The Hardest Thing I Do Every Day

When our lives get turned upside down, we all handle it differently.
Right or wrong, it’s our perception and our situation that define what feels hard.

I once heard a quote:
"The worst thing that has ever happened to you is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you."

It stuck with me.

I don’t want to undermine people who’ve encountered far greater obstacles than I have, but I do want to share how I’ve been learning to train my mind to push through the hard season I’ve been walking.

As I navigated heartache and chose a path unfamiliar to most, I was asked by friends, family, and even my therapist:
"Why?"
"How?"

Why do you feel the need to show someone unconditional love, grace, and trust—especially when they haven’t always shown the same in return?

And I said: Because when you know someone so deeply, and you know that their heart is hurting, how could you respond in any other way than love?

Hurt matched with hurt only creates more hurt.
But hurt matched with love—no matter how hard—is like putting aloe on a sunburn.

It doesn’t make the sunburn disappear, not right away. But it cools the sting. It brings relief. It helps healing begin.

Once I explained it like that, people seemed to get it.

Now… after multiple rejected attempts to show growth, healing, and love—only to be met with more pain (never intentional, but still painful)—the “How?” became harder for people to understand.

I’ve been told I’m strong. That I have a level of discipline most people admire.
But if I’m honest, my insides have felt like they’re crumbling with every breath.

Still, I kept going.

When I reflect on it now, it almost feels like I was a case study—someone being studied for how much hurt one person could endure while still showing love and holding faith most wouldn’t dare to believe in.

At first, the “how” was simple:
My little person. My purpose.

Every decision I made centered around them.
Would they notice? Would it make them happier? Would they suffer? Would this confuse them?

If the answer was yes, I protected them.

But past the roots of motherhood, I’ve realized there’s another reason I’ve been able to endure all of this.

It’s the gym.

The gym has been a huge part of my life since high school. But it wasn’t until I discovered CrossFit that I really began to push myself—not just physically, but mentally.

The gym isn’t just something I squeeze into my day. My entire night and morning routine revolves around not missing my one sacred thing: what I call my cup of coffee—the gym.

I get up around 3:45 a.m., load the car with our clothes for the day, and scoop up my little person—usually still fast asleep (most of the time).

I set up a cozy spot for them to rest on the benches, unload our things, and start stretching. By 5:00 a.m., I’m testing the limits of what my body and mind can handle.

These workouts are either task- or time-priority—basically, “how hard or fast can you get this done?” And while you technically can go at your own pace, the culture doesn’t let you slack. It pushes you. You get better. You fight harder.

That’s where the strength comes from.
Not just in my arms or legs, but in my mind.

Years of waking up early, showing up tired, and still choosing to push—that’s how I’ve built the mental strength to survive heartbreak.

Sometimes I feel like an NFL player who’s been mic’d up—you hear all the noise inside my head.

When I'm 30 reps deep into a 50-wall-ball set and my legs start screaming, I hear:
"Don’t put it down."
"Why would you stop now?"
"If you drop it, you still have to pick it back up."

Or when I’m in a fast-paced metcon, racing the clock, I tell myself:
"Push harder now, so you can rest later."
"You’ve already done this movement once—you can do it again."
"It hurts. But keep going anyway."

I know I might lose some people here with all the gym analogies—but pain is real.
It hurts like hell.

But we survive it.

My world is crumbling.

My heart aches more often than it feels at peace.

But still—I survive.

How do I keep surviving the emotional pain?

Because I already have.

Every morning, I do the hardest thing I’ll face all day—physically, mentally, emotionally.

If I can survive that workout—if I can push through that kind of hurt first thing in the morning—then everything else? Every heartbreak, every disappointment, every unanswered prayer?

It becomes survivable too.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t mean I don’t want to quit.

It just means: I’ve proven to myself that I can survive it.
And I will keep surviving it—because every rep makes me stronger.

Not only have I survived the gym workouts, but I have survived the darkest day of my life—the moment I realized the person I love most was ready to give up.

Nothing can compare to that kind of pain. No barbell, no sprint, no wall ball can match the weight of hearing that someone you trust with your whole heart no longer wants to fight for what you’ve built together.

Since that day, everything else has been relative.

I know I can survive hard things because I already have.
I’ve done it once, and I can do it every single day if I have to.

My hope—maybe my prayer—is that the person I love can also survive the weight of their own choices. That they can see the value in holding onto someone who has carried their weaknesses, their secrets, their fears—and has loved them without condition.

Because if I’ve learned anything in this season, it’s that strength isn’t just about standing through the pain.

It’s about believing that love and resilience can exist in the same breath—and choosing, every day, to keep showing up for both.