Station 12: Jesus Dies on the Cross

By Tami Nguyen-Tran

When I sit with the moment Jesus takes His final breath, I’m struck not only by the pain He endured, but by the love that remained even in His last exhale. It’s a love that stayed, a love that held, a love that didn’t run away even when everything hurt.

As a young mother, I find myself returning to that moment often — not because my suffering looks anything like His, but because I recognize the quiet, hidden weight of it. There is a kind of silent suffering in motherhood that no one prepares you for. The numbness. The loneliness. The feeling of being stretched thin in every direction while trying to hold everything together.

Most days, my life looks simple from the outside: I work, I cook every other day, I feed my daughter, I get her ready for bed. But inside, it feels heavier. I want to share what I’m carrying, but the thought of opening up feels exhausting. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be “too much.” So I keep moving, keep smiling, keep going — even when I feel like I’m watching myself from outside my own body.

Sometimes I see my husband doing the dishes, tending to our daughter, taking care of things I feel like I should be doing. And I’m stuck — too tired, too overwhelmed, too lost in my own head about all the ways I want to be a better mom, a better wife, a better friend. The pressure to be everything for everyone feels like its own kind of cross.

And yet… Jesus stayed on His cross. 

He stayed in the pain. He stayed in the silence. 

He stayed in the surrender. 

Not because He had to — but because love held Him there.

That’s the part that resonates with me most. 

Not the agony. 

Not the darkness. 

But the love that remained.

Because even on my hardest days — the days when I feel numb, or alone, or like I’m failing at everything — there is still love that remains. It shows up in the tiniest ways: a soft “I love you, Mama,” a small cuddle, a little hand reaching for mine. These moments feel like my own small resurrections — reminders that even when I feel like I’m dying inside, love is still alive.

Jesus’ final breath wasn’t just an ending. It was a release. A surrender. A love poured out completely.

And maybe that’s what I’m learning in this season of motherhood — that even when I feel like I’m at the end of myself, love remains. Love stays. Love holds. Love breathes again.

Jesus, hold every young mother who feels tired, unseen, or overwhelmed. Let Your love remain where strength feels thin, and let small moments of tenderness be her resurrection.