Detra Mobley

This Is Not the Story I Want to Keep Living

Did you know there's a test that claims it can tell you whether you've lived a privileged life?

I took one during diversity training at work and learned that, according to the results, I had privilege. Apparently, privilege meant no one had openly discriminated against me because of my appearance, age, income, or sexual orientation.

The questions made me laugh.

Had people judged me because of my appearance or finances? Probably. I just never spent much time worrying about it.

I grew up as the middle child of five children in the country. My biggest concern was deciding which tree I was going to jump out of next. I collected broken bones, hospital visits, and adventures. Life wasn't perfect, but it was simple.

Then I discovered boys…and kissing.

I became a mother at seventeen and had four children by the age of twenty-five. I spent years working two—and sometimes three—jobs, doing whatever it took to keep food on the table, a roof over our heads, and a reliable vehicle on the road.

I dreamed of a fairy-tale life: a beautiful home overlooking a lake, financial freedom, and a loving husband—someone to grow old with, laugh at corny jokes with, and share a lifelong love.

Whenever I started daydreaming about it, reality interrupted.

"Mom! Tell him to stop!"

One of my daughters was complaining about her brother teasing or hitting her.

Those words became the soundtrack of raising four children on my own.

For Most of My Life, I Survived by Being Strong

Strength was never optional. I escaped abusive relationships, raised my children, worked hard, and kept moving forward. I didn't have time to fall apart.

Then one day, I did.

I had finally found a career I loved. I helped people every day. I fought for families, advocated for vulnerable children, and believed I was making a difference.

What I didn't realize was that the work was slowly breaking me.

Here I was—a woman who had always been fierce and confident—crying constantly. I questioned everything about myself. Carrying everyone else's pain became heavier than I could bear. I had always believed I knew how to leave work at work or pray and turn it over to God.

At least I thought I did.

One day, I found myself crying in a corner after receiving a report involving a newborn child. I begged my supervisor not to send me.

"Please... I can't do this."

I can still hear myself saying those words.

It wasn't my first meltdown, but I desperately wanted it to be my last.

That was the moment everything changed—not because my circumstances changed immediately, but because I finally admitted I wasn't okay.

Around That Same Time, Life Delivered One Loss After Another

In April, I lost my sister in a tragic car accident.

In July, I lost my father. He collapsed at home and never got up.

My dad wasn't just my father.

He was my biggest cheerleader.

He was the voice that always reminded me who I was.

"Girl, if anybody can do this, you can."

When he died, I lost more than a parent.

I lost that voice.

I kept functioning. I helped organize funerals. I supported my family. I managed responsibilities the way I always had.

But underneath it all, I was physically and emotionally exhausted.

For the first time in my life, I didn't recognize myself.

The woman who never met a stranger didn't want to talk to people.

The woman who loved serving others didn't want to go to work—or even to church.

The woman who always knew what to do felt completely vulnerable, exposed, and lost.

Then I did something I had never truly allowed myself to do before.

I stopped.

I Found a Counselor

I turned off the noise. I put away my electronic devices and removed anything that distracted me from journaling, praying, and meditating.

I spent time alone with God.

And I listened.

What I discovered surprised me.

For decades, my identity had been built around survival.

Surviving single motherhood.

Surviving abusive relationships.

Surviving disappointment.

Surviving loss.

Somewhere along the way, God was inviting me to do more than survive.

He was inviting me to be still.

To listen.

At fifty-eight years old, living with my mother and starting over, I realized this wasn't the end of my story.

It was the beginning of a new chapter.

• A chapter where I followed my own advice.
• A chapter where I stopped rushing to solve every problem.
• A chapter where I learned that rest is productive.
• A chapter where I stopped chasing every distraction and started living intentionally.
• And, perhaps most surprisingly, a chapter where I went back to school.

After swearing for years that I'd never return to college, I am now pursuing a master's degree in mental health. Nineteen years after earning my last degree, I'm preparing for work that aligns with both my experience and my calling.

I want to help people heal.

I want to help close the gaps in mental health care.

I want to serve my purpose.

Rebuilding My Life Didn't Happen in One Dramatic Moment

It happened through a thousand small choices.

• Journaling.
• Prayer.
• Meditation.
• Setting boundaries.
• Choosing healthier relationships.
• Believing I deserved more.
• Trusting God even when I couldn't see the entire path ahead.

Today, I live with hope.

My vision board hangs where I can see it.

The plans are in motion.

The future looks different from the one I imagined years ago, but somehow it feels more authentic.

I've learned that no one escapes hardship.

What defines us isn't whether life is easy.

It's who we become because of it.

My faith reminds me that even when everything seems to fall apart, God is still able to redeem what feels broken.

When people remember me someday, I don't need them to say I was successful, strong, or extraordinary.

The only words I hope to hear are:

"Well done, good and faithful servant."

And for the first time in a very long time, I finally feel like I'm living a story worth telling.