Here’s a throwback to 2012:

I’ve got a swirl of mixed emotions today, so I’m writing to sort through it all.

I’m about to begin working with a woman as part of my Profitable Author Coaching program—helping her with her book. In preparation for our first call, I’ve been reading through her blog.

And honestly… I’m feeling a little overwhelmed.

I already care deeply about helping her reach her goals, but this project might be especially tough for me. The topic she writes about? Grief. Deep, raw grief. Less than two years ago, she lost her 16-year-old son to a heart condition, and her writing is all about navigating the pain, surviving it, and somehow finding a way through to the other side.

As I read her words, I couldn’t help but feel fear creep in—this sense that maybe I’m not doing enough to truly cherish the time I have with my own kids… especially my teenage sons.

In just five days, I’ll be sending my oldest, Jacob (age 19), off on a two-year church service mission. And even though I’ve told myself it’ll be easy—he’s always out and about, barely home anyway—the truth is, I can’t imagine what it will feel like to be without him for that long. The closer it gets, the more I worry that I haven’t fully soaked in our time together. That maybe I’ve let too many ordinary moments pass without recognizing how sacred they actually were.

Reading this woman’s story is making that ache even more real.

And then there’s Nathan—my sixteen-year-old—who was born with a heart defect (TAPVR). He had open-heart surgery as a newborn, after doctors discovered the veins from his lungs weren’t connected to his heart the way they should be, plus there was an obstruction complicating things further.

Thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, the defect was repaired. And sometimes I just pause in awe. For thousands of years, children like him wouldn’t have survived. Even just 50 years ago, he likely wouldn’t be here. And yet—he is.

I’ll never forget the moment at his 3-month check-up when I overheard the doctor quietly tell the intern:

“Children with his defect AND obstruction don’t typically make it past 3 months, even after surgery.”

But there he was—growing, thriving, and ready to take on the world.

Now he’s 16, singing in the choir, and playing tennis every chance he gets. And I wonder… Am I making enough memories with him? Am I living in a way I won’t regret later? Is that even possible?

Even when we do our best, does regret still find its way in?

One thing I do know is this: there’s a time to mourn, and a time to rejoice. Without sorrow, we couldn’t comprehend joy. I’ve lived with Jacob for 19 years. I don’t know what life without him looks like. But maybe… just maybe… sending him off next week is how I’ll finally begin to see the beauty of what we’ve had all along.

Jacob and Nathan, I love you. I’m so proud of you both, and I pray you’ll always feel just how deeply grateful I am that you’re mine—now and forever.

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