Mountains and Valleys: Finding Faith Through Life's Journey

Life is a series of mountains and valleys.

Some seasons bring moments of celebration, accomplishment, and joy. Others challenge us with loss, disappointment, uncertainty, and grief. As I reflect on my journey, I realize that every mountain I've climbed and every valley I've walked through has shaped the person I am today.

I've made good decisions. I've made decisions I wish I could revisit. I've experienced victories that filled my heart with gratitude and hardships that tested every ounce of my strength. Yet each experience has become a lesson, teaching me perseverance, resilience, humility, compassion, and grace.

Above all else, I've learned the power of faith.

There have been moments when faith was all I had left to hold onto. It wasn't always easy, and it certainly wasn't always comfortable. But even when my faith felt as small as a mustard seed, it carried me through circumstances I never imagined I could survive.

One of my earliest memories of loss occurred when I was six years old.

My maternal grandmother—my MomMom—was one of the most important people in my young life. I spent nearly every day at her house, surrounded by her love, warmth, and comfort. When she became ill, I remember standing outside the hospital where she was being treated. She stood at her window and waved goodbye to me. I can still see that image today.

It was the last time I ever saw her.

Not long afterward, my babysitter told me that my grandmother had died. Even as a child, I remember feeling the coldness of how the news was delivered—as though someone were simply commenting on the weather. I didn't yet have the words to describe grief, but I knew something inside me had changed forever.

That evening, I sat quietly on my grandfather's lap as our family tried to process an unimaginable loss. I watched my mother grieve, and I remember how upset she was that I had learned about my grandmother's passing from someone else.

I was the only grandchild allowed to attend the funeral. I remember carrying my little white patent leather purse, pulling tissues from it for my mother as she cried. My Strawberry Shortcake doll and the contents of my purse spilled onto the floor, creating a moment that somehow captured both the innocence of childhood and the heaviness of loss.

Afterward, my mother arranged for me to see a child psychologist to help me process my grief. Looking back, I appreciate her desire to help me heal. At the time, however, I resisted every visit. I didn't understand why I disliked going so much. Perhaps I wasn't ready to talk about my feelings. Perhaps I didn't know how to trust a stranger with my pain. Or perhaps, even at six years old, I had already begun to absorb society's stigma around mental health.

Whatever the reason, that experience planted questions that I continue to reflect on today.

How do we process grief? How do we heal? How do childhood experiences shape the adults we become?

These questions have stayed with me throughout my life.

As I continue to navigate both mountains and valleys, I have discovered that healing isn't a destination—it's a lifelong journey. Every experience, every relationship, every loss, and every triumph has become part of the story God is still writing.

My hope is that by sharing these memories, others will find comfort in knowing they are not alone. We all carry stories that have shaped us. We all have valleys we never expected to walk through and mountains we never imagined we could climb.

The beautiful thing about life is that neither the mountain nor the valley lasts forever.

Faith reminds us to keep moving.

And sometimes, all it takes is faith the size of a mustard seed.