There is a verse in the Bible that says if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you can move mountains.

For years, I rolled my eyes at that verse.

I remember thinking, I have way more faith than a mustard seed, and my life still feels like a complete mess.

How can someone have faith and still watch the people they love suffer? How can you pray and still watch life unfold in ways you never wanted? Those were the questions that quietly lived in my heart.

Lately, those questions have become more personal than ever.

I’m watching my mom slowly become someone different.

Every day, it feels like I lose another small piece of the woman who raised me. I have spent so much time trying to fix what I can’t fix—researching, asking questions, searching for answers, hoping that somehow I could stop whatever is happening inside her mind.

Then came the guilt.

If only I had been more patient.

If only I hadn’t judged her so harshly.

If only I had shown more grace.

I even reached a point where I found myself becoming frustrated with the woman who gave me life.

It hurts to admit that.

There were moments when, deep inside, I wanted to scream, “Why can’t you just be normal?” Not because I didn’t love her, but because I missed the version of my mom I had always known.

Today, something changed.

I sat beside her.

I didn’t try to correct her.

I didn’t try to redirect the conversation.

I simply listened.

She told me the same childhood stories she has told countless times before. She can’t always remember what she ate an hour ago, yet she can recall moments from decades ago with incredible detail.

Normally, my dad and I gently smile because we’ve heard these stories over and over again.

But today, I heard something different.

I realized that maybe the little girl inside my mom is still speaking.

Whether it’s dementia, Alzheimer’s, or another form of memory loss, I don’t know exactly why those memories remain so vivid. But I began to wonder if those moments shaped the woman she became. Maybe those memories are the ones her heart still knows how to reach.

Instead of feeling frustrated, I felt compassion.

I realized that her mind is fighting a battle I cannot see.

Unfortunately, at this stage of her life, there may not be a perfect solution. Therapy may not restore the memories that are slipping away. Medicine may only slow the process.

All my family and I can do is love her through it.

And somehow, that realization changed me.

Watching my mom has forced me to look at my own life.

What hurts have I carried for years without healing?

What childhood wounds am I still allowing to shape my adulthood?

What if I don’t deal with my own pain?

Will I someday find myself trapped inside memories I never made peace with?

Those questions have challenged me in ways I never expected.

Even in her struggles, my mom still tries to help me.

She still loves me.

She still worries about me.

That kind of love humbles me.

I don’t know how many years I have left with her.

None of us knows how much time we have with the people we love.

But I do know this:

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life making excuses for my pain, my past, or my brokenness.

I want to do the hard work of healing.

For me, that healing begins by reconnecting with my faith.

I’ve walked away from God more than once.

I’ve questioned Him.

I’ve been angry.

I’ve doubted.

Yet somehow, when life becomes its darkest, I always find myself walking back toward Him.

Maybe that’s what faith really is.

Not pretending life is easy.

Not believing that God will remove every mountain.

But trusting Him enough to keep walking, even when the mountain is still standing.

Our time on this earth is limited.

Death comes for all of us eventually.

What matters is what we leave behind.

I want to leave behind more than memories.

I want to leave behind compassion.

Grace.

Forgiveness.

Healing.

If my mom has taught me anything through this heartbreaking season, it’s this:

The greatest legacy we can leave isn’t perfection.

It’s becoming the kind of person whose life helps others heal.

Maybe that’s what faith the size of a mustard seed was meant to do all along.