Ten years ago, I was getting married.
I was traveling, leading worship nonstop, playing piano, serving at a high capacity in my church, and teaching music lessons at homes. I had built my own group of students, and I felt like I was on top of the world.
I remember thinking, “Finally. The reason I moved to San Diego is more than evident.”
My life had movement. It had music. It felt full of purpose. Then, within a year, everything changed.
I went from being constantly active to spending most of my time at home with a newborn. I could no longer continue teaching, and I was struggling with what had not yet been named as postpartum depression.
Meanwhile, my husband was still active in ministry. He was traveling, serving, and doing many of the things I used to enjoy. And I resented it. I considered myself stuck at home while he was still out there having the time of his life.
I know that was not the healthiest way to see it. But I’ve been honest about how it felt back then. I loved my baby deeply, yet I was grieving a life that had changed before I had time to understand what I was losing.
I tried to hold on to a part-time worship-leading role because I needed some connection to the person I had been. Then I became pregnant with our second child.
During my first trimester, I experienced a complete emotional breakdown. That moment finally led me to seek therapy; not only for postpartum depression, but also for trauma that had begun rising to the surface.
After giving birth, I was a mother of two children under two. I knew I needed to care for my mental, emotional, and spiritual health. That meant releasing the version of myself who had been introduced by words like:
Worship leader. Music teacher. Church staff member. Always active. Always available.
I became a full-time stay-at-home mom.
It was the right decision, but that did not make it an easy one.
Sometimes we assume that when God leads us into something good, we will not grieve what we had to leave behind. But grief and gratitude can exist in the same heart.
You can love the life in front of you and still miss the person you were before it arrived.
Over time, I began to see my life differently. I was not simply “stuck at home.” I was holding the fort while my husband traveled as a missionary. I was creating stability for our children while he shared the gospel in places that needed hope.
I found purpose in teaching our boys to pray for Daddy while he was away. We thanked God for changing his life and allowing him to share the good news with others. I taught them songs. We prayed for the people he would meet. I remained grateful for the occasional opportunities I had to sing or lead worship, while accepting that this part of my life might never look the same again.
The ministry had not disappeared. It had changed rooms. The audience was smaller, the work was less visible, and there was usually more noise than applause; but it mattered.
During that season, I often thought about my mother.
When I was a preteen, I accompanied her to an appointment with an ear, nose, and throat specialist. She had been struggling with her voice. My mother was a phenomenal singer and songwriter. I still remember listening to her sing and play guitar as a new song came alive in the room.
But that appointment brought painful news. She had vocal injuries that required complete silence to recover. As a music teacher, total vocal rest did not feel possible. She cried as she faced the reality that the gift she had used for so long might never function in the same way.
Eventually, she changed careers to preserve what remained of her voice. But her story did not end there.
She earned a master’s degree in counseling and a PhD in Christian Clinical Psychology. She became an ordained pastor, wrote a book, and began leading seminars and workshops. She continued using every gift God had given her, just not always in the form she originally expected.
She still writes songs. Now, other people help her develop the melodies and arrangements. Her voice changed, but her purpose did not disappear.
She taught me that we can embrace a new season without pretending we do not miss the old one.
First Corinthians 12:5 says: “There are different kinds of service, but we serve the same Lord.”
That verse is usually read in conversations about different people having different roles within the Church. But it has also reminded me that service can look different across the seasons of one life.
The Lord did not change when my role changed. My gifts did not suddenly become useless because their expression looked different.
Music was still alive in me. So were development, organization, teaching, leadership, and service.
Some of those gifts were being used in my home. Some were quietly growing. Others would eventually find new places to serve. God’s faithfulness was not found in keeping my life exactly as it had been. His faithfulness was found in continuing His work within me, even when the shape of my life changed.
My journey became less about recovering the old Joelibeck and more about discovering Joelibeck in the season she was actually living. There are still roles I cannot pursue with the same intensity I once did because I want to remain committed to my children. Sometimes that choice still carries grief.
Back then, and still now, I understand the privilege of helping develop them into the people God is calling them to become. I am investing in a future generation, even when that work does not come with a microphone, a title, or a visible platform. Interestingly, as they grow, I am capable of doing more and committing to other roles, but they continue to be the weight of what I say yes to.
I have learned to recognize God’s goodness in the person I am today. And I am also learning not to hold this version of myself too tightly. She will change too.
My children will grow. My responsibilities will shift. New doors will open, and others will close. The version of me I know today will one day become another person I look back on with tenderness.
That is not failure. That is life being lived through seasons.
So I encourage you: do not rush to resurrect a version of yourself that God is asking you simply to honor.
Grieve what changed. Thank God for what that season gave you. Carry forward what is still alive. Release what belonged only to that chapter. And hold the person you are today with open hands, knowing God is not finished shaping you.
Maybe you have not lost your calling. Maybe you are simply learning the new language it speaks in this season.
Let’s tune in.
