When the Clouds Roll In: Finding My Strength Again
- Jillian Heilman
- Nov 11
- 5 min read
It’s been a tough few months for me. What was supposed to be a routine surgery, turned out to be more complicated than anyone expected. I was out of work for four weeks, went back for a week and a half, and then found myself home again with complications. The recovery was overwhelming and frustrating: physically, mentally, emotionally. And like most caregivers, I found myself trying to balance my own healing while still trying to show up for everyone else.
As I healed, life didn't pause for the rest of my family. B returned to school full-time this Fall. They are finding their own way again while managing their health. It’s a lot for anyone, but especially for someone living with a chronic condition. Still, I see their strength in the small moments, showing up, putting in the work, and learning to balance it all. Neeley has been at grad school in North Carolina, building her future and learning to manage her health from a distance. It’s harder in some ways now that she’s grown. I don’t just worry about how she’s adjusting to grad school or what comes next in her career. I think about all the things I used to have my hands on: the weekly infusions, the doctor appointments, the medication pickups, and all the small details that once filled my days. For years, I took the lead, slowly handing the reins to her bit by bit. And now, I have to trust that she can handle it on her own.
The truth is, she’s doing an incredible job. She’s balancing grad school, her health, and life’s curveballs with a determination that humbles me. Watching her take ownership of her care, advocating for herself, pushing through exhaustion, finding her voice - fills me with pride. That’s what we want for our kids: independence, confidence, and strength. But letting go still doesn’t come easily. Some days it takes everything in me to keep my mouth shut and just listen.
Last week, Neeley turned 22. She celebrated her birthday away from her family and her boyfriend. Thankfully, a close family friend, Kelley, took her out to dinner and made her feel special. But that same night, things took a turn. She began to vomit and her health quickly declined. What followed was a long, difficult week: two ER visits, IV fluids, changes in medication, and two infections. She hadn’t done her infusion in weeks. She thought she was managing it all, and as hard as it was, I had to let her handle it...to step back and let her navigate her own medical care as an adult.
I’ve learned that letting your child manage their own medical journey is far more difficult than doing it for them. There’s no guidebook for when to step in and when to stay quiet, and the waiting and worrying can be its own kind of ache.
I do my best to keep a smile on my face and stay strong for everyone else, but when I’m facing my own medical challenges while watching my kids struggle through theirs, my heart hurts. These past few months, I’ve felt lost, overwhelmed, and alone. So much has changed and some days, it feels like everything is changing all at once.
And amid all this change, another milestone loomed -- TEN years without Halle. Ten years since she’s walked this Earth.
A few weeks ago, while supporting Neeley from afar and keeping up with B’s return to school, an email popped up: “OneDrive Memories.” Normally, I avoid those notifications, as the photo memories can be bittersweet, but something in me wanted to see Halle’s face. I clicked. Photo after photo appeared ... years of memories, but none of Halle. The memories didn't go back as far as 2015. That’s when it hit me: it’s been so long since Halle died, that those images have stopped appearing. Halle's memories were more distant. I sat there and just cried.
And when I didn’t know what else to do, I turned to the coping strategy that still grounds me: hiking.
I set out for Mt. Osceola and East Osceola in New Hampshire -- two of the White Mountains’ 4000-footers. It was an early morning, silent, cold, and still. I hiked alone, no music, no podcast. Just me and the mountain. The climb was steep and the clouds hung heavy over the summit, hiding the view. As I stood atop Mount Osceola, fatigued from the climb, surveying my cloudy view...it felt like a perfect reflection of my life lately ... walking in a fog, unable to see what’s ahead.
Another hiker passed me on his way to East Osceola and said, “It’s only another mile, how bad can it be?”
I let him go ahead. I prefer solitude on the trail...the peace it brings me. A few hikers passed me here and there, but I found my own pace. My own rhythm. Just like in life, always trying to find that balance between caring for others and taking care of myself.
When I reached the steep section known as the Chimney, I froze. Fear set in. “I can’t do it,” I told myself. I turned around. But as I paused to rest, another hiker passed me on his return.
“You’re almost there,” he said. “Just ten more minutes. You got this.”
And I swear, in that moment, I felt Halle. Her whisper in the wind: You got this, Mom. Keep going.
So I did, but that stranger's "just ten more minutes" turned into twenty-five for Jill-speed, but I made it. When I reached the top of the second peak, the clouds began to part, and sunlight sprinkled through the trees. I stood there, exhausted but renewed. I had climbed two peaks that day, not just mountains, but personal ones.
Every time I face my fears or feel weak, I think of my three kids: Halle, Neeley, and B and the courage they’ve shown in their own ways throughout life.
As I descended the mountains that day, I asked Halle for a sign ... a little reminder that she was with me. I turned on the new Taylor Swift album, and at that very moment, it began to snow. Tiny
flakes falling gently through the trees. My sign from my little 'showgirl' Halle was with me... in my recovery, in my fear, in my sadness… and now in my joy.
Finding My Way Forward
Nature continues to be my refuge. Not because it’s peaceful, but because it brings me closer to Halle. Each trail reminds me that healing isn’t linear. Sometimes the clouds cover the view, but if you keep climbing, light always finds a way through.
These past few months have tested me: as a mom, as a woman, as a human being. But they’ve also reminded me of what the Halle Grace Foundation stands for: hope in the midst of heartbreak, and strength that happens not in the absence of pain, but through it.
If you’ve been feeling overwhelmed or stretched thin lately, you’re not alone. My dear friend Janine and I recently opened up about our recent struggles in the latest Strength Happens podcast episode: “When Life Happens…Sometimes We Pause.”
We talk about why we took a break from recording recently, how caregiving has affected us, and what it really means to give ourselves permission to rest and breathe.