Choosing Joy

When you step through the doors of The Alliance office, it doesn’t take long to notice Christina Moe’s smile. It’s the kind that reaches her eyes—bright, genuine, quietly reassuring. Whether she’s welcoming someone into a conversation or moving through the office, she greets each person with a voice full of kindness and an easy, unforced joy. Even before she speaks, her presence seems to say, You belong here. With her infant son, Asher, nestled close in a carrier against her chest, Christina gently soothes him with a reassuring touch, never losing that steady, welcoming smile.

Watching her, it would be easy to assume she has always moved through life this way—lighthearted, grounded, full of grace. But her joy wasn’t something she stumbled into. It was shaped slowly, through beginnings she didn’t choose and seasons she never expected.

Christina was adopted at birth, and the love she received from her adoptive family became a quiet anchor in her life. Their care planted in her a deep compassion for families of all kinds. When she and her husband married, that compassion only grew. As he served as a youth pastor, they found themselves drawn to the young people in their community—especially those navigating the foster system. They dreamed of one day opening their home through fostering or adoption. But life surprised them. Nine months into marriage, Christina learned she was pregnant.

The news brought joy, but it also stirred a subtle grief for the version of motherhood she had imagined. After her daughter, Catirina, was born, Christina entered a season she hadn’t prepared for. Her body changed rapidly, her emotions swung unpredictably, and the weight of wanting to be a good mother pressed heavily on her. Postpartum depression crept in quietly, turning once‑bright days dim and unfamiliar. She found herself trying to learn motherhood and rediscover herself at the same time, both tasks feeling impossibly large.

Then, a year into motherhood, another blow came: an unexpected job transition. Her work had been her steady place—the one part of life that felt unchanged. Losing that stability shook her deeply. The strain of new motherhood, the adjustments of marriage, and the unraveling of her sense of self collided all at once. Depression deepened. Anxiety sharpened. Eventually, psychosis emerged. She didn’t know how to ask for help—or what help she even needed.

In the midst of that instability, Christina realized her daughter would be safer in the care of her parents. She remembers the first night she didn’t pick Catirina up after work—the strange mix of relief and sorrow. Knowing her child was safe brought comfort, even as it underscored her own pain. She and her husband still saw Catirina almost daily during that arrangement, which continued for nearly two years.

While Catirina was away, Christina carried a crushing lie: I’m the worst person in the world. To numb the ache, she turned to alcohol, vaping, marijuana—anything that softened the edges of her despair. She felt swallowed by her own darkness, even while surrounded by people who loved her fiercely. Her husband stood beside her with unwavering love, choosing compassion over condemnation. He asked simple but powerful questions like, “How can I help you?”—holding hope for her healing without shaming her for surviving the best way she knew how.  Her family stood by her, doing everything they could to keep her safe and loved. Christina later reflected that this support, offered without guilt or shame, was crucial in keeping her alive.

Healing didn’t arrive because someone demanded it—it began the moment Christina decided she wanted

something different for her life. In March 2020, as the world shut down in uncertainty, she learned she was pregnant again. What could have overwhelmed her instead stirred something brave within her. The thought of another child, paired with the desire to bring her daughter home, pushed her toward healing with new determination.

She started with her body, offering herself grace as she moved from postpartum recovery into a second pregnancy. Then she opened the door to emotional and mental support, allowing others to walk beside her. Counseling became a turning point. In that safe space, she unpacked the layers of her story—her expectations of motherhood, the weight she had carried quietly for years. She also recognized how her early experiences had shaped a deep need for control, a way of protecting herself when life once felt unpredictable. Naming those experiences brought clarity and relief.

One of the most tender moments of healing came when she wrote a letter to her unborn daughter, Izabella, thanking her for the unexpected gift of hope. Christina often says Izabella helped “save Mommy,” marking the beginning of a gentler, steadier chapter.

Healing didn’t erase the past, but it transformed how she saw it. She learned that questioning her feelings wasn’t weakness—it was wisdom. As shame loosened its grip, she found room to love her children and rediscover how her identity is anchored in her faith. “My foundation and identity,” Christina shares, “is in who Christ says I am—not in what the world says, my past, or even my occupation.”

With that renewed foundation, Christina’s life began to open in gentle, hopeful ways. The strength she found soon flowed outward, shaping how she showed up for her family and for the people around her. Today, she is still married to the love of her life, is a working mom of four—Catirina (8), Izabella (5), Hunter (3), and Asher (6 months)—and is grateful for a life that could have taken a very different path.

Her compassion now stretches far beyond her own home. As the Love in Action Director at The Alliance, she pours her empathy into supporting vulnerable families. Christina’s story is a reminder that healing doesn’t just restore joy—it ripples outward, gifting joy to others and changing lives along the way.

Christina’s advice to moms is this, “Give yourself grace and compassion because no one is perfect. Don't be afraid to ask for help because there are so many resources for postpartum now and don't give up—change is possible, it just takes time to heal and surrender.”