When holding everything together finally broke me—but also set me free to rebuild from the ground up

Have you ever felt like you’re the glue holding everything together?

But there’s no solid foundation—just a teetering tower of Jenga pieces stacked onto a pillow you’re trying to hold in place. Then a storm hits, and you can’t hold it together anymore. It’s too wild, too heavy, and it tears you apart.

That happened to me. I held things together for a long time—until I couldn’t. I had no choice but to step away and let the pieces fall where they may. The pieces of my home, my family, my world scattered to the wind. I was forced to become my own glue. My own foundation. My hope is to rebuild myself into a place my children can return to when they’re ready.

And I’m still working on that. Still waiting. Still rebuilding.

What was the foundation I was missing?

It wasn’t love or effort or faith—I had plenty of that.

It was leadership.

I had a provider, but not a leader. Not a partner. Not a supporter.

He took pride in being the provider because it meant he didn’t have to carry anything else. Then he resented me because he felt that was all he was. Maybe that was his own self-fulfilling prophecy.

All I know is that I was in an impossible position. I was expected to hold everything together, to raise perfect children, to maintain a perfect home—and when anything slipped, as it inevitably would, it was my fault. Looking back, being able to lay fault at my feet seemed to be a big deal for him.

There’s an ancient proverb that says, “Unless God builds the house, the builders labor in vain.”

So I built my children with love, values, integrity, generosity, and faith. I tried to model honesty and self-sacrifice. I could see the inevitable coming long before it arrived. All my effort couldn’t undo what their father modeled: selfishness, manipulation, and deceit. That is an incredibly helpless feeling.

It’s almost impossible to hold a family together when it’s built on the back of a dishonest and misogynistic man.

And let me be clear—I am not a man-hater. I’ve met so many good men: fathers, husbands, and friends who show up with quiet strength and compassion. Seeing those men only highlighted the disparity between what I had and what I longed for.

But this isn’t a story about blame. It’s a story about resilience and rebuilding.

People say things have to fall apart before they can be rebuilt—and I used to think that was just a cliché. Until it became my life. I fought to keep things from crumbling. I fought so hard it broke me. And when I finally threw up my hands and surrendered the illusion of control, that’s when the real rebuilding began.

I thought I had created a solid, happy family—a home full of laughter, love, family dinners around the table, and open communication. But what I had built was a hologram. Even as my husband devalued me, he secretly admired the illusion I maintained. I didn’t realize how fragile it was until the day it shattered.

When I left him, I thought my children would understand. I thought love and truth would win. After all, I had always been there—a constant in their lives. I had sowed a garden where amazing human beings could grow until my fingers bled.

Instead, he orchestrated a hostile takeover of our family, leading it down a road of destruction that was devastating for everyone. He painted himself the innocent victim and me the treacherous villain. It’s still hard to comprehend how he did it, and harder still that they believed him.

For a long time, my mind spun with questions:

How did this happen? What could I have done differently? How can I fix what I didn’t break?

The answers came slowly:

1. It doesn’t really matter how it happened—it just did. I needed to focus my energy on more important questions.
2. Would I go back and raise them differently, knowing what I know now? No. I would still kiss them, teach them, and love them every chance I got, with the same ferocity. I’m proud of the mother I was. I took my responsibility toward them very seriously.
3. Can I fix what I didn’t break? Maybe not entirely. But I can heal what’s mine to heal—me.

And that’s enough.

Because when you become your own glue, your own foundation, you show others how to rebuild, too.

Maybe that’s the quiet miracle of survival—being broken, yet still choosing to hold love, forgiveness, and hope. Realizing that a storm may have ripped apart the garden you so carefully sowed, but the soil is still rich for growth.

I am the soil. I am the foundation. I am the glue.

I am enough.

We are enough.

And we deserve love and respect.