Tracy-Ann Bullocks Writes

Wisdom Wednesday

I came across a picture today.
A 31-year-old version of me holding two of my babies, wearing a half-smile that—at first glance—simply looked like a sweet moment in time. But when I looked closer… when I really saw her… I felt something break and heal inside of me at the same time.

Because I remember exactly what she was carrying behind that smile.

Two kids.
Married.
Trying to be everything to everyone.
Trying to prove she was “okay.”
Trying to outrun the quiet ache that lived in her chest.

She wasn’t broken… but she was breaking.
Softly. Quietly. Internally.

If I could sit with her—just once—I wouldn’t judge her for a single thing. I would wrap my arms around her, hold her until her body stopped tensing, and give her the space to take one full, deep breath… the kind she didn’t even know she needed.

Here’s what I would tell her—woman to woman, soul to soul:

You don’t have to smile through everything.
The world taught you strength meant silence, that motherhood meant self-neglect, that being a wife meant shrinking your needs to make others comfortable. Baby, that is not strength—that is survival. And you deserve more than survival.

You are not failing.
Not as a mother.
Not as a wife.
Not as a woman.
You are learning life in real-time with no guidebook but your intuition and your prayers. And even when you thought God was far from you, He was right there, holding up the parts of you that were collapsing.

Those babies feel your love—deeply.
Even on the days you were tired, irritated, stretched thin, overwhelmed, and unseen… your love covered them. You weren’t perfect, but you were present, and that mattered more than you ever knew.

Your voice will return.
One day, you will no longer swallow your truth to keep peace. You will no longer shrink. You will no longer apologize for needing softness, safety, reciprocity, or joy. Your voice will not only return—it will become a ministry. Women will heal because you chose to speak.

You won’t always feel this lonely in your own story.
The version of love you were holding onto was not the final chapter. Yes, it will hurt when the truth comes. Yes, the unraveling will feel like failure. Yes, you will question everything you ever believed about love, marriage, and worth. But hear me: God will rewrite your definition of love in a way that honors you this time.

He will send you a love that feels like exhale, not performance.
A love that covers, not consumes.
A love that holds your heart with both hands and says, “Rest here.”

If I could sit with her, I’d tell her this too:

One day, you will look in the mirror and recognize yourself again.
One day, you will laugh from your belly and mean it.
One day, you will be loved so intentionally that the memories of emotional drought will no longer sting—only serve as proof of how far God carried you.

You will raise four beautiful children—and you will break generational cycles while still healing yourself. You will rebuild your life… not to prove anyone wrong, but to honor the woman God always intended you to be.

The woman I am today would tell her:

“Thank you for not giving up. I needed you to keep going so I could become her.”

Because the truth is, she—2012 me—was the foundation.
She birthed the resilience.
She learned the lessons.
She survived the chapters that would later become my testimony.

So today, I honor her.
I forgive her.
I cherish her.
I cover her with grace.

Because without her… there would be no me.

To the woman reading this who sees herself in her—
The tired mother.
The wife silently unraveling.
The woman questioning her value and her voice.

I know that version of you well.
And I promise you this:

You will not stay there.
God is not finished with you.
The story gets better—so much better—and one day, you’ll look back and whisper,
“Lord, thank You for carrying me when I couldn’t carry myself.”

Hold on.
Your becoming is unfolding right before your eyes.