No. 015- Joy Found Me

People are often surprised that I am joyful. I understand why. If all you knew about my life were the diagnoses, the years of therapy, the sleepless nights, the uncertainty and the heartbreak that comes with loving children who need so much from the world, you would probably expect me to spend my days grieving. The truth is, there was a time when I thought I would.

Joy did not feel far away. It felt impossible. People would tell me to stay positive. They meant well. I was not trying to be positive. I was trying to survive.

When my boys were little, even one day felt too big. I could not think about next year. I could not think about five years. Sometimes I could not even think about tomorrow. Tomorrow was too frightening. So I made my world smaller. One therapy. One meal. One bedtime. One hour. Sometimes one minute.

And then something happened that I never saw coming. It happened so quietly...I almost missed it.

Joy found me.

We still had mountains to climb. We still do. But somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, I stopped measuring my life by everything we were still waiting for. And I started measuring it by every impossible thing that had already happened.

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The first time Luca showed me he needed to go to the bathroom, I cried. I remembered every attempt that came before. Every afternoon that ended in frustration. Every tiny victory we thought would last. Every setback that broke my heart. Every time I wondered how much longer it would take us. Then, one completely ordinary afternoon, he showed me.

Most parents celebrate potty training. I celebrated everything it had taken for us to arrive there. Little by little, my heart began seeing the world differently. I found myself crying over things I never imagined could move me. Watching my boys choose their own clothes. Laughing until they could barely breathe. Playing little tricks on me. Understanding stories. Living beside me in a language that has never depended entirely on words. The world calls these ordinary moments. I do not think I ever will again.

Somewhere along the way I stopped asking why our life looked so different. I started noticing something else instead. Every time my boys did something I once was not sure they would ever do, I felt like I was witnessing something holy. Sometimes I see God in the way they laugh together. Sometimes in the way they look at me. Sometimes in a tiny breakthrough nobody else would notice. I do not think miracles always look extraordinary. Sometimes they look exactly like real life.

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Years ago, after another impossibly hard day, I tucked my boys into bed. The house was finally quiet. I sat beside them for a long time. I watched them sleep. I do not remember what time it was. I do not remember whether I had eaten. I only remember looking at them and wishing I could carry every hard thing this life would ever ask of them. I would have traded places with them without thinking twice. I could not.

So I leaned over. I kissed each of them on the forehead. And I made them a promise. I told them they did not have to be afraid. I told them their mom would find a way. I had no roadmap. No certainty. No guarantees. I only knew one thing: I would never stop looking. For the people who could help them. For therapies. For answers. For doors no one else had opened yet. For hope. For another possibility. Because I refused to believe this was the end of their story.

Promises like that are never kept all at once. They are kept one ordinary moment at a time. One therapy. One setback. One prayer. One impossible day. One tiny breakthrough. One ordinary miracle.

Yesterday, Luca answered a question I once wasn't sure he would ever be able to answer. And for a moment I was not standing in my kitchen anymore. I was back in that quiet bedroom. Kissing two little foreheads. Making a promise I had no idea how I was going to keep. Then I realized something. I had been keeping it all along.

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To the mother who cannot find joy today: I understand. I know there are seasons when surviving the next hour feels like enough. Please do not rush yourself. If all you can do today is keep loving your child, keep loving your child. If all you can do today is believe one more time, believe one more time. And if today even hope feels too heavy to carry, borrow mine. Because one day, without even realizing it, something you once prayed for, something you once thought might never happen, will quietly happen. And in that moment you will not just see what is in front of you. You will remember every prayer. Every setback. Every sleepless night. Every ounce of hope. Every impossible day you somehow survived. The world will see what happened. You will remember everything it took to get there.

When nothing comes easily, nothing is ordinary anymore.

Because joy does not begin the day life gets easier. It begins the day a mother decides that despair will not write their story ✨

Every new subscriber reminds me why I started writing. You are not alone here. I would love to know who you are and what brought you to Luz & Santo.