You Don't Need Resolutions—You Need Repetition

One of my most favorite things is the hope and optimism of a fresh, new year. I love the focus on goal setting, the crisp new planners, the beautiful vision boards we fill with dreams. It's exciting to look at the blank space of a new year, to meditate on my spiritual growth and what I'd like to learn, to analyze my daily habits and find places where a little more discipline might make a lot more difference.

In those moments, self-awareness leaves ego behind and becomes a practice of intentional living—where personal accountability without shame teaches us how to build better habits with more consistency. This is where we overcome all-or-nothing thinking, in favor of a slow growth mindset nurtured by gentle discipline. Because we've all wondered why resolutions fail, and I think we've all stumbled across the answer without taking time to think about what it really means.

Because the truth is, resolutions fail when we do. And big goals don't mean anything without follow through. It doesn't matter how much we want to lose weight if we never take care of our bodies. It doesn't matter how much we want to travel if we don't make room in our budgets. It doesn't matter how deeply we're longing for sustainable personal growth if we're looking for growth after burnout and still refusing to make room for rest.

Our efforts will never seem meaningful until we learn to choose progress over perfection and consistency over motivation.

I know, I know. "Easier said than done," right? Building consistency over time sounds great until you lose your habit streak and that failure opens the door to disappointment. Learning to follow through feels like the answer to every missed milestone and the solution to every unfinished task...until it requires showing up when motivation fades.

But small habits can change your life—even when they feel too small to matter. Even when you miss a day. Or two. Or five. You don't need bigger, better goals. And you don't need to become a better person overnight to achieve the goals you've set. What you need is to rebuild trust in yourself, stick to it even if it takes longer than you wanted it to...and quit quitting.

We had been church friends for a while. We'd cross paths on Sunday mornings, exchange tidbits from the passing week. I'd compliment her fabulous outfits, she'd ask about my kids. Eventually, we were sharing parenting tips, scheduling conflicts, and personal testimonies.

One day we were chatting about how overwhelming life can be, and she shared a personal struggle with a health problem. "I don't want people to know because I don't want it to change the way they see me," she said. And I told her that I understood. Because I'm disabled.

At first she looked almost doubtful—which is perfectly understandable, because on the outside, I look fine. I've got two functioning legs, my back is relatively straight, and most days I can safely ignore my neurosurgeon's recommendation to use a cane. I usually show up on time (give or take ten minutes), frazzled but prepared, and I participate actively wherever I choose to go.

As the conversation went on, her eyes got wider and wider. Because while I may have two functioning legs, I can't feel the bottoms of my feet. My back may be straight, but it's damaged and deformed at various points all the way from top to bottom. And I may get away with leaving my cane at home but it's only because I walk slow, tending to my balance, protecting my feet with flat-soled, closed-toe shoes. And I did it all while corralling, parenting, and attentively caring for two chronically ill kids, mostly by myself. Constant doctor's appointments. Frequent surgeries. Occasional hospital stays. Car troubles, life troubles. Spiritual growth. Trauma healing.

It's almost funny now, to look back on that moment. I did understand what she meant when she said she didn't want her health to change the way people saw her value and capability.

But as she stepped back, in beautiful heels and a sparkly tutu fluffed as much with personality as it was with taffeta and tulle, I realize maybe I didn't understand after all. Because she didn't pity the hardship I was walking through. She didn't fill her big brown eyes with sorrow for my struggle.

Instead, she shook her head, flaming red hair swung back to showcase dangly beaded earrings, and she said, "I don't know how you do it."

At the time, the best answer I had was a laugh, because in those days, the real answer would have been, "I don't have a choice." The dishes needed cleaning, the floor needed mopping, the laundry needed folding, the children needed raising. And I was all I had—so I shoved myself through each day with a dash of hope, a collection of whispered prayers, and a bloodstream that was probably 50% caffeine.

She and I don't cross paths on Sundays anymore because her family moved and they go to a different church now. I don't see her crazy beautiful fashion statements all that often, and she's not there to see me rush into the lobby with tired eyes and my daily jolt of caffeination.

Our friendship is mostly over the phone these days, where we still share parenting tips, commiserate over the challenges of our lives and families, walk each other through spiritual struggles—and trade tips on the healing habits, spiritual practices, and daily disciplines that keep us growing.

What's amazing is that everything in both of our lives is different now, even though nothing seems different at all. Because what we see in each other isn't struggle vs. strength or challenge vs. capability. It's consistency. We've chosen to show up for our hobbies, our children, our careers, and our goals over and over again. Even when it was hard. Even when it was exhausting. Even when we were probably overcaffeinated and definitely underprepared, and every step felt like slogging through the quicksand of our childhood nightmares.

Not because we felt especially capable. But because life demands follow-through.

*****

The point is, sometimes it's too easy to let our big goals feel too big or our big dreams seem outlandish. Sometimes we don't feel confident enough to accomplish what we're hoping for—and sometimes we don't even try because we don't feel worthy.

But I think the biggest thing we overlook when we talk about growth is that discipline isn't just about becoming stronger or overcoming more. We don't need magical moments of inspiration. Most of the time, we just need to plant our feet and keep standing when we feel like falling down, or take that next small step even when it seems too ordinary to make much difference.

When no one applauded, I couldn't keep the streak going, and I had no visible results to make my efforts seem worth the work, the habits that carried me weren't impressive ones. They were just there, each one as meaningless as a lonely brick on a patch of grass.

It wasn't until one brick covered another...and another...and another...that the faithful stacking of small daily habits built a life that looked resilient on the outside, no matter how fragile it felt. And it wasn't until I stepped back to look at my life with compassion and respect for the versions of me that built it, that I truly learned what it means to...

It's normal to feel like life is too hectic, but this is a problem with a simple answer: show up, streamline, and simplify. One way I'm doing this? I'm looking more closely at what I take in during the day. No more mindless scrolling. So if you're working on that too, let me invite you to my Substack roundup—it's a once-weekly email that gives you links to all the best of my content, writing updates, sneak peeks at my life behind the scenes, and more!

Nope. Not Now. Unfortunately Not. Sorry, That's A No.

I know I can't be the only one who feels a little shocked that we're so close to 2026 right now. This is one of those moments where I'm torn between two realities, caught like a rope in a tug of war. On one end is the hopeful version of me that walked into 2025 joyful and glowing. I had celebrated a full year of freedom from a marriage that was an absolute mistake, I was writing again, my platforms were growing, my word of the year was Restored, and as if that weren't enough, my Bible verse for the year was Joel 2:25-26, which says (in paraphrase), "I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten…You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied..." 

Y'all, I was ready. Emotional resilience on tap. Strong faith and boundaries, set and ready to go. Focused on mindfulness. Suited up for another year set on breaking generational cycles because if I'm not dead, I am not done. 2025 rolled in like a blessing, and pre-'25 me was all for it.

Pre-'26 me looks a little different. Because it takes a toll when God's promises don't look like you expected—and healing while life is still hard? Well, that's gonna leave a mark.

According to Google, Restored means to bring back, reinstate; or return someone or something to a former condition, place, or position. In theory it sounds like a wonderful thing. Barren fields filled again with produce, abandoned homes returned to their original glory, lost things retrieved. Lives revived. 

In my world, it meant hard times. Fighting for space to write, even as God continually confirmed my calling. Finally getting my house decluttered and organized, just in time for my oldest daughter to move back in. Watching new maturity bloom beautifully in my youngest, only to wonder if a rare genetic mutation was already writing her last chapter. It meant holding onto faith after trauma. Again. And trusting God in overwhelming seasons I never thought I'd be ready for. 

Somewhere along the line, the thought of restoration also taught me how important it is to see—and set—healthy boundaries as spiritual discipline. And as this crazy, crushing, completely consecrated year began to wind down, I began to see the value in learning to say no without guilt. Because sometimes, saying no to protect your calling is the difference between knowing your calling...and living it.

For the most part, the year went well despite the setbacks. My oldest daughter's return to our house has been chaotic because she's full of life and boundless energy, but it has also been a blessing in many ways. Most days, I know what her curls look like, that she ate well, and that she's safe and sound in her bed at night. She's as easy to check on as taking a few steps down the hallway, and our relationship now is far less strained than it used to be. In many ways, we might even call it...Restored.

My youngest daughter's genetics are still a source of stress, but we have an incredible team of doctors and I'm constantly amazed by her steadfast resilience. Newfound maturity made so many hard conversations feel like growth rather than grappling, and I'm grateful.

We talked a lot about purpose this year, and I'll never forget the first moment we really talked about what a scary diagnosis might look like. We discussed IVs and long waits. I lost sleep over possible side effects, and we contemplated the idea that if this was what we were heading toward, she might soon find herself surrounded by sick, scared little children. At the end of one particularly challenging conversation, my little superstar squared her shoulders, firmed a trembling lower lip, and found ministry in the middle of the mess. Because even in the worst of times, "The little ones will need someone to look up to."

The trouble with all of it was Isaac Newton, because he was right when he said an object in motion stays in motion—and he was also right when he said acceleration is proportional to force. As the months passed, 2025 seemed to be going faster and faster, and by the middle of August, I was drowning. I felt overwhelmed, overstretched, and under-supported. So I had a little breakdown, and in a fit of frustration, I growled, "I bet my word for next year is, 'No.'"

And God laughed. Because he already knows how porous my boundaries can be. He already knows my instinct to people-please. And he's watched me overexert and overperform for forty-one years, trying to earn things I never needed to earn in the first place. Things like autonomy, patience, respect. Reciprocation. Validation.

There was immediate backlash from people who aren't comfortable with the word No. People who aren't used to hearing that word from me, whose instinct was to think about what my No might cost them, rather than understanding what it cost me to get there. Doubt crept in, and I began to wonder if I had chosen wrong. Or if a different word might be better. Easier. More palatable. Fear reminded me that the last time I felt secure enough to strengthen the boundaries around my time and energy, my life imploded. The pain of rejection showed me flashback photos of people who valued what I could bring to their lives...until I asked them to value mine.

But then I heard a sermon on boundaries. That same week, someone reminded me of how lonely Noah must have been, building a boat in a desert where everyone in the village must have thought he was insane. The following week, on a random trip to the Dollar Tree with my spiritual Mama, all my doubts were cancelled by a big red button. It wasn't easily in the line of sight. It wasn't in an aisle we were walking down. I didn't trip over it, and there wasn't a huge display.

It was just sitting on top of a drink cooler. Stamped with the word, "No." When I pointed it out, Mama just laughed and threw it in the cart.

In the months since, I've seen multiple sermons, heard multiple songs, and discovered multiple verses. I carried a list of them on my phone, collecting them like shells on a beach, waiting for the right one to stand out. Just after Thanksgiving, I was stunned into tears when a church I watch every week online but rarely get to in person devoted an entire service to the story of one of my verses.

Nehemiah was a man tasked with overseeing the rebuilding of Jerusalem's boundaries. The city had been destroyed by the Babylonian invasion, the nation was in recovery after 70 years of exile, and those walls represented the security and identity of the returning people. And he faced opposition too, in the forms of constant distraction, chronic ridicule, gossip, lies, threats, and even sabotage.

But Nehemiah knew his calling. He knew the task set before him. He answered invitations away from that calling with discernment, saying, "I am doing a great work and cannot come down. Why should the work stop while I leave?" And in 2026, I intend to do the same.

*****

Looking back on this year, I can see that restoration was never about returning to who or what I used to be. It was about allowing conviction to reshape the core elements of my calling into something stronger, fortified with new clarity. And as hard as this year was in light of what I expected from it, I'm proud of the courage to notice what was draining me—and the honesty to call it what it was.

Joel’s promise over my word for last year wasn’t wrong. My life was certainly not quiet, but learning to step back, stay focused, and refuse distractions that cost me my peace showed me how much God did restore. He just did it by strengthening my discernment. Rather than calming the outer storm, he spoke peace to the storm within. Which is why No feels like exactly the right word for what comes next.

No to urgency that isn't mine. I will no longer carry someone else's poor planning as my personal emergency. No guilt disguised as responsibility. I am only one person, with the same needs as anyone else, and I will no longer ignore my own needs for people who refuse to see them as valid.

No to invitations and obligations that pull me away from the work God has placed in my hands. He has set the task, ordained the purpose, and confirmed it more than enough times to erase doubt. I don't need to know where it's taking me or if it will ever become the dream I've been laying my heart on for so long—I do know I'll never find out if I don't protect what I've been given.

And like Nehemiah, I won't be saying no because I'm unwilling. I'll say it because I am already committed to boundaries worth defending, and a work that requires my presence.

There is rebuilding to do—and in order to finish it, I'll need my No to help me hold the line and...

Ever feel like life is getting harder and harder to keep up with? Same. That's why I've got you covered with a free Monday-morning round-up on Substack; it's packed with writing updates, sneak peeks into my daily life, links to all of my most recent content (including these posts), and updates on the adventures of my accidental indoor pepper twins. But the best part is, you don't have to go looking for it. It'll be right there in your email.

The Cycle Stops Here

With Christmas just around the corner, I've spent the month writing about the value of gifts beyond material things—gifts that don't come with price tags and receipts. And as I've built contrasts between the lasting impact of childhood neglect and the power of trauma recovery through connection, I've spent a great deal of time rediscovering what restoration through love really looks like.

The truth is, the gifts that matter most are rarely the ones we open on Christmas morning. They're the gifts we receive daily from the people who love us: emotional safety, a sense of belonging, mindful connection. These are the hope of compassion in action, the blessings of feeling seen and being known. The mutual recognition of dignity and humanity that brings personal growth and relational healing.

Sometimes we open these gifts slowly, because hope after trauma comes with a heaviness we don't know how to hold yet. Sometimes we let them sit, neglected and unopened, because healing generational trauma looks like a sanctified space we don't feel worthy of—or because safe relationships invite us into a sacred presence that doesn't seem real. Sometimes we overlook those gifts entirely, never recognizing what they are.

We talk about healing from trauma like it's beautiful and inspiring. Like post-traumatic growth and breaking generational cycles is as simple as healing the inner child, setting boundaries, and redefining family connections. Like empowerment after abuse is easy.

It's so much more. It's new confidence. It's the determination to see your own worth, to believe in your own value, even when the people around you can't—or won't. It's rebuilding trust in the embodied faith of a chosen family that fits together when families of origin fall apart. It's spiritual healing at the deepest level.

And it's somehow both the simplest and most soul-deep part of what we mean when we recognize Jesus as the incarnation of God with us.

"No. Sorry, no room." The innkeeper stood in the half-closed doorway, his lips pursed as he shook his head.

She clutched the belly poorly hidden by scarves and traveling robes, schooling her face to mask the pain. She'd been aching all day, and the baby was still. She was young, but she knew the signs; it was almost time.

"Please," Joseph said quietly. "My wife is pregnant."

The innkeeper arched his brows. "Oh, we know," he said. "And we know she's not your wife, either."

Mary closed her eyes as the child shifted in her womb. She knew the truth, but she wasn't deaf. She heard the rumors, too, the way the people gossiped about her. The unwed small-town girl, swollen with child. She'd tried to tell them about the angel. About the promise of hope. They thought she was crazy—or lying. Or both. The baby moved again, twisting in the small space of late pregnancy, and Mary's terrified eyes met the cold face of the innkeeper.

He sighed. "Look, there's a stable around the way. You can sleep there."

* * *

My pastor set the illustration almost in passing, but three weeks later I'm still caught by the cruelty of what those moments might have been like. I keep flashing back to similar moments in my own life. Eighteen years old, heartbroken and sobbing as the life I anticipated drained from my womb—and the doctor barely looked up from his clipboard as he said, "Some babies just aren't meant to be."

Maybe he thought I was young and foolish, but I was married and we were excitedly planning to love that baby. I had read every book I could get my hands on, studied fetal development, written a birth plan. I knew which fruits my baby had raced to outgrow. I quit smoking, quit caffeine. And I had just bought belly headphones, so my child could listen to Mozart in the womb. He or she was going to be brilliant.

I puked all the way through my second pregnancy. And yet, in those moments when I first held the warm, wriggling body of my oldest daughter, none of it mattered. I wasn't even a Christian then, but I prayed with every desperate fiber of my soul that this child would have it better than I did. And in many ways, she has. But not all.

Violent death threats and frightening encounters marked the death toll on my marriage, and by the time my daughter was two, I was a single mom living in fear. My daughter was beauty in the ashes of what my life might have been...even when I found a church filled with people who saw the single mom without caring about her story.

They liked it when I met someone new. It tied things up in a nice, neat little bow, where it was easier to pretend all was well. Five years later, when I was pregnant with my youngest daughter, the pastor's wife threw my baby shower.

No one talked about the fact that my youngest daughter's father and I were not married—because after five years of court dates where I was the only one who showed up, I wasn't even divorced yet. But they knew.

And I thought of them as I thought of Mary, standing in the doorway of the inn. I thought of how she felt when everything she'd thought her life would be turned upside down. No longer a girl, not yet a woman, but full of life and carrying the weight of impossible shame. In her culture she would have at least been shunned, if not actually stoned to death, her swollen belly the very evidence of loose morals and sinful behavior.

At the full term of her pregnancy, she might have been longing for the guidance of her mother. At the very precipice of giving birth, she would have been desperately lonely for the comforts of home...and simultaneously grieving the loss of those comforts due to her unpopular circumstances.

But then the contractions hit. The water broke. And as the baby took his first breath in a dim-lit, dusty cave, the young female body did what it was made to do—it finished the job of creating new life.

I like to think that for just a moment, Mary forgot the pressure of promise that lay on her baby boy. That for just a moment, as she held his warm, wriggling body and looked into endless eyes that could see all of time, every moment of shame and rejection fell away. I hope she forgot her fear of the cultural curse that came with her pregnancy.

Because as the world around her refused to make room, a little boy from Heaven called her "home."

*****

For me, Christmas has always been a reminder that God didn't wait for the world to become safe, orderly, or compassionate before He entered it. He came into the mess covered in the slime of human birth. Into the misunderstanding of a good girl burdened by a bad reputation. He came into the lifelong shame of inescapable scandal that served an unyielding buffet of rejection in every flavor.

There was no room—and He showed up anyway. For me. And for you.

In Genesis, the Bible says God hovered over the waters. Four thousand years later, the Gospel tells us God stopped hovering, stopped holding back, became flesh, and dwelt among us. And in doing so? In coming so close he could taste both the joy of a favorite food and the heartbreak of a friend's betrayal, he broke something that had been passed down for generations: the lie that worth must be earned, that belonging is conditional, that love is reserved for the deserving.

This is how generational curses end—not through perfection, but through presence. Not through denial of the past, but through its redemption. When love shows up, safety replaces fear, and someone chooses to stay.

Christian or not, I think we could all do with a Christmas season that doesn't need louder joy or shinier celebration. Maybe we just need the courage to make room. To notice the overlooked. To choose kindness, even if it costs us time, comfort, or convenience. Because when we choose to value presence over performance and peace over perfection, we write love over fear and fill "unworthy" stories with hope.

Because the Christ who entered the world through borrowed space still walks willingly into places where we feel unwanted, unseen, or unsure. He doesn’t need us to prove ourselves, he just comes to stay. And when we open the door to love that doesn't leave, he offers the hope that helps us...

Life is fragile, but we’re stronger when we share it. Every day we wake up is another unopened gift, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, but always worth unwrapping. If my words helped you feel seen today, I'd love to keep sharing moments like this with you—each week, always free, and right there in your inbox.

The Gifts We Don't Wrap, Part Two

Kindness and attention are perhaps the most important gifts we give to the people around us, not only at Christmas, but (hopefully) all year long—and last week, I shared some of the hard ways I learned that lesson through childhood abuse and neglect.

Feeling unseen, unimportant, and inconvenient as a kid played a huge role in the way I value emotional presence now, but breaking cycles of neglect and building safe relationships can be challenging when your family of origin is built on toxicity. And while I still have great respect for the circumstances many members of my family have endured and overcome, especially without the benefits of mental health awareness or trauma-informed compassion, my own journey to faith and mindful living has meant a lifetime of exploring the definition of what family really means.

As bad as it was, maybe it's ironic that my first and most lasting experiences with empathy and compassion were shared by a family member; we're only a few months apart, and as children, we knew unspeakable trauma before we could spell our own names. By the time we hit kindergarten, one or the other (or both) of us had seen suicide attempts, sexual abuse, drug use, violence, and abandonment.

The bond of blood gave us the only support we had, and the isolation of invisible wounds too horrifying to be openly shared taught us the value of meaningful connection. Four decades later, we also know grief, loss of children, homelessness, death threats, and hostage situations—but together, we learned gentle compassion, emotional resilience, empowerment after abuse, and the fulfillment of hope after trauma. She taught me that family means showing up for others with dignity and humanity. That relational mindfulness is a gift of love through action. And that redefining family doesn't always mean leaving everything behind.

Flame moved from the lighter to the candles, but it didn't stop there. Instead it settled in rich, dark eyes, gleaming with the soul-deep joy of intentional inclusion. The light in her eyes warmed her face, molding the simple sight of human flesh into the comfort of hot chocolate. The wide, beautiful smile...the gleefully folded hands...the barely contained vibration of energy...in that moment, she was the very picture of what it means to recognize that the greatest gifts aren't things.

The lighter went out but the flame burned on, in the hearts of those around the table. The soft-spoken young woman who's made it her calling to coach and guide children with difficult disabilities. The wonderfully complex success story who carries herself with such strength you'd never guess the depth of her evolution—except that she'll share it with you if it helps you heal your wounds. The gentle Georgia peach, so frequently bruised by a life of challenge, so desperately humble she cannot fathom the depth of what she means to those who love her. The little girl, her life painted in such bold strokes of trial and adversity, her heart as soft as brand new Play-Doh. The phoenix baptized by fire, her sweet fragility balanced beautifully by strength devoid of hardness.

The song was sung, the candles were extinguished with excited breath, the cake was sliced and served. But for a moment, it was so much more than a birthday. It was community as family, relational healing through belonging. It was kindness as connection, a visible reminder of how small gestures with big meaning leave us feeling seen and remembered. A celebration where nothing was wrapped but our birthday girl was showered in the gifts that matter.

That moment wrapped itself around my heart like lights around a tree, and this year it is the root of my holiday joy—warmly illuminating countless gifts that seem just as small but mean just as much.

The woman who reads nearly every word I write, and has for decades. The one who doesn't care for reading, but she triggered her own trauma multiple times as she read Fighting For Freedom before it was published, then bought the e-book the day it was released, and still bought the paperback, too. "If it's important to you, it's important to me," she said.

The woman I only talk to once or twice a month because our lives are busy and time is precious—but also because we're both fully aware that there's no way we can talk for less than three giggle--filled, advice-heavy, constantly interrupted hours.

The soft-spoken, eternal gentleman who throws his head back and laughs at my jokes, who kisses my cheek as gently as a breeze, whose eyes twinkle when I flirt with him because it's always nice to feel young again, even when you're sixty-five. The woman who sat beside me while I grieved the dog who was my best friend for 12 years. The ones who keep my allergies in mind when they stock their own pantries, who send me photos of product ingredient lists, "just to be sure." The ones who saw me cry during my daughter's cancer scare and never made me feel like I was over-reacting.

The vibrant, adventurous couple who have become second parents to me. He who is dutiful, responsible, and humorous, who is full of stories and surprising anecdotes, who stunned me into tears of gratitude the first time he called me "daughter" in passing, as easily and as casually as if he'd always done it. She who challenges me, prays for me, checks in on me, and occasionally threatens me to keep me in line.

They'd look funny under the tree, all lumps and bumps and energetic laughter, but this chosen family—where emotional safety flows freely and nobody gets left behind—are truly the richest of holiday gifts.

Everything else? Just icing on the cake.

*****

The gifts we long for are often varied and complex. We want the safety of knowing the light bill is covered, the joy of a new bottle of perfume. We want a home we feel safe in, a vehicle we can count on. We want the warmth of candles and the coziness of fuzzy socks.

But when it comes to holiday connection, being present for loved ones is infinitely more magical than buying presents for loved ones. I doubt you'll find healthy attachment, the power of listening, or the gift of attention on holiday shopping lists—but I can promise that if you're celebrating someone you love, supporting friends, and offering unexpected kindness, you become the gift someone remembers.

Because this level of mindful giving? This empathy in action, this conscious act of noticing people as they are and loving them where they are? It fosters compassion and connection most people don't even realize they're starving for.

You can't wrap it or tie it up with a bow, I know. But while being heard and valued are easy gifts to overlook, they're the gifts that soothe old wounds. The ones that inspire new growth. The ones we hold in our hearts long after we declutter our homes.

The ones that hold us steady, even when it's hard to...

Life gets busy and social media is so chaotic. You follow people and pages only to never see them again—and you can't seem to escape the content you don't want to see. If you'd like an easier way to keep up, I've got you. One email, once a week. Spam-free, stress-free, and sent right to your inbox.

The Gifts We Don't Wrap, Part One

Every year at Christmas, the internet floods with gift guides and shopping lists. It's a world-wide collection of "Top Ten Stocking Stuffers for Your Wife" and "Tools Your Husband Wishes He Had." We scroll through endless curations of "Christmas Gifts for Christians"—or writers, or musicians, or athletes, etc.

What's weird is that there's one specific thing most people want more than anything, regardless of size, shape, color, religion, or political standing, and it's hardly ever on any of those "Meaningful Holiday Gifts" lists—because emotional presence, meaningful connection, and relational mindfulness are gifts that aren't things. Maybe that's why they seem small, or maybe it's because we live in a fast world, a hustle culture that taught us time is money, validating others makes you a simp, and asking for empathy and compassion is seen as weakness rather than humanity. 

We treat the gift of attention like a priceless and limited commodity that must be rationed—or something manipulative to be wary of—and it's not because we can't see the hurting people around us. The truth is, we all know someone healing from trauma, someone scarred by invisible wounds that usually aren't as invisible as they seem. We see them feeling unseen. We hear them beg to be noticed. We know their hunger for compassion and connection. And we brush it off. 

In fact, we literally call it a "cry for attention," even as we withhold the dignity and humanity of being heard and valued. And when those unseen people in society silence themselves like babies who stop crying when no one comes...when they break down or give up...we gasp collectively and wonder "why they didn't say anything." 

Then, of course, we have endless talks about the importance of mental health awareness or emotional well-being. We read (or write) articles about reclaiming identity, emotional resilience, mindful living. We create calendar days for noticing people or supporting friends, and we talk about the power of listening like it's complicated spellwork, rather than the simple act of showing up for others with gentle compassion. 

But the need for attention isn’t borne of vanity or ego. It’s the outward presentation of the most basic human hunger—the hunger for connection. Which is why, when it comes mindful giving (especially at Christmastime), I truly believe the gifts that matter most are the ones we can't wrap.

When I was little, it wasn't exactly safe to be seen. On a good day, being visible only meant being in the way—but on a bad day, visibility made you a target. Asking questions was nosy, answering them was backtalk, and emotional expression was usually frowned upon, if not punished directly. Once, my cousin and I got sent away from the dinner table for laughing. 

By middle school, I learned that being invisible wasn't any better. Walking softly meant I was sneaky, speaking quietly sounded like mumbling, and keeping to myself seemed to prove I was arrogant or thought I was better than everyone else. I was so closed off that one year, my grandmother hid all my Christmas presents in her bathroom just to see what would happen. I sat in silence on the floor beside the tree and watched my cousins open piles of presents, trying to cover heartache with a smile.

When everyone was finished, my grandma gave me a curious look, went to her bathroom, called my mother for help...and they came out with their arms full of gifts, just for me. 

Maybe it was just a prank, but the humiliation of being so purposely and publicly set aside still lingers decades later, like a cloud of bad cologne. And I will never stop wondering what might have happened if I had allowed myself to react. I was twelve years old at the time, and the fact that I knew better by then breaks my heart.

The thing is, with or without childhood trauma, most of us can look back and see the moments that shaped us. For better or worse, those emotional memories become the very bricks that pave the paths of our lives. 

My childhood is why I value kindness, safety, routine. And maybe in some ways, it's why I write—to offer healing through storytelling, the seed of which was planted (quite ironically) by my father. 

One of his favorite zingers was a sharp, "You writin' a damn book? Well, leave that chapter out!" He'd shake his head, satisfied with my silence, perhaps unaware of the sting, and move on. And now, writing reclaims the voice I was forced to silence and the depth I was forbidden to share. It recounts every chapter I was told to omit. And in doing so, it lets me offer something priceless to people who feel as unseen today as I did back then. 

I don't share these stories to shame the people involved, or to garner pity, or even to "trauma dump." I share because I want people to know they're not alone. Because I want them to know that emotional neglect and healing are not mutually exclusive.

And because the hard truth is, the older I get, the more I see those same patterns everywhere. The elderly, the homeless, the overlooked, the inconvenient. We swat away their stories and sidestep their needs. We look past their humanity—and we tell them, without ever saying a word, that they are burdens.

We forget that listening is love in action, that attention affirms value, that presence offers dignity. And that the absence of those things leaves a wound only healed by the giving of those things.

Your ancient Granny might have plenty of non-slip socks, and she probably doesn't want to complete yet another puzzle alone. Your Papaw probably doesn't need another screwdriver; I bet he's good on wrenches, too. And your loved ones won't treasure a bad-guess gift that only highlights how little you know them. 

So maybe this year, give gifts that don't need wrapping.

Instead, take a loved one to lunch. Ask them to tell you a story. And listen—truly listen. I bet they light up like Christmas trees.

*****

In a season that often seems overrun by sales and obligations, sometimes even gift-giving can feel like a hassle. And I think that's why I keep circling back to this truth: the best gifts we give each other aren’t things. They’re moments. A shared meal, a story learned, a memory created. Showing love through actions that don't come with gift receipts. Being present for loved ones—instead of buying presents for loved ones.

When I look back at Christmas past, I don’t usually remember specific gifts from particular years. What I remember are the moments I felt unseen—and later, the value I placed on the moments that made me feel known. As an adult, I understand that both kinds of memory shaped me, taught me who I want to be, and helped me recognize how I want to love people.

Maybe you’re feeling it, too. Maybe you’re exhausted by the pressure to perform Christmas “correctly,” or you’ve got someone in your life who's hard to shop for, hard to reach, or hard to read. Maybe you feel that way yourself. Maybe the holidays are a lonely time for you, and the constant sense of celebration makes you feel like an outsider.

If you're nodding along with any of that, let me tell you what my younger self would have given anything to hear: your presence is a gift. Your attention is a gift. Your listening is a gift. You are a gift, simply because you exist. And these gifts don’t just fill stockings—they fill the hearts of the people we touch.

So as we move through this holiday season, I hope you find ways to honor the people you love, not with perfect presents, but with attentive presence. I hope someone invites you into deeper connection. I hope you find the courage to accept. And reciprocate.

Because if we could stop hiding the good gifts in the bathroom, and start placing them in other's hearts instead, maybe it wouldn't be so hard to...

Life gets busy and social media is so chaotic. You follow people and pages only to never see them again—and you can't seem to escape the content you don't want to see. If you'd like an easier way to keep up, I've got you. One email, once a week. Spam-free, stress-free, and sent right to your inbox.

The Quiet Comforts That Carry Me Through

Okay, look. Single mom life is overwhelming. I tell my kids I'd fight a bear bare-handed at the drop of a hat for them—and while we all know I'm going down, at least my babies know I'd go down fighting hard enough to buy them some time. But even without the bears, my daily life is packed. From chaotic mornings and hypersomnia struggles to food allergies, trauma healing, and parenting with chronic illness, some days even I wonder if finding hope in chaos is really possible.

Which is why my most treasured tool for empowerment and emotional healing is mindfulness. It's a determination to stay in one moment at a time, to allow myself to be present right where I am, right when I am. To look at the thing that must be done, the obstacle that must be overcome, the season that must be lived in...then I give it my best, and move on to the next.

It sounds simple, I know. But it works. And staying in the moment has guided me through nurturing emotional resilience, reclaiming identity and empowerment after abuse, learning to engage in guilt-free self-care practices, trusting God in healing, and yes, even surviving the holidays.

But with Thanksgiving behind us, leftovers still dwindling in the fridge, and the Christmas gift-giving season upon us, I thought this might be a good time to let you in on a little not-so-secret truth: mindfulness and gratitude aren't the only everyday survival tools I count on.

Most mornings in my life are routine. I stumble out of bed, wash my face, brush my teeth, wake my youngest daughter. Check the calendar. Caffeinate.

Maybe it's Strike Force energy, maybe it's Celsius powder; either way, these energy drink alternatives are everyday essentials. And honestly, I'm not even sorry anymore, because between late nights, early mornings, the physical symptoms of cPTSD, and chronic hypersomnia, my brain is half-asleep three-quarters of the time even with medication—so caffeine isn't just my recreational drug of choice. Some days, it's my personality.

Years ago, I would have apologized. For needing help, for needing energy. For needing to feel seen and heard and cared for. But those days are over, and now I do whatever it takes to be able to show up for my life and my kids. I use the tools at hand, the little things that seem so meaningless but mean so much—because they're the things that help me to be me.

Not so long ago, I was married to a man who loved few things more than making me feel small, stupid, and insignificant. He hated my music, my makeup, my faith. Even my perfumes. So I stopped wearing them. I let my home fill up with the stench of condescension, and for a while, I forgot the fragrance of confidence. These days, I wear what I want. And because I can, I start most days with a little spritz from a bottle that looks like nothing but is filled with magic. A simple refillable perfume bottle—currently holding the last of my favorite (and sadly discontinued) Vera Wang Pink Princess Eau de Toilette.

After that, the days are a mess of places to go, people to see, things to do. I check in with my cousin, take my daughter to school or doctors (or both), and do my best to squeeze in a little writing. I wash the laundry, sweep the floor, clean umpty-million dishes I'm pretty sure I didn't use. I make gluten-free sourdough. And I pause for conscious gratitude every time I open the dedicated 11-in-1 Cosori air fryer that makes gluten-free living just a little more possible in my world.

When the day fades and the house settles...when I've given the best I had to the moments available...I let my hair down and comb my favorite Maui Moisture hair mask through ends that usually look as tired as I feel. Aging may have changed the color and texture of my hair, but these simple moments of self-care are more than a last-ditch effort to keep these long strands smooth and shiny. They're a reminder to slow down. To see myself as valuable enough to care for, important enough to nurture.

And then I curl up in bed with a book. Long before I ever wrote one, books introduced me to healing through storytelling. They taught me to breathe when cPTSD survival felt like suffocation. They opened doors to Christian encouragement when my faith was young. And they kept me company in my loneliest seasons. My Kindle Paperwhite is a treasure trove of adventures, an infinite library of worlds to explore. (And it's backlit so I can read with the light off, waterproof so I can read in the bath—and digital so my youngest daughter can't steal my bookmarks anymore.)

These "favorite things" seem so ordinary, so simple. On their own, they're just everyday items that don't really matter. But when I pull them together, they're sparkling reminders of God's redemption story in my life. They are the seeds from which I harvest gratitude in hard seasons, the threads of empowerment woven into who I am and how I survived.

They're the invisible lifelines that taught me how to heal the past—with gentle faith, passing time, practiced patience, and stubborn, habitual hope.

*****

Even now, sometimes I'm surprised by how easily the little things in life become the things that anchor us in our storms. Not because any of these things are special in themselves, but because of the way they quietly bandage wounds in our hearts.

The perfume that smells like freedom and autonomy. The caffeine that feels like capability. A home that sighs peacefully, rather than trembling with fear. A Kindle filled with stories to sink into, learn from, grow with. And my own books—once, nothing more than impossible dreams but now, shining reminders that God still uses broken things.

You might not find them on Christmas shopping lists or holiday gift guides. They won't be counted in this year's top ten winter comfort essentials, and I still don't know if they're self-care must-haves. They're not big, and they're not fancy. But they don't need to be, and maybe that's why they're my favorite things...because they are the steady, dependable comforts that remind me who I am. And what I can still become.

Maybe you're like me, and living life moment by moment also means prepping and surviving one holiday at a time. Maybe you're like my youngest daughter, with every gift wrapped and ready before December even arrives. Or maybe you're somewhere in between, and always on the lookout for the perfect stocking stuffers.

Maybe you're on your own this year, and just hoping for something small to warm your winter. Either way, I hope you found something valuable here, even if it's only this encouragement to...

The greatest gifts we give each other are moments of connection, and in our post-tech society, many of those moments are virtual. We touch the people we care for every time we unlock a screen—through our texts, our messages, our video calls. And yes, our emails. That's why I'd like to reach out especially to you, with a Monday morning note that'll help make sure you don't miss the next thing I'm up to. There, you'll find links to the week's content, news on my latest books...and maybe even an occasional giveaway. Want in? Sign up here!

Grateful For A Landscape of Scars

I've written a lot this month about gratitude and thankfulness—partly because it's November and Thanksgiving is a perfect time to refocus on life lessons and little blessings, but also because resilience and emotional healing have always been the greatest focus points of my brand.

As a Christian, I was taught that the greatest purpose and potential of my life is in using my personal testimony to showcase God's redemption, and when I introduce people to Jesus, I don't do it as a preacher; I do it as one friend inviting another to share something beautiful. As a mother, learning how to break toxic cycles helped me see survival as a gift; motherhood showed me there is beauty in brokenness. And as a student leader, trusted with guiding others forward in their spiritual growth, I've seen countless confirmations of how lived experience matters—because overcoming hardship is fine on its own, but when you find purpose in pain and take time to unfold the map of your story, your experience becomes a guide through someone else's emotional landscape of scars.

Writers are often told to "write what you know." To use knowledge and authenticity as tools, to draw characters and sculpt storylines from emotional truths. To mold the roads of our own experience into the mountains and valleys of unknown worlds, because the lessons we learn and the storms we survive aren't just for us.

Every mountain climbed and every emotional river rapid navigated becomes part of who we are, each experience a landmark on a lifemap drawn in the scars that tell our stories.

So as November winds down and we move from Thanksgiving to Christmas gift-giving, I've been thinking about how easily our everyday gratitude for survival might become the survival guide we gift to those around us—because the best thing about stories is, they're meant to be shared.

Everyone who knows me knows that I hate waking up in the morning. Every day is a riot of things to do: problems to solve, appointments to show up for, tasks to complete. Every night is a late one: dragging myself through brain fog and fatigue in the effort to finish each day, desperately fighting the fear of starting the next day already behind. And every morning starts too early.

Quiet moments are hard to come by, even with extensive effort. I receive somewhere around 300 texts and notifications every day, 50-100 emails, and rarely less than 5 phone calls—my phone would ding itself to death if it wasn't always set on Silent. The washer always seems to be churning, the dryer always seems to be humming, and my car always has something rattling around that shouldn't be.

My personal circle of friends is loud and energetic. We update each other on everything, share Tiktoks and video shorts like there's no tomorrow, offer each other tips and advice, openly broadcast our pain, our problems, and our prayers. My kids are like tornadoes, complete with gale force energy, unpredictable shifts in tone or location, and yes, the occasional bout of devastating wreckage.

But most mornings, my youngest daughter and I chat easily on the ride to school, and every conversation I share with her is a waterfall of gratitude on the map of my existence. Autism might have made these conversations impossible...but it didn't. She's sixteen years old, and every day of her life has been a fragile gift—from the oxygen-starved blue newborn to the yellow-eyed infant with severe jaundice, and through thirteen surgeries she might never have woken up from. Every sleepy morning, I grumble out of bed to stand in her doorway and watch her breathe. Because she's still here to do it.

I often get home from that morning drive to school just in time to find my oldest daughter making coffee, awake and already full of plans for the day. She rarely spends more than a few hours at a time at home, and when she's home her entire personality is a blazing inferno of boundless energy, high-speed chatter, and randomly abandoned press-on fingernails. She leaves signs of herself everywhere she goes—not only in little scraps of paper and forgotten coffee mugs, but in the echo of her laughter and the hope in her prayers. Sometimes I wonder if her mental gas pedal is glued to the floorboard of her mind. Sometimes I wonder if it's because abandonment issues and self-hatred make her afraid of solitude, or if it's because she's just so damn grateful to be mobile after spending most of 2023 stuck in a wheelchair. Sometimes I compare who she is now to the blue-eyed, rose-lipped baby she used to be. The one who had to be tickled and pinched awake just to eat...because otherwise, the gigantic hole in her heart would have let her sleep herself quietly to death. The young woman she is now overwhelms the introvert in me. Until I remember that sleepless night in the summer of 2007, when I sat praying over her as she slept. Desperately hoping the heart surgery meant to improve her life would not end it.

And always, I nod to the shadow at the edge of those memories. The unknown child I never got to hold. The heartbeat that was so sure, so steady...until it wasn't. The life that left me in unrecognizable bits and pieces. The would-be first child, whose greatest accomplishment in life was to show its mother how precious life is.

After breakfast each morning, I log onto my computer and start a new day in my life as a writer. I plan and organize social media posts. I write blogs like this one (and books, too!). I engage and interact, sharing my experiences. Offering understanding. Always with the hope that something I might share could shed some light on someone else's darkness. That I might open the map of my life, share a similar scar with someone suffering, and hold their hand in wisdom as they find their way.

The roads may vary. Not every soul is scarred by childhood abuse or domestic violence. Not every heart is marked by the pain of miscarriage. Lifemaps are not universally covered in paths of poverty, disability, trauma, and loss. And while they are all filled with milestones—mountains and valleys transected with floodwaters of challenge—most are not covered in notes and calculations. Most do not come with guidebooks full of compass roses, inch-to-mile translation aides, warning signs, and disaster protocols.

For many, survival is instinctive, just one lost person stumbling from one trial to the next, anxious and afraid that every suggestion of brokenness on the soggy terrain of their life guarantees pain and failure.

I choose to see survival as instructive. To mark my map with stories, like dispatches from the wilderness, because my map—as messy as it is, with so many roads paved unevenly in grief and grace—isn’t abstract.

It's the truth of a life lived. And the promise that if I can make it, you can too.

*****

The truth is, the roads of life are messy, full of unexpected twists and sudden floods. We're all navigating maps torn by exhaustion, creased with heartache, damp with the sweat of fear. But when we see that map through a floodlight of hope, trusting God to walk us through—and trusting ourselves to keep moving forward—survival seems a lot more possible.

Every scar and hard-won lesson matters. Not just for you, but for the people who might one day walk a path you’ve already studied. Owning your story doesn't have to mean you're stuck in it, and sharing your story can be more than simple reflection. When you share your map and the stories written on its margins, you offer guidance to those still lost in the wilderness, lifelines tossed to souls still finding their way through the storm.

Take time to notice the small victories, the moments that go unseen, the brilliant treasures in ordinary days, and celebrate them. Mark them on your Lifemap. Let them be reminders of hope in the chaos. And when you get the chance, share that map. Let people trace the roads you’ve traveled, and show them that their journey is survivable. That joy and healing are real places.

Because your life, your scars, your story? They're gifts meant to be shared. And while you can choose to survive just for yourself, you change the map for everyone when your survival lights the way for others to...

There's a special magic in choosing to show up for each other, and every reader who shares their time and emotional energy with me is a precious part of how and why I write the way I do. Now, I'd like to make that as simple as possible for you—with free updates you don't have to search for. Sign up here!