Well y’all, I’ve slept sitting straight up in a recliner for two nights now, in a quiet corner of someone else’s living room — and somehow, I’ve never felt more at peace.
Let me backtrack.
This week has been one of the most painful and powerful of my life. I slipped away like a thief in the night — no dramatic exits, no packed car caravans, no long goodbyes. Just me, a prayer, and a whisper in the dark that said “it’s time.”
I didn’t leave to punish anyone. I left to survive. And I miss them — Lord, do I miss them. Every time I close my eyes, I see the kids’ faces. I hear their voices. My whole body aches with the missing. But there’s also this…stillness. This peace. The kind I haven't felt in years — maybe decades.
I’m staying with Gina and her elderly mother — tucked into a space that’s not mine, but feels more like home than anywhere I’ve been in a long, long time. The first night, Gina made meatloaf. Hot. Homemade. With sides. And you’d have thought it was a five-star gourmet feast the way I inhaled it. I cried into mashed potatoes like they were holy water. That meal tasted like mercy. Like I wasn’t alone.
I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t even pack right. I left with the bare minimum and a heart so cracked open it practically rattled. But God knew what He was doing. He sent Gina. He sent clarity. And He reminded me of something I’d forgotten: I’m allowed to choose me.
And then there's Lincoln. My ride-or-die fluff ball, who got a bath in Gina’s tub and now smells like dollar store lavender and defiance. He hasn’t left my side — not even once. Not when I sobbed. Not when I laughed like a lunatic over absolutely nothing. Not when I sat in that chair afraid to lay down. He just posted up beside me, little caramel-tipped ears on alert, like, “Say the word, Mama. I’ll protect you from the ghosts and the grief.”
I’m still raw. I still cry at the thought of birthdays and baby teeth and inside jokes I’m no longer part of. I still wrestle with guilt that I couldn’t stay, that I couldn’t fix it, that I had to go. But I also know — deep down in my weary soul — that if I hadn’t left, I might not still be here at all.
Here’s what I’m learning:
Peace doesn’t always come wrapped in comfort. Sometimes it shows up as a borrowed recliner and the kindness of a woman you haven’t seen in years.
Sometimes it’s meatloaf and mercy.
Sometimes it’s choosing to love people from a safe distance instead of burning yourself up trying to stay close.
To Gina — you beautiful, stubborn, fiercely loyal angel of rescue — I don’t have the words. But I hope one day I can pay it forward.
To the ones I miss: I love you. Always. But I love me, too. And that’s a new thing I’m learning how to do.
Lord,
Thank You for carrying me through the darkness I couldn’t see my way out of.
For the quiet places You prepared before I ever knew I’d need them.
For meatloaf miracles, borrowed chairs, and the grace to finally rest.
Thank You for Gina — for her strength, her shelter, and her spirit.
And thank You for Lincoln, whose loyalty reminds me daily what unconditional love looks like.
Cover the ones I left behind in Your mercy.
Wrap the children in warmth, joy, and protection.
Guide the hearts of those I still love — even from a distance.
And help them one day understand that I didn’t leave out of anger... I left to survive.
Give me courage to keep walking this path,
Even when it aches.
Even when I miss them so deeply it makes my chest hurt.
And remind me that choosing peace is not betrayal — it’s obedience.
Let my healing be holy.
Let my boundaries be blessed.
And let this new chapter rise not from shame, but from surrender.
Amen.
From the recliner —
With lavender-scented loyalty at my feet,
Mags & Lincoln
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