From Cover to Soul: How Reading Shapes Our Lives

As one among millions of book lovers, if I had to give one solid definition of my personal reading habits, I'd say I'm a mood reader with a hunger for personal growth, lifelong learning, and reading as a form of self-care. But the benefits of reading go beyond the curation of books and growth; the impact of books on personal development and books that make you think differently are the very essence of why reading matters.

Choosing to read, choosing books that inspire growth...this is how reading changes your perspective. How reading makes you a better person, sometimes even regardless of genre, topic, or style.

But as much as I love it, I'm sorry to report that reading on its own isn't a magic solution to the world's problems. A good story might offer escape from reality, a thrilling new adventure, an inspiring quote, or even a series of life hacks, but to harness the power of so many words on a page, we must remember that reading is a tool to be used with purpose and intention.

We were in the checkout line at the pharmacy when I picked it up. I glanced at my father, standing beside me, bald head gleaming with sweat. It never mattered how meticulously clean he was or which cologne scented the air around him; he was a large man, and he seemed always to be steaming in the Florida heat. In those early days, we were still the best of friends. I was eleven then. Maybe twelve.

I slid my fingers over the front, delighted by contrast of a plain, butter-yellow cover against the texture of an embossed title: Love Only Once. The author's name was raised too, and I traced the curvy script with something akin to glee. I had never read a book with such a simple, yet perfectly elegant presentation. It felt special. Fancy. Grown up. Another feature I'd never seen filled me with wonder. Behind the unassuming shield of the plain front was a beautifully romantic image, like a photographed painting—the artwork of 90's romance now known as the stepback cover.

My father bought the book for me, most likely utterly unaware of what waited inside. He could never have known how the course of my life would shift in those moments, how a longing for earth-shattering romance would spark a flame in my soul, how the characters represented in Johanna Lindsey's Malory Family Saga would fill an empty place in the heart of a girl starved for affection, protection, and safety.

I spent the afternoon mesmerized by a untamed womanizer caught in an accidental romance. And I spent the night reading in my closet with the light on, more alive than ever before, my eyes racing over tantalizing descriptions of passion and growth and people who fought for each other no matter what. From the new thrill of historical romance to the shocking transition of enemies to lovers, complete with forced proximity, mistaken identity, and a delightfully reformed bad boy...I simply COULD NOT go to bed without finishing the story.

That book opened the door to so many others, through which I have learned about love and family, patience and forgiveness, perseverance and incredible fortitude. Books of every genre have showed me the way to recovery from trauma, and introduced me to people and cultures I might never have known existed. They taught me grace and compassion, providing unknown community for a girl who was always just a little strange.

Books taught me to craft—not only with wood and yarn and paper, but with purpose and integrity. They taught me to mother, to lead, to garden, to cook. Through words carefully crafted by the writers before me, I found peace, and acceptance. In many ways, each and every book I read helped pave the way to my walk with God.

Thirty years later, that novel still lingers in the corner of my heart, shining hope like a beacon on my dreams. And every time I look back on that girl in my memory, I thank her for a gift she didn't realize she was giving. As humans, we live and breathe and dream, so many of us achingly unaware of our ability to reach out and take those dreams in our hands, to mold them into something real, to walk through them the way we walk through our homes every day.

And this haunting awareness? This yearning desire to see and learn and feel and experience? This, my friends, is the true magic of a book.

*****

When I look back, I can't imagine my life without all the ways reading blessed me. I can't imagine myself without the impact reading has had on me as a woman, a Christian, a mother. A writer. A person.

Lately, most of my reading consists of one book: my own. STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM should have been finished months ago but I'm still editing—and while I'm frustrated by the delay, I'm still madly in love with Christine's story. I've completed two rounds of proofreading, and as I work toward the goal of shaving 30,000 words from this giant of a novel, I'm praying daily over the readers who will sink into this story and soak their hearts in hope.

In the end, I know the time spent is worth it, no matter how grueling editing can seem. The story is worth it. The goal is worth it. And with every word I write, every edit I make, we're all one step closer to seeing this story in the hands of those who need the reminder to...

Book Piracy Isn't Harmless. My Children Paid the Price.

Every day, I wake up knowing my work has been stolen by book piracy sites. My stories, my heart, the parts of me poured into page after page…taken by faceless thieves with no respect for artists or shame over creative theft. The first time I found one of my stolen books on a pirate site was in 2013; aside from the injury of stolen creativity, I can't even imagine the financial impact ebook theft has truly had on my life or my family. My sense of outrage is...well, even I don't have adequate words for that.

And it's getting worse. Now, the industry of my dreams is overflowing with cowardly, talentless, wannabe writers, cheating in publishing by taking stolen content and using it to create unethical AI-generated books—without consent from writers. Without even the slightest ethical concerns for our stolen income. But it isn't just about "free books."

It's about a cultural system that preys on creators, constantly clamoring for more while denying our right to be paid for our work. It's about authors in poverty, stripped of their hopes and dreams, struggling to get by because too many people don't know or care to know how book piracy hurts authors. And in the meantime, every stolen copy of one of my books took literal food from my children's mouths and literal clothes from their backs.

It was bad enough before. But with AI book theft and AI training data being used for author exploitation...I’m done being silent. This isn’t a petty complaint; it's an injustice that needs recognition. It’s time to demand due respect for artists and writers like me.

The day everything changed, I woke up already exhausted. It happens so often these days; juggling my writing dream with life as a single mom, struggling against disability...it weighs me down. But I pushed through because I'm mostly on my own and pushing through is the only way to keep up. Thankful for Spring Break, I medicated, caffeinated, and went straight for my daily checklist—first up, social media interaction. Marketing. Networking. It's the frog I eat every morning, starting with Facebook, then Instagram, then Twitter/X. I interact mostly with the bookish and writerly communities—people who are at once inspiring and exhausting. We are both the beauty and the horror of passionate chaos.

I was scrolling through Twitter/X, half-expecting and half-dreading the current drama in the writing world. Lately it's all about AI writing vs human writing, why AI-generated books are a problem, what authors think about AI books, and various indie author struggles. But that day a fellow author shared her heartbreak after finding her debut novel on a pirate site—not only stolen, but now used illegally to train Meta's AI models without consent or opportunity to opt out. Years of work and determination stripped away, her art and creativity fed like shreds of nothingness into a machine intended only to nurture the growth of a thief's profit. There was a link for other authors to follow, to see if their works were equally violated. I clicked the link. And I searched for my name. Five of my books were listed.

Not only pirated—which is bad enough already—but now used to fuel the growth of AI systems, which are then used to flood creative industries with works based on stolen content.

Shock hit me like a gut punch. So much indignity. So much rage. And then the realization: if not for a class-action lawsuit currently working its way through the system, I’d be powerless to do anything. I can’t afford to fight this kind of thing. Not with my tiny income, not while I'm barely keeping my family afloat. I sat there, in the bedroom of my subsidized apartment, on a bed I made with my own two hands, my mind spinning into heartache and hopelessness as I thought of how this affects my family. As a single mom on disability, I don’t have a lot of breathing room.

My car is always broken down. Fixing it costs more than buying a new one would, but I'm so busy fixing it to maintain transportation that I can’t afford a new one. We don’t do vacations, big gifts for the holidays. We don't even go for professional haircuts; I cut our hair. Taking my teenager to Starbucks for a monthly treat is a stretch sometimes.

But what if those stolen copies of my books were actual sales? If my work wasn’t stolen, if people didn't selfishly cheat the system? My life could be so different. My hopes, my dreams of a better future for my family might have a fighting chance. For once, just maybe...my work and my sacrifice wouldn’t be...for nothing.

One of my greatest dreams is to open a Safe House for domestic violence survivors. It’s a shelter I created in FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM—one that provides not only short-term refuge and resources, but long-term mentorship, personal growth, and empowerment. It’s a place where healing happens without the pressure of arbitrary time limits, where success is determined by recovery rather than numerical statistics. And it is an incredible dream, because in the real world, shelters like the Safe House are few and far between.

The sad truth is, those doors might never open outside the pages of my books. The dream may only ever be a dream, because people like me, who care enough to imagine and plan and hope for something better, can't access the resources needed to bring it to life.

And I'll be honest; the dream is dying, slow and painful and desperate, like a suffocated bug trapped under an upturned candle jar. Because too often, the people who steal from creators and act like we don’t deserve to be compensated are the same ones whining about how authors "don't write fast enough" or "charge too much for books." Because too many people think $3 for a 100,000-word novel is too much to ask.

Because in a world so outraged by fair pay and livable wages, authors like me are expected to churn out books like chum in shark-infested waters...but if I could work 24/7 for a whole month (730 hours) to write one book and make one sale, my hourly wage (based on a $3 royalty, which I don't get from a $3 book) would be $0.00410958904. I'd have to sell 5300 books every month to make minimum wage (which averages $7.25 in the US).

So, here I am—another insulted, discouraged, disillusioned author. Another voice crying in the wilderness, another human trying to make a living, another heart longing for the chance to make a difference.

And I'm still writing. Because I choose, in spite of everything, to...

The Storm, the Stillness, and What Remains

Literal or figurative, storms have a way of putting everything on pause. Stress and fear and the sense of impending crisis push plans aside, rearranging routines like leaves on a breeze. Suddenly, nothing matters but the need to prepare for what's coming, the longing to protect what's precious, and the frantic effort to tie loose ends before everything blows away in the wind.

This weekend, as severe storms swept across the United States, I found myself caught in terrifying stillness—the kind that settles around you when the only thing left to do is wait. And in a beautifully unexpected pause, I held something far more settling than stillness: validation, connection, and the comfort of vulnerable conversation fueled by similar experience.

Because the fact is, no matter how far we’ve come, we carry echoes of the past—and braving the storm is more than survival. It's finding the courage to sort through debris long after the winds have shifted.

The wind stirred softly, moving air that somehow felt utterly peaceful and unspeakably electrified all at once. It brushed cool fingers of anxiety down my neck, whispered desperation in my ear, surrounded me with the scent of rain. The sky, filled with threatening clouds in questionable formation, flashed like an erratic heartbeat—silent darkness marred by shifting shapes, suddenly highlighted by jagged streaks of brilliant lightning. My daughter was in the living room, watching the weather report.

Perhaps my friend and I should have been inside. Maybe we should have been gathered together, sheltered safely in a closet without windows. Surrounded by hanging fabrics and neatly organized shoes, with our heads in our hands, every surrounding door in full masquerade to shield us from incoming peril. But as we stood on the porch, watching strobe lights in the sky, meditating on the greater storm of life itself, there was an uncanny sense of peace. Tornadoes had been devastating towns all day, shredding buildings and rending the fabric of families from the Gulf Coast to the Canadian border. The storm was upon us. We had done our best to prepare, and we stood in the promise of hope—just barely inside the television radar's red circle of foreboding terror. But here, in this moment, there was only the hush of the wind and the steady presence of someone who understood.

We stood breathing in intermittent silence, soaked in simmering emotion as charged as the surrounding wind, shoulders rounded under the weight of responsibility. Two bleeding little girls, now braced against the storm as women with scarred hearts and spirits filled to the brim with companionable vulnerability, both pillars of strength and dignity beyond the influences of putrefied pasts.

I am not unwise. I feared the menacing storm, the threat of new loss. I carried within myself a flaming ember of abject terror and a soul-deep certainty of my inadequacy in the face of such an enemy. Tornadoes shred lives with no regard for strength or trauma or money, disdaining all preparation at will. But in that storm a candle lit the darkness of the night—the quietly flickering flame of a friend who doesn't flinch at my story. Who doesn’t try to reshape my past, or hers, into something more palatable. Who doesn't need me to soften the edges of truth for easier hearing.

Lightning split the sky again as the storm moved away, illuminating for one split second the great world and my tiny place in it.

Often, if we allow it, the past does the same. Jagged flashing stripes of lightning reveal the impact of where we've been and how far we've come. What we've seen and done lingers like fallen rain in the atmosphere, and reflections of the past rumble like thunder in the distance. The marks of our parents and families remain in us, no matter which lessons we pack in our "go bag" or how far we travel to outrun them. But as we stood shoulder to shoulder, weighing fear against observation, I realized something else.

We are more than mere echoes of our origins. We are the molds that shape new beginnings, the ones who decide what remains.

*****

Ultimately, this weekend's storm passed. The sky cleared. Life moved on. And so did we. I’m resting up in the aftermath, swaddled in gratitude for the reminder that even in the most unexpected places—regardless of turbulent skies or tangled emotions—there is space for healing. For friendship. And for the simple quiet relief of being understood.

It’s a lot like writing, in some ways. Some weeks, words flow as effortlessly as river water making its way to the sea. Other weeks I’m in the eye of the storm, the quiet space between waves. Waiting for tension to pass. Waiting for the dam to break and release a new tide of wordplay. There are days when progress feels as weak as a dripping a kitchen faucet, insignificant and very nearly unnoticeable. But drop by drop, word by word, slow progress still moves forward. FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM releases in fifty-two days (preorder info is here!), STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM surprises me constantly with the beauty of Christine's story and my own pride in writing it, and SELKIEs are on the horizon.

So this week, remember that no matter how strong the storm is, storms don’t last forever. Remember that winds change, floodwaters recede, and you already have everything you need to...

Grief, Heartache, and Hope That Never Ends

In my daily trek through social media, I recently saw a couple of posts that got me thinking about grief and healing, and I knew I needed to share them here. It began simply: "How have tears brought healing to your soul?" It immediately reminded me of a study I once read about the healing power of grief and tears...but it also brought to mind a string of moments from my own life. Heartbreak and hope, scars and strength. Acceptance and grace.

Too often, grief doesn’t show up the way we expect it to. Too often, it's a weight in your chest that you can’t quite name, slowly rewriting your story with emotional growth you might not have felt quite ready for.

I’ve been processing pain myself lately, practicing letting go and trying to find peace in God's timing...but this situation hits different. It's a personal ache I can't change and don't know how to fix. I'm grieving, holding onto dwindling hope in a bond I thought was unbreakable. And even with the promise of beauty from brokenness and purpose in pain, grief demands to be felt.

But understanding grief means holding onto this: grief reminds us that the emotions were real, that something mattered. And comfort in grief is rooted in realizing that we can hold on to the good, even if we're learning through loss. Because as you'll see in the story below, emotional healing isn’t about forgetting. Releasing the past and moving forward with self-compassion are where we find hope again. 

The full poem this quote was taken from was found on this page,

but I can no longer find the specific graphic.

The poem, however, is also part of this book, which is wonderful.

Trembling, I search the shadows, fists clenched, struggling to breathe in silence. I know this place.

It isn’t real, not the way the world outside is real. But here, waiting in the war-torn wilderness of Heartache, the coming battle is as tangible as the blood in my veins and the sweat seeping from my pores. The ground trembles; the air thickens. My body tenses, fighting the instinct to run. There is no running here.

It emerges from the shadows, massive and inevitable. Dark eyes staring steadily, the hairy knuckles of massive hands dragging the ground. The primate screams...and his name is Grief. I should be used to him by now—we’ve fought before. But he never really goes away.

The first blow comes fast, surprising despite our history. A strike to the ribs: flashbacks to the family I dreamed of. A slap tears a line of gouges in my skin: memories of betrayal and loss. The gorilla pounds his chest, screaming again, and it is the sound of aching absence, the shattering of something that should have been unbreakable.

I stagger backward, terrified, but won't fall. Not yet. My guard is up. I've learned. This isn’t my first time here.

Grief lunges again, hairy knuckles cracking against my jaw. My vision blackens, then returns. The sting of rejection oozes from the inside of my bitten cheek. But Grief isn't finished yet. He pounds the ground with closed fists, roaring now, shaking the earth beneath my feet. My balance gone, my knees buckle under the bitterness of stripped value, of knowing I tried, knowing I loved. Knowing it wasn’t enough.

Fearing it will never be enough.

I'm losing. Gasping, desperate for air, for relief. For something to hold onto. But Grief doesn’t stop. It presses in, merciless, pinning me under the weight of inescapable loss.

But then—a voice whispers in the dark. "Don't forget the girl." And the words aren’t mine. My heart thumps slowly, aching but reliable; I turn my head.

The little girl is where she's always been. Just beyond the battle. Watching with wide, knowing eyes, the hem of her nightgown flapping in the breeze. She is me.

But she’s her own person, too. The child who believed that love was enough, that family could be forever, that she could choose to create something beautiful. Shimmering tears, carving tracks through the dust on her face, tell me she still believes.

A fresh ache blooms in my chest, but it’s different now. Not loss, but recognition. I'm not just fighting for myself. I'm fighting for her.

Gritting my teeth, I plant my hands on the ground. My arms shake as I climb to my feet, each breath a desperate gasp, my body begging me to give in. But I won't. I can't.

The gorilla watches my struggle. Silent. Waiting. It doesn't attack. Because Grief never truly wins anyway. It only lingers.

Relieved, I realize that I don't have to beat it. I only need to keep standing. I step forward, and suddenly the gray edges of Heartache blur, twist, and fade away—the shifting perspective opening the way to freedom. For now.

A broken woman takes the hand of the child. They are parts of me: the scarred hopeful, the mourning lover, embracing emotions while releasing the past.

The pair limp together into the distance, supporting each other. I turn to the light, moving toward healing. And though these past selves might never hear my whispered promise, I speak the words anyway. "I am proud of both of you. Your pain will not be wasted. And even if you're stuck in this place forever...I'll tell your story."

*****

Grief may linger, but we don't have to give it the final word. Some battles don’t go the way we want...but the victory lies in standing anyway, trusting the process, choosing to keep going. And for me, winning is holding onto faith in Jesus, who has my back no matter where the battlefield is.

This week, I needed that reminder. While I did fight my way through another round of emotional growth this week, I didn’t finish editing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM. I'm frustrated because I wanted to be finished by now. I had a plan. I had a schedule, a goal. And I fell behind.

The good news is that missing my own expectations doesn’t really mean I’ve failed, no matter how much I beat myself up over it. Grace means taking time to acknowledge that my writing is still mostly on track. Joy is anticipation, celebrating that FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is nine weeks away from release. And no reader will ever know which paragraphs I rewrote umpty-billion times before I loved them.

So, I’m reminding myself—and you, my friends—that progress counts and perfection is not required. Slow steps still move us forward, and sometimes setbacks are a necessary part of the process. What matters most isn't how long it takes. Real success is found in the determination to...

Little Blessing, Big Reaction: The Great Mattress Swap

Writing real life vignettes for these posts is quickly becoming one of my favorite things. I love sharing the everyday moments, exploring real-life emotion and perspective in a creative way—and surprisingly, I'm enjoying the effort to keep my novel-writing instincts compliant to bloggable word counts!

This week I'm balancing the fine line between excitement and embarrassment. Writing is the easy place in my life, the one place where compulsion gives me confidence and feedback helps me soar. My faith is where I find everyday miracles and comfort in the hard times. But parenting? Well, that's a different story.

As a mom with complex PTSD, I spend most days searching for small blessings and gratitude in everyday life. My daughters know about the life I came from, but I want nothing more than to see them succeed in ways I never could, so I've given my best to showing them the value of choosing positivity and counting unexpected joys. But my youngest is on the autism spectrum and comes with her own collection of quirks; life with an autistic child is a special adventure brimming with challenges. Personally, I've come to appreciate it as a whole new way to find humor in parenting.

The plan had been set for days, and I was drowning in the blessing of divine provision. The whole week felt like an answered prayer in the secrecy of my Mama heart, but the real fun began the morning of the switch. After dropping my youngest daughter off at school, I rushed home, almost giddy with anticipation. I slipped into her room, grinning as I photographed her unmade bed, capturing tangled blankets, scattered stuffed animals—even the half-turned deodorant abandoned in the morning rush. Every detail mattered; I wanted to put it all back exactly as she’d left it, ensuring that nothing but the mattress itself would change. Would my chronically unobservant daughter even notice? Would she flop into bed after school, unaware as always, and roll right off? The comic possibilities were endless.

Stripping the bed, I tossed everything to one side, including the sheet, complete with its pink makeup stain. Giggling to myself as I imagined her reaction, I wrestled the old mattress downstairs, propping it on the porch like an abandoned relic of my daughter's childhood. Then, it was time for phase two.

I met up with my co-conspirators—one equipped with a truck, the other with nearly superhuman strength—at the beautifully cozy home of my spiritual parents, who were the blessing behind the scheme. The mattress I was about to claim for my daughter wasn’t just any mattress. It was the mattress. The one my daughter adored every time we house-sat for them. The one she sighed over, repeatedly declaring it superior to her own. And now, thanks to a guest room upgrade, this relatively new mattress would be hers.

After chatting and laughing over various anticipated reactions, we loaded the truck and headed back to my house, where we maneuvered the luxurious new mattress up the stairs, giggling at the absurdity of the situation. Using my reference photos, we staged the bed to perfection, debating whether my daughter would notice slight accidental changes or the difference from one mattress to the other. Better yet, would she launch herself onto it and miss entirely? "Knowing her as we do," we agreed, still laughing, "it's totally possible!"

Finally satisfied with our staging, we hauled the old mattress away to prevent it from spoiling the surprise. And then it was time for the real challenge. Acting normal. That evening, we had planned a Bible study at my spiritual mama's house—the very place my daughter's new mattress had once lived, and my daughter, aware of the study but not the swap, was already looking forward to sprawling on her favorite bed at "Yaya's" while I socialized.

Anticipating a quiet evening lost in her favorite shows, she had spent the morning debating the merits of one show over the other on the way to school, and as I recalled her morning chatter that afternoon, I could barely contain myself. As soon as we got home, I used a chore reminder to buy myself time; I wanted to make sure I was upstairs first, phone in hand, ready to film.

I braced for one of two outcomes: she’d either remain embarrassingly oblivious, or she'd have a reaction so dramatic it would be legendary. Reality a third, more simple option. As she climbed the stairs toward her room, chattering in her usually non-stop way, she froze. The words died on her lips. Her eyes locked on her bed. Her mouth fell open. Then, in a screech of pure stunned bewilderment, she blurted, “Wait, what? Mom, WHY is my bed taller??”

*****

Life is full of choices—where to place our focus, how to frame our challenges, whether to see need or provision. Sure, I could dwell on my daughter's desperate need for a new mattress and the fact that my budget couldn’t stretch to meet that need, but I choose to see loving friends, the unexpected but perfect timing of this gift, and the quiet way God cares for my home and comfort, right on down to a good night’s sleep.

Big things are happening too, though! I finally finished the first round edits on STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, and this novel is a 140,000-word beast; in the second pass I'm hoping to trim around 25,000 words, giving you a tighter, more stream-lined flow. In the meantime, we’re 66 days away from the re-release of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM (available for preorder now), and I can't wait to see Christine's story have a chance at new life!

Remember that perspective changes everything. This morning at church, a friend complimented my increasingly gray hair, calling it "glitter," and I laughed—but she’s right. Proverbs 16:31 says, "Gray hair is a crown of splendor," and while I know the grays overtaking my formerly reddish-brown hair may seem like a sign of age, I’m choosing to wear them boldly. Every strand is evidence of life lived, wisdom gained, and my choice to...

Faith, Fiction, and the Fearless Middle Ground

If you've known me for long, you're familiar with the honest, mostly-unfiltered way I share my journey of personal growth and overcoming challenges. You'll know my determination to keep going when life gets hard, and the way finding purpose in hard seasons comforts me as I attempt to build a life apart from the trauma of my childhood. You'll have noticed how heavily I lean on books, music, and inspirational quotes when I'm pushing through self-doubt, overcoming overwhelm, or feeling defeated. These are the core motivators for my writing—to use the art of storytelling (both fiction and non-fiction) to offer distraction from and encouragement for tough times.

I hope I've also made it clear that I'm a Christian who lives by the concept of faith over fear, prioritizing spiritual growth and emotional healing through faith. My own faith journey is a long, winding road through a broken landscape, filled with marshy bogs and arid deserts, devastated by conflict of all kinds...but ever so slowly rearranging itself into a a beautiful, powerful place. If the beginning of this post describes the "what" behind my writing, then the war torn spiritual setting I've just described is the "where," the "why," and the "how." Last night I went to a concert that drew all these things together in a moment that left me shaken and sobbing with gratitude. Let me tell you the story...

In my early days with Jesus, I found no joy in faith-based music. It troubled the deepest part of my lyrical heart, the part of me that comes to life when a beat and a rhyme are paired with expertise. Those are, after all, the central components of any music—masterful poetry hand-in-hand with instrumental heroics. But I couldn't pour my heart into the sleepy stillness of gospel music read from dusty hymnals and I asked him, "How can I have David's faith if I don't love these modern Psalms?"

He smiled softly, shaking his head. "Try this." He turned on the radio, and I listened to music that permanently altered my sense of worship. And I loved Him more because He understood.

Nearly two decades have passed since that day; in the years since, Jesus and I have crooned along with Christian pop and country ballads, we've tested tongue-twisters with Christian hip-hop, we've screamed ourselves hoarse with Christian rock. And through those songs so many people have come to think of as "performative," he taught me who I am.

This weekend, we found ourselves seated together in a crowded arena for Winter Jam 2025—the two of us squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder between my smiling daughters. Human body and Holy Spirit, lost together in a sea of 14,000 faces. We beamed with pride as Micah Tyler played a full set list with the flu, his determination to boast in God's reckless love warmed by a 101-degree fever, his hoarse and likely burning throat occasionally soothed by sips of bottled water. I leaned closer to Jesus and gestured to the man on the stage, my heart pouring motherly sympathy and professional admiration. "I guess that's what you do when God calls you to something big."

He held out his hands, eyebrows raised as he displayed the old scars. "Indeed."

As the show went on, I thought about faith and fear and writing, agonizing as always over the way my career choice combines with and contrasts against my faith—sometimes almost invisibly blended, other times in seeming opposition, like the swirled veins of color in slabs of marble.

Jesus, always attentive, noticed the shift in my energy; perhaps he read the thoughts on my face, or heard the silent whisper of my heart. He took my hand and tugged me nearer, leaning down to shout above the noise. "Noah didn't seem sensible either! He built an ark in the desert, remember?"

I nodded in silent amusement, watching my daughter's face flame with excitement as Colton Dixon launched the last song in his set: Build A Boat. The lyrics drew tears of relief and sobs of comforted joy from the deepest parts of my longing soul, even as the music rose and 14,000 voices rocked the arena. In the end, I stood with the rest, claiming the promise of the song. Trusting God's plan, patient again in God's timing.

And though it trembled with the force of emotion, my voice was one of many—backed by courageous determination, strengthened by purpose. "With Your wind in my sails, Your love never fails or fades...I'll build a boat, so let it rain."

*****

Many times, people close to me have asked how I blend the depth of my faith with the content of my fiction writing. Most ask out of genuine curiosity, and those conversations are some of my favorites—but there are always a few who come expecting to challenge or misunderstand what I’m doing and why. To some Christians, I’m too secular; I write flawed characters who cuss, struggle, and (gasp) have sex. To some non-Christians, I’m too spiritual, slipping faith into unexpected places.

Either way, I’m not writing to fit anyone’s mold. I write to meet people where they are, how they are, just like Jesus did. As Paul said in 1 Corinthians 9:22b, "I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some." My work, whether it's fiction or non-fiction, isn’t about rebellion or compromise. It’s about sharing the truth of my personal testimony through the exploration of storytelling, and trusting that God will put those stories in the hands of those who need them.

Speaking of stories, we're seventy-three days away from the release of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM's expanded second edition, and I am so excited to see this story get back out there! This week, I also made solid progress on editing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, and while I'm not as close to finished as I'd like to be, I'm proud of how Christine's story played out in the end. Watching her regain and rebuild her life and sense of self has been incredible, and I'm in such a hurry to share her with the world. Which means I'd better post this and get back to editing...

Until next week, remember that your purpose is worth the wait too, even when you feel like you're falling behind in life. Christian or not, keep building that boat, don't forget to put a relaxing chair for reading on the deck, and remember to...

You’re Not the Problem: A Story of Self-Worth and Belonging

I spend a lot of time on social media these days, struggling to build my platform as a writer. Some days I enjoy the process; other days, not so much. Either way, every post or comment and every interaction is another plank on the imaginary stage, from which I hope to share my journey of faith and healing with readers. Recently, this Facebook post brought back a flood of old memories: feeling unwanted, struggling with self-worth, overcoming family rejection, and learning to belong.

It took me back to times when I tried so desperately to be small—small in voice, small in presence. Small enough to be overlooked because I hungered for attention but it wasn’t safe to be noticed, and yet...no matter how much I shrank myself, I was still there. Still real. Still me. I lost nearly thirty years of my life feeling like a burden, overcoming childhood trauma, healing from rejection. Trying to balance my need to be seen and known against the counterweight of shame for even wanting such a thing.

But I'll be forty-one tomorrow, and with each passing year I find more comfort in myself, my space, my existence. I am not "too much" or "too little." I just AM.

She learned early how to disappear.

She had no magic, no illusion, no special talent, no trap door beneath her feet; the early years marked by abuse and neglect left only the quiet hope of taking up as little space as possible. A soft step coupled with a lowered gaze, vibrant blue eyes the only window to an achingly silent soul. It was safer that way.

Long before her woman's body began to bloom, her child mind recognized the risk of notice, the danger of being seen. Sharp critiques chipped away at her self-worth, impossible standards blew hope from her hands like dandelion seeds on the wind. A stinging backhand, the crack of a paddle. The shattered blue glass of a bowl thrown—and only narrowly dodged. Love shouldn't hurt, but it did. And rare as it felt when it did come, it always came with conditions. Be enough, but not too much. Stay small, but not too small.

Under Grandma's watchful gaze, she learned another lesson—perhaps unintentional, but cemented in the core of her self-acceptance all the same. Even quiet things could be a burden.

Mornings, which could have been filled with hope for the brokenhearted girl, were instead reminders of her status as an added burden. She would awaken in the quiet, careful not to wake the cousins in the other bunks, and creep silently from the room as the world began to stir. With lowered eyes and lips tightened against the slightest utterance, she would curl herself into the living room chair with a book. Speechless. And still.

But every morning without fail, Grandma would shake her salt-and-pepper head. breaking the silence with an exasperated sigh. She was overburdened already—and now she was stuck with another mouth to feed, another damaged child to raise. The girl was an intrusion. Quiet perhaps, but still too visible. So she adjusted, shrinking further. She abandoned the cozy chair and spent those early moments in the bathroom instead, curled up on the tile floor where the closed door meant no one had to see her. And for once, she wasn't in the way.

The years passed; she grew a little taller, a little stronger. The girl became a woman, now too big for invisibility. She found her self, found her voice, spread her wings, took up space. Too much space. She wasn't Goldilocks—she was every item in the cottage of the Three Little Bears all at once. Too bold and too cold. Too meek and too bossy. "Playing the victim" but "too proud" and so very "full of herself." Too much and too little, but never enough.

Grief and anger struck a rebellion that told her she was fine, that there was purpose in pain even if she couldn't see it. That if even loathsome cockroaches had purpose, she must have one too...even if it was only to serve as constantly unpalatable contrast.

But then she looked into the faces of her own daughters, strong-willed and brimming with life, and found the magic she'd been carrying all along. The illusion of nothingness shattered around her, an echo of the long-gone but never-forgotten blue bowl. And a spark flared to life in the embers of a smothered spirit.

She had spent a lifetime trying to disappear. She would not teach her daughters to do the same.

Instead, she gave them protection and truth in love. She warned them that they would always be too much for some and too little for others. That no matter how they tried, they might never mold themselves into the expectations of those who did not understand them.

And then she told them that it didn't matter anyway—because people are fickle and preferences are varied, but nothing changed the simple face that they were wanted. And that by their very existence, God himself had made them enough.

*****

For me, overcoming childhood trauma and healing from rejection meant learning hard lessons in self-love and trusting God's plan for my life—but it wasn't an easy journey and I got myself into a lot of messes along the way. That imaginary platform I mentioned at the beginning of this post? It's all reclaimed material, bits and pieces pulled from the wreckage of my younger selves, painted with the stories of my past and the lessons I've learned. And speaking of stories...

We're eleven short weeks from the rerelease of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, a powerful novel largely inspired by my personal experiences with overcoming and recovering from domestic abuse. In the United States alone, domestic violence accounts for 15% of all violent crime, and a woman is assaulted every nine seconds.

I can't change the world, but I can tell a story—and I hope with every beat of my heart that Christine's story will give voice to survivors. I hope she steadies their shaking hands, emboldens them to seek safety, encourages them to keep healing, and reminds them that they have everything it takes to...