This is for the mother who looks fine on the outside but feels lost inside.
For the one learning the difference between faith and surrender.
For anyone who needs to know they are not alone.
Read This Your Way
(Best enjoyed in order — but jump to what you need)
My God. My Guru.
There are moments in life when words feel small.
When gratitude is too heavy for sentences.
When the only thing that feels real is an invisible hand holding yours steady while everything else slips away.
This is the hand that never let go.
My God.
My Guru.
My guiding light.
He has been with me all my life — quietly, patiently, without conditions.
And yet, like most of us, I didn’t always notice.
I call Him my constant. My compass.
The hand that never left mine, even when I let go of everything else.
He never shouted over the noise; He waited in the pauses.
He spoke in the little things — a smile from a stranger, a song on the radio, a sunrise that looked like a promise.
He was there in the people who showed up just when I needed help, without being asked.
In the laughter that returned without warning.
In the quiet moments where, for the first time in months,
I felt peace instead of panic.
He didn’t change my life overnight — He changed the way I saw it.
He taught me that surrender isn’t weakness.
It’s trusting that even when I can’t see the path,
He’s already walked ahead of me — lighting the way.
When Life Looks Fine From the Outside
After Zenzen was born, life looked… happy.
She was tiny, perfect, and mine.
Our home felt fuller.
My heart felt bigger.
I had my beautiful girls.
A home full of small hands and laughter.
A husband who stood beside me.
A life that looked complete from the outside.
And yet, quietly — almost invisibly —
something inside me was unravelling.
No one really tells you this part of motherhood.
The part where joy and darkness can exist in the same breath.
The truth many mothers carry silently — postpartum depression that doesn’t announce itself loudly.
It creeps in gently.
It hides behind smiles, routines, and I’m fines.
You can love your baby fiercely and still feel like you’re drowning.
I was happy — and yet, I wasn’t okay.
It wasn’t loud sadness.
It wasn’t obvious despair.
It was quiet.
Heavy.
Confusing.
I didn’t even know I was struggling.
I just knew I felt… off.
Not sad exactly. Not unhappy.
Just distant — like I was standing in my own life, watching it from the outside.
Motherhood has a way of demanding everything —
your time,
your body,
your sleep,
your sense of self —
and then asking you to smile through it.
And when you don’t feel okay, guilt joins the party.
How could I feel like this when I had everything I had prayed for..and more?
What kind of mother feels empty while holding her child?
So, I stayed quiet.
I kept going.
I told myself it would pass.
I told myself to be grateful.
I told myself other mothers had it worse.
I was functioning.
Doing everything that needed to be done.
But I wasn’t living.
I was drowning,
without realising I was even in the water.
I remember that one night clearly.
The dishes were done.
Toys were scattered across the floor.
The house was quiet — and yet somehow still too loud.
I sat in the kitchen, lights dim, feeling small and unseen.
And somewhere between the stillness and the hum of the fridge,
I whispered a wordless prayer — not asking for anything,
just hoping someone was listening.
Looking back now, I realise that was the moment I was found.
Not by thunder.
Not by miracles.
But by quiet grace.
The kind that doesn’t arrive with fanfare —
just a soft whisper that says, “I’m here.”
The Hand That Never Let Go
Even when I forgot Him — He didn’t forget me.
We get busy.
We drift.
We stop praying, stop listening, stop noticing.
But He never leaves.
When I was at my lowest, His presence wasn’t loud or dramatic.
It wasn’t a miracle moment or a sudden revelation.
It was subtle.
A feeling of being held when I couldn’t hold myself.
A calm that didn’t make sense.
A strength that wasn’t mine.
He didn’t take the pain away overnight.
He didn’t magically fix everything.
Instead, He stayed.
He walked with me through the darkness — step by step —
until I slowly learned how to breathe again.
There were days when I thought I was falling apart —
but every time, something unseen caught me.
Every low came with a lesson.
Every detour came with direction.
When I wanted to give up, He sent signs.
When I doubted myself, He sent strength.
When I was angry, He sent stillness.
And when I was lost — He didn’t shout from the mountaintop.
He simply reached out —
through grace,
through people,
through love —
and pulled me back into the light.
Faith, I’ve learned, isn’t always found in temples or rituals.
Sometimes, it’s found in the quiet knowing that you are held,
even when you feel completely alone.
Faith, Surrender, and the Moment Everything Shifted
Faith is believing He is there.
Surrender is letting Him hold you
when you can’t hold yourself.
For a long time, I believed faith was enough.
Faith was believing God exists.
Faith was praying when things went wrong.
Faith was showing up when life demanded answers.
What I didn’t realise then was this —
faith can exist without surrender.
I had faith.
But I was still trying to carry everything on my own.
Still managing.
Still holding on.
Surrender was different.
Surrender wasn’t giving up.
It was letting God carry
what I couldn’t anymore.
Surrender was when I stopped pretending, I was in control.
When I stopped asking why me?
When I finally whispered, I trust You.
And that’s when healing began.
It didn’t arrive as a miracle or a moment that changed everything overnight.
It arrived quietly.
As calm I couldn’t explain.
As strength that wasn’t mine.
As the feeling of being held when I was falling apart inside.
Healing wasn’t instant.
It wasn’t neat.
But it was real.
And slowly — almost imperceptibly — the darkness lifted.
Not because life became easier, but because I wasn’t walking through it alone anymore.
My surrender didn’t erase the chaos.
It gave me steadiness inside it.
It gave my heart a rhythm again — one that matched the heartbeat of hope.
That same faith became the pulse of this space — Eat Play Travel with Sid.
Every story.
Every laugh between the lines.
They’re all quiet thank-you notes
to the light that led me home.
For Anyone Who Feels This Too
If you’re reading this and quietly nodding…
If you’re smiling on the outside but breaking inside…
If life looks fine to everyone else
but you feel like you’re slowly falling…
Please know this:
You are not weak.
You are not broken.
And you are not alone.
There is something greater than this moment holding you —
call it grace,
call it the universe,
call it a higher power,
call it whatever feels true to you.
Even when no one else sees your struggle, you are seen.
Especially when you can’t see yourself clearly anymore.
You may feel disconnected.
You may feel lost in the noise of life.
But you have not been forgotten.
There is a quiet strength that does not leave.
A presence that does not abandon.
A hand that continues to hold —
even in the dark.
Especially in the dark.
It always has.
It always will.
A Quiet Reflection
Sometimes faith brings us to the door.
But surrender is what allows the light back in.
Faith isn’t loud.
It doesn’t need proof or perfection.
It doesn’t demand — it waits.
It holds you through every season,
until you’re ready to see
that you were never really alone.
When I lost my way, He lit the path.
When I let go, He held on.
And now, when I look back
at that version of me —
tired, lost, searching —
I don’t feel pity.
I feel gratitude.
Because it was in that darkness that
I finally learned how to see the light.
Tell me — who or what has been your guiding light when life felt dark?
Share your story in the comments or tag me on Instagram @eatplaytravelwithsid — because the world could always use more stories of faith, grace, and hope.
2 Comments
Such a beautiful string of thoughts ❤️
Thank you ❤️ I’m so glad it resonated with you.