The thing is, I'm not strong. I did not chose to go through our trials to prove my strength, to help me grow, to stretch me. I went through what I went through because I was forced.
I had no choice to spend time in Vanderbilt Children's hospital watching my baby fight for his life.
I had no choice to let him go.
I had no choice to drive the hour-long ride home with an empty car seat in the back, knowing there was no one home to greet me.
So no. I am not strong.
I am a woman who cries at night for her babies.
I am a mommy who has lost three of her four children.
I am someone who has been to very dark places.
I am weak.
I keep going not because I have some superhuman strength, but because I must.
It may sound cliche, but I mean every word when I say that it is only through God's strength that I am able to get up in the morning and keep going. The prayers of many have carried me through the darkest hours of my life, and they continue to help. I never really understood or believed in the power of prayer until last year. It was then that I could physically feel them around me, holding me up, carrying me through.
I don't have any strength on my own. I am not a hero, either.
I'm just someone who keeps putting one foot in front of the other, slowly moving through life, step by step.