Fierce Love—I'm Not Refusing Love. I'm Showing up for Myself

May is full of milestones and moments—dresses and diplomas, cameras and countdowns, proud memories made, and very real exhaustion.

It’s a season of showing up—again and again—for the people I love. While slowly, learning to show up for myself too, with fierce love.

Yesterday marked three months since I injured my shoulder. The fierce commitment it took to heal that beast of an injury is what led to my discharge—surprisingly—from my doctor and physical therapy last Monday. You can read more on From Sling to Plank .

Because May holds more than that physical recovery. It holds the joy for milestones of those I love—and the ache of what I’ve lost.

It’s a season of stepping into joy for them—even as my soul still stitches itself back together thanks to grief.

Beneath the surface, May is also where I collide with the ache of missing Jon—the ache of the life I once knew. Of facing things alone, where our family photos are no longer complete, where celebrating milestones don’t include him. Of standing in spaces that once felt safe but now stir emotion. And in the middle of it all, my heart whispers: “Don’t abandon yourself.”

I want to live like Jesus did—He wept without apology, withdrew without explanation, and trusted the Father without needing permission.

This month alone, I’ve walked through another graduation, a few celebratory gatherings, Mother’s Day, and a few trips. I will attend a few other events that used to feel like home, but now ask so much more of me.

I want to show up fully for my kids, for those I love. I do. Most days, I find a way. But I’m learning something I didn’t expect: that to show up for them, I sometimes need to step away for me.

Sometimes, I simply need to catch my breath—to step out of the firing range of well-meaning comments that land too close. To stand where peace is felt. Because the truth is—my body still remembers. My nervous system still flinches at certain faces or phrases.

Grief doesn’t ask permission. It just arrives—like stepping onto emotional land mines without warning. That does not mean a person who is grieving is also falling apart, or mentally unstable.

And I’ve found myself bracing for something simple that shouldn’t be hard:
Grief doesn’t just live in anniversaries.
It moves in the shadows of joy.
It shows up in the middle of photo sessions, awkward hugs, and too-loud rooms where life just moves on. Sometimes, often, others seem to carry on like nothing ever happened to me.

Someone once actually said to me, “What do you mean? How can you not be over your grief yet?”

Oof. That just stings. And that’s only one sentiment flung my way. I could fill a book with so many other hard to receive comments.

My body knows. My heart knows. And my soul can’t forget. The part of me that was left to carry it all—and rebuild it all—still knows.

But knowing what I carry doesn’t always protect me from what still comes my way.

Here’s a hard part that I often think about: I love hugs. I miss them fiercely—especially Jon’s.
I love beautiful, soul-stirring conversations—the kind that linger and mean something.

But what’s been harder to navigate are the moments when someone who delivered hurt through platitudes—or was simply absent during our hardest season—steps toward me with sudden warmth, offering a hug or diving into conversation as if nothing ever changed. It doesn’t feel like love. It feels like skipping over what was never acknowledged. So I step back—not out of bitterness, but because my heart remembers what my body never forgot.

It feels like pretending.

Like abandonment.

Like bypassing the truth.

Like skipping over the sacred ache that continues to shape me. And that’s a betrayal I’ve worked too hard to recover from. It’s the unseen, uncomfortable part of grief—the kind people rarely talk about. There has been hurt beyond the loss.

If you are grieving or carrying an enormous burden, you may know this familiar, uncomfortable truth.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that if I wasn’t saying yes,
If I weren’t hugging someone who hurt me,
If I weren’t hosting, fixing, or absorbing discomfort—
Then maybe I wasn’t kind.
Maybe I wasn’t loving.
Maybe I wasn’t enough.
But I’m learning to name that lie.

Fierce, holy love doesn’t demand that I break to prove I’m kind.

Fierce, holy love doesn’t demand that I break to prove I’m kind.
heather lebano

So I pause.
I breathe.
I step back when I need to. Not because I don’t believe in kindness, but because I believe in truth. And healing. And choosing myself with fierce, holy love.

The body never forgets.
And the heart can only take so much as we navigate loss.

Our choice to engage—or not—deserves no explanation.
We do deserve patience and abundant grace.
Who doesn’t, especially when they/we are walking through something so heavy and holy?

I used to feel guilty for setting boundaries.
For protecting my peace.
For holding quiet in spaces where others expected performance.
But Jesus Himself showed me another way. He didn’t always explain. He withdrew to pray. He guarded space for the sacred. He wept without apology.

In the Gospels, Jesus withdrew. He didn’t give everyone access to His most tender moments. He wept, rested, and honored time with the Father.

“But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.”
— Luke 5:16

A closed gate within a blooming garden—quietly reminding us that boundaries protect what’s sacred.

Boundaries were part of His rhythm
and they can be part of mine, too.
They can be part of yours, too, especially when your soul demands it.

Not to shut people out.
But to stay faithful to the healing God is working within me.
I want to live like that.

So this May, I’m holding both things:
showing up for my kids and not abandoning myself or the grief I still—and will always—carry.
I’m letting joy and sorrow walk together, hand in hand, like old companions who have learned to share the road.

I’m smiling for the camera—and slipping out for a breath of air when I need to.
I’m choosing fierce love—the kind that protects what’s tender and honors what’s holy.

If you find yourself in a similar space—torn between the celebration and the ache, the hugs you long for and the ones you can’t receive—please know this:

You are not cold or unkind for setting boundaries.
You are not selfish for guarding your heart.
You are not broken because your body knows what it can no longer take (or fake).

You are healing.
You are discerning.
You are showing up—in truth and in love.
And He sees it all.

So keep choosing yourself with fierce, holy love. I know I am.
Grief has taught me an important lesson.

Not in spite of your faith.
But because of it.

You may smile and step back.
You may gently decline a hug that feels like a performance.
You may leave a conversation with questions that feel uncomfortable or too difficult to answer.
You may take a breath outside before walking back in.
And it will still count as showing up.

If you’re doing that too—even quietly—just know this:
It matters.
God sees.
And it doesn’t make you less faithful or less kind.
It means you’re healing.
And that is a sacred, courageous thing.

So if you’re walking into a room that once held comfort and now holds complexity…

You are not alone.
You’re allowed to guard your heart.
You’re allowed to long for love and still protect your peace.
And you’re allowed to choose yourself—again and again—with fierce, holy love.