The Gift Inside the Gift: How God Shifted Our Perspective at Sixteen

A story of heartbreak, refinement, and the unexpected ways God brings healing in the midst of our deepest exhaustion. 

Some birthdays look nothing like we imagined they would. Some seasons arrive with more questions than answers, more tears than celebrations, and more refining than we ever believed we could withstand. This is one of those stories. What began as an emotionally heavy, overwhelming day for both me and my son transformed into a sacred reminder that God often moves in the moments we least expect. This is the story of a gift, a breaking point, and the quiet shift that only God could orchestrate.

Sixteen years ago, I was sitting in a hospital room preparing to become a mom to a little girl or boy ~ we didn’t know yet. Yes, we are one of those who love the anticipation of one of the greatest surprises in life. Just a few short hours later, at 10:48 PM, Logan would enter the world. In those early moments of parenthood, you never imagine what sixteen years later will look like. Honestly, you barely imagine the next couple of months. But the years start to move faster, and suddenly you’re asking yourself, How did we get here so quickly? All those little moments that quietly became “lasts” without you even realizing it. Life becomes a swirl - beautiful, chaotic, consuming. 

I never imagined sixteen would look like this.

I never imagined we would be spending a second birthday in a row away from home and inside a hospital setting. I never imagined that sixteen would happen in Boston, in a tiny one-bedroom apartment, just him and me. Today wasn’t easy for a multitude of reasons, and yet none of them had to do with him turning sixteen. They were because life happened… and because something bigger is on the horizon. I can feel it deep in my spirit.

We’ve been in Boston for thirteen days. Of those thirteen, I’ve only made it through one day without crying. The past forty-eight hours were brutal. His rehabilitation is intensifying, which means more dysregulation in the evenings - after long days of being overstimulated, exhausted, and pushed in ways that challenge every part of him. And the person you feel safest with is often the one you take everything out on.

I’ve had to learn to preserve myself in those moments. To not match his emotion. To remain grounded and steadfast. I pray for strength repeatedly - sometimes every hour. Strength to withstand. Strength to navigate. Strength simply to get through the next minute.

This week was full of meetings and the very first steps of building his treatment plan - complex, uncertain, but finally confirming that he is where he needs to be. The fear that his needs and struggles would once again be dismissed… the fear of being brushed off by yet another broken system… it lingered. But for the first time in a year, I feel safe. The system isn’t broken here. It’s the opposite.

Because here, a group of providers practices differently. They care differently. They work cohesively - for the child, the caregiver, and the entire family. My tears and words are met with grace and validation. My regulation matters as much as his. There is recognition of what we’ve walked through and of the undoing that must now happen. There is hope where trust was lost. There is healing in the way these people show up.

This is medicine. This is healing. 

And yet, the past two days pushed me to limits I wanted to give up on. They brought feelings of failure to the surface. They made me question my ability to be a good mom. How did we get here? How did we land in Boston? But the truth is - we didn’t fail, I didn’t fail. The system failed us. And when you mix the exhaustion, overstimulation, fear, anxiety, uncertainty, and a mustard seed of faith… it becomes a collision course for breakdown after breakdown.

It’s the tug-of-war between regulation and dysregulation. The delicate balance of holding everything together while simultaneously falling apart.

This morning, in our family psychology session, I held back tears until Logan left the room. Then I broke. I couldn’t even get the words “Can I have your tissues?” out before the tears came and a panic attack hit. Everything I’d been carrying poured out.

I love all the providers here, but Catherine… she is my favorite. She is transparent, gentle, and respectful of my clinical knowledge - yet she also understands that I don’t want to be a clinician right now. I just want to be a mom. And I am burned out. Nothing about this past year has been sustainable.

She gave me space to speak freely. To be honest. To ask hard questions. To voice fears. To sit in the unknown.

And then she reflected back everything I’m doing right. Every way I’m showing up. Every moment I haven’t given up. She reminded me I am not screwing this up. That I am, in her words, “crushing it.” 

When your world is shaken, reminders like that don’t bounce off - they anchor you.

And then…

But God. 

When I picked Logan up later, he was gentler. I imagine there were conversations about the last 48 hours, expectations, and accountability. He was mentally and physically exhausted - but he offered kindness instead of frustration.

Until I handed him his birthday gift.

He had asked for a VR headset. Everything in me knew he didn’t need more screens. He needed regulation. He needed a pathway to healing. He needed an outlet - not more stimulation.

Earlier this week, God gave me an idea. Logan’s passion for expression has always come through music and writing lyrics. Music therapy has been one of his favorite parts of any hospital stay, and he’s always gravitated toward beats that match his words.

One of the artists he listens to plays a ukulele.

What if that same instrument could become his outlet? His way of releasing pain, processing emotion, and discovering healing? 

He opened the box and was instantly angry - dysregulated, disappointed, hurt. He didn’t hide it. And I didn’t hide my steadiness.

Because I knew the heart behind the gift.

As he calmed down and I shared my intention, he softened. And eventually… he picked up the ukulele.

Much to his surprise - and mine - he has been strumming it for hours.

And in the quiet, I heard God whisper:

This is the gift inside the gift. 

Logan has always felt frustrated that music therapy isn’t available to him outside the hospital. But what if… this instrument becomes the beginning of something far bigger?

But God. 

What if his story - his pain, refinement, testimony, gifts, and talent - is exactly how God plans to use him?

What if music becomes his ministry?

What if healing comes through a different kind of expression?

What if the shift begins here… at sixteen… with a ukulele in his hands?

What if perception is the key to wellness?
What changes when we allow God to shape our perspective in the pressing? 

Sixteen years later, this is not how I thought we would celebrate. And yet - here I sit - listening to him laugh and strum and talk to a friend in North Carolina… and I can't help but smile at how drastically the day shifted.

What I thought today would be… and what is… are two very different things.

This is the breaking of generational patterns.
This is the restoration only a mighty God can orchestrate.

Happy Sweet 16, Logan.
May you look back one day and see this as the moment everything shifted -
the moment your perspective changed,
the moment healing began. 

To healing. To hope. To the God who meets us in the refining fire.