Just an hour or so after I found out about my mom’s sudden death, I walked into her apartment and fell to pieces. Her essence was in the room, the last time I would have it. Her ice pack was still melting. Her blood drops on the floor. Her morning coffee cup, drying next to the sink. I was overcome by our story, our shared pain, the deep-cutting regret, by how I wished it had gone versus how it went.
My mom . . . was gone. The ache of hoping she hadn’t died alone and the weight of her loneliness felt heavier than I could bear. Our we was now just me. I sat there on her bed, and my daughter, Bella, held me as I came undone.
“Lorrrrd, why was she so, so hard to love?” I wailed. “Why was I so awwwwful at it? Why did it goooo this waaaay?”
I was as broken as I’ve ever been and beating myself up that I hadn’t done more. Regret likes to be the first visitor to show up in grief. I should have spent more time with her. I shouldn’t have pushed her away. I should have been more loving. All I could do was hope God could enter this agony that was threatening to wreck me. And He showed up in one of the most powerful ways I have ever experienced.
A sharp sense woke me from wailing, and I knew I was supposed to see something in that room. My husband, Rob, was rummaging through Mom’s stuff to find the paperwork the hospital had requested. I walked aimlessly over to her desk and then sat back down, exhausted and scared of what thumbing through her belongings might do to me. I noticed my mom’s recycling, and I instantly knew that I was supposed to look in that box. I pulled out bills, junk mail, and to-do lists. And I kept finding . . .
receipt
after receipt
after receipt
for alcohol.
Bella laid out the receipts by purchase date. The bed was covered. My mother was buying a bottle of vodka and a bottle of wine every two days, consuming them alone. My mother’s denial was still alive, already spinning lies, blaming me. And it was right there in that anguished room that God so sweetly showed up to insist, This is your truth. This was why she was so, so very hard to love.
The ER doctor had alluded that there might be more to my mom’s death, and now I wanted to know. We called the doctor and learned that my mom had been at a hospital the month prior, showing signs of pulmonary issues due to alcoholism. But my mother had told them she rarely drank.
Here again, God was so graciously reminding me what was real, since my mom had been playing pretend for so very long. The truth was my mom had ultimately died from trying to numb her pain. And here I was, left with so much need for healing.
All I had ever wanted was for my mother to quit drinking. I hadn’t understood why she never did, and after she died, the need for an answer was killing me. God was inviting me to participate in my own healing.
God led me to an addiction specialist named Pippa. In our first session, in a British accent, she dropped multiple f-bombs and just as much truth, and my soul felt like it was being stitched up word by word. I was begging to understand why my mom had never gotten restoration. Pippa was honest: “You wanted your mom’s recovery more than she wanted it.”
Agonized, I said, “I don’t get it—did she not know she had a problem? Her drinking gave up her only kid . . . How could she not know she needed healing? Why didn’t she quit to get me back? Did she not see how her whole life her alcoholism had distanced her from her sisters, her grandkids, her friends, me?”
The specialist said, “Oh, she knew she had a problem. The mantra of an addict is . . .
I have a problem, but not today . . .
I’ll deal with it soon . . .
Someday . . .
But not today.”
And I got it. I finally understood my mom, because I understood this mantra. My mom had hurt from all the pain she’d experienced as a kid, all the pain she’d caused me as a kid. Getting well would have meant feeling all that pain. And she just couldn’t bear it. Mom had known she’d needed healing.
Not today.
Someday.
In my grief, our good, beautiful, gracious God met me. And He invited me to do the craziest thing ever: Run into pain.
Running into pain is the only way to get the healing we long for. My mom didn’t want to feel pain. Neither do I, and neither do you. The only difference between my life and my mother’s was that I ran toward my pain instead of away from it, trusting Jesus could heal me there.
Every trigger, every broken heart, every lie uncovered, every altercation is God’s request for your presence. Every revealing receipt, every cold snub, every low score, every panic attack, every stone cast, every tear shed, every need to forgive, every “I’m not fine,” every “If you had,” every darned wounded collision is God inviting you to heal. His love can’t bear to watch you shaking in the pain of old wounds, inflicting new ones.
You can keep running from your pain. You can numb it. You can pretend it’s not there. But you and I both know all that does is hurt you and everyone you love. It’s time to do the hardest, best thing you can ever do: It’s time to run toward your pain and heal. No more acting like it’s gonna go away. No more waiting for God’s magic wand. No more thinking you’re gonna wake up transformed on Tuesday. No more enabling the people around you, being an accomplice to unhealed wounds. And no more saying “Someday”—for the big things or the small.
Your precious Jesus, the One who loves you with an indescribable, sacrificial, do-anything-for-you love, He is pleading with you. He wants to mend and restore you, the people you care about most, and this world that is in desperate pain. Do you hear His voice?
Adapted from Collide: Running Into Healing When Life Hands You Hurt by Willow Weston. Copyright © 2026. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, a Division of Tyndale House Ministries. All rights reserved.
{If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like this episode of The Love Offering Podcast, where Rachael chats with Kimberly Haar, a licensed professional counselor and marriage and family therapist with nearly two decades of experience, about her powerful new book, Healing from Life’s Deepest Hurts: Reclaiming Your Life After Grief, Loss, and Trauma. Kim doesn’t just speak from training—she speaks from experience. As a survivor of domestic violence, she knows firsthand what it means to wrestle with the “why,” to sit in the silence, and to slowly rediscover hope on the other side of heartbreak. You can listen to the episode here.}
About the Author:
Willow Weston is an author, a speaker, a podcast host, and the founder of Collide, a ministry impacting women nationwide. With decades of experience, Willow brings passion and truth, sharing her own journey of pain to inspire others to invite Jesus into their brokenness so they, too, can experience healing. Willow writes Bible studies and leads conferences that empower, heal, and transform women.
