How Living Through Hard Things Shapes a Whole, Worthy Life

I remember kneeling on the bathroom floor, the light too bright and too quiet at the same time, drying my grandmother off after a shower when her body could no longer do what it had done her whole life. Her skin was thinner than I expected. I was careful, and still awkward. There was nothing graceful about those days, yet it felt holy in a way I didn’t have words for back then. It was intimate, uncomfortable, and real. It wasn’t a standout experience, but it was. 

In later days and years, my hands were doing very different things. Wiping a baby’s bottom at three in the morning while counting the hours until the alarm would ring. Pasting a Band-Aid on my son’s knee and sealing it with a kiss. Crawling under my house in the dark, mud sticking to my clothes, afraid of what might be down there with me, trying to fix a broken pipe because we needed water and there was no one else to do it. Pulling on hiking boots and climbing mountains just to feel my legs burn and my lungs work and my mind finally quiet. Standing in a driveway, heart racing, trying to pull my sixteen-year-old out of her car as she rebelled and tried to drive away anyway.

• I have been brave in rooms where I set my fears aside and pushed through.

• I have held my breath and held the line.

• I have wailed in loss when I could no longer contain it.

• I have let myself down in ways that still catch in my throat when I think about them. 

• And I have also forced myself up off the floor, scraped knees and all, because quitting was not an option, and no one was coming to rescue me.

Then there’s the money story. The part that carries its own quiet shame.

There were years when I stood in the grocery store adding up every item in my head, watching the total climb as my chest tightened, already knowing what I would put back if I went over. Times when my card was declined and I felt the heat rise in my face, pretending to search for nonexistent money deep in my purse so the cashier wouldn’t see the tears trickling down my face. And handing groceries back because I simply didn’t have the money, walking out with less food than we needed and more self-judgment than I knew what to do with.

There were other seasons, too. Seasons when I paid for someone else’s groceries without thinking twice. When I slipped grocery money to a friend, covered a utility bill, contributed quietly to someone going through a hard stretch because I knew that place intimately. The same woman. Different chapters. Same heart.

Here’s the part that took me far too long to see.

Somewhere along the way, I began to judge myself for the very life I had lived. I absorbed the unspoken belief that because I had been in the hard, dark places…caring for someone I loved, living with financial fear, grief, divorce, emotional mess, health issues, I should stay there. 

As if surviving the hard parts meant I wasn’t quite qualified to stand on the stage with my hands raised, receiving recognition, praise, or honor. As if the blood, guts, and tears were evidence against my worth rather than proof of my capacity.

So when acknowledgment came, I often deflected it. When opportunities appeared, I hesitated. When it was time to claim my voice, I softened it, qualified it, explained it away. 

If they really knew me, I thought. If they knew how many times I had failed, fallen apart, struggled to pay the bills, lost my footing, would they still think I was amazing? Would they still love me?

I didn’t see then that everyone worth listening to had their own version of that story.

The cost of that shrinking was real. I delayed my visibility. I underpriced my work. I waited to be chosen instead of choosing myself. I confused humility with self-erasure and called it being grounded.

What I didn’t realize was that I was still letting shame run my life in a quiet, socially acceptable way.

But here’s the truth that finally settled into my bones.

Those versions of me were never different women.

The woman who bathed her grandmother is the same woman who climbed mountains and fixed what was broken. The woman who counted pennies in the grocery store is the same woman who gives freely to others in need. The woman who fell apart is the same woman who rebuilt herself, again and again. None of it disqualifies the other. It all belongs.

We are not meant to be one thing.

We are complex, contradictory, interesting, and deeply human. 

We can be the pauper and the princess, the student and the teacher, the one who stands in line hoping her card will go through, and the goddess who knows her worth without apology. 

Our wholeness is not something to tidy up or justify. It is the source of our depth, compassion, authority, and truth.

So maybe the work isn’t trying to make sense of how all these versions of us coexist. Maybe the work is letting them stand side by side without explanation. Letting the blood, guts, and tears also be part of the story, not the reason we stepped out of the light. Not something to be ashamed of.

Because we don’t become worthy when life gets easier or cleaner or more impressive.

We become whole when we stop pretending that any part of our lived experience disqualifies us from being seen, honored, and fully here.

So this is me saying it plainly.

I’m done shrinking because my life wasn’t tidy. I’m done acting like the parts of me that were forged in fear, loss, scarcity, and responsibility somehow make me less deserving of visibility or respect. I have earned my place through living, not by being perfect or quiet or easy to admire.

I will no longer stand in the wings of my own life, clapping for others while questioning whether I’m allowed on the stage. I have stood in the mud. I have done the work. And I’m not disqualifying myself anymore.

This doesn’t mean I have it all figured out. It means I’m done pretending that wholeness requires erasing parts of my story. I no longer need to clean myself up before I take up space, or explain my past before I trust my voice.

From here on, I carry my life with me, not as baggage, but as evidence. 

Evidence of love, endurance, failure, courage, and growth. Evidence that I showed up, again and again, even when it was messy and hard and unseen.

If you’ve lived a life like this, one that includes both mud and meaning, you don’t need to stand on the sidelines either. You don’t need permission to be visible, respected, or heard. You’ve earned your place the same way I did.

By living.

Love is ALL there is,

Diana