This Too Shall Pass, And Until It Does, I Am Grateful

A reflection on love, loss, and learning to be thankful even when life is uncertain.

Wendi Kehn/Hellbloom Haven (Also featured on Substack & Medium)

Jan 07, 2026

Trigger Warning:

This piece contains references to trauma, depression, suicidal thoughts, abuse, and experiences of homelessness. Please read with care, especially if you are in a vulnerable place.
Take what supports you and feel free to pause or return to it when you’re ready.

You are not alone.

Section 1: The Years I Couldn’t See Past

Growing up, I couldn’t picture my life past twenty-six or twenty-seven.

It wasn’t that I imagined a specific ending.
It was that everything beyond that age dissolved into blankness, a quiet place where the future stopped forming.
And at the time, that absence didn’t frighten me.

If I’m honest, it felt like relief.

Because even if that blankness meant death, it also meant an end to the pain.
An end to the constant striving.
An end to carrying what had grown too heavy to hold alone.

I didn’t know then what I know now, that when survival becomes your only task, imagining a future feels unnecessary, even unsafe.
Hope requires rest.
And rest had not yet been offered.

Looking back, I understand why that horizon closed where it did.

A version of me truly did end in those years.

Not symbolically.
Not quietly.
But in a real, life‑or‑death moment, a battle between darkness and light, between exhaustion and endurance, between the part of me that wanted the pain to stop and the part that still believed life was holy.

And in that moment, I reached the end of my own strength.

I remember sitting on the floor in tears, listening to my kids playing in another room, feeling the crushing weight of hurt from reaching out for help, only to be met with stop being dramatic. I was drowning in darkness, imagining the chaos that would follow should I not make it out of this.
I was praying, begging, not even sure who I was calling to. Just asking, someone. Anyone. Please.
Save me. Help me. I can’t do this anymore.

And then, warmth.
Not around me, but through me.
Not a feeling I created, but a presence I received.
I heard it clearly, not with my ears, but inside my spirit:
Surrender.
Stop fighting.
Let us in. Let us help you.

God. Angels. A higher power.
Call it what you will, I know what I felt.
I wasn’t alone. I never had been.
I had just been trying to do it all by myself.

And let’s be honest, I wasn’t doing a great job on my own anyway.
So I said, Okay. You take it.

That was the moment I stopped performing.
I let go of the masks, stopped trying to earn love by disappearing.
I started choosing me, not out of selfishness, but out of alignment.

I stood up for myself and began trusting my intuition, the voice God placed inside me.
And slowly, I started to believe that I wasn’t a mistake.
That the way I love, the way I feel, the way I see the world, was on purpose.

God didn’t create me to be small.
He didn’t give me gifts just to bury them under shame.
He gave them to me because I had a heart pure enough to use them well.
Not perfectly. But faithfully.

And no, this doesn’t mean I think I’m flawless.
It just means I understand now that sometimes God gives His hardest assignments to the ones He trusts the most.
The ones who’ve been through fire and come out softer, not colder.
The ones who still believe in light, even when they’ve walked through the dark.

I chose life, and chose to accept myself that day, not for who everyone thought I should be, but who I was, deeply feeling, intuitive, loving, gifted, and kind.

Not because the pain disappeared or because the road ahead was suddenly clear.
But because I knew, with a certainty deeper than logic, that this could not be a part of my children’s story, and I deserved a better ending.

That choice became a covenant.
A promise that no matter how hard the days became, I would not surrender my life, only the illusion that I had to save myself.

I am still here because grace intervened and because surrender turned out not to be defeat, but rescue.

And the fact that I am still here means something.

It means light had the final word.

Section 2: What Survival Clarifies

Coming back from the edge changes you.

Whether it’s a near-death experience, years of depression, complex trauma, or rebuilding your life from nothing, survival leaves its mark.
Not just on your nervous system, but on your priorities, your relationships, and your sense of time.

You stop seeing life as a ladder to climb and start seeing it as something to hold.
Suddenly, being alive, really alive, feels less like a given and more like a sacred opportunity.

Psychologically, survival narrows your focus to what’s essential.
Spiritually, it teaches you to listen for what endures.

I stopped chasing what once felt urgent but was never essential.
My body grew unwilling to stay where it didn’t feel safe.
And my soul began to recognize what was real, what steadied me, nourished me, helped me finally exhale.

After enough loss, the world gets quiet and in that quiet, you notice what sustains you:

• the people who see you without requiring performance,
• who drains you and who energizes you
• the mornings you wake up without dread,
• the small moments of joy found throughout the day
• the moments when your shoulders drop and your heart softens,
• the small acts of grace that carry you through the ordinary and the hard.

Life doesn’t suddenly become easier after survival.
But it does become clearer.

You eventually realize healing isn’t about becoming who you were before.
It’s about honoring who you became in the process. The wisdom, the boundaries, the intuition, and the soul-deep discernment only come from living through what nearly broke you.

Survival gave me that clarity.

It taught me that meaning isn’t found in having everything under control.
It’s found in choosing life, with open eyes and an open heart, even when things are messy, painful, and unresolved.

And it’s from that place, that raw, clarified space,
that gratitude began to take root.

Section 3: Gratitude in the In-Between

This morning, while the kids were getting ready for school, I stood in the kitchen and cried.
Not because something terrible had just happened, but because I was suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude.
Not the kind that ignores reality, but the kind that includes it.

The past six years have been full of endings and beginnings, many of them wrapped inside each other.
I’ve gone through divorce, lost friendships, and relationships with family
Medical issues.
Homelessness, more than once.
I’ve gotten my own home, only to lose it again.
I’ve lost jobs, income, stability, belongings.
I’ve built a business from nothing, watched it grow, then watched it fall apart.
I’ve lived out of bags. Lost my car. Lost my phone.
Moved back in with my ex. Moved back out. Moved back in.
Over and over again, rising, falling, rebuilding, surrendering.

Some seasons gutted me.
Some stretched me.
All of them shaped me.

And through it all, I kept showing up.
For my kids.
For myself.
For the life I knew deep down I was still meant to live.

Today isn’t simple.
I’m still co-parenting with someone I care about, even as we continue to grow apart.
We’re building separate futures under the same roof, and some days, that hurts.
But there is effort, there is support, and there is love.
We are doing the best we can, not perfectly, but intentionally, to create a soft place for our children to land, even while the ground beneath us shifts.

I’m still healing, my body, my business, my sense of self.
But I’m here.
Alive.
Rooted in something deeper than certainty.

And through it all, one truth keeps rising to the surface:

This too shall pass.

Every season has its rhythm.
Every storm moves on.
Every loss opens space for something new, not always immediately, not always cleanly, but eventually.

The pain doesn’t last, neither does the ease.
But the movement, the becoming, that stays.

So when I cried this morning, it wasn’t out of despair, it was an overwhelming gratitude that I was blessed with my children, my cats, this home, these people in my life, friends, my babies friends, people that love them even though they aren’t theirs. How did I get the honor of being their mom, to love these beautiful gifts of time and moments and pure love, to spend time with them, and watch them grow into the beautiful souls they are.
It was because I remembered everything I’ve survived, rebuilt, and everything I’m still holding, even when I’m tired.
It was because I could feel the truth in my bones:

I’ve lived through seasons that tried to take me out, and I’m still here.
I’ve lost everything more than once, and still found reasons to give thanks.
I’ve said goodbye to so many versions of myself, and still, I rise.

And that’s what gratitude means to me now.
Not pretending things are easy.
But knowing that they are moving.
That nothing stays stuck forever.
That even the hardest seasons are not permanent.

And for that, I am so, so grateful.

Section 4: Choosing Hope Anyway

After everything I’ve been through, I don’t take the small things for granted anymore.
A quiet morning.
My kids’ laughter across the house.
A warm safe place to sleep.
A moment of peace in my body.
These are things I used to overlook. Now they stop me in my tracks.

Over time, I’ve let go of so many things, the masks, the people-pleasing, the pressure to perform.
I’ve stopped trying to earn love by shrinking.
I’m not trying to prove anything anymore, I just want to live honestly.

And the more I let myself be who I am, the more I can see what truly matters:
Presence. Integrity. Peace.
The feeling of coming home to myself, even if everything around me is temporary.

Because the truth is, this isn’t my house.
This isn’t the life I came here to build.
I’m here for a season.
And I’m grateful for this season, deeply.
But I also know it’s not where I’m meant to stay.

Sometimes I struggle with that.
It feels selfish to want more, to hope for something beyond this, when I already have so much.
But I remind myself: I’m not ungrateful. I’m human.
I can honor what I have and still long for something different.
I can be faithful here and still move forward when the time comes.

Wanting more doesn’t mean I’m rejecting this life.
It means I believe in growth.
It means I know who I am, and I trust the pull in my spirit when it says, this isn’t the end.

Because nothing stays the same.
Seasons change and doors open and pain softens.
And one day, without realizing it, we look up and see we’re somewhere new, somewhere you once prayed to be.

Until then, I’m staying present.

Rooted in who I am, grateful for what is, and open to what’s next.

Closing: The Truth Is, I Know

I know how hard life can get.
I know what it’s like to face the darkness and claw your way out of hell.
I won’t lie to you, this work is not easy.
But it’s worth it.

Because if you can learn to find joy in the little things,
if you can hold on to hope when it feels out of reach,
if you can choose gratitude even with a tired heart,
you will find something deeper than happiness.

You will find peace.
You will find clarity.
You will find yourself.

Not in the absence of pain,
but in your ability to keep loving, living, and becoming through it.

That is the kind of strength no one can take from you.
And it will carry you through any season.

Thank you for reading,
Wendi Kehn

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