For the Ones Off-Camera

I passed this tree on my walk on Saturday. It was just off the road, branches outstretched like it had something to say.

It wasn’t blooming or especially beautiful, but it looked… solid. Like it had weathered some things and stayed. Like it had roots deeper than what you could see.

I thought about how many times I’ve felt the opposite—unmoored, undone, torn from everything familiar. And I realized how many of us carry storms in our bones that no one else knows about.

In my 42 years, there have been two seasons that completely unmoored me from everything I believed to be true.

The first was a slow unraveling—one that came after years of trying to hold together something that was never safe to begin with. It took time, therapy, prayer, and a level of self-honesty I hadn’t known I was capable of. Choosing to walk away from that chapter was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Not because I didn’t believe it was right—but because it meant letting go of the version of life I had fought so hard to protect. I was 28 years old, raising two tiny boys, starting over with nothing but my name, my hope, and $17 in my bank account—just six days before Christmas.

The second came without warning, in the form of a blinking dot on a map.

When Luke stopped responding to texts and calls last August, I checked his location. His phone had stopped moving, just a mile from our house. Chapman and I got in the car, and as we came over the hill where his phone had last pinged, we saw a mile of backed-up traffic and EMS crews sprinting from fire trucks toward the trees lining the road.

Coming upon the scene of Luke’s accident split my life in two.

There was no slow descent this time. Just a freefall.

And in an instant, I was no longer the same person.

Both experiences gutted me. One came slowly, the other instantly—but neither left anything untouched. They burned away the scaffolding of what I’d built, of what I’d trusted, and left me standing in the ashes, unsure of who I was or what would remain.

I’ve found myself thinking about those seasons again lately—not just because of personal milestones, but because of a viral video that’s been circulating the Internet. Maybe you’ve seen it: footage from a Coldplay concert, captured on the jumbotron, where betrayal played out on a very public stage—first in front of thousands, and now millions.

When my husband asked if I’d seen it, I think my answer surprised him.

And maybe it will surprise you, too.

Because I didn’t laugh. I didn’t speculate. I didn’t click around for context.

Instead, I felt my chest tighten and my stomach drop. Because I know what it’s like to discover a truth that undoes you. I know what it’s like to have the ground fall out from under your feet while the world around you keeps going. And I know how long it takes to find your footing again—as someone completely different than you were before.

There’s a whole world of people like me—like you, maybe—whose lives have unraveled, either quietly or all at once. Not in front of stadiums or livestreams. Not with strangers watching in real time. But the impact was just as real. Just as devastating.

We’re the ones who’ve sat in cars with the air running, staring through windshields after news that split life into a before and after. The ones who’ve stood in doorways, hollow and trembling, trying to figure out how to make dinner while everything inside us burned to ash. We’ve shown up to work, to school drop-off lines, to Sunday services—holding coffee cups like shields, wearing polite smiles while our bodies screamed on the inside.

And it’s not just emotional.

Trauma doesn’t stay where it lands. It spreads. It settles in your chest, your stomach, your skin. It confuses your senses and disrupts your rhythms. After Luke’s accident, even the air felt different. My skin prickled at the wrong temperature. My go-to comfort foods made me nauseous. My favorite music felt like noise. And that Diet Coke? The first few sips tasted like aluminum and disappointment.

I wasn’t just sad. I was disoriented—at a cellular level.

That’s why I couldn’t laugh at the viral video. Because I’ve lived what’s off-camera. I’ve been the woman who had no idea what was about to hit her. And I’ve been the one who knew, but still hoped she was wrong. I’ve felt the ache of betrayal not just in my chest, but in my bones. And I know how long it can take for the body to begin trusting the world again.

If that’s you: I see you. I’m standing in the rubble, too. Still rebuilding what was taken from me. Still healing wounds I didn’t cause or ask for. Still waking up some days unsure of what version of myself will rise to meet the morning.

Some seasons don’t get tied up in clarity or closure. They just get survived—one breath, one conversation, one small act of courage at a time.

And if you’re still in that place, trying to make sense of the weight you now carry: this space is for you. No answers. No fix. Just the gentle knowing that you’re not the only one.

And I’m here to tell you—without rushing your healing or tying it up in a bow—that one day, you might take a sip of something familiar and realize your taste buds have come back online. It won’t fix everything. It might even catch you off guard. But it will remind you that you’re still here. That the shock didn’t finish you. That even when life as you’ve known it ends, there is still life to be lived on the other side.

Not the same life. Not the same you. But a life that’s still yours, still sacred, still capable of giving you joy.

Holding space with you,