The Armor I Learned to Dance In

Because I didn’t just survive the war; I found rhythm in the aftermath.

There’s a kind of tired that sleep can’t fix — a soul-deep exhaustion that comes from healing while holding everything together. It’s not just motherhood that wears me down; it’s the becoming. The endless rebuilding. The kind of strength that’s born not from choice, but from necessity.

Every day, I wake up and face a world that keeps asking for more — more patience, more courage, more time, more money and more faith. And somehow, even when I think I’ve reached my limit, I find another layer of resilience I didn’t know I had. That’s what being a single mom does — it refines courage until it becomes second nature.

I leave one job to come home to the other one. The harder one. The one without PTO, without breaks, without child support and without applause.

People see my tired eyes but not my unshakable loyalty. They see my strength but rarely the moments I cry quietly in the dark, whispering prayers that only God heard.

Every bill paid, every meal cooked, every bedtime story told —is an act of devotion few could ever understand. I don't clock out; I carry our world on my back with a warrior’s grace.

I carry it all:

• Groceries and grief

• Prayers and pain

• To-do lists and tears

• Deadlines and dinner

• Laundry and loneliness

• The ache and the gratitude

  
  

All in the same breath.

There’s a quiet kind of bravery in doing life alone. In being the one who shows up every time, even when no one’s showing up for you.

In choosing hope when disappointment feels familiar. In raising a child with love when the other parent chose a different path.

There are nights when I’d give anything just to exhale into someone’s arms and not have to be the strong one. Not having someone to lean on feels like standing in an empty room after the storm — but in that quiet, I discovered peace wasn’t the absence of chaos, it was the presence of me.

People see my strength, but they don’t see the story behind it — the quiet nights of prayer, the loneliness that teaches me to listen, the courage that grows in the cracks of heartbreak.

I don’t move through life to prove I can. I move because love calls me to — for my child, for myself, for the woman I’m becoming.

And yes, my soul is tired. But it’s the kind of tired that follows transformation — the weary grace that comes after surviving, after quietly forgiving, after staying soft in a world that hardened others.

So, if you know a woman like me, don’t just call her strong. Remind her that she’s allowed to rest. Remind her that her worth isn’t in what she carries, but in who she is. Hold space for her. Listen when she exhales. Remind her she’s seen, even when she’s silent.

Because sometimes, the greatest act of love is just presence — no fixing, no rescuing, just being.

Because even the fiercest soldier needs somewhere safe to lay her armor down.

Reflection

Healing isn’t pretty. It’s not linear. It’s sacred, slow, and often lonely. But it’s also holy ground — the place where God rebuilds what life tried to break.

This journey of single motherhood has shown me a courage I never knew lived inside me. A strength that doesn’t roar — it whispers, “Keep going." Even without a partner to lean on, I’m not walking alone, even in the silence, even in the ache, God, my angels and my community are always there........

Tonight, I remind myself: I am not forgotten. I am not behind. I am exactly where I’m meant to be — in the becoming, in the healing, in the holy middle of grace and grit.

Being a single mom in this economy isn’t just hard — it’s holy work. It’s the kind of strength that doesn’t come from comfort, but from calling. It’s waking up every day knowing no one’s coming to save me — and doing it anyway. It’s the loyalty of love that stretches beyond exhaustion, beyond fear, beyond what feels fair.

But what I’ve learned is that healing doesn’t end in heaviness — it ends in freedom.

Somewhere between the bills, the prayers, and the quiet nights, I stopped surviving and started living. I started laughing louder. Smiling softer. Dancing again — not because life got easier, but because I got lighter. The weight I carried turned into wisdom. The pain became purpose. The loneliness became the loudest conversation with God and I — and I finally learned to listen and trust myself.

Now, I move through life with a full heart and clear boundaries. I say no without guilt. I rest without explanation. I choose peace over pleasing. And I protect my energy like its holy ground — because it is.

I’m no longer waiting to be rescued. I’ve become my own safe place. The woman I used to pray to become — I’m her now. Unapologetic. Free. Whole.

There’s a new kind of rhythm in me — one that doesn’t march to survival, but dances to joy. The kind that laughs easily, glows naturally, and doesn’t give a single fuck about anything that disrupts her peace.

Because after walking through the fire, I didn’t just make it out — I came out shining. And every glimmer, every laugh, every quiet morning is proof —I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m alive!

And that’s where the shift happened. Somewhere between heartbreak and healing, I stopped trying to be everything for everyone and started redefining me. I was unbecoming and unlearning everything projected on to me to transform into a beautiful woman of peace. Honestly, I am so proud of how hard I have worked to become the woman I am today. The woman who laughs louder now. Who smiles softly without needing permission. Who dances barefoot in her kitchen, unbothered by the mess, the noise, or the past.

I used to carry my armor to survive. Now, I wear it with rhythm — as a reminder of what I’ve overcome and how far I’ve come.

My boundaries are my peace.

My freedom is my rebellion.

And my joy? That’s my victory dance.

Prayer:

God, thank You for turning my pain into power. For teaching me that peace lives inside me, not around me. Thank You for the storms that taught me strength — and the calm that taught me joy. Thank You for showing me that peace was never found in people, but in Your presence and my purpose.

Keep me grounded in grace and wild in spirit. Let my laughter be proof that healing is real. Let my boundaries be love in action. And let my life — every glimmer, every step, every dance — be a reflection of freedom and faith. May every single mom who feels unseen remember — she is not just surviving; she is being reborn. Help her dance in her armor and rise, unshaken, knowing freedom was always hers to claim. Amen.

Own Your Light,

Soldier Mom