A Note on Privacy:
This series shares parts of my personal journey as a woman, a mother, and a believer walking through hard seasons. When my daughters or son are mentioned, their stories are shared only with their awareness and consent, and details are intentionally limited to protect their dignity, privacy, and emotional well-being. This is my journey through the trenches — not a retelling of theirs.
There are moments in motherhood that split your life into “before” and “after.” Mine came the first time one of my girls looked at me with hollow eyes and said words no mother ever imagines hearing. “I don’t want to live anymore.“
I can still feel that moment—the air leaving my lungs, the world tilting, the instinctive knowing: This isn’t a bad day. This is a crisis.
Motherhood has many forms. But there is a particular kind that emerges when your child wants to disappear from the world: a fierce, focused, protective kind of love that rises from a place you didn’t know existed.
These are not their stories. This is mine—what it looked like to walk beside my daughters when their darkness threatened to swallow them. What it felt like to fight for them with everything I had, even when my hands were shaking, and my heart was breaking.
When Crisis Walks Into Your Home
She was twelve. Too young to be carrying thoughts so heavy. Too young to be whispering words that should never belong to a child.
Nothing prepares a mother for that moment. Not books, not sermons, not even your own history with mental health. Nothing.
There were signs—shifts in behavior, emotional withdrawal, comments that didn’t sit right. But nothing prepares you for the moment your child says out loud what you feared silently.
Proverbs 31:8–9 says, “Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute. Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy.”
That became my assignment. Not to fix everything. Not to control every outcome. But to speak, advocate, document, pursue help, and fight for her when she had no strength left to fight for herself.
The Long Season of Advocacy
One of the hardest parts of walking with a child in crisis is feeling helpless in the in-between moments. When you see symptoms that you cannot treat. When you hear pain that you cannot soothe. When you know that intervention is needed, but the systems around you move painfully slow.
There were months—long months when all we could do was:
- document the concerning things she shared,
- press for counseling and intervention where we could,
- partner with professionals who listened,
- create safety and stability in the short windows of time she was with us,
- receive support from our church,
- and pray
I often felt like I was trying to hold back the ocean with cupped hands. But motherhood is made of small, faithful actions.
Sometimes love looks like driving to appointments. Sometimes it looks like sitting quietly with a child who can’t find words. Sometimes it looks like knocking on doors of help that should have opened sooner.
Eventually, professional support stepped in. Eventually, the right people paid attention. Eventually, the truth came to light.
But until then, we carried her—praying, documenting, advocating, and refusing to look away from what was hard.
When It Happened Again
Just as stability had returned for one daughter, another storm rose for my other daughter. This time, the crisis came from school. Relentless bullying. Relentless pressure. Relentless emotional weight placed on a child not built to carry it.
My bubbly, joyful girl began disappearing behind sadness I recognized too well. The signs were unmistakable. The behaviors were alarming. And the fear settled deep in my chest: “Lord, not again.”
We did what any parents would do—we sought professional help immediately:
- school counselors
- crisis evaluations
- biblical counseling
- safety plans
- tools, coping strategies, daily check-ins
- support from our church
But most of all, we prayed relentlessly.
And slowly, she began to come back to us.
Psalm 147:3 says, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
I watched that happen in real time—one counseling session, one tearful conversation, one answered prayer at a time.
I learned that helping a child in crisis isn’t a one-time battle. It’s ongoing support. It’s a steady presence. It’s consistency when their world feels unpredictable.
Galatians 6:2 says, “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”
That’s what motherhood looks like in the trenches.
The Breaking Points You Don’t See Coming
Moments of crisis have a way of revealing the truth about yourself.
I discovered I am:
- a fighter when pushed against a wall,
- a researcher, when I feel powerless,
- a prayer-warrior when I don’t know what else to do,
- and a mother who will walk into any darkness if it means my child won’t walk there alone.
But I also discovered my limits:
- I couldn’t control outcomes.
- I couldn’t erase trauma.
- I couldn’t shield them from every wound.
- I couldn’t always get systems to move quickly enough.
There were nights I sat on the edge of my bed and thought: “I’m failing. I’m not strong enough for this.”
But God gently reminded me that I didn’t have to be strong enough—because He was.
2 Corinthians 1:3–4 says, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”
My own history with depression, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts became the very thing God used to help my daughters. I saw what others would have missed. I recognized the signs before they were too far gone. My past pain became their present protection.
What I Learned in the Trenches
These are the lessons motherhood taught me in crisis—the ones I carry with me now:
1. Advocacy is an act of love.
Fighting for your child doesn’t make you dramatic, overreactive, or “too much.” It makes you a mother.
2. Documentation matters.
When systems are slow, when professionals need proof, when you need to connect dots—writing things down becomes a lifeline.
3. A child’s behavior isn’t the full story.
Acting out often means “I’m hurting.” Withdrawing often means “I don’t feel safe.” Silence is rarely the absence of pain—it’s the overflow of it.
4. You cannot rescue a child alone.
Counselors, pastors, teachers, safe adults—these people mattered more than I can describe.
5. God never left us—not once.
Even when the nights were long, even when my prayers were wordless, even when outcomes felt uncertain—He was with them, and He was with me.
And God was teaching me at the same time.
What God Taught Me in the Process
1. God equips us in real time.
I didn’t walk into motherhood knowing how to navigate:
- custody hearings
- school investigations
- mental health professionals
- crisis intervention
- trauma responses
But God met me in the process.
2. The enemy attacks families in the shadows.
When everything was falling apart, the enemy whispered:
“You’re failing.”
“You should have prevented this.”
“You’re not strong enough for this.”
But God whispered back:
“You are not alone.”
“My grace is sufficient.”
“I chose you for these children on purpose.”
Where We Are Now
Both of my girls are healing. Both have grown stronger than I ever imagined. Both have found their way out of the darkness they once lived in and are thriving in ways that make me cry with gratitude.
And I’ve changed too. I don’t mother from fear anymore. I mother from faith, from experience, from the trenches God walked me through.
Jeremiah 29:11 reminds me, “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, plans to give you a future and a hope.”
God didn’t promise easy. He promised presence. And He kept that promise.
To the Mom Fighting for Her Child’s Life
If you’re reading this and you’re in that dark, terrifying place where you’re doing everything you can to hold your child together— hear me:
You are not failing.
You are not alone.
You are not powerless.
You are a mother standing in the gap.
And God sees you.
He strengthens you.
He goes before you.
He goes with your child where you cannot.
Isaiah 40:31 says, “but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.”
You will rise again.
Your child will rise again.
The fight is worth it.
Reflection Questions
- What is one area where you feel powerless right now as a mom?
- How has your past equipped you to help your child in ways you didn’t expect?
- Where do you need help—professionally, spiritually, or emotionally?
- What truth from scripture speaks to you most in this season?
A Prayer for the Mom in the Trenches
Father, thank You for giving us the strength to fight for our children even when we feel powerless. Thank You for turning our past pain into present hope. Give us wisdom to know when to speak and when to wait. Give us courage to advocate fiercely and compassion to love relentlessly. Heal our children’s hearts, bind up their wounds, and show them that they are loved, wanted, and worth fighting for. Remind us that You are working even when we can’t see it. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
This is the fourth post in the “From The Trenches” series—a raw, unfiltered look at faith, failure, and finding hope in the valley. If this post resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story. You can comment below or reach out privately at danece@momleavesalegacy.com. You’re not alone in this fight. 🩷🩵