What People Don’t See

There’s something about winter that has always been hard for me.

Long before cancer.
Long before hospital rooms.
Long before July 2022 changed everything.

I have always struggled with seasonal depression. I just became very good at hiding it.

Work had to be done.
Kids had to be taken care of.
Laundry didn’t fold itself.
Responsibilities didn’t pause just because my mind felt heavy.

So I learned how to smile.
I learned how to show up.
I learned how to say, “I’m fine.”

And for the most part, people believed me.

After Schuylar passed away, the seasonal depression didn’t just visit — it deepened. Grief has a way of magnifying what was already there. The winter months now feel longer. Darker. Quieter in a way that is loud inside my head.

The thing is — I’m still very good at doing life.

I travel.
I speak.
I lead retreats.
I answer emails.
I encourage other moms.

Most people probably don’t even realize this about me.

What people don’t see is that most nights I sleep very little.
They don’t see that I sleep in the living room because I have to keep the TV on — not because I’m watching it, but because I need the noise. I need something to drown out the thoughts long enough for my mind to finally become too exhausted to function.

What people don’t see is how I chew my fingernails to the quick without even realizing I’m doing it.

They don’t see the tears I cry when I travel alone.
In private bathroom stalls.
Under the covers at night.
In quiet hotel rooms.

They don’t see the internal battle that runs constantly in the background.

Grief is strange like that.

You can be functioning.
You can be leading.
You can be smiling in photos.
And still be fighting a war inside your own mind.

Winter has become harder since losing her. The darkness outside seems to echo the darkness that tries to creep in.

But here is what I keep coming back to:

We truly never know what someone is carrying.

The woman who looks put together at church.
The friend who is always strong.
The coworker who never misses a deadline.
The mom who seems to “be doing okay.”

Everything may look fine from the outside.

But maybe it’s not.

Maybe she’s fighting to sleep.
Maybe she’s holding back tears.
Maybe she’s surviving minute by minute.

And maybe she’s doing the very best she can.

So today, if you’re reading this — let this be your reminder:

Be gentle with people.

Not everyone’s battle is visible.
Not every wound leaves a scar you can see.

And if you are the one fighting quietly — you are not weak. You are not dramatic. You are not broken beyond repair.

You are carrying grief and still choosing to move forward.

That matters.

Even in winter.
Especially in winter.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s where the pennies show up the most. ✨