When The Right Decision Still Hurts

How I’m Really Doing in This Season of Stepping Back…

Recently, my family and I made a difficult decision: I needed to pull back from parts of my work for a season in order to better meet the needs of our children—our oldest navigating ADHD and our youngest navigating autism.

What surprised me most was not that we needed to make a change, but how complicated it was to figure out where that change should happen. I have my hands in several meaningful spaces that I care deeply about. I work in LGBTQ+-related faith-based ministry through the Strength in Weakness Ministries. I run a private counseling practice in North Carolina. And I oversee a nonprofit, Heart Set Above, where we help people deepen their intimacy with God, self, and others through podcasts, one-on-one care, and trainings.

Each of these roles matter to me. Each one feels like a calling. And each possible way of pulling back carried its own set of losses—for my family, for the people I serve, and for me.

As my husband and I prayed and discerned over the past few months, we kept circling the same question: How do we create more margin at home without completely abandoning the work God has invited me into? After much wrestling, we landed on stepping back from one-on-one care for a season. This allows me to redirect more of my time and emotional energy toward our children and home, while still serving through podcasts, speaking, and recorded trainings.

But believing this is the right decision doesn’t make it an easy one. I wouldn’t say I feel “at peace” in a neat or settled way. Instead, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of something honest, costly, and unresolved—and choosing obedience anyway.

Because I value raw honesty, I want to share how I’m doing emotionally in this season.

I feel conflicted—deeply so. Here are some emotions I’m navigating:

Part of me feels relief and hope. Relief that I can offer my children more bandwidth, space, and presence. Also, hope for what slowing down might do in my own heart. For much of my life, I’ve lived under a quiet but powerful assumption—one that hides beneath much of the human condition—that my worth is tied to what I produce. This season feels like an invitation – and honestly, a confrontation – to rediscover who God is and who I am to Him apart from what I accomplish.
Another part of me feels humbled. Recently, a friend asked how I’ve managed to juggle everything these past few years. My answer surprised even me: “I think, at times, it’s come at the expense of my children. And it’s time for me to repent.” That realization has been sobering—but also strangely hopeful. Scripture speaks about “times of refreshment” that come when we realign with God’s ways, and I sense the beginnings of that even now.
If I’m being honest, there’s also a part of me that feels trapped at times—and occasionally even a little angry at how much of me my family needs. I imagine many parents know this tension between love and sacrifice. There are moments when I feel like I’ve already given so much, and yet more is being asked. In those moments, I find strange comfort in remembering that our Savior understands the weight of true, costly love. I think about Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane—already exhausted from pouring out His life, and still surrendering His very lifeblood. He shows us that sacrificial love can coexist with grief, honesty, and trembling trust.
There is also grief. I have loved building my counseling work and the ministries God has allowed me to steward. That work energizes me in ways that feel natural and life-giving. Meanwhile, the everyday rhythms of parenting—making meals, managing routines, chauffeuring kids, wiping butts —are sacred, but they don’t always feel naturally energizing to me. That has been humbling to admit. And yet, I’m comforted by the reminder that much of Christ’s ministry was expressed through quiet, ordinary acts of care that likely felt unseen by most.
And if I’m being completely raw and honest, there are moments when I feel confused and even hurt before God. I had expectations for how this calling and these ministries might grow. Letting go of that timeline—or even that vision—carries real loss. At times I find myself asking, “Lord, I thought we were building this together. Did I get it wrong? Have you abandoned me in this?”

The steadier, more grounded part of my faith reminds me of something important: God’s goodness is not measured by whether my plans unfold the way I imagined. The part of me that has experientially known His faithfulness over many years helps anchor me when my emotions feel unsettled. And I’m learning that God is not threatened by my sadness or confusion. He meets me with compassion even when my understanding of Him is incomplete. That, in itself, has been a gift.

So right now, I’m holding both things at once—trust and grief, hope and uncertainty, surrender and longing. And I’m learning, again, that God often does some of His deepest work in the places where those tensions live side by side.

Thank you for being along for the journey.

In Him,
Ellen

When The Right Decision Still Hurts