Cracks in the Foundation: Rebuilding in Less Than Solid Circumstances

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the cracks in things—the spaces where chaos seeps in and everything feels heavy, fragile, and on the brink of shattering. But then, in those same cracks, there’s light. There’s hope. And sometimes, the very act of surviving feels like an act of rebellion against all that threatens to break you.

My life has been a strange balancing act lately, teetering between holding everything together and letting some things fall apart. Kids throwing up at 6 a.m. while I’m half-asleep and searching for Pedialyte, their little faces pale and trusting. Custody exchanges that feel more like battles than parenting partnerships, where the air is so thick with tension I can barely breathe. Workdays where I hold a dying patient in my arms while the outside world clamors for my attention, each notification on my phone another reminder that the chaos isn’t confined to one place.

And then there’s him. The man I love, who carries his own weight of the world but still tries to share mine. Sometimes I see him retreat into himself, a fortress built from years of betrayal and disappointment. I want so badly to storm those walls, to tell him it’s safe now, that love can be soft and steady, not sharp and fleeting. But trust is earned, not demanded, and every time he lets me in, even just a little, it feels like a victory against all the brokenness that came before me.

I’m tired. God, I’m so tired. There are nights where I lay awake and wonder how much more I can take. Nights where the worry coils around my chest so tightly I can barely breathe. Will she bring him back safely? Will the judge see the truth? Will the children I love so fiercely grow up to understand how hard we fought for them, how much we sacrificed to give them the stability they deserve?

And yet, even in the exhaustion, there’s this defiant little ember in me that refuses to go out. Maybe it’s stubbornness. Maybe it’s madness. Or maybe it’s hope, clinging to me like the name I gave my firstborn daughter—a reminder that even when everything feels impossible, there’s still something worth fighting for.

The thing about chaos is that it demands to be seen. It roars and shakes and tears at the edges of your life until you have no choice but to face it. But hope—it whispers. It waits. It’s in the tiny, quiet moments: a child’s laugh, a partner’s soft smile, the sunrise after a long night. Hope doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful. It just needs to exist.

So here I am, in the space between chaos and hope, holding onto both with everything I have. Some days, the chaos feels stronger. Some days, hope wins out. But every day, I get up and try again, because that’s what love does—it fights, it heals, it holds on. And I have so much love. For my kids. For my partner. For myself.

The cracks in my life will always be there, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe the cracks are where the light gets in. Maybe they’re where hope lives.