Sparkling Escapades Abroad with the Fairy Bra Mother

Right now, I’m sitting on the beach in Jamaica.
I’m listening to the happy voices of people nearby, the gentle hush of waves, and the wind playing in the palm trees.
I’m basking in the sunshine… and for this moment, I’m pain-free.

Do you know what it’s like to live with pain all day—every single hour of every single day?

Pain so intense it hurts to move.
Pain that makes sitting unbearable.
Pain that even follows you into bed, turning rest into a battleground.

Maybe for you, it’s not physical pain. Maybe it’s the ache of losing a child to heaven… or the heartbreak of losing one to the world.
Maybe it’s the silence in your home after your last child leaves.
Maybe it’s the pain of longing for a child that never came.

It could be the pain of family—biological, adopted, or in-laws—where things just feel… fractured.
Maybe you feel left out at church.
Maybe you can’t invite people over, or when you’re invited, you ache because you can’t help set the table or do the dishes.

It might be anxiety.
Or loneliness.
Or the sting of being misunderstood.
The grief of few friends.
Or the aching space left behind by a lost spouse.
Or the quiet strain between you and someone you love.

Whatever pain you’re carrying—fill in the blank.

I see you. I understand.
I’ve felt most of these kinds of pain too.

But right now?
Here on this beach in Jamaica, I feel none of it.
Not the mental pain. Not the physical pain. For this small window in time, it’s just… gone.

And my friend—that is no small thing.

I know when I stand up, the pain will come back.
But for now, I’m breathing in beauty.
Soaking in God’s creation.
And feeling like this is as close to heaven as I’ve ever been.

I’ve tried so many things over the years to manage my pain—
Prayer.
Surgery.
Doctors telling me nothing’s wrong.
Medications.
Rehab.
Mindset shifts.
More surgery.
Overworking.
Chiropractors.
Massages.
Oils.
Patches.
Prayers again.

Sometimes, nothing seems to work.

But this?
This quiet moment, pain-free on the beach—this is a gift. And I’m holding it with both hands.

What do you do when the pain gets heavy?