When Faith Feels Fragile: A Mother’s Prayer on the Shower Floor

This week, I’m not writing to you as a speaker.

Not as an author.

Not even as a mental health advocate.

I’m writing to you as a mom.

A tired, stretched, praying, hopeful, breaking, believing mom.

Almost four years ago, my 8-year-old son was diagnosed with ADHD. What I thought would simply be “learning how to support him” has turned into a daily journey of navigating highs and lows that can feel extreme. The bad days are hard. The good days are beautiful. And lately, it has felt especially heavy.

We’ve been walking through new challenges — wondering about possible ODD and how to even begin evaluating that. For about a month now, he’s also been experiencing significant headaches — worse in the mornings and evenings, especially after lying down — along with nausea and increased fatigue. We are in touch with his doctor and have a visit coming up, but the waiting and the wondering can feel unbearable.

And then this weekend, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and asked:

“Mommy, why do I have to have ADHD? I don’t like it.”

My heart shattered.

I held him and cried. I didn’t have the words. I tried to explain how his brain works differently — how it’s creative and powerful and unique — but in that moment, none of it mattered. He just didn’t want to feel different.

And I didn’t want this for him.

I’m supposed to be the positive one. The faith-filled one. The strong one. The one who encourages other women that mental health and spiritual strength can coexist.

But I have found myself exhausted. Scared. Out of hope at times. Afraid that he will always feel this way. Afraid I’m not doing enough. Afraid I’ve somehow failed him.

Last night, in the shower, I broke.

I wept over the unknowns. Over the “what ifs.” Over his future. I collapsed to the shower floor because I truly did not know what to do next. I was angry — angry at God, angry at myself for not doing something sooner, angry that he struggles so much in school and even on the bus.

All the uplifting words I speak each week? They felt far away.

And then — after the tears, after the anger, after the silence — something dawned on me.

I was trying to control something I cannot control.

I was living in tomorrow. In the “what ifs.” In fear.

Instead of here. Today. This moment.

I wasn’t giving it to God.

I was seeing my son’s diagnosis as a problem instead of remembering it can also be a gift.

Because here’s the truth: my son is brilliant.

The way his mind works is phenomenal. The creativity he shows with Legos, the intricate designs he builds, the innovation that flows from him — it amazes me daily. There are things he can do that I simply cannot. His brain is wired for creativity and imagination in ways that inspire me.

And in that realization, I also remembered something else:

I am normal.

No amount of positivity, no depth of faith, no platform, no prayers make us immune to breaking points. Mental health is real. Parenting is hard. Faith does not cancel humanity.

We are not invincible. We are human.

But here is what I know: I know the greatest Physician of all time. His name is Jesus.

I may not have all the wisdom.

I may not have all the answers.

I may not have the strength every single day.

But He does.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But He does.

All I can do is wake up each day and ask Him for the wisdom to guide my son. For the patience to respond instead of react. For the strength to keep going. For the faith to believe it will get easier.

And when I don’t understand it — I will keep going anyway.

Community matters. Support matters. Doctors matter. Therapy matters. But we go to God first. And even when you are like me — sitting on the shower floor crying — you find the courage to stand back up.

You wipe your tears.

You breathe.

You pray again.

And you remember:

You are enough.

Your child is not a mistake.

Your faith is not failing because you are struggling.

Your life means something.

Your child’s life means something.

We keep preaching the good news — not because it’s always easy — but because it’s true.

Spiritual strength and mental wellness can coexist. Even in the messy middle. Even in the breaking. Even in the unknown.

Especially there.

And in the middle of my tears, this verse came to my heart:

“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” – 1 Peter 5:7

Not some of it.

Not the “spiritual sounding” parts of it.

All of it.

The anger.

The exhaustion.

The fear of the unknown.

The guilt.

The questions.

The breaking point on the shower floor.

He cares for it all.

And maybe that’s what I needed to remember most — that God is not intimidated by my humanity. He is not disappointed in my tears. He is not frustrated by my questions. He is a Father too. And He loves my son even more than I do.

So if you are reading this and you are carrying something heavy for your child — a diagnosis, behavioral struggles, medical concerns, school challenges, or simply the silent fear that you are not enough — hear me clearly:

You are not failing.

You are fighting.

You are advocating.

You are praying.

You are showing up when it would be easier to shut down.

You are loving your child through their hardest moments.

That is not weakness. That is strength.

It is okay to grieve what you thought parenting would look like. It is okay to admit you are tired. It is okay to say, “God, I don’t understand this.”

Faith is not pretending everything is fine.

Faith is choosing to trust Him when it isn’t.

And sometimes trust looks like nothing more than getting back up off the shower floor.

Sometimes strength looks like scheduling the doctor’s appointment.

Sometimes courage looks like asking for help.

Sometimes hope looks like simply making it through today.

We do not have to carry tomorrow. Grace is given daily.

So today, I will trust Him with my son.

Today, I will celebrate his brilliance.

Today, I will ask for wisdom.

Today, I will release what I cannot control.

And tomorrow? I’ll do it again.

If you are in your own breaking moment right now, let this be your reminder:

God sees you. He is near to the weary. He is close to the brokenhearted. And He will equip you for the very child He entrusted to you.

You are not alone in this.

Your child’s life has purpose.

Your story has purpose.

Even this chapter has purpose.

And when you cannot stand on your own strength, stand on His.

If you are a mother walking a hard road this week, I see you. I am you. And we will take this one day at a time — hand in hand with the One who already holds tomorrow.🩷