Quiet strength. Soft presence. Unshakable grace.

The Day I Started Believing in God

I don’t know if everyone can pinpoint the exact moment they started believing in God—or at least in the idea of something bigger than themselves.

But for me? I can.

I was eight years old, sitting in a hospital room, watching my roommate’s family pray.

At the time, I had just been diagnosed with a rare form of childhood leukemia. Before that, I don’t remember God ever really being talked about in our home. Not in a personal way, anyway.

I was raised in a Jewish family, but more by tradition than religion. I went to a Jewish preschool until kindergarten. We lit the menorah at Chanukah and had Passover dinners at both sets of grandparents’ houses. Only my dad’s mom, my Nana, did the full Seder—at my Gram’s, my brother and I just played “sneak the latkes” while she wasn’t looking. A favorite pastime. God, how I miss those days. Sometimes I ache for them so much I’m not sure how I breathe around it.

We also lived with my Gram, a Holocaust survivor. She didn’t talk much about God—maybe didn’t even believe in Him, at least not then. So, growing up, God wasn’t really a concept I understood.

But sitting in that hospital room, I remember watching my friend’s family pray over her and feeling a strange pang in my gut. I wondered: Why doesn’t anyone do that for me? Would it help me?

As if cancer weren’t enough, my body didn’t cooperate like it was supposed to. Every rare side effect, every complication, somehow found its way to me.

Eventually, one of those complications—an overdose of a chemo drug—put me into a coma.

What I didn’t understand at the time was that just days before, my bone marrow results showed cancer cells again. I had relapsed. The cancer was winning.

But here I am.

My tiny liver, pancreas, and brain were overwhelmed. My body shut down. I slipped into a deep sleep. The ICU became my new home, and hope was in short supply. I remember fragments—conversations around me, my Nana promising me I could have my pearls early if I woke up.

See, in our family, every girl got a strand of pearls from a necklace that had once belonged to my great-grandmother. We got them at our Bat Mitzvahs. We lived for those pearls. I ended up being the last to receive mine—but Nana kept her promise. I got them before I turned thirteen. A cancer perk, I guess.

And then, while I was in that coma—I heard God.

Clear as anything.

And for a girl who had no real idea of God, the fact that I knew it was Him says it all.

“Don’t worry, lovie. I’m not done with you yet. There’s more to your story. Be patient.”

So I was.

Eventually, my vitals began to stabilize. I was moved out of the ICU. But waking up felt like trying to swim through mud. My body was heavy. I was scared.

But then I heard Him again.

“Be still. Be patient, little one.”

And I was.

Then one morning, while my mom had stepped out for food, my friend’s mother, Liz, sat with me. That in itself was a miracle—she had lost her daughter, Kirsten, to cancer just months before.

Still, there she was. Sitting beside me. Praying.

And I remember it—this warmth washing over me like a blanket I had always known. I can’t recall her exact words, but I remember the moment my eyes fluttered open and saw her face, her hands, her prayer.

As her voice faded, I heard His one last time:

“There you go, little one. Remember—I’m not done with you yet.”

And from that day on, I knew God existed.

It would be years before I understood what that meant.

But I never stopped knowing.

As the years passed and I kicked cancer’s ass, I did what all kids try to do—I started learning how to just be a kid again. We moved. Life started happening.

Our family still wasn’t religious. We did the things—lighting the menorah, hosting Passover dinners, any excuse really for good food and family time. Most holidays ended in an argument between my dad and grandfather—but that’s family, right?

I’ll never forget the day I came home wearing a cross. I was fascinated by the things I had seen and heard at church with a friend. My mom was livid. She made me take it off and forbade me from wearing it again.

“We’re Jewish,” she said. “That’s not acceptable.”

But my grams? She was a real one. She told me that whatever made me happy was okay with her. She even bought me my first book on Wicca during my Craft/Goth phase. That should tell you everything about the kind of woman she was.

When I moved out at 18, I really started exploring. I was living with my high school sweetheart by then. We had both lived through traumatic childhoods—mine included cancer and other things, and his involved losing his sight. He didn’t believe in God, but I knew better. I just didn’t know what I believed yet.

So, I went down all the rabbit holes—Buddhism, Taoism, Judaism, Wicca… and eventually, Christianity. Friends invited me to church, and I went. It was nice. But it didn’t go deep. I didn’t let it. It all stayed on the surface.

Then we had our first child. My then-husband and I started going to a Protestant church. I liked it. He tolerated it. But over time, he made it clear—organized religion wasn’t for him. He didn’t want to raise our kids with religion at all. Traditions were fine, but not faith.

And because I was still in my early 20s and easily persuaded, I gave it up again. I turned away. But still, that voice remained—soft and steady:

“I’m waiting. I’m patient. But I’m still not done with you yet.”

It wasn’t until years later, when I met a friend—let’s call him that—that the idea of bringing my boys to church started to stir again. I felt like I needed something. I wanted my sons to know they were never alone, even if it felt like it.

By then, I’d lived a lot. Not just the cancer—but sexual assault, family dysfunction, and more stories for another time. I had always felt a little disconnected from others. Alone. Searching.

Something was missing, and I could feel myself getting close to it. But of course, in true me fashion, I didn’t go all in. I backed off. Again. Maybe it just wasn’t time. Maybe I had more growing—or more breaking—to do.

Eventually, I went through a divorce. I ended up in a relationship with someone who was just as lost when it came to God. But even though he had grown up in the church, he had run hard in the opposite direction. He had vowed never to go back.

Then our son was born.

And slowly, his heart began to soften.

We moved to Georgia to start fresh, to get away from the pain and the past. And it was here—far from everything I knew and loved—that I found God again.

For me, it came in the quiet breaking of my heart. In the loneliness. In the feeling of being rejected by the place I was trying to call home.

One day, desperate for connection, I walked into a local moms group just to be around other women. I didn’t know it was a Christian group until I was already inside. But something shifted.

The next weekend, I found myself walking into a church.

And I knew—I had found the missing piece.

I had come home.

Not just to Him. But to myself.

I haven’t looked back since.

And now, years later, I can look back at the full arc of my story—cancer, trauma, loss, loneliness—and see how it shaped me. How He shaped me. For a purpose.

To be a voice.

To be a soft place for the hurting to land.

To be the friend who sits with you in the dark until you’re ready to walk into the light.

I’m the one who will cheer you on, catch you when you’re falling, be your anchor in the roaring tides. I’ll do it quietly. Gently. Because I know what it feels like to need that.

And I’m still not done yet.

The Weight I Carry

Somewhere along the way, I realized something else about myself.

I’m always the one who shows up.

The one who listens without judgment. The one who sits with people in their pain and doesn’t flinch. The one who holds space, who quietly tends to broken hearts, who offers a soft landing when life gets too sharp.

And then—when they feel better, when they’ve figured it out, when the crisis has passed—they go. They move on. They breathe again. And I’m still there. Still standing. Still holding the weight of what they left behind.

But here’s the thing: I’ve made peace with it.

If that’s what they needed—if I could be the place where someone fell apart and got put back together again—then that’s what I was there for.

It’s not always fair. It’s rarely mutual. But I don’t love to get something back. I love because it’s who I am.

Because I know what it feels like to need someone and not have anyone.

Because I know the ache of sitting in the dark, hoping someone will come looking for you—and realizing they won’t.

And so I became that someone.

I became the girl who will sit with you while you cry and not rush you through it.

I’ll hold the pieces of your story while you figure out how to tell it.

I’ll be the calm when your world is on fire. I’ll be the hand you can squeeze when there’s no one else to call.

And when it’s time for you to go, I’ll let you. No guilt. No demand. Just grace.

Because grace is what I’ve been given over and over again, even when I didn’t deserve it.

Especially then.

So yes, sometimes I’m left holding the weight of other people’s healing.

And yes, sometimes it gets heavy.

But I’ve learned to carry it with love.

Because I’m not just someone who has survived.

I’m someone who helps others survive too.

The Weight I Carry (Part II)

It’s a strange kind of strength, really—this calling to be the soft place.

To be the one people come to when their world is breaking. To be the steady voice on the phone, the late-night text responder, the one who remembers the anniversary of the hard thing no one else mentions anymore.

People don’t always realize what it costs.

To listen deeply. To carry stories that aren’t yours but feel like they live inside your bones.

To nod and say, “I understand”—and mean it, because you do.

And then to let them go. To let everyone go.

Most of the time, people don’t even know they’ve handed you a piece of their grief. They feel lighter. You feel heavier. But you smile anyway.

Because that’s what love does.

It stays.

It steadies.

It sacrifices.

People have told me I’m too soft. That I give too much. That I need to protect my energy more.

But softness is not weakness. It’s an armor I’ve chosen.

Because when you’ve walked through the kind of pain that almost swallowed you whole, you don’t come out brittle—you come out tender.

You come out understanding that life isn’t about being impressive or untouchable. It’s about showing up when no one else does. It’s about whispering, “I’m here” and meaning it.

Even when you’re tired.

Even when no one stays for you.

Even when it’s thankless.

Especially then.

Because somewhere deep in my soul, I know—I was made for this.

I was made to hold what others can’t.

To witness pain without needing to fix it.

To love people in their worst moments and not flinch.

To be the one who doesn’t leave.

And yeah, sometimes it feels like everyone else gets to leave lighter, while I stay behind carrying what’s been left.

But if that’s what someone needed to find their way back to themselves, then I don’t regret it.

I carry it all like a sacred offering.

Not because I have to.

Because I get to.

Carrying It Forward

All those years of holding space for others—of quietly carrying what wasn’t mine to keep—shaped me more than I realized.

It taught me how to sit in silence with someone and not rush to fill it.

It taught me to listen with my whole body, to the things people aren’t saying.

It taught me to love people without needing them to perform or be okay or have it all figured out.

It taught me how to mother—not just my own children, but anyone who needed a soft place to land.

Because that’s what I’ve become—a landing place.

For my sons, when life feels too big. For my friends, when they’re too tired to be strong. For the women I coach, who are trying to hold everything together and don’t know how to ask for help.

The truth is, I’m not here to fix people.

I’m here to see them.

To remind them that they’re not too much, or too messy, or too broken.

To walk with them—not ahead of them, not behind them, but with them—through the storms they thought they’d never survive.

Every pain I’ve carried, every moment I felt unseen, every ache I’ve tucked into the corners of my heart—it’s all taught me how to show up with more compassion, more grace, more gentleness.

That’s the kind of strength I want to live in now.

Not loud.

Not flashy.

But rooted. Present. Faithful.

The kind of strength that doesn’t need to be noticed to matter.

The kind that changes lives in quiet, sacred ways.

So if you ever find yourself holding too much…

If you ever feel like no one sees the weight you carry…

I want you to know this:

I see you.

I get it.

And I’ll sit with you in the dark for as long as you need.

Because God’s not done with you yet either.

And neither am I.

With all the love I have to give,

-J

A prayer from me to you…

God,
For the one who always shows up—
who carries what others cannot,
who listens more than she speaks,
who holds the weight and never complains—
wrap her in Your gentleness tonight.

Remind her that she is seen.
That her quiet strength is holy.
That her presence is a gift, even when no one says thank you.

Give her rest where she is weary,
peace where she is stretched thin,
and joy that bubbles up from the deep places.

Let her know that being soft is not a flaw—it is a calling.
And even when no one else returns the favor,
You are always there—waiting, patient,
never done with her yet.

Amen.

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
— Galatians 6:2 (NIV)