The Lighthouse Doesn’t Leave

There’s something sacred about a lighthouse.
It doesn’t chase the boats.
It doesn’t scream into the storm.
It just stands, weathered, still, unyielding; casting light for those who forget where the shore is.

I wasn’t born a lighthouse. I became one.
And like most of us who end up guiding others, I learned how to shine by surviving my own storms.

Storm One: The Bus Ride Home

I was 24 and holding my newborn son when the man who promised forever decided he didn’t want either of us. No explanation. No argument. Just a bus ticket back to Texas, the same kind of rejection I’d felt as a little girl when my daddy walked away.

The ache was familiar. So was the silence.

But as that Greyhound rumbled down the interstate, I formed a plan. Not just how to feed my baby, though that mattered most. But also how to prepare for the day Kyle would ask why his father didn’t want him. How to hold his pain, even if he blamed me for it. I couldn’t erase the storm, but I could become something steady inside it.

I pictured it in my mind for the first time,
A tall, solid lighthouse on a cliff.
And Kyle, my tiny boy, was the ship.
He didn’t need the storm explained. He needed light.
He needed me to shine.

Even if he never knew how hard it was.
Even if I stayed invisible in the process.
I liked it that way.

Storm Two: The Baby I Never Held

Years later, I married again. Tim was kind. Gentle. A new chapter.
Then we lost our first baby.

I remember the silence in that exam room. The stillness on the screen. The way the walls didn’t even echo. Just like when my father left. Just like that bus ride. That familiar grief whispered again: You are not worthy.

When I got pregnant again, fear took over. I prayed constantly, not just for a healthy baby, but for the courage to believe I deserved one.

And she came.
A beautiful baby girl. A blessing for us. A sister for Kyle.
A piece of heaven stitched from the tatters of my broken heart.

But even with this joy, the fear lingered. I had to learn something bigger than hope.

I had to learn forgiveness.

Forgiveness of my first husband.
Forgiveness of my past.
Forgiveness of myself for believing I was the storm instead of the light.

Because forgiveness? It’s not weakness. It’s the ultimate strength.

Storm Three: Purpose in the Rubble

I wasn’t just a mother or a wife, I was a builder. I wanted to help people. I knew I could.

So I started my first business. It failed.

That kind of loss felt different, not like grief, but more like embarrassment. I had poured my story, my strategy, my soul into something that didn’t survive.

But I pivoted.
Because I always pivot. It’s in my DNA.

Growing up in chaos taught me to look at every angle of a problem and make it work. So I used what I had, a lifetime of resilience, creativity, and a heart trained to serve. I took every storm I’d ever survived and built something out of it.

I became a speaker.
An author.
A coach.
An entrepreneur.
A podcast host.
A storyteller.
A woman still climbing, still broke sometimes… but happy.
Because I know who I am. I’m the lighthouse.

What Builds a Lighthouse

Lighthouses don’t just appear.
They are built, and they are placed.

Devotion is the mortar that holds it all together,
the quiet, sacred choice to keep showing up when no one’s watching.
Resilience lays the foundation,
forged in the storm, strengthened in the silence.
Love frames the windows,
wide enough to see the hurting, brave enough to stay open.
Vulnerability becomes the glass in the lens,
clear, breakable, but necessary to let the light through.
Faith is the fire burning inside,
the steady glow when everything outside says quit.

And placement?
That’s no accident.
Lighthouses are built where they’re needed most.
High on cliffs.
Alone in the dark.
Facing the fiercest waves.

So maybe those storms didn’t happen to you,
Maybe they happened for your placement.
To set you exactly where your light could reach the ones who needed it most.

Final Reflection: The Lighthouse Doesn’t Leave

Even when no one says thank you…
Even when no one knows the cost…
The lighthouse doesn’t leave.

Because it was never built just to shine.
It was built to endure.

To withstand the crashing waves.
To face the fiercest storms and still say, “This way home.”

A lighthouse doesn’t move.
It doesn’t panic.
It holds steady, not by its own strength,
but because it was anchored for this very purpose.

The lighthouse doesn’t just guide,
it shelters.
It offers protection.
It becomes a vessel, not of its own power,
but a place where God’s light can shine through the broken places and show others the way.

That’s what I’ve become.

Not just a light,
but a vessel.
Not just a survivor,
but a servant.

Positioned with purpose.
Placed in the pain on purpose,
so that even in my weakness, His strength could be seen.

So no, the lighthouse doesn’t leave.
It stays.
It shines.
It shelters.
And it saves.
Not because of me,
but because of the One who lights the flame inside me.