This is my first time traveling solo as a mom.
No second adult to double-check the gate.
No shared glances when the line is long.
No one else carrying the weight of getting there while I carry the weight of leaving.
I’m heading to a funeral.
Which already means grief is in the air before the plane ever leaves the ground.
And I’m leaving my babies behind.
They’re safe. They’re loved. They’re with people who know their rhythms and their favorite snacks and how they like to be tucked in. I know all of that to be true.
And still.
My mind keeps running ahead of me—forecast maps, possible delays, what-ifs stacked on top of each other like dominoes just waiting to fall. What if the weather turns? What if flights get canceled? What if I’m stuck somewhere far away when I should be home reading bedtime stories and kissing foreheads?
Motherhood has a way of teaching you just how many invisible threads your heart can stretch along at once.
Grief pulls one direction.
Love pulls another.
Fear fills in the quiet spaces between.
I packed. I repacked. I checked the weather again. I checked it one more time just in case it had changed in the last five minutes. I kissed my babies longer than necessary and tried not to let my voice catch when I said goodbye.
Then I got in the car.
And somewhere between my driveway and the airport—somewhere between holding it together and letting it spill—I felt it.
Not a lightning bolt.
Not a voice from heaven.
Just a steady, quiet truth settling into my chest.
Faith over fear.
Not because fear disappeared.
Not because the risks suddenly vanished.
But because I realized fear was asking me to live five steps ahead of where I actually am.
Right now, my babies are okay.
Right now, I am okay.
Right now, the road is clear, the car is moving, and I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
Faith didn’t promise me smooth travel or perfect timing.
Faith reminded me that I don’t have to be everywhere at once to be a good mother.
Faith whispered that presence matters—and that includes being present here, not just worrying about there.
So I breathed.
I named the fear instead of shoving it away.
I thanked God for the people holding my children while I can’t.
I asked for gentleness for myself—for the grief I’m walking toward and the love I’m carrying with me.
And I made myself a promise:
I will show up fully where my feet are planted.
At the funeral.
At the table with family.
In the quiet moments when memories surface without warning.
In the ache of missing my kids and the relief of knowing they are held.
I don’t know what the weather will do.
I don’t know how smooth the return will be.
I don’t know how tired I’ll be when I finally walk back through my front door.
But I do know this:
Faith doesn’t mean nothing can go wrong.
Faith means trusting that even if something does, I am not alone—and neither are my children.
I will get home.
They will be okay.
I will be okay.
And for now, I am choosing faith—not instead of fear, but over it. Letting it sit in the driver’s seat, while fear rides quietly in the back, no longer in charge.
If you’re traveling heavy-hearted.
If you’re leaving someone you love.
If your mind keeps racing ahead of your body—
May you find a moment of calm on the way.
May faith meet you quietly, right where you are.
And may you remember: you don’t have to carry everything at once.
Just this moment is enough.