I Got This, But Don’t Let the Smile Fool You

I found this photo of Jon and me—taken four years ago today.

Don’t let the smiles or the message on my shirt—“I got this”—fool you.

Because what you can’t see in this picture is the ache behind our eyes. The quiet exhaustion. The layers of grief and strength it took just to stand upright and keep going. My mom had gone home to be with the Lord that very morning after a few weeks in hospice. And Jon and I were expected to spend several hours at an exhausting appointment—including an MRI—for a clinical trial, one of the final “hopes” and risks in the fight for his life.

The appointment had been on the calendar for about a month. We couldn’t reschedule or delay; missing it would have meant losing our only opportunity for him to enter the trial. We moved ahead with planning anyway, as agonizing as it was.

We were holding two heartbreaking realities. While my mom’s health had been a concern—especially after living alone for so long—her rapid decline took us by surprise. She was confined to a nursing home, and due to pandemic restrictions, we had limited access to her in those final days and for the year leading up to this. We were stretched between impossible choices, trying to be present where it mattered most—with no way to be everywhere at once.

The medical staff was surprised we showed up that morning, but they understood that we had to. We had to make hard decisions.

We smiled to mark our moments. We were laughing through our tears at the utter insanity of it all. You may not see it in our faces, but I can.

Not because anything was easy or light. But because sometimes, all you can do is hold on—to faith, to each other, to the next breath. To smile, laugh out of fear, to just get through, For our kids. For love. For the hope that God would meet us in the unraveling.

We also cried to honor our loss.

I had worn that shirt—“I Got This”—often during that season. It became a kind of armor for me. A silent mantra to help me face what each day demanded. I thought if I put it on, maybe I could hold it all together.

It felt right to wear that on that particular day—when I was stunned by the loss of my mom and all that came with those devastating weeks.

But the truth is, I couldn’t “have it.”

That day held more than anyone could see.

In the wee hours of the morning, I received the call that my mom had “gone home to be with the Lord.” (as my mom would always say.) A pandemic had kept us apart for over a year—her final months spent behind a screen, with limited visits and distant goodbyes. I missed so much. My kids did too. Thank God for FaceTime. And though we knew it was coming, nothing prepares you for the moment it happens.

And Jon—he was devastated too. He loved my mom. He was heartbroken for me, for our children, for himself. He was devastated that his illness didn’t give me the margin or freedom to be with her more in her final weeks and days. He was devastated that she wouldn’t be there to hold my hand if—and when—he were called home to the Lord too. He was heartbroken that he couldn’t bring her home to our house to let her be surrounded by love and peace as she was taking her last days. I am so grateful to God Jon was there to hold my hand in this moment to ease the pain.

I was already so darn exhausted. I had spent nearly a year walking with him through his diagnosis—sleepless nights, appointments, scans, surgeries. Little did I know then, the hardest part was still ahead. I barely mourned my mom’s death.

We still had the rest of the day to face. We had to drive home, see our kids, then head to the funeral home just to see my mom. Just to stand in that space and begin to absorb the loss.

After heading home from our long day, our son called Jon to tell us he had been in a car accident. As if there was room for anything else.

As we pulled up to the scene, Jon stepped out of the car, and the father of the other driver approached him and said casually, “Well, what a bummer to meet like this—how’s your day going?”

Without missing a beat, Jon replied with the calm steadiness I will never forget.

He chuckled and said,
“Well, my mother-in-law died this morning. I just got back from hours at the hospital for a trial appointment because I have brain cancer. And my son just got into a car accident. So… my day’s going great. I got this.”

He didn’t wear the shirt. But those words—he said them. And he meant them. Not as bravado, but as surrender. As a way of saying: I’ll keep standing. I’ll carry what I must. I’ll show up, even now.

But I didn’t have it. Not really.

He didn’t have it either. We were hanging on by the threads of that shirt.

But I did have Jon by my side when my mom died—the one person I needed to have by my side when he did. Navigating a devastating loss without your person by your side is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. The person who brings you the most comfort in the world…

At some point, I stopped wearing that shirt. It had become threadbare—not just in fabric, but in meaning. It no longer brought comfort. It brought back the weight of pretending. I scoffed at that shirt last year—because the truth is, I never truly had it.

But God did.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”


2 Corinthians 12:9

God’s Got This.

God had us in that photo.


He had us at that intersection.
He had us in every heavy moment leading up to that day—and in all the days that would follow.

And He had me long before that—through every loss that shaped me.

I’ve been encountering death since I was a child. I was five when my beloved kindergarten teacher passed away during Christmas break. I still remember our Halloween photo—me in my Raggedy Ann costume, her in her bonnet and colonial dress, honoring the Bicentennial year. I adored her.

I was ten when I lost both of my mom’s parents—just weeks apart. Then came great-uncles. A beloved uncle and his dear friend. One after another. I thought they’d all live forever. I mean, I know none of us live forever—but when you’re a child, you hope they might.

And in thinking of my kids losing their dad so young, I think of myself in college, when my paternal grandfather died suddenly during my finals. When I asked for an extension to take the test, my professor said, “You should have studied before.” She didn’t understand—it wasn’t that I didn’t study. I couldn’t take the exam because I couldn’t focus. I was mourning a heavy loss. I watched the pain my father felt, and I felt it too. I chose not to take the exam. And I didn’t regret it.

The next semester, just months later, my grandmother passed. I was just 24.
My oldest child was a year younger than me when she lost her dad. My son was 20. They both finished exams while their dad lived his last weeks in hospice. My daughter graduated college 10 days after her dad’s funeral. I am in awe of my kids perservance in such a difficult time these past few years. My son finished last week.

Let that sink in.

I remember writing to my parents back then, devastated. I couldn’t imagine life without them. I found that letter just after my dad died. He or my mom saved it. For such a time as this.

But I had more time with my parents. They saw me marry my love. They held all of my babies, watched them grow. They lived long enough to see joy, laughter, and love grow in the spaces between the pain.

My dad passed in 2018—his passing was a catalyst for my public writing journey. Jon’s dad in early 2021. My mom—four years ago today.

And just two years later, my children would say goodbye to their dad.

Though I get to bear witness, I cannot imagine the pain my children have carried—losing their dad just as they were beginning to make their mark on the world. This photo above doesn’t show the heartbreak of that morning and that day, the fight we were in, or the faith we were clinging to.

The photo (above) doesn’t show the tears shed with all we carried that day—though my red face may give it away. Look at Jon’s—he was heartbroken that my mom was no longer with us. He loved her. He was heartbroken for me, for himself, and for our kids. A pandemic had kept us away from her for over a year. A diagnosis changed so much and didn’t give me the space to be bedside with her as much as I wanted.

That photo doesn’t show all that.
It doesn’t show how heavy it felt to walk through all of it at once.

Because a smile, a photo, a memory—they don’t always tell the whole picture.
They freeze a moment, but not the weight behind it.
They capture the surface, not the soul.

Because a smile, a photo, a memory—they don’t always tell the whole picture. They freeze a moment, but not the weight behind it. They capture the surface, not the soul.

Heather Lebano

But I remember what that day held.
And I know Who held us.

The truth is—I never had it.
But God did. All along.

The next time you see a smile in a photo—or hear someone say, “I got this”—pause.
There may be more behind it than you know.

Grief wears many faces. And a smile? It doesn’t always mean what people think. Just this week, someone said to my kids, “I’m so glad to see your mom so happy.”

That kind of happiness is complicated. A smile can be gratitude. It can be grit. It can be grace.
It might be a flicker of light in the middle of a heavy day. Sometimes, we smile—or laugh—just to get through it.

It sure doesn’t mean the weight is gone. It doesn’t mean the ache has healed. It sure doesn’t mean we don’t still carry sadness for our loss. It just means I showed up—and for a moment, maybe, I let joy rise to the surface.

We don’t always walk around showing our tears to just anyone.
And grief doesn’t mean we’re always sitting in a corner crying.
It certainly doesn’t mean we’re in crisis.
It’s grief.

And strength?
It can be quiet.
It can be supernatural.

And sometimes the heaviest burdens are the ones we carry silently.

So be gentle—with others, and with yourself.

Be aware that what you perceive about a situation may not reflect what’s really going on in someone’s heart.
Sometimes we smile—or laugh—to get through the most painful days, and release those emotions in the quiet of our car, shower, closet, or with the friends who are willing to just listen without demanding explanations or offering words that don’t fit.

If you’re carrying something behind your own smile today, I pray you know this:
You are not unseen.
You are not expected to carry it alone.
And even if you feel like you’re unraveling—you are being held.

If you’re carrying something behind your own smile today, I pray you know this:
You are not unseen.
You are not expected to carry it alone.
And even if you feel like you’re unraveling—you are being held.

Heather Lebano

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
—Psalm 34:18

Miss you, Mom. Thank you for teaching me where to turn when I know I absolutely do not have—“got”—this…so I cling to my faith.

Because I KNOW God’s Got This. He has me. And He has my kids.