Life's a Gift. Open It.

Imagine a chemist in a lab, surrounded by shelves of beakers and jars, each neatly labeled and corked. 

Imagine him gathering supplies. Ominously colored jugs of unseen battles and silent struggles. He turns a handle, initiating a slow drip from a bucket on a high shelf: the pain of feeling alone. He sets the drip to increase as the mixture brews, like intravenous misery, and reaches for a beaker filled with the black sludge of invisible pain and mental health stigma. The tang of bitterness fills the room as the brew begins to boil.

But what if the chemist is life? And what if we are...what if I am...the vile concoction created?

If you've been with me for any length of time, you probably wouldn't be surprised to learn that there's a lot of focus on mental health awareness in my life. I grew up largely invisible in a noisy world, feeling unseen and unheard. Everyone I knew was broken on some level, burdened with the weight of abuse, abandonment, violence. Poverty. Shame.

We didn't talk about emotional wellness. We didn't circle around and lock arms on a communal trauma recovery journey. "Validation" and "emotional healing" were more likely to be terms of ridicule than to be skills gently handed down, and no one much cared what it feels like to live with unseen pain. But I know what it is to give up. I know what it looks like when no one notices your pain, and when choosing life when it feels impossible just starts to seem...not worth it.

I know because my mother showed me when I was fifteen years old, with a mouthful of pills that may just as well have been manufactured by the proverbial chemist.

So this morning in church, when the news broke that a local pastor had taken his own life, it made me think about why.

Our pastor told us softly, quickly. A hint about health problems, a recent diagnosis, followed by, "He took his life."

He took his life.

Four words that set my mind reeling. Four words that, especially in connection to physical health and emotional illness, opened the spillway of a memory dam I couldn't close.

He took his life.

As the daughter of a person who attempted that very act in my presence, the personal connection is inescapable. And as our pastor went on to pray for a grieving church and a devastated family, I thought of a shattered wife. Thankfully grown but certainly no less heartbroken children. His siblings. His grandbabies.

I know what they'll feel. And my heart aches for them.

We prayed for his friends, his co-workers, his congregation—and I thought about their grief. Their confusion. I know what they'll feel, too. And my heart aches for them.

He was a man of such faith and encouragement. What diagnosis could drive him to such a desperately hopeless act?

I have spina bifida. I've been coping with invisible illness since the day I was born. And I have complex PTSD, so living with anxiety is now just as common to me as any Tuesday morning. Three generations of women in my family have succumbed to the devastation of Alzheimer's disease, and I still remember what it felt like to have my grandmother introduce herself to me on a phone call. As if we were strangers. I'm allergic to wheat and peanuts, and I often joke that if or when I get my own terrifying Alzheimer's diagnosis, I'm leaving the doctor's office and heading straight to Olive Garden.

But it's not funny. It's fear. It's a desperation to never reach a point where I introduce myself to my own children—or grandchildren. It's the echo of a violent childhood that taught me to be as quiet and self-sufficient as possible, to stay out of the way, to never be a burden. It's a recognition of the fact that faith and mental health don't always play well together in a world where there is no way to ask for help when you're struggling...because all too often, the answer is, "Pray harder," instead of, "Wow, that sucks. How can I help you?"

Because all too often, the chorus is singing, "Stand up taller, have no fear," instead of, "I'm so proud of you for trying, even when you're terrified."

On the one hand, I have been berated for thanking God for the miracle of my body—because there are people who assume that if I don't fall to my knees and beg for miracle healing instead, it is evidence of weak faith. On the other, I have been applauded for finding beauty in brokenness—because some people think learning to see life as a gift, even when it's hard, is evidence of resilience through faith. Radical trust in the God who created me without mistakes, perhaps deformed in the eyes of man, but with no less purpose.

I look back on my youth, feeling invisible and unseen, without access to or knowledge of anxiety and depression support...desperately clinging to small blessings in hard times like Hansel and Gretel's trail of breadcrumbs, hoping each one would carry me to the next...completely unaware that those tiny crumbs, in time, became the things that taught me how to find purpose in pain.

And those moments—so many of them colored with the faces of my children, my friends, my loved ones—they're why I'm here.

*****

Another thing our pastor said this morning was, "It can happen to anyone." And he was right. Hopelessness isn't limited to people with terrifying medical reports, people with traumatizing childhoods. It touches us when we've lost yet another friend or relationship, when yet another job doesn't work out, when we're not sure how to pay the five bills on the table...and yet another shows up in the mail. It touches people who don't know or care about God. And yes, it touches people who do.

Holding on when life is hard is...well, hard. Small blessings in hard times can seem so...small. So insignificant. So without power to change anything.

That's why I write what I do, the way I do. It's why my social media is full of inspiring quotes and turn-around perspective stories. And it's why my books are full of people just like us—healing from burnout, searching for hope, learning self-compassion—with each character a portrayal of human need, human suffering, and yes, human healing.

There are give-up moments in almost all of my books, because pretending emotional turmoil doesn't exist is pointless. In the Freedom Series, Christine reaches such a depth of helpless despair that she actually hopes her husband will finally do the unthinkable. When he does, an entirely new existence begins for both of them, and it sets Christine on a journey of growth she could never have imagined. At the Safe House, she learns to walk again, learns to breathe again. In a boxing gym, she learns to love again. But most importantly, with every step she takes and in every place she ends up, I hope she teaches by example what it really means to...

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.

What Radicalized You?

I saw a TikTok recently with a caption that said, "What radicalized you?" As expected, the video was intended to be polarizing, divisive, and offending to people who didn't agree with the poster—but what struck me most about it was how much it doesn't actually matter. In today's over-politicized, radical-everything society, even the most extreme views are so watered-down they hardly even stand out anymore.

But what about radical hope? Where is the kind of radical love that helps us hold onto hope in hard times? If we're all searching for healing from burnout, who's gonna start the radical rest movement of slow living that'll remind us how important rest and recovery are? When will we jump on the bandwagon for a radical joy that reignites childlike wonder in the tired eyes of the world? And how do we find radical happiness and emotional wellness without drifting into a void of endless navel-gazing that shows us nothing?

And that's all without the concept of romanticizing your life, by rolling minimalism and joy into a neat little crystal ball that'll hopefully show you how to navigate your "emotional healing journey" to "everyday peace."

When we put it like that, it almost sounds ridiculous. How could romanticizing the mundane be anything less than ridiculous?

Twenty years ago, that's what I would have thought, too. Back when I'd never heard of trauma recovery and joy seemed as out of reach as a handful of stardust. Back when I might actually have punched anyone who tried to tell me that choosing joy on purpose was possible.

But this weekend I spent an afternoon building with Legos—and I think I ended up with something far better than a new utensil organizer in my kitchen windowsill.

We've lived in our apartment since 2019, and it's a cute little place as long as you don't look too hard at it. If you don't live here, you wouldn't care how little closet space there is. You wouldn't notice that the kitchen's so small you can't even open the fridge all the way without jamming it against the door to the laundry. You might not even realize that the absolute nincompoop who designed my kitchen apparently forgot about drawers.

Every moment spent in my kitchen has been an exercise in problem-solving and mindful creativity. Mostly, we've kept our silverware, jar lids, and other kitchen oddities in a plastic drawer unit on a pantry shelf—and for the most part, that worked fine. Except that it wouldn't fit in the new cabinets I specifically purchased to replace the ugly shelves.

I knew they were smaller; I bought them for the smaller footprint, and I love them for the prettier aesthetic. But balancing home organization and peace in my purchase has taken some unexpected effort, since I needed a new way to store silverware. Again.

Homemaking on a budget rarely has much to do with tracing home decor trends and searching for HomeGoods discounts. Honestly, it's far more often about making do and getting over it. So I thrifted a cute little kitchen crock, threw all the silverware in it, and set it on the windowsill, sandwiched between two others (which are similar but not the same because #cottagechic or whatever) that currently hold various spoons, spatulas, and peelers. Problem solved. Mostly.

I still needed a better way to store steak knives without buying a knife block I didn't need, and I didn't want to just toss them in a jar where careless placement would eventually break off all the tips. So this weekend, I found myself on a last-minute side quest. The mission? Harness my childhood love of Legos, pull out my old stash of upcycled Lego bricks, and spend some time building something new.

The trouble was, either I'm really that weird, or no one else is willing to be that weird on the internet; I searched for ideas using phrases like "adult Lego builds," "Lego home decor," "Lego organization ideas," and even "using Lego for home organization," but I couldn't find anything like what I wanted.

So I said to myself, "Whatever. How hard can it be?" And I sat down for a little trial and error.

By the time the last brick clicked into place on the umpteenth rendition of my idea, I was scrutinizing every version of my creation as seriously as an architect hoping his eighth skyscraper prototype would survive the earthquake test. But it worked.

It was tall enough to hold the knives upright and narrow enough to fit the space, with a custom-built cubby for a set of miniature drawers from the Dollar Tree and a little side pocket for the bottle opener and vegetable peelers.

Sure, it could be silly. It could be childish. It could be a constant reminder of flawed design. Or...

It could be a whimsical reminder that it's not really that hard to find joy in the ordinary. It could be a way for a grown woman to let her inner child seek healing through play. It could be a reminder that sometimes, learning to love life again is as simple as building a new perspective.

Even if you have to do it brick by brick.

*****

I used to think "radical" meant loud or life-changing, that it was a strictly negative thing birthed by today's culture of Us Versus Them. But maybe it can still be simple, and maybe it doesn't always have to be an extremist stance against anything. Maybe it's been hiding all along, in the simple act of daring to smile anyway.

Radical joy doesn't have to ignore what's broken. It's radical because it exists in spite of what's broken. If we step back to enjoy the little things, if we stop apologizing for what makes us happy, contentment shows up—and when we learn to accept the beauty of progress for its own sake, with optimistic hope and romanticized wonder, we stop needing to search for joy.

Because it finds us, all on its own.

If we let it, radical joy can mean fixing what's broken...and realizing that joy doesn't need polish to be perfect.

So tonight, I'll raise my glass to the radical movement of choosing laughter over shame and wonder over worry. Here's to building all the best things in life, brick by brick, and learning with each new effort to...

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I Am A Haunted House

We talk so much about representation in media these days. We want the solidarity and acceptance of what we look like, what we live with, who we are. We make songs, movies, books, and art that become echoes of love lost; we shape them into hauntingly beautiful moments and set them up as monuments to memory that lingers. Because beneath the longing to be special and unique, we crave a sense of similarity that might make us feel less alone.

As a kid, I loved horror movies, hauntings, and scary stories. Maybe the extremity of those things made my life seem more normal somehow—when everyday life looks like a nightmare, Freddy Kreuger is as comforting as he is scary, and if you live in an environment that feels like The Shining's Overlook Hotel, you see just as much home as horror. Even when life got better, I loved stories about abandonment, grief and redemption, complicated family relationships, trauma recovery, and ghosts.

I loved hauntings. They can be sad or scary, sure, but they also hover right on the edge of what makes remembrance beautiful. To be haunted by the past means those moments of connection and emotion were real enough to leave a mark. The ghosts of memory, left behind like the glue that remains long after a stubborn label is removed.

And maybe in our own ways, we're all haunted. Healing from ghosts of the past, hoping forgiveness and grace will soften the moments and memories that echo in the halls of our hearts.

This October, with the focus on domestic violence awareness and the value of healing after childhood trauma, the ghost haunting me most often is my father.

He wasn’t perfect. He was proud. Spiteful. Angry. My earliest memory is one of silent dissociation—myself as a four-year-old girl, dressed in a nightgown, frozen in the living room doorway, big blue eyes slowly absorbing destruction. No sound, no smell. Just the sparkle of shattered glass scattered like diamonds, and the stillness of knife-gouged couch cushions bleeding shredded foam.

Sometimes I think of who he was in his darkest moments and I see something twisted by evil. Gollum, captivated by the Ring. But that’s not all he was—and while I can't ignore the haunting truth of the man he became, there is still a powerful light of legacy and faith that shine through glimpses of the man he wanted to be.

He was always angry before church, red-faced and ranting as he struggled to get everyone in the car on time. I hated the fear that filled me, the cruelly condescending things he would say. But in the sanctuary of the church building itself, he was the best of what he might have been. Smiling and joking with the pastor. Tall and proud as he adjusted his shoulders when we stood between the pews to sing. He wasn't faking one side or the other...he was both extremes.

He was pain and insecurity carefully shielded by pride. Bitterness rotting under the armor of rage. Rejection, wielding good natured-humor like a weapon that might win acceptance. Above all these things, or maybe because of them, he was simply human.

On Sunday mornings I stood proudly at his right hand, wrapped in the rich, deep baritone of his voice, the scratchy sleeve of his suit coat warm against my arm as he balanced the hymnal between us. I read music in the rise and fall of his voice, taking the words as much from his song as from the book we shared.

And I wore my connection to him like a shining badge pinned to the fabric of my heart. He was a fearsome man who feared nothing. A strong man who never backed down, an impenetrable fortress who commanded respect.

The first time I saw him cry was in church. Blanketed by the sheer size of his presence, my own chest vibrating with the strength of his voice, I looked up from the hymnal and found him singing through tears—dark eyelashes and coarse cheeks shining with moisture, chin trembling, voice unwavering.

And if the God they talked about could find and touch a soft spot in my father...if he could rip public grief from the privacy of the strongest Daddy who ever lived...if he could find a hurting place in an untouchable man and make tears bleed from unseen wounds...

Then it was real. It had to be. Because only the supernatural strength of God could move a man like my father to such a state.

This weekend, nearly thirty years later, my oldest daughter and I stood as guests in a little church not our own. The pews were old-fashioned, lined with the hymnals of my childhood. And when the congregation rose to sing, I opened the hymnal, flipped easily to the right page, and tipped the book to share with my daughter.

And for a moment he was there between us. My father. His voice as strong and true as always, his presence as large as life, the echo of his hand holding the pages. Remnants of his existence, present in me as I sang through tears.

It felt like a holy haunting—a reminder that faith and healing walk together, proof that learning to forgive an imperfect parent is worth it, and hope in the promise that grief is not the end of the story.

*****

My father was a hard man, and for a long time, I wrestled with my memory of him. What he lived through, the experiences that made him who he was, the parts of him that hardened me.

As his child, I grieve the father he could have been but chose not to be. As an adult, I understand how pain can twist love into a horrifying caricature. And as a mother now to daughters of my own, I carry both the wound and the warning—with a desperate prayer that my children will inherit more healing than hurt.

My father taught me that love and pain are rarely separate things. But as time and maturity have softened both rage and resentment, I've also come to realize that sometimes the people who hurt us the most become our greatest teachers in healing. Whether he meant to or not, the legacy my father left me is this: it's okay to see a river of pain, call it what it is, and then build a dam.

Maybe that’s what grace really is—the kind of haunting that quietly turns old pain into new peace. The reminder that one person's regret can lead to another's redemption.

And maybe that’s why, as I edit the pages of Still Fighting for Freedom, I find traces of him between the lines, in humor and strength and stubborn resilience. Christine was written largely for my mother, but I think my dad would recognize himself in her too, even if he'd never say it out loud.

I like to think he'd proud, not only of Christine, but of me—even if he'd never say that out loud either. Because hope, like faith or music or memory, never really leaves us. It simply shifts with the passing of time, teaching us lesson by lesson how to...

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Finding Grace in the Sound of Laughter

In general, I'm a woman made of contrasts. Lighthearted faith mixed with intense thoughts and emotions. Laughter and healing wounds, all swirled together like marbled ice cream. It can be hard to find laughter and love in a culture where every joke is offensive and so much of our society profits from keeping us divided. It's hard to share encouragement and inspiration, Christian or otherwise, when your soul is aching. With everything going on in the world today, it's easy to get bogged down by the onslaught and forget to harvest the joy in ordinary moments.

I get it. I've done it. But while it's important to acknowledge our feelings, even when they're hard to handle, it's just as important to hold onto gratitude and joy—especially if you struggle to find light in the darkness.

The last several months have been filled with emotional intensity on every front, and lately, every word I wrote felt like excavating a boulder superglued to the bottom of a molasses pit. I don't think I realized how much I'd been missing laughter and grace in the last few weeks, but rediscovering laughter this week reminded me of two solid truths I'd lost sight of: "a cheerful heart is good medicine," and "a crushed spirit dries up the bones." (Proverbs 17:22)

Simple sentiments, perhaps, but valuable all the same. Fear, anger, depression, and worry hurt us, like the slow death of a thousand cuts. Small moments of happiness and the beauty of laughter heal us, like a high dose of antibiotics waging war against infection.

Maybe that's why this week felt like a much-needed break—because I found emotional renewal in what I'm choosing to call "laughter therapy."

Finding peace in small things isn't always easy for me, but as I battle small space living and struggle to declutter and organize my tiny home, each new home improvement project is a spark that lights hope in my heart. The latest effort? Pantry organization.

It's a small, almost meaningless effort to create calm in the chaos of my life...but when the doorbell rang in the middle of my weekly Bible study video chat, I didn't even try to hide my excitement. My friends oohed and aahed appropriately over the coming improvements, laughing at my obvious glee—and once the chat ended, I spent the rest of the week as happy as Harry Potter's Voldemort with a new wand, arranging horcruxes by type and toxicity.

It's proof that small things have big impact, because that joy bubbled over. All week long, seemingly small things sparked flames of laughter in my house. Misspoken words. Endless rounds of Mancala. Long-forgotten inside jokes newly remembered. Twice, my oldest daughter and I got to giggling so hard she had to jump up and race her bladder to the bathroom, and as we bonded over silly things, so much of the tension that often hangs between us like fog was suddenly...gone.

But I think Thursday morning won the week. In her trademark weekday rush, my youngest made a breakfast sandwich to eat on the way to school, and plopped it on a plastic Pyrex lid to avoid leaving a plate in the car. Halfway through the drive, she finished her sandwich, took a drink from her water bottle, and reached for the button to roll down her window.

It was one of those moments where someone's about to do something, and you already know what they're doing, why they're doing it, and how it'll all go wrong.

She was planning to roll down the window, hold the lid out, and shake off the crumbs. She was trying to be careful. Trying to protect her wheat-allergic mama.

And I tried to warn her. I did.

I opened my mouth right as she slipped her hand out the window, her little fingers grasping the edge of the lid. The wind did the rest, and by the time she realized her hand was completely empty, I was watching the lid bounce on the road in my rearview mirror.

She looked at me, blue eyes wide with surprise and remorse. "I didn't know that would happen! The wind took it—I didn't mean to do that!"

But she found me laughing around the minor irritation of a lost dish. We laughed at what the person driving behind us must have thought, how silly that lid looked rolling away down the street, and the stunned expression on my daughter's face as it happened.

Later, we looked for Pyrex replacement lids on Amazon and grouched about the prices—but then we found them in pink, and we laughed about that, too. My daughter said maybe losing the lid was worth it after all.

And maybe she was right. Because lids (and Mancala marbles) are replaceable. But the gift of laughter and joy in motherhood? Well, that's priceless.

*****

It’s been a while since my home echoed with this much laughter, and while it doesn’t make life’s challenges disappear, finding joy again certainly softens otherwise sharp edges. Every shared moment of mother-daughter laughter reminded me to look at joy as worship and laughter as grace—and this week, we found both, hiding in the rhythms of our everyday life.

And maybe grace doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures. Maybe it doesn't need divine revelations. Maybe sometimes, it shows up in the simplicity of shared laughter.

Either way, a lighter week meant great things for the editing process. STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is flowing much more smoothly toward the finish line this week, and we're just over 21 weeks away from release day! I'm so excited to be nearing the end of The Freedom Series, and I can't wait to share this second part with the world. Christine's story is powerful, not because it ignores bad things or covers trauma with false happiness, but because it looks deep into the reality of what goes on behind closed doors and still offers hope.

Like this week's laughter, Christine is a reminder to look life's challenges right in the eye, laugh even if it's through tears, and always, always...

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Feeling Seen In Small Places

Do you ever have stretches of time when no one notices your work? When you're doubting your worth, struggling to feel valued, maybe even longing to be recognized? Times when you're overlooked and discouraged? When you're feeling unseen?

I do. Actually, that's pretty much what last week looked like for me. Early in the week, I sat in on a meeting where the overall topic was about how important it is to use your natural gifts to help grow and nurture the people around you—but many of the people in that meeting have made it clear in no uncertain terms that they are NOT interested in my gifts, and the pain of being dismissed sat with me all week. It weighed me down, made me more aware of little moments that stung, like the times I would quietly fade from a conversation unnoticed because no one was listening anyway. Or the times when I'd barely get three words spoken before someone else stepped in to disagree with what they thought I was going to say.

I don't think of myself as a people pleaser, but I do readily and honestly admit that I need people. That I want to be accepted and approved of, not because I'm clinging to validation, but because I am a human wired for community. Just like anyone. Just like you. But sometimes it feels like the world is looking past me. Or worse, through me, like I have no substance at all. A ghost, walking among the living.

I cheer for other people’s milestones, show up for their big moments, celebrate their wins—but when it’s my turn, the room often seems strangely and suddenly quiet. Which is why by the end of the week, I was wrestling with discouragement in a way that I haven't in a while. When I mentioned writing in a passing conversation and literally saw someone roll their eyes, that was it. Final straw.

And then I went to my church's women's conference, where God showed up as a dark-haired stranger in a blue-and-white dress.

We got there on time, but later than we'd planned. I stepped out of the car emotionally drained, wondering if my writing, my calling, or even my voice really mattered—but I was with my youngest daughter and she was thrilled to be there, so I glued my smile into place, locked the car, and slammed the door on discouragement.

"Hey!" When I looked up, the woman was standing beside her car, her dress bright, her smile open and friendly. "Can you help me out? I just came from work, so...hair up? Or down?"

We joked about how her hair was pretty down, but if she was a hands-up jump-around worshipper, she might want a ponytail. As we talked, we learned she was a guest who didn't usually attend our church. We had a small-world moment when we exchanged names, and ended up realizing she already knew my oldest daughter, who wasn't there that night.

We walked into the building together, making small talk, laughing over little things. I introduced her to our pastor, and we made our way over to a photo wall covered in flowers.

She saw the screen wallpaper on my phone as I opened my camera: a striped black background with a large image of a custom coat-of-arms I call my writing crest. "What's that? The Undaunted thing?"

I shrugged, offering a smile but not really looking up. "It's kind of a logo for my business," I told her. "I'm a women's fiction author."

"I knew I recognized it from somewhere!"

Wait, what? Stunned by the small, random encouragement, I met her eyes. "For real?"

"I do a lot of reading," she said, laughing. "We'll have to sit and talk sometime."

I spent the next half hour silently wondering if I was making too much of her random appearance in the parking lot, or her choosing to ask me about her hair when there were several other equally-qualified women nearby. We were only two among twelve hundred women, and it was probably just a coincidence that her name was Angela—which is Greek for Angel and means "messenger of God."

I don't know if she eventually found the people she was looking for when she arrived, or if she had simply completed the mission of giving me the gift of being noticed, but not long after that moment she disappeared and I didn't see her for the rest of the weekend.

Either way, the conference theme continued the message. Royalty, but not old-school Disney-flavored princesses swept up in the strong arms of princes who save the day. No, instead it was Princess Diaries royalty—the full-flavored kind, where changing circumstances drive a nerdy young girl to discover unknown royalty in herself. The kind where cinematic Mia Thermopolis meets biblical salvation.

Where royalty means chosen by God, not only accepted but adopted, claimed as his own, and bought with brutal sacrifice.

Our pastor's beautiful and sometimes hilarious wife spoke about royalty in God's kingdom as more than just being allowed in the room. "You're princesses," she said, sweeping her hand over the audience. "Daughters of the King. Chosen and not forsaken, adopted into God's family. But I think you've forgotten what your coronation day really meant."

She went on to remind twelve hundred women with varying backgrounds and incomes, races, politics, and fashion styles, that royal adoption is bigger than just being allowed in the house—it's knowing confidently that you are welcome and wanted at the table. She reminded us that identity in Christ is a royal priesthood, encouraged us with the depth of what it means to be "God’s special possession," uplifted us with the promise that God's love never overlooks, and charged us with trusting God’s plan when it feels quiet.

And somewhere on the edge of the spotlight, feeling a little silly in the plastic tiara that had been taped to her seat, was a woman soaking in the message as God whispered, “You are not overlooked. You are chosen and royal. And because you are mine...you are seen.”

*****

The conference is over now, but I'm still thinking about Angela. A stranger who stepped in to weave an unexpected thread through the tapestry of my weekend. They were such small moments, I can't help but think she's already forgotten them—but those moments are lasting reminders of God's presence in his calling on my life, my worth, and my identity in him. Even when my work feels invisible, the people closest to me don't understand, and I wonder if any of it really matters.

God whispers encouragement in the smallest of places. Sometimes it's disguised as chance encounters that bolster your faith in hard seasons, sometimes it's tucked into moments that refill your hope when you feel invisible. But if your eyes are open and your heart is hungry, parking lots can hold encouragement for weary hearts, and a simple glimpse at a logo on a phone can turn questioning your calling into a reminder that feeling unseen by people does not negate being chosen by God.

I don't know where you are in your life. I don't know if you're a Christian like me, or just a person trying to give their best to every day, finding purpose in small moments like the ones you spend with your children at bedtime. Maybe you spent a week like mine—wondering how to find hope in discouragement, after a long week of helping other people breathe no matter how suffocated you felt.

What I do know is this: wherever you are, whether you know him or not, God sees you just like God sees me. You are valued. You are chosen.

So whatever your life looks like right now, no matter what seemingly invisible efforts you’re making, keep your eyes (and your heart) open to God's confirmation that no matter how unseen you feel, you are never forgotten. I hope it'll give you the strength you need to always...

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Love, Loss, and Leaving A Legacy

The cycle between grief and healing is not a new one for me—and while I can't say I'm an expert at coping with loss, I can absolutely say that the power of legacy proves hope beyond death is possible. Still, I can't say that either, can I? Not without admitting that some days feel heavier than others. And not without admitting that this day is one of them.

It's been nearly two weeks since Charlie Kirk's assassination, and in many ways, his death has reignited a much-needed conversation about the weight of loss, how to balance faith in hard times, and how to find compassion across divides. We've argued as a society over the value of remembering those we've lost, especially when it means honoring a legacy that one person respects...and another does not.

Millions of people around the globe have mourned his death, and today nearly 80,000 of them filled the State Farm Stadium in Glendale, Arizona for his memorial. I watched from home, sometimes in agreement, sometimes not. Because grief is complicated. Like me. Like you. And yes, like Charlie. Either way, today is proof that whether you loved him, hated him, or barely knew his name until it popped up on your newsfeed, the impact of his absence is real.

For me, this has meant a lot of things. I grieve for the broken hearts of the family he left behind. My heart aches for the parents of his assassin, who have thus far done their best to face every parent's worst nightmare with grace. And my spirit is struggling constantly with the deep, almost desperate lamentation of so many of the people around me.

But I think what most people don't understand is that it's not all about Charlie Kirk. He may be the current catalyst, but as I watch friends and neighbors turn their backs on each other in a horrifying show of Two-Faced: True Colors, one thing becomes clear—perhaps the deepest scourge on today's society is that so many have lost the common sense of compassion in grief that unites us.

The funny thing about grief is that it doesn't ask permission. Regardless of beliefs, politics, differences, or personal history, it simply arrives. Sometimes in whispers. Sometimes in waves. Always with a reminder that life is fleeting.

My mother was deathly ill for most of my life, but she took 24 years to die. Every family crisis revolved around carefully considering the fragility of both her body and her mind, and every hospital stay came with undeniable awareness that each one might be the last. Around 2010, those stays began to include somber warnings that piled, one on top of the other, with decreasing hope:

• "Your bones are too fragile."
• "Your kidneys are shutting down again."
• "Your cardiac function is ninety-two percent...eighty-five percent...seventy-eight percent."
• "We need you to know that CPR is no longer a viable option. Your body can't withstand it anymore."

When it's personal, complicated grief is made more so by complicated life. My mother was deeply flawed, and by the time I turned twenty, there was a part of me that hated her. When she died in 2019, thirty-five-year-old me took the last remaining step toward love and forgiveness in grief. 

Grief isn't limited to home and personal connection, though—it finds us through TV, radio, and the scrolling headlines that so often make us pause in disbelief. It may be less personal but it's no less complicated. Still uncertain. Sometimes a rushing wind, other times a crushing weight.

I remember being stunned by the outpouring of grief when Princess Diana died in 1997. She was beautiful, famous, generally accepted as a kind woman of grace and generosity. My mom watched the funeral on TV, and while I understood the loss of life, I couldn't figure out why people would want to watch that. She was a stranger to so many. That same year brought the death of Mother Teresa, who spent her life laying hands on society's untouchables, and it seemed like the whole world cried.

When Michael Jackson died in 2009, the grief that settled in the pit of my stomach brought clarity—and painful confusion. I knew about his past, I pitied his childhood. And I loathed the accusations against him, not because they were voiced but because I couldn't stomach the horrible possibility that they were true. But I loved his music, his charisma, his glamour. And so, at the end of a life so filled with torment, I gave thanks for the end even as I grieved the loss of an icon. Michael Jackson taught me that celebrities are human too, that money really can't buy happiness, and that it's possible for both disgust and admiration to exist at the same time.

2003 brought the death of Fred Rogers, and I wept like a child. With the loss of his calm energy and quiet character, I understood. Because even though I never knew him, my heart felt as if a hole had been ripped in the fabric pocket of the world...and some valuable part of humanity's goodness had fallen out.

As the news broke of Robin Williams's death in 2014, I wept for the absence of his voice, the end of his laughter, and the inescapable realization that the playfulness of Aladdin's Genie would never feel the same. I still didn't like his stand-up comedy—but his off-screen struggles and his almost universal reputation for kindness taught me that legacy isn’t about headlines or soundbites. It’s about the hearts we touch.

So it seems, whether we loved them or not, whether they changed the world's stage or only changed our hearts, the public figures who shaped our lives leave imprints on all of us. And the grief that touches us when they're gone doesn't need perfection in order to honor impact and presence. Perhaps what's best is that we who remain use the echoes of those gone before us to foster a more peaceful world for those still to come.

Tonight I will pray over the world, just like always. I will pray over my country and my state and my city, like always. I'll pray over my neighborhood and the complicated people who live in it. Like always.

But maybe this time I'll hold a moment of silence, too—not just for one life, but for all the lives that shaped mine, with echoes left like breadcrumbs to truth in my heart. And I'll give thanks for every smile, every act of courage, and every gift of compassion that reverberates long after the gift-giver is gone.

*****

Unfortunately, grief and compassion are rarely easy to balance. Grief doesn’t follow a schedule, check our politics, or examine our faith. And while it's okay to grieve even the complicated losses, it's just as okay if some losses don't sting for you in the same way they do for others. The thing to remember is that we're all human enough to understand pain, and compassion for one person's pain should never be measured against another person's perception of worth.

Because the truth is, perfection is an impossible standard for anyone. For Charlie Kirk, for JFK, for Walt Disney. For you, and for me. But legacy is rarely about perfection. Instead, it's about the moments that shape our hearts. The musicians, the actors, the leaders, the neighbors, the saints—and yes, even the strangers—who leave pieces of themselves behind in all of us.

Today, I hope you'll make space for those who grieve what's lost. I hope you'll find gratitude in the common ground we share. And above all, I hope you'll muster the courage to reach peacefully for people you don't always agree with, because even when you can't change or control what someone else thinks, does, says, or feels, you can control how you react, how you behave, and whether or not you practice whatever you're preaching.

Sometimes that's what it takes—to make the difference, to bridge the gap, and to help the world around you...

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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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