Quiet Grief, Undaunted Faith

This week has wrung me out in ways I'm still not sure how to describe. I share so much of my life and my story online because I want to remind people there's still hope in hard times. Because I want to spread healing for those living with emotional pain. Because grief and perspective don't always sit easily together.

But so often when I'm dealing with heavy emotions or coping with tragedy, I do it alone. I wrestle grief and loss in the quiet of my own space, mourning privately. I don't cry in public, and I don't typically wear my emotions on my sleeve.

If you were to meet me in real life, you'd probably see me as calm. Steady. Getting things done, moving forward. Brushing it off. But under the surface of the woman who still has deadlines to meet, chores to do, and appointments to show up for...I'm feeling it all. The turmoil may not be visible, but it is real.

Between the ongoing crises around the world, school shootings, the heartbreaking news of Iryna Zarutska's murder, the martyrdom of Charlie Kirk, and the 24th anniversary of 9/11, my heart has been impossibly heavy. I'm using every technique I've ever learned on how to cope with grief. I'm struggling to toe the line between responding to tragedy and processing loss in the middle of emotional exhaustion.

Some of the weight was truly personal, private grief, rooted in old wounds. Some was borne of a collective grief, shared with strangers around the world. And some was a secondary grief, the kind that rises in your soul like bubbles on boiling water when someone else’s pain mirrors your own deepest fear.

As the week wore on, I went about my life as usual. I cooked, I cleaned. I showed up where I was needed. I struggled to find writing time. But the space between my ribs got tighter and tighter, the air in my lungs thinned until I almost couldn't feel it passing through, and grief took up more and more space. By Thursday, I couldn’t push it down anymore.

Everything looked normal on the surface. We're housesitting, so on Wednesday I woke up, fed my friend's pets, and drove my youngest daughter to school. I drove back, had a chat with my spiritual mama, made some breakfast. I answered phone calls from doctor's offices. I prepped the 9/11 memorial video I'd been working on.

I'm always proud to spend a little mental time remembering the tragedy of 9/11. Honoring heroes who ran toward fire and smoke, remembering innocent lives that were stolen, holding space for families who will never stop grieving. Admiring the bravery of the men on Flight 93. Before September 11, 2001, I was born in the United States...but by September 12th, I was AMERICAN. That day, and the lasting impact of it, will sit with me forever. That video is my first attempt at book spine poetry...but it's so much more.

When the news broke that Charlie Kirk had been shot, I didn't recognize his name. It wasn't until later that I realized who he was—that I'd seen clips of his videos before. Conversations about his faith and his beliefs. Always passionate, but always steady. That night as I scrolled through social media, numb with shock, I found something deeper than sadness, darker than outrage.

There were people celebrating his death. Mocking. Justifying. I saw a screenshot shared from BlueSky where someone called it "a miracle on 9/11 Eve." And as I prayed over the impossible pain suffocating the family who watched Charlie Kirk die, I marveled at how we all still look like humans...but there are so few of us these days with any humanity left.

As if that wasn't enough, nearly everything on my feed that wasn't Charlie Kirk was Iryna Zarutska.

Iryna was 23 years old, a refugee from Ukraine. She was on her way home from work, here in America where she hoped to build a life in safety from bombs and bullets. She didn't provoke anyone. She wasn't rude. She wasn't hateful. She was just somebody's little girl, minding her own business on the way home. I saw the video. I saw her shock, her fear. Her quiet acceptance of what was happening. I saw her collapse. And I heard the soulless pride of her killer, boasting over what he'd done: "I got that white girl."

My oldest daughter is 21 years old, and she wants to see the world. She wants to fly in planes and ride in trains and look at all the wonder of God's creation. She's wanted to minister to the lost since she was a child. But she's a young white Christian woman in modern America.

The pain that filled my chest until I felt like my heart would burst...the outpouring of grief that filled my eyes and poured down my face...it wasn't abstract. It was close. It was personal in ways that made my hands shake and turned my dreams that night into horror films.

Thursday morning looked just like Wednesday had. I woke up, fed my friend's pets, and drove my youngest daughter to school. I drove back, had a chat with my spiritual mama, made some breakfast. I answered phone calls from doctor's offices.

But because something that looks the same on the outside might still be forever altered below the surface, I thought about the lessons I’ve tried to pass on to my daughters, the many ways I've tried to teach them to survive in this society. To live cautiously (but not fearfully). To be kind across dividing lines. To carry their faith boldly, but to temper that faith with gentle compassion and grace for those who believe differently. I thought about how small those teachings sometimes feel, how meaningless they seem in a world as broken as this one.

And in the quiet of those few stolen moments alone, I curled around myself on the couch, took my glasses off...and sobbed.

*****

By the end of the week, I was facing backlash over my lack of a public statement—but grief is complicated even without complex PTSD, and for many people it's deeper than a public outcry, a candlelight vigil, or a social media post. Sometimes private. Quiet. Marked by the kind of emotional exhaustion that makes the effort of making noise simply too much to bear.

Sometimes it's carried in a scar gouged so deep in the tissues of the soul that it can't be measured and doesn't need to be proven.

This week, as we navigate the next chapter of our lives in a world freshly turned upside down, let's remember that silence doesn’t always mean indifference. Private emotion does not equal absent emotion. And sometimes it's all we can do to sit with the heaviness, allow ourselves to feel it, and still believe with all our hopeful hearts that God is near.

I didn’t rush to post a statement when the news broke, because that's not my way. I didn’t pour my pain over the internet as proof that I cared—because I am a person, not a performance. Instead, I sat in the quiet and let my heart ache. And I prayed for Charlie’s widow, Erika. For his daughter and son, who will never see their daddy on this side of Heaven again. For Iryna’s loved ones, who are so far away in war-torn Ukraine that they won't even have the closure of a funeral.

I prayed for my daughters, who will inherit this world. I prayed for myself, and that I’ll keep holding onto faith even when humanity feels lost. And I prayed for you, that you will stand against rage and bitterness. That you will hold hope and compassion no matter how loud someone else's grief is...or isn't.

Because for some of us, it’s only in the whisper of God's still, small voice, that we find the courage to…

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Just A Wayfaring Sojourner, Blooming On The Go

This week was a deep dive into the contrasts between chaos and consistency. In the past eight nights, I’ve slept in three different beds, cooked and cleaned under three different roofs, scrambled to keep up with life, writing, and motherhood—and did it all strapped to the hilt with duffel bags and backpacks.

I was beginning to feel like a nomad, armed with my semi-minimal packing list, my stash of refillable airless pump bottles for travel, and the veritable pharmacy of over-the-counter medications tidily stored in my perfectly portable pill organizer. Which is handy, because pretty much everything that happened this week was fueled by fever dreams and snot-clotted Kleenex.

My daughters and I are housesitting again, and because our lives are apparently not quite challenging enough, we caught covid. All of us. Because of course we did.

And yet…there’s a quiet sense of magic in all of it. Always being on the go does feel less stable sometimes, but it also creates opportunities for me as a mom, teaching kids about home. I get to show my daughters what it means to build stability in temporary spaces. We might be living out of duffel bags almost as often as we're living in our own space, but we're also blessed to be in a season stuffed with adventure—and the only thing it's cost us is the need to remember that home isn't a place, it's a feeling.

In our usual home routines, my children and I pass each other in the hall like ships in the night. One coming, another going, all at different times. As busy as my family stays, we've had to learn the value of intentional living in chaos, and the detailed planner in me has struggled mightily with embracing imperfection in motherhood. But maybe that's part of why this week, as we fell one by one into a pit of covered coughs and scratchy throats, we chose to treat our symptoms with a surprisingly effective but rarely recognized medication: gratitude.

The week should have been peaceful. A three-day weekend, three solid days at home, and for once, no doctor's appointments on the calendar. Time for rest. Reflection. Self-Care. Moments of connection with my children, quietly divided between deep-cleaning our house and shaving the word count on my current book-in-progress.

My youngest had a sore throat Sunday night. Scratchy voice Monday morning. Constant sneezing, complete with enough slime to put an army of snails out of business.

The thing is, caring for kids during illness requires mindful parenting under stress. It's a delicate balance between unlimited cuddles for the patient and unforgiving annihilation of every germ on the premises—so while the youngest slept, the oldest and I cleaned like maniacs. By Tuesday morning my voice was going out, the post-nasal party was on, and a distinct sense of broiled eyeballs clued me in to a low grade fever. So the oldest went to work. And I took the youngest to the walk-in.

Covid. Both of us.

I gave up on the cleaning, did my best to keep up with the writing. By Wednesday morning my little one was a little better, which worked out because she needed to be self-sufficient while I slept, sweat-soaked and miserable, under a mountain of blankets. She woke me up once, late in the afternoon, with the quiet reminder she utters so often these days: "You need to eat, Mom." And I wasn't hungry, but in that moment, cheese cubes and sliced hot dogs tasted exactly like sixteen-year-old love. "Soft foods for your throat," she said, "but some protein too."

Thursday it hit the oldest. A little congestion. Super sore throat. It would have been fine, except that Thursday was packing day, the house we were scheduled to sit in was already empty, and it was far too late to back out even if we wanted to (which is fine, since we didn't). Geriatric dog bladders don't wait. Fortunately, our packing skills are top-notch, our teamwork is iron-clad, and where one is weak another is strong. Around noon, we piled into the house panting and exhausted, tossed our bags into our rooms, and spent the rest of the week dazed but content to be together.

No plans. No work. No school. No church. No social outings. Just the three of us, sprawled at intervals on the couch, sipping herbal teas we couldn't smell, slowly building miniature cumulus clouds of crumpled Kleenex.

We took turns keeping each other fed and watered. We shared a bag of gummy sharks and (finally) watched Moana 2. And right there in the middle of our half-rooted, half-rootless adventure, I faintly heard the heartbeat of home: small rituals, intentional gestures, and a quiet sense of pride in the young women my daughters have become.

And in the hearing of that soft but unmistakable pulse, I stopped feeling uprooted, like a vagabond always on the go. I stopped feeling like an itinerant wanderer, a leaf floating from place to place, adrift on life's current. And I became a wayfarer, traveling from place to place purely for the joy of doing it. A sojourner who briefly stops here or there to rest and refuel, moving often but not at all rootless.

Because we've got our own home to go to, but home isn't about walls or ownership or who's name is on the mailbox. Home is the place where love grows, blooming like flowers in the mundane moments and selfless sacrifices we make individually for the good of the whole. That's the home we carry with us—not in backpacks or duffel bags, but in moments and gestures. We pour it into hot cups of tea like medicine and drizzle it like perfume into a hot bath. Sometimes, if we're twenty-one and still learning to balance the transition from child to adult, we might secretly smooth it over a sick mother's sleeping forehead as we gently brush stray hairs away.

*****

If love begins at home and home is love in action, maybe that's why it's so easy for us to miss those things even when they're right in front of us. Because the fact is, love doesn’t always look like big accomplishments and mountaintop moments. More often, it looks like snotty noses and a constant stream of fingerprint-smudged water glasses. It looks like a reminder to eat when you’d rather crawl back under the covers. It looks like productivity, sacrificed on the altar of mindful presence.

Home isn’t lost just because you’re sleeping under a different roof. Home is carried in the rhythm of small things and everyday mercies. It's in every conscious choice to put love first—even when you’re tired, cranky, and pretty sure you might literally cough up a lung.

I may be a sojourner for now, traveling from house to house and writing wherever the bags land, but I’m also more deeply rooted than ever—in the love I share with my daughters, in the little ways we care for each other, and in the God who never lets us out of sight no matter where we go.

And if you’ve ever felt a little untethered, or found yourself building pockets of stability even in places that weren’t really yours, I hope you know this: you are not rootless. You are not alone. And in the end, it’s the love we carry from pocket to pocket that teaches us how to…

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Cabins, Break-Ins, and Bears, Oh My

As a single mom juggling life with disability, my budget is so chronically limited that something as simple as going out to dinner often requires advance planning—but I grew up desperately poor, so I've gotten pretty good at appreciating small blessings. I don't mind simple living.

But there's still a part of me that loves fancy things and longs for an adventurous life. So when my youngest daughter and I were invited to join part of my Bible study group on a one-night, all-expenses-paid, spur-of-the moment adventure, I couldn't say no. (This post is not sponsored, I just have cool friends.)

The plan? Meet up on Saturday morning, carpool from Knoxville to the Great Smokies flea market, and then properly indoctrinate the one member of our group who had never been to Buc-ee's. The rest of the weekend was to be spent making memories in a gorgeous vacation cabin, accented by stunning woodwork, an eight-person hot tub, a fully equipped kitchen, private bathrooms for every bedroom—and an unbeatable Smoky Mountain panorama that stole my breath and brought tears to my eyes. "Sensational View," indeed.

There was, however, one major hiccup: my sixteen-year-old, whose instinctive quest to collect stuff still overshadows her recognition of intangible blessings.

As a mom, I've worked hard to teach my daughters the value of contentment. To teach them that living with less doesn't have to mean living less. To show them how simple blessings and meaningful moments can be an endless source of joy that money can't buy. And when I catch them finding joy in little things, I think I've succeeded.

But teaching kids gratitude is rarely a smooth process, and despite my best efforts to instill a gratitude mindset, my little one is still prone to infections of what I like to call, "the gimmes."

So on Friday evening, I wrapped a dose of parenting wisdom in paper made of metaphors—and framed our series of stops as no-spend window shopping. "You know," I said, to my daughter, "it's like when you go to a museum and look at all the things, right? But the point is to take it in rather than take it home?"

The drive was long and full of excited chatter, the car was stuffed to the brim with backpacks, and the A/C was functioning because my friend's car is way better than mine. The company was fabulous, the radio was on. And most importantly, my daughter had the incentive of a Buc-ee's Dr. Pepper to help her remember the importance of our flea market budget.

By the time we made it through the flea market, my daughter and I had examined purses, perfumes, jewelry, and countless trinkets. She dragged me away from the swords; I dragged her away from the Pokemon cards. We had a fascinating chat with a flea market missionary who was so excited to meet a teenager with a heart for Jesus that he gave her a bag full of books and posters for free. And yes, my daughter did suffer a minor flare-up of "the gimmes."

But in the end, the thing she most wanted was a pair of keychains she'd seen near the entrance to the building. One for herself, with a dangling capybara dressed like a cheeseburger, and the other featuring a little Stitch figurine dressed as a basketball player—a gift for her sister, who couldn't make the trip.

We bought them both, and she got her Dr. Pepper, too.

By the time we finished the flea market, the pit stop at Buc-ee's, and several exploratory stops along the scenic loop of the Great Smoky Arts & Crafts Community, we were all tired, hungry, and ready to settle in for the night.

And as we rounded the final curves on the road to our mountain getaway, my daughter turned to me and quietly said, "You know, Mom, I had the best day."

I glanced at her bag of collected treasures, arching a teasing eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Even though we didn't get to buy everything?"

Hours later, I sat alone on the second-floor balcony as the sun fell behind the mountains. A yellow butterfly floated dizzily through the trees, crickets sang with joyful abandon, and on the deck below, I could hear my daughter laughing with my friends—our family, the people who have taken us into their hearts and made us their own.

Shadows deepened with night as the golden hour passed, the lights of Gatlinburg lit the valley below like fallen stars.

And in the sacred quiet of those few moments, stolen from the space between chicken tacos, gluten free brownies, a visiting trio of bears, and hot-tub girl-talk, I wept tears of awestruck gratitude.

Not because my belly was full of tacos. Not because my lungs were full of crisp, clean mountain air. Not because my ears were filled with nature's song and my eyes alight with the majesty of a God-painted sunset. But because I'm blessed to know people with hearts as bright and beautiful as a mountain sunrise. And because for the first time in months, my spirit was full.

The heartbreaking peace of those solitary moments cost me nothing more than a couple of keychains, and yet they are perfectly precious, valuable moments I'll treasure forever.

Because now, back at home in my cluttered little living room, my ears still carry the echo of my daughter's answer to my question.

"Yeah. We have more than enough stuff anyway."

*****

It’s moments like those that remind me the best things in life don't come with price tags. They’re the gifts you can’t buy—the sweetness of a thoughtful friend surprising you with gluten-free pancakes for breakfast, the laughter you can't hold back when a bear sneaks into your car, the peace of contented solitude. Connection. Wisdom. And love.

I can’t give my daughters a life of luxury or shower them with fancy things. But I can give them strength and perspective. I can teach them how to find joy in little things, live with gratitude, and search for blessings right there in the midst of a completely ordinary life. Wisdom may not cost much, but I know I've earned it...and it’s the one inheritance I can truly promise to leave them when the time comes.

And as I slide back into the chaos of normal life with my heart full of new memories, my soul gratefully encouraged, and a fast-approaching deadline on STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, I wish you the same sense of awe-struck gratitude that's helping me to...

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My Life Is A Teacup Ride

Have you ever been on a spinning teacup ride? You sit down, buckle in, and at first it's fun—you laugh, you spin, you wave at people watching from the sidelines. You and the other people in your cup take turns trying to make everything go faster. But then suddenly, it's faster. And then it's faster still, and before long it's too fast. It's chaos and overwhelm. There's no "stop" button, and by the end of the ride you're halfway in your own seat and halfway in the next, gripping the wheel with one hand and your churning belly with the other. You might even shake your head as the ride's slowing down, and wonder why you got on in the first place.

In the aftermath, as you walk away, finding balance with careful steps and slow deep breaths, you might swear you'll never do that to yourself again.

And if you're an overthinker like me, just barely on the other side of a week that felt very much like a teacup spinning out of control, you might realize in the quiet that follows...you've learned a valuable lesson.

Last week's ride began with a minor car accident early Monday morning, which quite literally spun the day out of balance. In the stillness of a deserted parking lot, as traffic continued largely uninterrupted on the nearby road, I stood with a stranger, exchanging insurance information—and grace. There was compassion, kindness, and even a little laughter. But by the time I fell into bed on Friday evening, I had also dragged myself through the busyness of three Bible study groups, three doctor's appointments, and another week of driving both my oldest and my youngest daughters back and forth to work or school. In separate directions. At separate times.

Exhaustion and stress were wearing me down, despite the fact that the week fairly overflowed with beautiful moments: no injuries or significant damage in the accident, a 24-hour computer crash was solved, I made a beautiful mini-loaf of gluten free sourdough bread, my youngest daughter received good news at both of her doctor's appointments, and I had a beautiful revelation while studying the book of John.

Parts of the ride were beautiful and fun...I found peace in an unexpected conversation with an old friend, connection in a shared moment of respect with my doctor. But my teacup was still spinning too fast. What about all the things that weren't happening? What about dishes and laundry and grocery shopping and everything else I simply wasn't home long enough to complete? What about writing?

Inner peace felt like a distant memory as my mind's eye returned over and over again to an imaginary wall of clocks all neatly labeled with expectations and responsibilities—and all of them shades of angry red, each one counting down to abject failure. Clock hands, all spinning like teacups.

The thing about clocks (and teacups) is that they know nothing of humanity. They understand by their own design the boundaries of space and time, but they can't measure rest or resilience, and I doubt anyone has ever truly found emotional health in either a clock or a teacup—with or without the spinning.

Friday morning, my doctor commented on my blood pressure, which has been normal for ages but was suddenly high again. Internally, I added another worry to my mental checklist; externally, my doctor and I discussed the changes in my life since I saw her last year. The new diagnoses for my younger daughter. The carefully juggled transitioning boundaries as my oldest daughter moved back home. The challenge of learning to slow down in spirit even as my body is constantly urged to greater speed in the dizzying teacup that is my life. The lessons learned. The perspective shifts.

She laughed at my calendar, shaking her head a bit. "I don't know how you do it all," she said.

"I look for humor in hard times," I answered wryly. "Some days, it's laugh or cry."

"And you laugh."

And in those moments I felt seen. Not just in my weight and blood pressure and blood work, but in who I am and why. In a reminder that people matter more than programs, prescriptions, and platitudes. In the simplicity of shared recognition that sometimes, handling stress while living in the storm means finding wholeness in the chaos, rather than frantically seeking an exit.

Sometimes the best self-care is holding onto calm and staying grounded right there in the mess, trusting that this too shall pass.

*****

The teacups don't have a "stop" button, and unfortunately, they don't have a "slow down" button either. Sometimes the ride keeps spinning no matter how much we want off or how dizzy we get.

But the beauty of internal wholeness is a grounding acceptance of the fact that stillness doesn't require removal. Often, the stillness on this teacup ride of life is found in the stolen glimpses we catch as the world spins on around us. Grace that softens mistakes, laughter that shatters tension. Kindness and compassion that make a person safe to be who they are, flaws and all.

Sometimes the storm is inescapable, like the way I must straighten my shoulders and navigate my youngest daughter's health no matter how tired or sad or scared I am...because I am the only one here to do it. Sometimes you're stuck in it because the struggle is worth it, like the way I sigh wearily and grab my keys for the umpteenth time to drive my oldest daughter to work...because I want to see her succeed, I want her to know that it's okay to need help, and I want her to trust that I'm here for her just as much as I have always been.

Sometimes stillness meets us right there in the chaos, in the meeting of eyes filled with understanding or a voice laced with patience. And right now, I'm living for those moments. Because no matter how fast this teacup spins, I'm still as determined as ever 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!

Ditching the Doormat

I’ve always been better at yes than no. Yes to helping, yes to serving, yes to juggling a dozen things at once because surely, somehow, I’ll make it work. Overperformance and people-pleasing, touched with a little part-time perfectionism, have been lifelong coping skills. They protected me when survival meant usefulness and worth was tied to self-sacrifice. They kept me safe when acceptance required carefully creeping through a childhood that felt like a minefield.

As I began to lay those things aside, I nursed the wounds of losing people I loved. People who watched me learning to set boundaries, cheered me on as I grew...and then left me behind when I stopped suffocating myself to keep them breathing. I told myself it was good, even if it hurt. That those people showed me the difference between who valued me and who valued what I could give. That saying "no" as self-care was part of learning how to balance servanthood vs servitude.

And honestly, I thought I had done pretty well...but the last few weeks have taught me that there's still work to do. Still balance to be found between serving and self-care.

Because now, it's bigger than finding peace in boundaries. It's about resting in the space between exhaustion and obedience, realizing when helping hurts.

I still say yes when I don’t have time or energy. When it costs me money or meals. When it means living on less sleep than an African bush elephant—with the weight of one strapped to my shoulders. 

I show up because I enjoy being helpful. I'm in umpty-billion groups because I value the invitation to participate. But now I wonder if there's still an echo of the old belief that taught me love had to be earned. And I wonder if that echo has been drawing me slowly away from a purpose that makes my soul sing, only to pacify people who don't (or don't want to) understand it.

This year began with incredible hope. The promise of restoration. And I'm still trusting in that promise...but after the last few months of chaos, I feel more devoured than restored. So I wasn't that surprised when this week, through a string of moments far too ironic to ignore, God reminded me that saying yes isn’t always the right move. Sometimes it’s obedience—but sometimes it's distraction. Often, it's hidden under the veil of good things, like mold that goes unnoticed until it makes you sick. Someone once told me, "If the enemy can’t take you out, he’ll wear you out." And they were right.

So maybe my word for the year ahead is one I’ve never thought of as “spiritual” before. Maybe my word is a very quiet, very simple, perhaps sometimes frightening...No.

Monday, I suited up and spent the morning cleaning house for a friend—alone. My own house sat neglected, waiting patiently for "later" while I gathered supplies, reorganized writing time, and lent energy borrowed from empty reserves. I was thrilled to be able to help someone with something they truly could not do on their own. I was honored to be the kind of person someone else could see as a blessing.

But I was also silently seething.

The anger I drowned in worship music and Fabuloso had nothing to do with the person whose home I scrubbed; it was about being the only one who made time, out of so many. In the Christian church we talk about being “the hands and feet of Jesus,” but that day I wept in frustration because sometimes when the work gets dirty, Jesus looks like a quadruple amputee.

And it's me who shows up when no one else will. The divorced, single mom who gets the chronic side-eye for writing women’s fiction instead of devotionals. The one who doesn’t fit, has never fit, may never fit...but shows up anyway.

By evening, running on heat exhaustion, caffeine withdrawal, and a handful of gluten free crackers smeared with cream cheese, I was studying my schedule for the rest of week and crying out to God. "Why is it always me?"

And in his quiet way, he arched timeless eyebrows and raised an age-old shoulder. "You do this to yourself," he said. "You never say no. But you'll learn."

Every year he gives me a word. I guess next year, it's No.

Later that night, God gave me a verse—and the next day he gave me another. And they're not about judgment or selfishness or abandoning the people I care for; they're about discernment and stewardship. They're a reminder to protect my calling.

Wednesday, the message got louder. During church, I saw how easily even good things can pull us from right things. How easily a calling can be swept under and drowned in a sea of “yes.” If my pastor had played every sport, coached every team, and organized every tournament, he might never have had time to pastor those who count on him. Sure, he might still have taught and coached with mindful intention. He might not have been taken out.

But he would have been worn out. Like me.

Thursday morning’s Bible reading hit me like a ton of bricks. Micah, chapter seven. Discouragement tempered by hope, lamentation wrapped in restoration. I was still carrying those moments on Friday morning, turning them over like pebbles in my hands as I discussed boundaries and stewardship with my surrogate spiritual "Mama" in the bright lights of the local Dollar Tree.

And there it was, sitting right beside the checkout line: a literal NO button. The box promised this button would cycle through half a dozen ways to say no—and my little "Mama" and I broke into giggles as she plucked the button from my hands and tossed it in the cart.

If God had been standing there with us, between cheap pregnancy tests and cute back-to-school notebooks, I think he would have been laughing too. "Mama" might have bought it, but that button felt like a gift from my Father.

I've pressed it dozens of times throughout the weekend, just for the joy of it, unable to hold back the smile it brings. And for the first time in a long time, "no" doesn't feel like failure. It feels like freedom.

*****

I never meant to trade peace in the name of service, and I never intended to let exhaustion become a qualifier for obedience. Either way, it hasn’t been fair—to me, to my kids, to the people I serve, or to you, the reader for whom I am called to write.

Because the truth is, while overperformance and people-pleasing in various areas of my life are habits I picked up to survive, they no longer serve me like they used to. They're not protecting me anymore. Still, I think the hard part is yet to come—choosing differently will probably cause tension. It may bring a wave of rejection or loss.

But I'm ready now. Because servanthood and servitude are not the same thing, and my no doesn’t diminish my faith or hurt my calling. Actually, it makes me more available to the call I've always been meant to follow. And it's okay if the people around me don't get it, because they didn't hear it.

So maybe in 2026, my word is no. No to emotional exhaustion. No to constant overwhelm and distraction. No to playing the rope in a tug-of-war between the Word I count on and World I live in. But maybe even the no is a yes in some ways. Because I'll still be serving where and when I can. But I'll do it when it serves in a way that works, saying yes to stronger boundaries, greater discernment, and truer freedom.

And maybe that's the next step in learning to...

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Unscripted. Unfiltered. Unseen?

Sometimes just for fun, I'll check out what crazy National Holidays are on the calendar, and this morning was one of those times. If you didn't know, today is National Update Your Bio Day—and I'm not planning to update my author bio today, but it did give me an idea for this post.

A while ago as I fought for space and visibility on my social media platforms, not just feeling unseen but literally being unseen, I spent some time trying to brainstorm social media post ideas that would help trigger engagement. I refuse to rage-bait. I still want to present my authentic self in my content, embracing imperfections and using my love of storytelling for healing, not only in myself but also in those who find me online.

I posted a game: "If your life was a book, what would the title be?" I imagined an opportunity for friends and readers to share witty, heartfelt, funny, or maybe even dramatic titles. I wondered how real people would be in the comments. Would they share their self acceptance journey? Leave hints to their own unseen struggles? Would the idea of a book title spark someone's desire to try memoir writing? What kinds of conversations might follow?

But as is often the case, no one played and the post just sat there. Invisible. Like me sometimes. And maybe like you?

And despite the quiet of the comment section, that post has stuck with me—maybe because of the many times people have told me I should write a memoir or autobiography. That perhaps a project of that kind might be the very "purpose in pain" I've always hoped to find in my life. That in sharing the deep, dark shadows, pouring out vulnerability in writing, truly living with authenticity to that level, I might see God's plan for my story. Every word would be another willful act in the journey of finding my voice, living my calling.

But what would I even say? Online, I’m the version of myself who can paint with pretty words and frame the lessons of my life in metaphors that make sense of chaos. Offline? I’m unscripted and unfiltered. I limp through every day with chronic pain, constant exhaustion, and a brain that’s half horror, half comedy show. And the truth behind the bio is, my personal storytelling isn’t always pretty. It is always real, though—and maybe that’s why I still think it's worth telling.

In my author photo, I'm smiling just a little. Chin tilted. Eyes laughing. Hair looking like it knows how to behave. Smooth skin, subtle makeup, slightly blurred background. Decent lighting. And it's a real photo. I really do look like that—sometimes.

But it's me at my best, with pride in who I am, with ownership of my story, with the confidence to sit in front of a camera and preserve the moment. It's a picture of possibility, a modern-day portrait of the balance between faith and authenticity.

But if you could come and spend a day in my life...I'm not sure you'd meet her. Not really.

If you could knock on my front door, I'd probably answer it in ten-year-old yoga pants. One of about fifteen pairs. They might be black, they might be dark blue. Most likely, they'd be paired with a merch t-shirt from my church. Regular white ankle socks. Hanes, with the grey heels and toes. My long hair would be twisted up in a clip, baby hairs and broken strands raging against the machine. If there's makeup, it's rarely more than the sheen of a Vaseline lip balm. I'll limp a little, and if I smile you'll see all forty-one of my years on my face. There will be dust.

My oldest daughter will be hyper if she's home. My youngest will probably panic because she isn't wearing pants. Someone will be in the middle of laundry, there'll be dishes in the sink, and the living room floor might shock you—but I promise, we do have a broom. In fact, we have two. And a Roomba. And a steam mop. And a stick vacuum. And we use them all.

You'll see me pick my phone up, roll my eyes, and put it down again. My phone notifications make me understand why famous people go to rehab, where devices are banned. I bet it's quiet there.

Online-me writes captions that read like distilled pain with a hearty scoop of humor, like the flavoring we mix into medicine hoping to hide the bitterness of healing. She wraps trauma in metaphors to absorb the sting. She knows how to crop out the laundry piles, the ongoing battle with wasps on the porch, the frustration of ants under the back patio.

But real-life me is living unfiltered, and she stares down at that army of ants and shakes her head. She wonders how many times she'll bleach the kitchen counter before they realize they're not welcome in the house. She squints her eyes, wondering if she's tired because she's tired...or because she forgot her meds. She checks her schedule, trying to choose between pushing through pain and taking time to rest. And as she muscles through the morning, she curates every moment of her day as carefully as possible, hoping to mitigate an unstoppable influx of PTSD triggers no one truly understands.

Sometimes the way she injects these moments with humor makes her funny and pleasant to be around. She's outgoing and friendly even as she's withdrawn and deeply introverted. She's quirky and offbeat. Fiercely protective, undeniably brave. And sometimes sharper than she means to be. Harder than some people can handle.

Online-me posts about perseverance, highlighting the beauty of life's little moments of joy. But offline-me mutters under her breath about dishes that always seem to be dirty, money that never stretches quite far enough, and effort that sometimes just doesn't seem to work out.

But the longer I live in this space of real live vs online life, juggling the balance of what to share online vs offline, the more I realize that neither version is more real than the other. The photo is just as real as the yoga pants. The wise words and the muttered grumblings—they're all truly me. It's just that the one is carefully curated for consumption, and the other is behind-the-scenes, complete with B-reels and bloopers.

If I were to write a memoir, it wouldn't be just one version of me. It wouldn't be 300 pages of beautifully organized wisdom, nor would it be a full-on specialty expose of messy reality. It would be both, woven tightly together, because I'm never going to be just one or the other. I'm both, all the time, whether you see it or not.

And maybe that’s what makes this life worth writing. It may not be perfect, but it’s always lived as fully and authentically as possible. Full of contradictions. Beautiful photos displayed on the way to wash yet another sink full of dishes. Moments where I look like I’ve got it all together...and ones where I barely remember what day it is.

If you met me in person, you probably wouldn't recognize the woman from the headshot. But if we sat for coffee or tea, you’d know her by the end of the conversation. Because the real story of my life? It’s unscripted. Unfiltered. And yes, mostly unseen.

Until you’re close enough to read the fine print.

*****

I know I'm not the only one who struggles with social media burnout or how to balance public and private life. And I think if you're here, you're probably still learning to be yourself online, too. You probably wonder about whether telling your story would mean anything to anyone anyway.

If you're like me, you've googled autobiography ideas and memoir topics, but self-doubt and imposter syndrome tell you that even if you knew how to write your life story...no one would read it.

But when you read these posts, you tell me that the voice is my head is wrong. Because someone will read it. And that means it means something to someone—whether they tell me or not.

So thank you for sitting with me. For letting me share a little of the behind-the-scenes version of who I am. The one you don’t always see online—the messy, tired, beautiful, complicated me who’s still learning to balance humility that isn't shame with confidence that isn't pride.

If you can relate, or if you’ve ever felt like your “real self” is hidden behind polished photos and carefully crafted posts, you’re not alone. I’m here too, still choosing to live with bold honesty in both my writing and my life—and I hope that means we can all feel a little less unseen, a little more understood. Because it's in that space of peaceful contentment that we learn to...

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The Painful Price of Joy

I have pretty severe chronic hypersomnia, so I'm always a long way past "I need a nap". But today, I’m tired—even by my standards. Our church's annual student conference wrapped last night, and between the worship, the Word, and the wild games, I literally limped away from the weekend physically emptied but spiritually full.

It's more than just a conference, more than a series of meetings and meals. It's two solid days of watching God move in people's hearts, like His own supernatural version of "take your child to work day." Almost five hours on Friday evening. Nearly fifteen on Saturday. And scarcely enough time in between episodes of spiritual growth for everyone to rush home, fall into bed, take a nap, and get ready to show up again with a smile and a fresh outpouring of sacrificial love.

Twenty hours of youth ministry, of Christian leadership working to open doors for God moments that show students there is joy in service and purpose in pain. And that time fills up fast—with small group conversations that foster healing from trauma, unexpected generosities that make joy overflow in rivers of tears, and countless arms sore today from time spent reaching toward God like children stretching to take a trusted father's hand.

That's when I remember why I love being a small group leader. Why I'm thankful for the privilege of struggling to balance faith and fatigue. Because in those moments, when 600 nearly teenagers gather together, tired but thankful, with full hearts open to hope...when the music ends and they're screaming, "One more song! One more song!"...when you can barely walk but you stand with hands raised and eyes streaming in gratitude...that, my friends, is when God shows up.

I've always thought the biggest blessings in life are hidden, tucked quietly away between the "little things."

Tired legs and sore feet mitigated by the gift of an elevator button. The trust buried beneath an over-the-shoulder, "I'll just leave my stuff with you." The partnership and protection of, "Wait here, I'll save our seats."

I ended the weekend with one knee nearly twice the size of the other. With pain at an all-time high, despite the very best of medication, elevation, and BioFreeze application. But somewhere between worship music and water games, I found healing that went deeper than physical pain, and between small group circles and handwritten sermon notes, I saw generosity that tore a hole in my heart—not to empty it, but to fill in and repair all the cracks.

In a semi-quiet hallway, a small group of tenth-grade girls opened up about insecurity. About fear. About seeing God in others.

In a crowded sanctuary brimming with spiritual energy, a few dozen teens made their way to center stage, where they knelt together and welcomed a call to ministry. Heads bowed, eyes closed, hearts hungry, they prayed boldness and courage over themselves and each other. My youngest daughter was among them, her face hidden behind her curtain of waist-length chestnut hair.

A quiet hallway conversation about servant leadership and lessons from ministry turned into a deep dive on trauma and grace. Compassion and understanding shared over taco bowls.

But the moment that wrecked me most deeply was quiet. Simple. My little daughter, still sometimes careless in her teenaged pursuit of instant gratification and potty humor, came to me with twinkling blue eyes and a smile. Her group leader her offered to treat her to a bit of conference merch—and my daughter, only half-aware of what the gesture might mean, chose a gift for me instead.

Surprised, I took the shirt and held it up, reading the printed back. Clear eyes. Full hearts. Can't lose. "Why did you do this?"

Shrugging, she smiled again, and tipped her head as she leaned in for a hug. “You need presents, too,” she whispered.

And when she walked away, I wadded the shirt in my lap. I blinked fast. Wiped away silent tears. Because I spend my professional life as a writer hoping to share stories people will be moved by...but I spend my personal life pouring into the children I love, parenting through faith that sustains my spirit even when times are hard and money is short and my body is breaking down.

Because I felt seen, and poured into.

Because the gift I received...well, it was so much more than a shirt.

*****

I’m still tired. Still hurting. Still hobbling around my house like a drunk octogenarian. But I wouldn’t trade a second of what got me here, because there’s something special about joy that comes with a price tag. Something holy in happiness that supersedes pain. Because when you serve with everything you have (even all you have is fumes) God shows up and even the most desperately broken places begin to heal.

And maybe that’s what this weekend was really about—not just tired leaders and rowdy students and long hours. Maybe it's a reminder that love poured out leaves room for joy poured in.

So yes, I’m tired. But I’m also full. And the joy? The joy is what's helping me...

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