Season to Be Thankful — And a Season Where I’m Asking for a Miracle for My Mom

My mom is one of those rare people the world doesn’t make anymore — gentle, honest, giving, the kind of person who would hand you her last dollar with a smile and then apologize for not having more. She has lived her life quietly lifting up everyone around her. And now, for the first time in my life, I’m watching her crumble under the weight of something she didn’t create, something she doesn’t deserve, and something she can’t fix alone.

There is a specific kind of ache that hits your chest when you see your own mother — your rock, your constant, your safe place — worn down to the point of exhaustion. It’s the kind of pain that knocks the air out of you. It’s watching someone who has always fought for everyone else suddenly be too tired to keep fighting for herself.

Back in August of 2024, she stepped into what she thought would be a simple process: applying for Social Security. She believed in the system. She believed in doing things the right way. She believed that if she followed every step, someone would eventually help her.

But instead, she has been dragged through months of confusion, delays, and dead ends. She’s waited on hold until her phone battery died. She’s gone into offices where she sat for hours. She’s done everything asked of her — sometimes twice, sometimes three times. And still, she held onto hope. She always holds onto hope.

Then two days ago, her hope was shattered in one cruel moment.

She was told — bluntly, coldly — that no case existed. That nothing was on hold. That there was no record of the person she’d been speaking with for months. As if she imagined it all. As if her time, her effort, her tears meant nothing.

And after hours on the national line, she learned the truth no one had bothered to tell her: the worker assigned to her… had retired. Her case disappeared with him. Every document. Every conversation. Every step forward. Gone.

She has to start all over again — from zero.

I saw the moment it broke her. The way her shoulders dropped. The way she stared at nothing for a few seconds, trying to steady herself. Trying not to cry. Trying not to let me see the fear she was holding.

No one — no one — should be treated like this.

And especially not my mom.

So now I’m here, swallowing my pride, asking for help not for myself, but for the woman who spent her whole life making sure I never went without. I’m asking for help so she can simply keep going. Pay rent. Keep the lights on. Cover the absolute essentials while she starts the entire Social Security process again — something she shouldn’t have to do even once, let alone twice.

If you can give anything — truly anything — it would bring her a sense of relief she hasn’t felt in months. It would give her room to breathe. It would remind her that people still care, that kindness still exists, that she is not alone in this storm.

Thank you for reading this. Thank you for your compassion. And thank you — from the deepest place in my heart — for helping my mom when she needs it the most.