Family Systems, Silent Battles, and Solid Ground

When the Ground Beneath Us Shifted

Content Note: Part 3 of a 3-part series on family, faith, and healing.

 The week of New Year’s was abbreviated at clinic, and we encountered challenges we weren’t prepared for - but were grateful to face in a place of support.

Still, the fallout was heavy.

Once again, our days revolved around Logan.

Addie and Jax were bored and frustrated. Andrew was angry. I was overstimulated, exhausted, and burnt out. Communication fractured. Tension mounted.

By New Year’s Eve, Logan was dysregulated the moment we walked through the door.

For hours, we navigated familiar patterns - his body overwhelmed, emotions spilling over. But this time, everyone was there to witness it.

Andrew felt anger.
Addie felt annoyed.
Jax felt sadness.

And I felt the familiar isolating anxiety of parenting a medically complex child - this time with the weight of everyone watching.

Jax quietly offered Logan his snow globe, he got earlier in the day on our adventure to the book store, a simple tool he saw as regulation. His demeanor was gentle. He mirrored the calm he saw in me.

What he didn’t see was when it all became too much and I finally broke - privately carrying the weight of five people in one moment.

Clinic conversations shifted. Tears followed. Boundaries were redrawn.

And fear set in.

Delaware no longer felt safe to return to. Andrew and I weren’t aligned - and while disagreement is human, it fractured the sense of safety I relied on.

But God.

He began revealing the deeper issue.

Our ministry is family wellness - yet we were missing a foundational piece in our own family. We hadn’t fully acknowledged how much had been lost, or how deeply the past year had impacted each of us.

Andrew hadn’t witnessed the daily work. The nuance. The progress.

What he saw didn’t make logical sense.

How could Logan struggle to walk or climb stairs yet thrive in rock climbing? How could simple tasks feel impossible while complex movements felt exhilarating?

From the outside, it looked like laziness. Entitlement. Resistance.

From the inside, it was Functional Neurological Disorder and Amplified Pain Syndrome.

A silent war between brain and body.

Functionally, everything works. But the nervous system remains trapped in fight or flight. Nothing feels safe. And when overwhelm hits, the body freezes - literally.

This is what invisible illness steals - not just from the individual, but from the entire family system.

I had to take a true step back and have an honest conversation with Andrew.

I didn’t want 2026 to carry the weight of 2025.

God hadn’t brought us this far to let the lesson be lost - to let the enemy drive division and doubt into our healing.

Healing requires shared understanding.

As I sit here in the rock climbing gym, watching Andrew and the kids challenge themselves, I can’t help but notice the climbers around us. Each one gifted differently. Each one reading the wall in their own way.

Some move with ease, making it look effortless. Others try again and again, falling, resting, recalibrating before reaching for the next hold. Some walk away altogether, choosing a different route when this one no longer feels right.

That’s what healing looks like.

There is no single path to the top. No timeline. No metric that makes sense to someone watching from the outside.

Just presence.

Effort.

Trust.

2025 stripped us.

2026 is asking us to build - differently.

Not on performance.
Not on appearances.
But on solid ground.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t need the path to be clear.

I just need to stay present - and trust that God is steady, even when everything else isn’t.