Born from the valley.

There is a particular kind of grief that no one warns you about — the kind that doesn't announce itself loudly, but settles in quietly, like fog. It changes the way light looks in the morning. It changes the weight of ordinary things. I have known that grief. But my story began long before those losses, with a little girl who had hopes and dreams.

I couldn't wait to get married and have babies. I dreamed about my wedding and picked out things from catalogs for the home I hoped to have someday. Life unfolded differently than I imagined. At eighteen, eager for independence, I moved out of my parents' home and in with my boyfriend. About a year later, I returned home—and then learned I was pregnant. At nineteen, I became the mother of a beautiful little boy, Michael. I later married, and we had two more children. But that marriage included verbal and physical abuse. After nine years, I found the courage to file for divorce. A chance to begin again I moved to San Diego, became involved in church, and began praying for a husband and a father figure for my children. After seven long years, I married a widower who had two boys. Together, we became a family with five children. We built a home, started a business, and traveled the world. I believed we were building the life I had hoped for. But serious problems within our marriage began affecting our family. Some details are not mine to share publicly. What I can share is what I learned: marrying someone who professes faith does not guarantee a life without hurt. I could love my husband and pray for him, but I could not make his choices for him or do the work of change on his behalf. When that marriage ended, I was devastated. I struggled to eat or get out of bed, and I lost so much weight. I was grieving another future I thought we would have. Loss upon loss About three months into that season, my dad was hospitalized again. He had been dealing with organ failure for a year, and now he was dying. In the midst of it all, I also had to say goodbye to my black Labrador—my faithful companion and best friend of fifteen years. It felt like loss kept arriving before I could catch my breath. A few years passed, and I slowly began rebuilding. I made plans for the future. I bought a new home in Arizona with room for family visits. There were things to look forward to again. Then the phone rang. My oldest son, Michael, who was serving in the Army in Belgium, had died in an accident. Really? After everything, now my son? We had plans. Travel tickets had been bought. He had a three-year-old little girl, and I was supposed to watch her grow up with him. There were visits, memories, and ordinary days ahead of us that I thought we would have. His death changed all of that. What I could not see then After losing Michael, my life felt as though it was spiraling out of control. I was in too much pain to see clearly how God was with me. But looking back, I recognize moments of His presence and care that I could not fully understand at the time. I share some of those stories in my devotional—the ways He was there, even when all I could feel was the hurt. That is where Held Through It All Ministries began: in the life I actually lived, with its broken dreams, unanswered questions, and the discovery that God had been with me through it. I was held through it all. If you are walking through a season that doesn't make sense, I hope my story helps you feel less alone. You don't need polished words or a smile that hides your pain. You are welcome here, just as you are. — Sandra Tavares