now. I see beauty where I might not have noticed it before. I appreciate moments differently because I know how quickly life can change. And somehow, my story has also allowed me to connect with people in ways I don’t think I otherwise would have.

I get invited into some incredibly raw and real moments with people who are hurting. People tell me their stories. Sometimes I get to sit beside them in the hard stuff without trying to fix it, because I know there are some things that simply cannot be fixed. But I don’t only get to share the hard moments. I get to share the happy ones, too. I get to celebrate people. I get to connect. I get to love people differently because of what I’ve experienced.

I pray that somehow people can use my story—and Aubrey’s story—to help them through their own hard times.

Still, there are parts of the life I imagined that are difficult to let go of. I catch myself thinking about having more children. Sometimes I picture those kids I thought would be running around my backyard by now. Here. Where I live now. The same yard I grew up running around in. There’s something particularly painful about standing in the place where you imagined your future happening and realizing that future may never come. Do I still wish I had more kids? Yes. But I’ve also grown accustomed to the possibility that I may never have them. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It just means I’ve learned that two things can be true at the same time.

I can grieve the life I thought I would have and still be grateful for the life I have.

I can miss my daughter desperately and still laugh until my stomach hurts.

I can wonder why God gave me this path and still trust that He has a plan for it.

And I question Him. A lot.

Some days I think, Okay, this is it. This is my purpose. I understand.

And other days I’m right back to asking Him: What is my purpose on this earth? Because I want my life to have purpose. I don’t want to just be here. I don’t know exactly what that purpose is yet. Maybe I’m not supposed to know. Maybe some of it has already happened without me realizing it. But I believe God will use me wherever He sees fit.

And when I stop and look at the woman I’ve become, I realize how much of her my younger self would never recognize. Twenty-year-old me would be extremely impressed with what I’ve accomplished. She would probably be shocked to learn that I run a business. That I blog. That I’ve become more independent than I ever believed I could be. Younger me was shy and timid. I’m still quiet. I still stay to myself most of the time. But I don’t think I would describe myself as shy and timid anymore.

A friend described me recently as “the person who knows everything but gets involved with nothing.” And honestly? That’s pretty fitting.

I get along with just about everyone. There aren’t too many people I genuinely don’t like. I can happily know what’s going on without needing to be in the middle of it.

Twenty-year-old me would also be shocked to find out that I’m divorced and don’t have children here on earth. I think she’d look at me and ask: How do you do it? How do you live in a world with that much hurt and still manage to smile? And I think my answer to her would be pretty simple.

One day at a time.

That’s really all any of us get. One day.

I don’t know exactly what the rest of my life is going to look like anymore. I’ve learned not to pretend that I do. Do I want to get married again? Yes. But I’m not in a hurry. I want it to be right. I don’t just want a husband because that was part of the picture I created for myself years ago. I want a best friend. I want someone I genuinely want to do life with. Because while I’ve learned that I can do this life independently, that doesn’t mean I want to do all of it alone.

And until that person comes along—or whatever else God has planned for me unfolds—I still have a life I want to live. I want to keep my business healthy. I want to keep inspiring people. I want to love my family and friends. I want BBQs and people gathered around my house. I want to travel. I want to love. I want to grow my faith. I want to learn. I want to connect with people. I want to keep noticing the small things. And I want to keep living this life one day at a time.

This isn’t the life I planned. There are parts of the life I thought I’d have that I will probably always grieve. There are questions I may never get answers to on this side of heaven. But I’m starting to understand that a life not going according to plan doesn’t mean it can’t still be beautiful.

I’m not finished wanting things.

I’m not finished growing.

I’m not finished loving.

I’m not finished living.

Maybe I don’t need to know exactly how the rest of the chapter goes.

Maybe I just need to keep writing it.