There are moments in life when the weight simply becomes more than you know how to carry.
That is where I find myself today.
Over the past several weeks, it has felt as though wave after wave has continued to roll in before I have had time to regain my footing.
The fire that destroyed our family cabin was far more than the loss of a building. It represented one of the great symbols of stability in our family’s life. It held generations of memories, our handcrafted family crest, the checker table where our children and their friends signed their names as they stepped into marriage, the rock boards that chronicled decades of adventures around the world, and countless reminders that family is built one meaningful moment at a time.
Then the rains came.
Beaver is much more than the town where I grew up. It is the landscape of my childhood. A complex, beautiful childhood where I learned some of life’s greatest lessons, where I experienced the generous love of my mother, the quiet wisdom and unwavering faith of my blind father, and where so much of the stability that has anchored my life first took root.
The mountains above Beaver were my sanctuary. As a teenager, they became the place I escaped to think, to dream, to wrestle with life, and to find peace. Those mountains helped shape the man I would become.
Now they have been ravaged by fire. Stripped bare, they could no longer absorb the rain. Floodwaters rushed down the mountainsides, carrying ash, mud, charred timber, and debris into the valley below. Roads were washed away, and Beaver, the town of my childhood, flooded. Even the road back to our cabin disappeared beneath the destruction. I couldn’t even return to gather what little remained.
It felt as though the land itself was grieving.
Over the weekend, another heartbreak shattered my soul.
Several years ago, I had the privilege of mentoring Katrina Long and her business partner as they built a thriving business and practice. But what they were really building was a beautiful family. Katrina and her husband were raising four wonderful children, three energetic young sons and an older daughter, Lydia, who had recently begun her nursing career in Kentucky.
Last weekend, the family was camping together when storms moved into the area. As the rain began, they went into their tent for shelter. Within moments, a flash flood swept through the campground, taking the lives of Katrina, her husband, and their three young sons.
Lydia survived because she was hundreds of miles away.
In a single afternoon, she lost her mother, her father, and all three of
her little brothers.
I have found myself returning to that story again and again. There are tragedies that leave us searching for answers, and then there are tragedies that leave us simply speechless. This was one of them.
As these losses have accumulated, I have begun to recognize something happening inside of me. Whenever life becomes overwhelming, I instinctively push harder, work longer, carry more, as if enough effort could somehow outrun the pain. Somewhere deep inside is an old belief that if I simply try hard enough, somehow everything will be okay again.
But grief doesn’t respond to effort. No amount of productivity heals sorrow, and no amount of striving can outrun mourning. Eventually there comes a moment when your soul quietly admits that it simply cannot carry anymore.
That moment arrived for me this week.
Not because I have lost my faith, and not because I have given up hope. It came because I finally recognized that I was never meant to carry every burden alone.
For me, faith in this season looks like stopping long enough to acknowledge the bound emotions building inside. It looks like standing fully present in the grief instead of rushing toward the lesson. There is always a temptation to wrap hardship in meaning before the tears have dried, to find the silver lining instead of sitting in the sorrow.
But some seasons demand to be mourned, not explained. Some songs are written in minor keys, and some chapters carry deep, heavy notes that deserve to be honored instead of avoided.
I know joy will return. Peace will follow. Hope will once again become my beacon. I have lived long enough to know that spring always follows winter.
But spring is not today.
Today I acknowledge where I am. I stop pretending that I can carry what was never mine to carry. I choose to stand in the sorrow instead of running from it. I choose to feel the grief rather than bury it beneath work, responsibility, or another accomplishment.
This morning, for the first time in more than a month, I finally found myself alone in my office. I needed the quiet. I needed a place where I could hear my own thoughts again. I poured my heart onto these pages, folded them, and slowly made my way to one of my sacred places along the river bottoms.
My ankle still hurts, so I walked gently. Every step reminded me that healing cannot be rushed, whether it belongs to the body or to the soul.
When I reached the river, I stood there for a long time. I read these words aloud, allowing myself to feel every emotion instead of trying to fix them. Then I folded the pages one last time, placed them into the current, and watched as the water slowly carried them downstream.
I stood there until they disappeared around the bend.
As I watched those pages drift away, I realized I wasn’t asking God to erase my grief. I was asking Him to help me carry it. There is a profound difference.
It became a reminder that some burdens were never meant to remain in my hands.
Today I surrendered the cabin. I surrendered the flooding. I surrendered the heartbreak. I surrendered the questions that have no answers. I surrendered the impossible expectation that I could somehow hold everything together.
I laid it all at the feet of Jesus Christ, not because I understand, and not because the pain has disappeared, but because I simply do not know how to carry it anymore.
I still believe. I still trust. I still hope.
Today, however, faith does not feel like certainty. It feels like surrender. It feels like opening my hands and placing every burden I have been gripping so tightly into the hands of the Savior, my divine, trusting that He can carry what I no longer can.
Perhaps some burdens were never meant to be carried alone.
They were meant to be placed at the feet of the divine.
Rich Christiansen
You Can't Think Your Way Out of Trauma | Calm The Chaos Ep 3 With Kate Mulholland
In this episode, Kate Mulholland, world-class breathwork healer and co-creator of Pattern Breaker, shares how she went from a rock bottom she describes as having a basement beneath it to helping people all over the world release trauma they have carried for decades. Together, we explore why you cannot think your way out of trauma, how our patterns form long before we are aware of them, and the three steps that begin to break them: regulate, rewire, realign. (Watch Here)
Whenever you’re ready, here are some other ways I can help you:
The Free Values Blueprint Video Course – A step by step journey to help you clearly define your core values, create personal doctrine, and move from force into flow. This is the same process I have used for years with my face-to-face clients.
Pattern Breaker Meditations – A free three-part guided experience designed to help you regulate your nervous system, rewire emotional patterns formed early in life, and realign your life with what matters most. Through guided meditations and practical instruction, you can begin addressing repeating patterns at their roots.
Calm the Chaos with Rich Christiansen Podcast– Weekly conversations with thought leaders and everyday people who have faced life’s hardest challenges and found their way through. Real stories, real tools, and frameworks to help you move from chaos into clarity.
Free Tools to help Calm the Chaos – Practical frameworks and tools designed to help you regain clarity, steadiness, and alignment in everyday life.
Legado Family– A framework and community centered on strengthening family systems, legacy, and generational integrity.
