There’s a strange silence in certain seasons, especially when you’re carrying something heavy and there’s no one to truly unpack it with. That silence has echoed louder than usual lately. So much has happened in the last few days. I find myself missing my mother more deeply in times like these.
She was a safe space. Never perfect, but always present. She knew how to listen without judgment and rarely offered advice unless I asked. Of course, there were moments when she spoke her mind with clarity and strength. Her experience gave her the authority to say, “Let me tell you something,” and she meant it. As I grew older and built a life of my own, our conversations felt more like therapy than lectures. I miss that gift more than I can say.
Right now, I feel used. That’s the word. Used. Like furniture. Like something that once served a purpose but now sits in a corner, easy to overlook and even easier to replace. I’ve seen this happen again to someone I love—my husband. It is the familiar ache of being undervalued in spaces where you have given your best. There are patterns at work here, familiar wounds dressed in new faces.
I’m tired of watching it happen. The temptation is to become bitter, but I am choosing to shift the narrative. If I am a piece of furniture, then I will be repurposed. This moment will not define my worth. Systems that fail to see us cannot erase what God has placed within us.
There’s strength in reclaiming your story. I want to help my husband do the same. The systems may never acknowledge his impact, but I see it. I honor it. My words will fight for what is right, even if the silence around us doesn’t.
My mother wasn’t perfect, and I don’t want to romanticize her. She was human. However, in her later years, she grew into a woman of remarkable wisdom. I watched her study aging. She literally took a class on how to grow old with grace. When she started dialysis, she researched everything and treated it like a new job. She educated herself and educated us. She accepted her mortality and did what real leaders do—prepared others for what was coming.
That’s the legacy I cling to. A life that teaches. A woman who faced what was difficult and left behind not just love, but instructions. This is what I want to do. I want to use my voice to equip, to heal, and to prepare. I want to use my pen to create space for others to repurpose their pain into purpose.
This is how I fight back. One story at a time.
In love and charity,
Giselle (aka) Blooming-lillie