The emphasis on sporting a shiny and polished image
over dealing with the oftentimes raw reality of the human
experience led to an empty belief that how things look from
the outside is of greater importance than what is truly going on
inside. I embraced this mentality quite fully and successfully in
many areas of life for many years. I knew how to make it all
look fairly appealing and adeptly chose the correct mask to
wear for any given situation. But there was a price to pay. An
empty and hollow inside often welled up as I struggled to figure
out who indeed is the real Tricia. What do I actually believe or
think about x, y, or z? Being mom to my hurting children was
about to change all of this.
There were three solid years in a row where, every
single night, one or both of our daughters woke up multiple
times. Somewhere in the midst of this haze, I was sleeping on
a mattress on the floor of their shared bedroom. One of the
girls began crying and was inconsolable. I lost it. I screamed
“shut up” as I shoved a pacifier into her mouth. Thankfully, I
snapped back to reality within seconds, crumpled to the floor,
and sobbed. I was exhausted, ashamed at my own behavior,
and desperately in need of help. It felt like I was falling into a
black hole with no way out. Though I didn’t grasp it in the
moment, this was an invitation to leave my circle, acknowledge
my personal messiness, and accept my rightful place in
fellowship with all of humanity.
Up until this night, something deep within me battled
against speaking up and asking for help. My mind told me that
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