One Month Later: The Back-and-Forth of Trauma, Faith, and Life

It’s been a month since I watched my dad be sentenced to prison for abusing my son. One month. And the truth is, it’s both longer and shorter than it feels. Some days, I still can’t believe this is where we are. It feels surreal, like a nightmare I can’t wake from, a story I never imagined living. Time stretches and contracts unpredictably—days of quiet settling interrupted by sudden plunges into grief, anger, and disbelief.

Some days, I really can feel my soul settling. I can breathe. I can move through life with a little more ease. I can laugh at something small, feel gratitude, even let hope peek in. Those moments are precious, almost fragile, and I cling to them when they come.

And yet, there are days when the heaviness comes for no reason at all. Nothing in particular happened. Nothing new. But the weight is there, unnameable, relentless, and I don’t know how to carry it. On those days, I feel depressed as all get out, wrapped in a fog of grief and exhaustion that I can’t shake. One day I am okay; the next, crushed. There is no predictable rhythm. No roadmap. Just the constant tension of back-and-forth that leaves me weary, and yet somehow still moving forward.

The Initial Shock

Amidst the back-and-forth of grief and fragile calm, the day of the sentencing is etched deeply into my memory. I sat in the courtroom, heart hammering, taking deep, shaky breaths as the judge read the plea agreement. There was no relief—only a crushing weight of pain, fear, and disbelief.

When it was my turn to speak, I fell apart. The words I had prepared trembled on my lips, tears spilling as I read them aloud. I tried to honor my sons’ pain while acknowledging the complexity of my father—that he is more than the sum of his worst mistakes. I spoke of grace. I spoke of forgiveness. I spoke of holding love and hurt together in the same trembling hand. My father grew emotional, too, and I could feel the tension, the fragility, the raw humanity in the room.

After I finished, the other family spoke. They recounted how he had manipulated the boys’ friendship, calling him a monster. And in that moment, I thought: even monsters deserve grace. The thought struck me like lightning—so simple, so impossible, so necessary. I was broken, raw, terrified, and yet somehow, even there, faith found a voice.

The Emotional Rollercoaster

In the days after sentencing, I expected to feel steady relief. Instead, I found myself on a relentless rollercoaster of emotions. Some mornings, I would wake with a sense of calm, convinced that healing had finally taken root. I leaned into practices that grounded me—running, reading, even laughter with friends—and for a moment, I could almost believe I was moving forward.

But then, without warning, the weight of everything would crash back over me. A sound, a memory, even silence itself could pull me under. The swing between peace and despair was exhausting. It still is. I'm realizing that this back-and-forth isn’t a sign of weakness but part of the journey. Recovery after trauma isn’t a straight line—it bends, loops, and sometimes doubles back.

Holding Everything Together

Holding everything together—the kids, work, the household, my own mind—is like walking a tightrope in a storm. Every step requires focus, care, and grace I often feel I do not have. And yet, somehow, I keep walking, because there is no other choice. Because I love. Because I must. And because I want to come out of this better.

Lessons in Faith

And yet, in the midst of this, I keep thinking about seminary—my M.Div. I’ve often wondered why God called me there. I thought I was being called to pastoral ministry, and yet, at the same time, God seemed to show me repeatedly that what I truly wanted was to be a teacher. I didn’t want the pulpit. I wanted the classroom. The place where I could show up with presence, guidance, and care without the weight of expectation that a minister carries. And now, in this month of upheaval, I feel like I see why. Seminary gave me the language to process suffering, to understand lament, to name grief, injustice, and hope. It gave me a framework for pastoral care that I now need most desperately—not for a congregation, but for my own life, my own children, my own soul.

This cycle of up and down emotions was exhausting, but my faith began to show me something deeper: that healing and heartbreak can exist in the same breath. Seminary gave me the ability to hold hurt and hope together, without taking away either’s power. That awareness didn’t erase the pain, but it helped me see that even in the hardest places, grace and grief can live side by side. And maybe that’s why God called me to seminary all those years ago—not so I would end up a pastor, but so I would have the tools to navigate a season like this, where faith is no longer theory but survival.

The Path Forward

Some days I feel strong and steady. Some days I feel like I am drowning. And some days I am both at once—holding my head high while feeling my heart crumble underneath. Some days I really can feel my soul settling. Some days I can’t believe this is our reality. Some days, the heaviness comes for no reason at all, and I don’t know how to carry it. And in all of it, I am learning that faith is not a shield from pain but a companion through it. That God is not absent because I hurt, but present even when the hurt is overwhelming.

One month later, I am not “over it.” Maybe I never will be fully. But I am learning to ride the waves of my own soul. To accept the back-and-forth. To live with grace in the in-between. And to trust that even when I feel plunged into darkness, God is shaping, steadying, and walking with me.

Some days, I crawl under the blankets. Some days, I hold my head high. Some days, I can’t believe this is our reality. And in all of it, I am learning, slowly, painfully, hopefully, that this is part of the journey—both of healing and of faith. Perhaps this month is not about recovery, but about awakening. An awakening to the depth of human fragility, the weight of justice, the need for grace, and the surprising ways God prepares us for life’s storms—even when we think we’re training for something entirely different.