Rat Problems, Mice Problems, and Everything In Between

When life feels overwhelming, check the scale—sometimes the monster is really just a mouse.

Perspective, Pain, and the Quiet Power of Choosing Grace

The last several weeks have felt like someone accidentally spun the wheel of “What Could Go Wrong?” and the universe shouted, “Yes!”

Not in catastrophic ways—just in the relentless drip-drip-drip of life’s smaller absurdities piling up on top of an already overflowing season.

We had an unplanned, unexpected move—the kind of move you try to avoid in adulthood if at all possible. Our lease end conflicted with our undetermined future, our landlord wanted to sell, and we found ourselves suspended in a unique purgatory only military families understand:

Do we stay?
Do we leave?
Will Dave get an offer here?
Should we buy? Build? Rent again?
Who knows? Not us.

So into a temporary rental we went—and the very first night, when all we wanted was warmth and sleep, we realized:

The gas hadn’t been turned on.

No heat.
No hot water.
No sleep.
And (because Arizona cold is still cold at 2am) … we froze.

But because I couldn’t sleep, I also heard scratching above my head.

Roof rats.
Or so I thought.

The next morning, after a full-body shudder and an urgent call to pest control, they crawled through the attic and came down with surprising news:

“It’s not rats. It’s mice.”

And I cannot explain the level of joy that washed over me.

Not relief.
Not calm.
Actual. Joy.

Who gets elated over mice? Apparently, a woman who desperately needed something—anything—to be easier than it initially seemed.

Fast forward to Thanksgiving.

I was telling my son the whole saga—not dramatically, but with that “if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry” kind of humor that comes out when life is ridiculous. We moved on to talk about other things—bigger things—real pressures and challenges happening in our world right now.

And later, completely unrelated to the earlier story, he said something that stopped me:

“Mom, that’s a mice problem.”

He didn’t mean the attic issue.
He meant the new, entirely different issue we were discussing.

I laughed, but it landed deeper than humor.

But the moment he said it, everything clicked.
It wasn’t about rodents at all.

It was about perspective.

About how so many of the things that feel enormous—especially when we’re exhausted, stretched thin, or wading through transition—
are actually “mice problems.”
Not rats.
Not catastrophes.
Just manageable, mildly annoying, temporary things that only feel bigger because we feel overwhelmed.

And my goodness—we are in a season of overwhelm.

Dave retires from the military after 30 years soon, and with no job offer in hand yet, we’re living in that suspended place between one identity ending and another not yet revealed. We can’t buy. We can’t build. So we rent. Again.

And this “new” temporary house?
Let’s just say it has… character.

A broken dishwasher that couldn’t be fixed before Thanksgiving.
A handful of “quirky” maintenance issues.
Kitchen counters that haven’t seen an update since flip phones were cutting-edge technology.
A garage step that seems determined to take me out—its latest attempt ending with my forehead meeting the concrete and gifting me a goose egg that is now transitioning through every shade of purple.

Meanwhile, life goes on around me:
Work deadlines.
Heroic commitments.
Wedding planning.
Retirement logistics.
Family needs.
All the normal day-to-day things that don’t pause just because you’re tired or because your house thinks it’s auditioning for a chaotic sitcom.

And yet…

In the middle of all of this chaos and inconvenience, I’ve learned something unexpectedly grounding:

Perspective changes everything.

Our challenges rarely shrink in size—
but they absolutely shrink in weight
when our perspective shifts.

A “rat problem” becomes a “mice problem.”
An obstacle becomes an inconvenience.
A setback becomes a story.
A transition becomes an invitation.

I could choose frustration (and trust me, some moments I have), or I can choose something else:

Grace.
Acceptance.
Humor.
Hope.

Not because life is perfect.
Not because my circumstances are easy.
But because I want to show up as the woman I’ve spent the last few years becoming.

The one who knows:
“This too shall pass.”
The one who looks for blessings in the mess.
The one who can have a bruise on her forehead and still find something to smile about.
The one who can hear her son casually say, “That’s a mice problem,” and receive it as both wisdom and a wink from heaven.

Everyone I know is navigating something hard right now. Big things. Small things. Heavy things. Persistent things. Human things.

We don’t get to choose the challenges.
But we always get to choose our stance.

We can meet life in resistance…
or in resilience.

We can meet uncertainty with fear…
or with faith.

We can meet hardship with frustration…
or with a deep breath, a prayer, and the quiet belief that better days are ahead.

So here I am—unexpected move, rodents, broken appliances, bruised head, endless to-do list—and still deeply grateful.

Because these weeks have reminded me of something I don’t want to forget:

Life is less about avoiding the chaos,

and more about learning to stand steady inside it.

Perspective is power.
Grace is a decision.
How we face our challenges—rat-sized or mouse-sized—is always a choice.

And I’m choosing to believe that everything unfolding right now…
even the annoying, inconvenient, mildly ridiculous parts…
is clearing the path to something good.

This season is temporary.
The transition is temporary.
Even the craziness is temporary.

Better days are coming.
And until they do, I’ll keep laughing, learning, growing, and choosing to see every “rat problem” for what it really is:

Just a mice problem.
Nothing more.
Nothing permanent.
And nothing I can’t handle.