Could Be Worse

Life has a funny way of reminding you of what really matters.

If you’ve been following along lately, you know my sweet Nana recently passed peacefully into the loving arms of our Savior.

She was such a powerful presence in my life—beautiful, strong, courageous. But most importantly, she poured into me. As the only child of an only child, I was her only grandchild. Her time was never divided. I was hers—and she was mine.

As a teenager, we’d take a trip every summer, just the two of us. Those are some of my most treasured memories. We met strangers on cruises, ran through the streets of NYC just to catch a glimpse of Matt Lauer, stood in long lines at Disney, crossed the border into Canada, threw fish at Pike Place in Seattle, stood beneath the Eiffel Tower, and ate fish and chips in London.

But one of my favorite memories of her is much simpler than all of that.

It was curling up in her lap as a little girl while she read to me. Our favorite? Could Be Worse by James Stevenson. Somewhere in one of her many moves, our old copy got lost—but months ago, I went and ordered it again because it meant that much to me.

That book became our inside joke. Anytime I’d complain about something—whether I was a kid, a teen, or even a grown adult—Nana would just smile and say, “Could be worse!” And because I knew where that phrase came from, it never annoyed me. It didn’t feel dismissive. It felt grounding. It reminded me that somewhere, someone probably was going through worse—and that maybe I wasn’t as alone or as lost as I felt.

Yesterday, my mom said it. “As Nana would say, could be worse!” She wasn’t talking about my situation, but hearing it again… it hit me. I realized I needed that reminder more than I knew.

I’d been feeling a little defeated—caught up in things I couldn’t control. But her words, her voice echoing through my mom’s, pulled me back to center. Because the truth is… even on hard days, I am so incredibly blessed.

I’m alive. I have a beautiful, healthy family. I have a bond with my daughter—one I wasn’t sure was even possible when she wasn’t born from me, but straight into my heart. My tiny preemie baby is now almost ten and thriving beyond what we ever imagined. My son is one of the smartest people I know. We have a roof over our heads, food on our table, a life built with love. I have a job I adore. And I have a husband who loves me—deeply and unconditionally—even when I’m probably one of the most difficult people to love.

The truth? Whatever I’m facing right now… yeah, it could be worse.

So maybe that’s what I’m here to say: just remember—it could be worse. God has your back. The battles you’re fighting? He’s already won them.

But I think I’m also saying this:

The little moments? They’re the ones that last.

When my Nana picked up that book—whether it was from a bookstore, thrift shop, or library sale—she had no idea that it would become the memory that sticks with me more than all the trips and big adventures combined. She couldn’t have known that a tattered old book and a soft reading voice would live in my heart forever.

It wasn’t the Disney trips or the passport stamps that made me feel the most loved. As special as those were, it was the quiet chair, her warm lap, the book we read again and again, and the gentle rhythm of her voice that wrapped me in the deepest sense of belonging.

So if you can’t afford the big things—don’t worry. Truly. Because I’ve learned—and I’m seeing it all over again with Kaylee—it’s not always the grand gestures that leave the biggest mark.

It’s being there. It’s the laughter around a messy table during game night. It’s helping with homework. It’s a favorite story read for the thousandth time.

Those are the moments that shape a heart.

Those are the memories that last.

And I can only hope I’m giving those to my babies.

I know you can, too.

By Sarah, With Love