I almost didn't say what I said at the beginning of this episode.
It felt too raw. Too honest. Too much like something you keep private.
But I said it anyway.
My daughter saved me.
Not dramatically. Not with a big story attached. Just quietly, completely — the way that becoming responsible for another human being can redirect you from a version of yourself that was heading somewhere you didn't want to go.
And once I said it out loud — I realized how true it had always been.
But this episode isn't only about becoming a mother at 17.
Because the truth is — growing up fast started long before that for me.
I was 13 when I lost my brother Luke.
Car accident.
I have carried that loss for more than thirty years now. And what I said in this episode — what I've never quite said out loud in this way before — is that the hardest part wasn't only losing Luke.
It was watching my parents lose their son.
It was watching my siblings lose their brother.
And still being young enough to need my parents — really need them — while knowing that they were just trying to put one foot in front of the other.
Children in grieving families learn something early that they never asked to learn.
They learn to carry their own grief quietly.
To not add to the weight.
To be okay — or to look okay — so that the people they love don't have to worry about them on top of everything else.
I learned that at 13.
And I carried it forward into every season that came after.
I also talked about my father in this episode.
My father was one of the most remarkable people I have ever known. Warm. Loving. A large personality in every room. The kind of man who made you feel like everything was going to be okay.
He was also bipolar — before bipolar was a diagnosis. Before treatment was an option. Before anyone had language for what was happening inside of him.
So we loved him through it.
Which was one of the most complicated and profound things I have ever done.
Because loving someone with mental illness means living with uncertainty. Not always knowing what mood you'll find them in. Becoming attuned — hyperaware — always reading the room before you've entered it.
And yet my father made a quiet, powerful choice.
Whatever he had carried in his own life — he chose to give us something different.
He chose love.
He chose to fill our home with warmth even when warmth didn't come easily.
Loving him was complicated.
But it was also one of the great privileges of my life.
And my mother.
I don't have enough words for my mother.
She was the ground beneath all of us.
Even on the days when grief made it hard to get out of bed. Even on the days when the weight of everything she was carrying — the loss of Luke, loving my father through his illness, raising her children, holding her family together — was almost more than any one person should hold.
She got up anyway.
She showed up anyway.
She kept going.
I was watching her all along — learning, without knowing I was learning, what it means to be the steady one.
Strength doesn't always look like power. Sometimes it looks like just getting up. One more time.
I think about that often now — especially on the days when getting up is the hardest thing.
When my daughter was born, something clarified in me that had never been clear before.
I knew what I wanted to do with my life.
I wanted to be a labor and delivery nurse.
Not because of a career plan. But because of the nurse midwife who had been there for me during my own pregnancy. A scared 17-year-old girl — and she saw me. Not as a statistic. Not as a cautionary tale.
She made me feel capable.
She made me feel seen.
And I wanted to spend my life doing that for other women.
Standing beside them in their most vulnerable moments and saying — without always using words — you can do this. I see you. You are not alone.
That calling was born in the same room my daughter was born in.
And I have never forgotten where it came from.
What I want to say to you — whoever is reading this — is that growing up fast takes many forms.
Maybe you lost someone young.
Maybe you grew up in a home that asked too much of you too soon.
Maybe you became the steady one before anyone asked you to be.
Maybe you carried your own grief quietly so that someone else didn't have to carry more.
Whatever form it took — I see you.
The season you skipped — you can grieve it. That loss is real. It doesn't make you ungrateful for what you have.
The complicated love you gave — to a parent, to a partner, to anyone whose struggles made loving them hard — that love counts. More than easy love. More than you probably gave yourself credit for.
And the strength you built by stepping up early — that is yours. Permanently. Completely. No one can take it.
You didn't fall behind by growing up fast.
You just took a different road.
And the road taught you things that can't be learned any other way.
Luke is a part of me.
The loss of him shaped me in ways I am still discovering.
Grief doesn't end. It just changes shape over time. It shows up in places you don't expect, at moments you didn't plan for.
And if you are carrying grief right now — old grief, new grief, grief you think you should be over by now — I want you to know:
You are not over it. You are just carrying it differently.
And that is allowed.
A few questions to sit with:
- Did you experience loss or hardship early in life that required you to grow up before you were ready — and what did that ask of you?
- Is there a season of your younger years that you've never fully grieved? What would it mean to give yourself permission to grieve it now?
- Have you ever carried your own pain quietly so that someone else didn't have to carry more? What did that cost you — and what did it teach you?
- Is there someone in your life whose struggles made loving them complicated — and have you ever given yourself credit for the love you gave anyway?
If this episode resonated with you, I'd love to hear from you at faith@stillbuildingpodcast.com — I read every message.
And if you know a woman who grew up fast — who stepped up before she was ready, who has been carrying something quietly for a long time — share this episode with her.
She deserves to feel seen.
You're not alone. You're not behind. You're not finished.
You're still building.
And so am I.
— Faith