The Meaning of Spring

I've always seen winter as a timeless symbol of slowing down in life. Nature loses its color as naked trees stand bare against brutal winds, bears vanish to sleep away the cold, and even snow falls quietly—as if the very world is learning to rest again, finding peace after the chaos of summer fun and fall festivity. Winter makes space for quiet moments of reflection. For emotional healing. For good books and hot chocolate.

Spring tends to sneak up on me, though. One day the world is gray and the cold is bitter, and then suddenly sunny mornings fill with birdsong. Temperatures rise only to fall again, and blooming flowers bow under the weight of late frost. And as the trees begin to bud with new leaves, it's like the world is learning to breathe again. Not just healing from the past but rising from the ashes of what was.

It's the season of renewal, brimming over with fresh starts and new beginnings, overflowing with the kind of resurrection symbolism that fills my soul with hope.

Maybe I'm feeling sentimental because it's Easter. Maybe it's a side effect of rediscovering peace after a season of chaos. Or maybe it's just the beauty of personal renewal that only shows up in silence, when the kitchen is clean and early morning sun highlights the contrast of cream swirling into hot coffee. It's funny how something so ordinary can feel like a miracle when life has been moving too fast for too long...when you find yourself caught in a moment of unexpected peace, where nothing is rushed and no one is loud and you remember what it feels like to take a deep breath.

I think homes have seasons too, just like the earth does. Some are crowded and fast-paced, filled with life transitions and growth we didn't feel ready for. Others filter in like gentle breezes, sweet with the kind of emotional healing that shows us how to embrace new seasons of life.

The meaning of spring—especially spring as a metaphor for life—is this: there is life after difficult seasons.

Mornings are hard for me, especially during the week. I stumble out of bed each day, bleary-eyed and cursing the clock. Wishing for a little more sleep. A little more rest. Quiet that breaks just a little more gently. But Saturdays are different. Most Saturdays, there is no alarm, no rushed beginning, no drama, no jostling.

Yesterday I woke up and crept out of bed in the quiet, leaving warm blankets and soft pillows for the cool solidity of the stairs beneath my feet. I poured water in the Keurig, chose a coffee pod, and set my favorite mug on the counter. And for those few moments, as the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla coffee, I stood beside a clean and empty sink, alone in a pool of sunlight, watching through the window as robins searched for breakfast in the yard.

Twenty-one years ago this weekend, I gave my life to Jesus, and just last week, I released the second book in the Freedom Series. So as I poured cream into my coffee, I thought of Easter and new beginnings.

The first sip is always more than coffee. Steamy, stinging heat is the memory of my mother, whose story inspired so much of the Freedom Series. Vanilla cream, as smooth as her laughter when I was little, because when she sent me to get her a fresh cup, she knew I'd drink half of it on the way back. The bitter undertone that lingers on my tongue, like the trauma that came after those early days, when everything fell apart. But when I close both hands around the mug to cradle its warmth? When I close my eyes and savor that second sip? It's a celebration of emotional recovery. A quiet recognition of contrasting, coexistent truths. She was a terrible mother—and she didn't mean to be.

Yesterday I carried my coffee to the living room and curled up on my couch. The one I built myself. The one that makes me think of my Grandfather's woodshop and the way he loved his mean old cockatiel...and the stench of Camel cigarettes.

It's not always easy, finding peace in quiet seasons like this one. My oldest daughter just moved out again, and she's one of the busiest, most high-energy people I've ever known. I like that I'll have my office back, I like that I won't have to spend as much time driving, and I like that there's so much less laundry to do. But in the absence of her wild laughter and high-speed personality, lately I've had more time to spend with the ghosts of the past.

The atmosphere of my house has changed. Time is slower. The quiet is deeper. Peaceful routines are falling back into place, beginning again after a hard season of busyness.

Yesterday I drank my coffee between crochet stitches, sifting through memories, thinking of Easter and new beginnings and how resurrection isn't always about the screaming fire of phoenix wings. Sometimes it's the silence left behind when the ashes settle, and the magic of the moment when something new begins to breathe, and the way spring writes stories of renewal on the world.

*****

Spring is more than blooming flowers and pollen floating on warmer air, or the way a barren landscape swells and gives birth to new foliage. It unfolds bit by bit and bloom by bloom, a reminder that renewal rarely arrives all at once.

So often, spring comes quietly—not only to the world around us, but to the universe we carry within. It's hidden in the little moments where finding calm after stress feels magical. It's in the memories that make us, even as we learn to hold them gently. And it's in the stories that rise from ashes we thought would bury us.

I've never been secretive about my life or my story, and when I share the trauma of my past, I do it boldly because it shaped who I am, what I write, and why I write it. My story started in a cold, dark place, and the little girl I used to be has seen her share of winter. Since then, my life has held bright summer days filled with joyful activity—and it has held the crunching weight of half-dead leaves in autumn.

Maybe that's why spring has always felt so meaningful. Because stories like mine aren't always easy to tell. And that's okay.

The thing about hard stories is that they soften us if we let them. They plant seeds of compassion and understanding. They water with hope and fertilize with determination. They carry us through the hardest seasons, often guiding us toward healing we didn't even know was possible. They remind us that life returns after winter, that the pages of our stories form the soil we're meant to grow in.

And when spring brings resurrection, those stories help us...

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Blast From The Past: Twenty Questions, Part IV

For the past few weeks I’ve been revisiting an old journal, re-examining a list of twenty self-reflection questions I first answered over a decade ago—and what started as an exercise in mindful personal growth has slowly become much more. March was a hard month for me, with a book deadline looming, multiple instances of the flu, a knee injury, an ear infection, and a PTSD flare-up that made it hard some days just to get out of bed.

To top it all off, my oldest daughter moved out again, which is an emotional storm of its own: on the up side, I'm thrilled to see her set off on her next adventures (and absolutely ecstatic to have my office back), but on the down side, I'm not exactly thrilled with the timing or the process.

Either way, this was a great time to look back, take stock of my own personal growth, and seek more intentional gratitude and perspective. Throughout this series, I've mentioned how my original answers to these questions made me smile, because there are parts of me now that aren't that different from the woman I was then...but looking back has also helped me see how life experience shapes wisdom.

The last decade of my life hasn't been an easy one, and while I like to think I've spent it building better habits, becoming a better person, and learning from the past, the truth is, intentional living is more than just emotional self awareness or finding meaning in life's challenges. And while understanding your younger self is valuable—especially in terms of self compassion and developing emotional maturity—real growth only shows up when life lessons change us for the better.

Because insight doesn't change things on its own, and perspective is meaningless without practice.

If you haven't seen them, feel free to check parts one, two, and three for the first fifteen of these questions—and if you'd like to answer them for yourself, you can find the complete list here!

16. How can I keep myself absolutely safe?

This is one of those answers that hasn't changed. The first time I answered this, I wrote about safety as an illusion—and the pursuit of it as a self-imposed limitation. Because the thing is, we're never really totally safe. Right now I'm sitting alone in my house, windows closed, doors locked. I'm on the couch with my laptop. But the tree outside could fall through the building and crush me. The boogie-man could break in and get me. I could take a sip of water, swallow it wrong, and drown.

So, should I live in a bubble in order to stay safe? Never engage with a friend because they might not last forever? Never eat a grape, just to be sure I won't choke? Never try, to protect myself from failure?

In Finding Nemo, Marlin was a traumatized and overprotective father whose fear was suffocating his son. Nemo ran away, got himself fishnapped, and Marlin's worst nightmare became his reality. But as he grieved this new trauma, he said, "I promised I'd never let anything happen to him."

His friend Dory responded with, "Well, you can't never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him." And you know what? She was right.

17. Where should I break the rules?

I remember struggling with this question when I first answered it, because whether it's the nature of my personality or the result of a traumatic childhood, I've always been a rule-follower. I believed then—just as much as I believe now—that rules and boundaries are necessary. They give us behavioral guidelines, setting a common standard that has helped humanity survive since the beginning of time. Don't cheat, don't steal, don't lie, don't kill. Be kind, be patient, be compassionate. Work hard, wait your turn, share generously with others.

Boundaries are not bad, selfish, hateful, or mean. They set the line between my space and yours, my time and yours, my responsibilities and yours. Can we help each other? Yes. Should we care about the people and the world around us? Yes. In an ideal world, the rules would be clear, the boundaries would be respected, and "no" would be a complete sentence all by itself.

But rules have protective purpose too, and even if we don't always understand them fully, I've found that they're usually in place for good reason.

18. So, say I lived in that fabulous house in Tuscany, with untold wealth, a gorgeous, adoring mate, and a full staff of servants...then what?

This is one of the questions that shows how life perspective changes over time, not because my answer today is vastly different from my answer a decade ago, but because it's richer and more nuanced. In my original answer, I wrote about celebrating that I'd "made it." About investing financially and planning ahead, to protect my partner and my descendants from the poverty I grew up in. About protecting my sense of security. And yes, about providing for others.

None of those things have changed, and if I woke up rich tomorrow, those are the things I'd look to first—but now, the dreams are more specific. I want to open a real-life Safe House, like the one in my Freedom Series. I want to call random schools and pay off all the overdue lunch money. I want to buy an apartment building or small hotel (or school or church or mall) and renovate it, turn it into its own little village, and then invite the people I love most to live there. I want to feed the hungry, house the homeless, give hope to the hurting.

Because money is nice, but it takes more than money to leave something valuable behind.

19. Are my thoughts hurting or healing?

I loved this question the first time I answered it, and I love it just as much now, but it's another one that's gotten more nuanced with time. A decade ago, my focus was on protecting the people around me—words can be a dangerous weapon indeed, especially when paired with quick wit, brutal honesty, and lack of fear. When I was younger, I carried a sharp tongue like the Sparth axe of my ancestors, and while I rarely said things I didn't mean, I was proud of my ability to eviscerate an adversary without ever needing to touch them.

I've always been gifted with words, and while that gift creates beautiful novels with deep wells of emotion, the Bible wasn't lying when it said, "Life and death are in the power of the tongue."

Over the years, I learned to be more careful. More intentional. And when I struggled to keep my mouth shut, I wrote letters instead. In those letters, I gave myself permission to pour everything out with complete honesty, venting frustrations, betrayals, heartbreak, and sometimes even love. Those letters allowed me space to say what could not be stifled. Shredding them allowed me to protect and preserve peace.

These days, I'm learning to apply that same care to myself: if I wouldn't allow someone to say something to my best friend without throwing hands, then I'm not allowed to think it to myself, either.

20. Really truly: is this what I want to be doing?

Surprise: this is another one that hasn't changed. Not even a little bit. Because no matter where I am, no matter what I'm doing, no matter what my life looks like...writing and storytelling will always be my sanctuary. Writing is where introspective journaling gave me encouragement during difficult seasons. It's where a notebook and a pen became the only safe place for reflecting on life lessons learned in brutal adversity. Stories taught me the beauty of growth through struggle, and my greatest childhood heroes were book characters becoming stronger through experience, whether they wanted to or not.

I love that as a writer, God has given me a way to pay it forward. To share stories that illustrate the depth and complexity of what it means to be human. To write characters readers can relate to and root for. To use my gift not as a cutting weapon, but as a healing balm.

It's all I've ever wanted to do.

*****

Looking back at these questions has reminded me that personal growth rarely happens in the dramatic ways we expect. We think of transformation as a turning point—a big decision, a bold realization, some life-altering moment that clearly divides who we were from who we become. And when we answer questions like these, it's easy to overthink the process and look for perfect answers.

But it's not about finding and writing the perfect answer. What matters is the way those answers evolve, because those changes are a record of growth. Our responses to questions like these can help us see the patterns in ourselves and our lives. They help us recognize our habits and redesign our perspectives.

When I read the original answers I wrote so long ago, I don't see a younger version of me who had things figured out, but I do see someone paying attention. The woman I was back then was already asking the right questions—trying to understand purpose and identity, faith and gratitude, time and intentionality—and the woman I am today exists because life has taught the woman I was to live those answers fully.

Maybe that's why I love exercises like this so much. Because as entertaining as they might seem on the surface, they remind us that growth is a process and not a destination. That it's okay if the answers change, it's okay if they don't, and sometimes the most powerful thing to do is keep asking questions in the first place. Because in those answers, we discover new ways to...

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Blast From The Past: Twenty Questions, Part III

For the last two weeks I've been revisiting old journal entries, looking back through a list of twenty self-reflection questions I first answered more than a decade ago. I love using reflective journaling prompts in my writing, and I especially love the way tracking personal growth over time shows me where things have changed. But it's more than just journaling for clarity.

Introspective thinking is an invitation to look deeper at your mindset and perspective. It nurtures emotional self awareness, especially in seasons of struggle—when you're learning to admit when you're wrong, when letting go of what doesn't serve you anymore hurts, when successfully balancing work and life priorities seems impossible. Learning from life experience is painful, but it's also the key to becoming a better person.

In the years since I first answered these questions, a lot has changed. My children have grown up. I've gotten married—and divorced. I lost both of my parents. My faith has changed. My face has changed. What hasn't changed is that I'm still asking deep questions about life. Still exploring lessons from the past. And still learning to use those lessons as building blocks for the future.

The first time I answered these questions, the core values were already there, and I think that's why so many of my answers look the same at first glance. Finding humor in hard times is still a challenge. I'm still working through comparison, perfectionism, boundary-setting, and people-pleasing. But now, life has added new context. In many ways, time has humbled the girl I used to be.

And maybe that's the true beauty of how journaling for self discovery works—it's a long, patient conversation between the person you used to be and the person you're still becoming.

If you haven't seen them yet, feel free to check parts one and two for the first ten questions in this series—and if you'd like to answer these for yourself, you can find the complete list here!

11. Where am I wrong?

This is one of those questions that really shows how perspective changes over time, not because my answer is dramatically different, but because it isn't. Last time I answered this, I admitted to being wrong in lots of areas: too much yelling as a mom, too much shame I was still holding onto as a woman. Too many regrets, too much darkness. Too much swearing. Too much still left to learn about the world and my place in it.

And while I don't yell (or swear) as much these days, I still have some of that other stuff. I still regret things I've done—and things I haven't done. There are still things I'm ashamed of, still parts of me that are shadowed by darkness. There's still so much to learn.

What's different now is that I don't always see those things as flaws anymore. I don't always see them as evidence of "wrong"ness. Time has taught me to look at those things as evidence of process. Will I get life wrong sometimes? Sure I will, just like anyone else does. But I'm learning.

12. What potential memories am I bartering, and is the profit worth the price?

Questions like this always make me think of The Neverending Story, where Bastian loses memories each time he uses the Auryn to change things in Fantastica. Those scenes broke my heart, because they show how every choice we makes costs us something—so the first time I answered this, I wrote about fear and safety. About the memories we never make because we're too afraid to try. The trips we don't take, the relationships we can't risk. The food that might've been a favorite if only we tasted it.

I'm still deeply sentimental, so that aspect of my answer hasn't changed. I still treasure my memories and experiences, even the bad ones, because they've shaped the woman I am today. And maybe that's why I try to be so intentional about choosing what matters most...because when we choose comfort over courage, safety over curiosity, or busyness over presence, we miss out on the memories we might have made. And some of those moments, once missed, never come back.

13. Am I the only one struggling not to {fart} during {yoga}?

This is another one of those bracket questions where you can substitute whatever awkward or uncomfortable situation comes to mind. And the first time I answered it, the realization was simple: regardless of the situation, I’m not the only one.

Like most people, I've often felt that my struggles, insecurities, or embarrassing moments somehow set me apart. That maybe no one else could understand the struggle, or that everyone else had things more figured out than I did. But the longer I live, the more I realize how universal the human experience is.

Sure, we all have a unique story. We have different histories, personalities, talents, and coping mechanisms. But the emotions underneath those stories—doubt and certainty, fear and rejection, celebration and grief—are familiar to everyone. And while I know I'm the only person living my exact life with my exact circumstances, it comforts me to be reminded that I'm not the only one still stumbling through the learning process.

And neither are you.

14. What do I love to practice?

Another answer that hasn’t changed: writing.

Writing has been the most consistent practice in my life because it touches nearly every part of who I am. It enriches my faith, fueling my self awareness journey as I study the Bible or answer questions for personal growth in my journals. On this blog, it helps me share lessons learned through life’s challenges. On social media, it gives me a way to encourage people when they’re struggling. And in my novels, writing lets me turn simple words into stories that explore healing, hope, and human resilience.

After all these years, the practice itself still matters just as much as the outcome. Because every page—whether it’s a journal entry, a blog post, or a chapter in a novel—is another step in the conversation between who I am and who I’m still becoming.

15. Where could I work less and achieve more?

My original answer to this made me laugh, because apparently I've been wrestling this challenge for a long time. Back then, I wrote about being scattered and jumping between multiple projects, writing thousands of words one day, then ignoring my computer the next. I thought the solution should be simple: set a schedule and stick to it.

Since then, life has taught me that creative work doesn't always cooperate with tidy schedules. Complex PTSD makes it easier to burnout. ADHD can cripple executive function. Sometimes life just interrupts, and allowing yourself to rest is the most productive thing you can do.

But the heart of my original answer is as true now as it was then. I still work best when my energy is focused, my time is protected, and I honor my own boundaries rather than letting distraction seep into the corners of my life. So maybe the real answer has nothing to do with working less or accomplishing more. Maybe it's just about working with intention and practicing habits that shape your life slowly.

Because resting time is not wasted time—it's the recognition that when we think about what matters most, we should count ourselves too.

*****

It's interesting, looking back at these prompts after so long. When I compare the old answers to the new ones, there's a clear line between my younger self and myself today—the old me was hungry for deeper meaning, while the current me is fascinated by process. Questions about being wrong, about the memories we trade for safety, about whether we’re alone or what we do with our time and energy…none of those questions have final answers. Our responses shift as life changes us, and experience steadily reshapes understanding.

When I read those old responses, I don't see a girl who had everything figured out. I see the process of learning to ask the right questions. And that’s where real growth begins.

We don't have to have the perfect answers right away. We just need enough curiosity to examine our lives, enough honesty to admit when we’re wrong. Enough heart to treasure the memories we’re making, and recognize that our struggles are rarely as lonely as they feel. This is the growth that surprises us most—when we realize that the person we used to be was already working toward the person we've become.

Next week we’ll look at the final five questions and see what time has added to those original answers. But until then, let me encourage you to consider your own responses, because sometimes those answers are exactly what you need to...

Want to connect in a radical way that doesn't require you to search social feeds, keep track of URLs, or hunt for my content? I've got a weekly newsletter that'll give you all the best of my content in a quick  Monday-morning recap, straight to your inbox. It's totally free, and as social media algorithms get harder and harder to navigate, signing up is the best way to keep up with everything I'm up to—without running all over the internet.

Blast From The Past: Twenty Questions, Part II

Lat week, I shared the first five self reflection questions from an article I first read over a decade ago. Questions that promised, perhaps dramatically, to change my life. And of course I didn't expect that answering those questions would immediately make me a beautiful, brilliant millionaire—but I did wonder how they might impact my developing self awareness. At that time, I was in the process of reevaluating life priorities and letting go of unnecessary things, adjusting my goals for mindset and personal growth.

I wrote my answers to those questions, wondering how they might help me as I dove into learning from the past, hoping those lessons from life experience would guide me into becoming a better person. A better woman. A better mom.

It's funny sometimes, how looking back at old journals feels almost like time travel. Some entries make me laugh. Others make me cringe. And now and then, I catch myself in a moment that opens a conversation between the person I used to be and the person I’m still becoming. But that’s the thing about reflection: it doesn’t just show us how we’ve changed. It also reveals the parts that stayed the same. The questions we keep asking. The values we circle back to. The patterns that make focusing on what matters most a little easier.

Today we're looking at the next five questions from that original list. And while, like last week, some of the answers are surprisingly similar to what I wrote back then, others have changed a bit. What's interesting is that every one still shows me something new about who I was, who I am, and who I hope to become.

If you haven't seen it yet, feel free to check last week's post for the first five questions—and if you'd like to answer these for yourself, you can find the complete list here!

6. How do I want to be different because I lived in this world?

Looking back on this one made me laugh, because no matter how different I think I am today, my thought process is very much the same. Back then, I wrote about how people change over time. How we’re all born small and helpless, and life slowly teaches us, one experience at a time, to become something more. We learn to walk and talk and feed ourselves, but hopefully we also grow in less obvious ways too—developing character, empathy, compassion, and the kind of conscience that writes a legacy.

Younger-me had just begun to notice the earliest hints of age in the mirror, and she imagined her future self as a soft-spoken old woman with long grey hair and faded, smile-crinkled eyes. Someone patient and understanding. The kind of woman who could support her daughters and eventually spoil some grandchildren.

These days, it's easier to see the passage of time. The grey hairs are multiplying—and the years have carved themselves in lines around my eyes and creases that deepen when I smile.

What hasn’t changed is the goal. I still hope my days—the good ones and the bad—are shaping me into someone kinder and more understanding than I used to be. Someone accepting. Someone forgiving. Someone who chooses peace. A woman with emotional self awareness, whose personal growth over time is visible beyond the pages of a journal.

Am I always soft-spoken and understanding? Absolutely not. But I do like to think I’m closer to that woman now than I was when I first imagined her. And who knows? Maybe by the time those grandkids arrive, I’ll have grown into her completely.

7. Are {vegans} better people?

This question is meant to help us highlight whatever group we secretly admire or find intimidating, and regardless of the suggested phrasing, those brackets can hold anything—runners, entrepreneurs, minimalists, parents who seem to have everything together. It's a great way to show us where we're comparing ourselves to others, sometimes without even realizing it.

Back then, my answer was simple: no group is actually “better.” Every community has people who are kind and thoughtful. Every group has people who see themselves as superior. And these many years later, that truth is still undeniable.

Whether we’re talking about career paths, parenting styles, diets, politics, education levels, financial "success," or just about anything else, human beings have a remarkable talent for dividing ourselves. We sort ourselves by size, shape, color, perceived value...and then we tell ourselves that we're the ones who've got it figured out.

But time has taught me that none of those things make any group universally "better." Most people are simply doing the best they can with the tools they have access to—and the real measure of character has nothing to do with which group we're tied to. The true value of humanity is our ability to look past the labels and understand each other as individuals. Because the people who make the biggest difference aren’t the ones trying to prove they’re better. They’re the ones willing to be kind.

8. What is my body telling me?

This was one of my favorite questions the first time around, and it is this time, too.

Back then, my answer focused as much on the value of trusting your instincts as it did on listening to your body. Some of my worst experiences came from ignoring the internal awareness that something wasn’t right, and I was only beginning to understand that our bodies often recognize danger, exhaustion, or stress long before our minds are ready to admit it.

These days, the lesson feels a little more nuanced. Our bodies are constantly communicating. They tell us when we need rest, nourishment, movement—and sometimes, they insistently demand that we slow down and stop pretending we’re invincible. The hard part is that we spend so much time learning to ignore those signals.

We push through fatigue. We dismiss pain. We skip meals. We carry stress like it’s normal, and convince ourselves we’ll deal with the consequences later.

One thing life has taught me is that “later” shows up when it's ready, whether we’re ready or not.

So I try to listen a little more carefully now. To notice when my body needs fuel, when it needs rest, and when it’s asking for patience instead of productivity. Some days are better than others...but I’m working on it.

9. How much junk could a chic chick chuck if a chic chick could chuck junk?

I remember being annoyed by this question the first time I read it. The original article had a brief explanation that basically boiled down to: stop collecting stuff and work on your mind and spirit, because enlightenment is better than shoes. The premise was sound, but the question itself? Honestly, I was speechless.

I think I understand it a little better now, though. Decluttering is about so much more than closets and bins—it's about the stuff we collect in our minds just as much as it's about the stuff in our homes. Sure, maybe it's clothes and old trinkets. But sometimes it's obligations, expectations, and relationships that aren't serving the current chapter in our lives.

Life has taught me letting go is just as important as holding on. And sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is clear a little space, whether it's internal or external, to make room for what matters.

The phrasing of the question may seem a little silly, but the lesson behind it is deceptively valuable.

10. What's so funny?

This question always makes me smile, because the honest answer is anything, depending on the moment. Some of my deepest, most genuine laughter has found me in the middle of difficult seasons. Sometimes life takes us to places where the only real choices are to laugh or cry—and when I can, I choose laughter.

This doesn’t make the hard things disappear, but I look at humor as a pressure valve. A break in the chaos. A moment of relief. Laughter reminds us that even when life is heavy, hope brings joy.

My sense of humor hasn’t changed much since the first time I answered this question. I still laugh at stupid things, crack inappropriate jokes, and spend my happiest moments giggling over hilarious nonsense with my favorite people. But that laughter? Those inside jokes no one else would understand? Those "you had to be there" memories?

I collect them, and I save them for later. Because they tend to glow in the dark.

*****

Looking back on these questions after all this time has reminded me how strangely personal growth tends to work. We imagine it as something dramatic—we call it "reflecting on who you used to be" and "learning to understand yourself." We watch for big turning points, hoping to record bold decisions and life-changing revelations.

But most of the time, growth is quiet, and the evidence is not in the questions that make you think about your life. It's in the way your answers to those questions evolve. It's the lessons we didn't fully understand the first time, and the moments when we realize the younger versions of ourselves were already searching for the truths we're living today.

And it's okay when those lessons don't land overnight. Becoming kinder, learning not to compare ourselves to others, respecting our bodies when they ask for rest, letting go of what no longer serves us...those things unfold slowly. One moment, one experience, one belly laugh at a time.

So next week, we’ll revisit the next five questions from this list and together, we'll see what else time and life have added to the answers. Until then, I hope these questions encourage you to check your own answers…because sometimes in the answers, you find new ways to...

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Blast From The Past: Twenty Questions, Part I

If you've been with me for any length of time, you know I've been a writer for most of my life. For me, storytelling began in the early 1990s, with a desperate girl in need of escape. My life felt like one terrifying implosion after another, and books quickly became an outlet I depended on when I couldn't make sense of the world or the people around me. Stories taught me the art of self reflection, keeping me company when the problems in my life made social interactions challenging. Traumatized characters showed me that learning from the past is possible, that healing after difficult experiences is a journey worth taking, and that it's okay when your perspective changes over time.

When I had no role models to lean on for guidance, books gave me the security to see how life experiences shape who we become—and from this, I fell in love with the magic of language as an artistic tool. I write now in nearly every form I can find, from novels to social media to poetry.

But I journal too, because I think there's something powerful in creating a record of ourselves. Our personal stories matter, and when we share those stories with each other, we open doorways to universal growth.

Sometimes I look back on those old journals, examining different versions of myself, making peace with the past that made me. Sometimes I wonder how I made it through. Sometimes I see the framework of emotional growth that helped me become a stronger person.

And sometimes, like today, I stumble upon something worth repeating.

When I first read this list a decade ago, I remember thinking, "Wow. 20 questions that could change your life, huh? Might be overestimating the power of those questions..." It felt like a dramatic title. A probably too-lofty goal. But honestly, I've always been a bit of a personal reflection geek, and the idea that a little game of twenty questions could change the way I looked at myself, my life, and my purpose in the world was intriguing.

So I played along, and as it turned out, some of these questions were harder to answer than I expected. Below, you'll find the first five questions with my answers—then and now.

1. What questions should I be asking myself?

When I first did this, I asked myself, "Where am I going in my life?" and "Am I really who I want to be?" Deceptively simple questions, I know—and so were my answers. "Where am I going?" makes us think of what our goals are, and "Am I really who I want to be?" makes us question ourselves as people.

But honesty makes us realize how little control we really have in this life...and contentment gives us surrender. Not because there's no goal or drive to move forward, but because we learn to accept that all we can give this life is our best. Which is why my answers haven't changed at all. Just as introspective, just as tongue-in-cheek. And just as honest. "We'll see."

2. Is this what I want to be doing?

I love that this answer hasn't really changed either, because I'm still just as me as I've ever been. Originally, what I wrote in my journal was, "Right now? No. What I want to be doing is lying on a chaise on a beach somewhere, basking in the sun while cabana boys bring me cocktails and entertainment. But in general? Writing as a career? Yep."

In the moment, I'm not sure I'd choose a beach anymore. Maybe I'd choose a giant bathtub full of bubbles, surrounded by candles and wine and good books. Maybe I'd choose a museum or some grand and beautiful place. Maybe I'd lose myself in the serenity of a mountain view. But as a life choice driven by purpose and clarity and the desire to help other people grow? I'd definitely still choose writing.

3. Why worry?

The old me was a liar. She had a very calm, very self-assured, "Who me?" She acknowledged worry, admitted to problems, and then absolutely said, "Make a plan, take the steps, let it go." Very Elsa of her.

These days, those basic process steps are still there, but they're backed by a far more powerful mindset. Yes, I still try to be mindful. Yes, I'm still a fixer who analyzes the issue, sets an action plan, and gets moving. But what's different is a sense of certainty that comes with acceptance. I see the issue and do what I can...but I also give it to God and trust that there's something of value right there in the midst of the problem. The old me tried hard not to worry; the new me looks for opportunities to learn.

4. Why do I like {cupcakes} more than I like {people}?

This one was fun the first time around because even with changing the words in the brackets, it made me get honest with myself. And just like with the last question, my answers are mostly the same—but for different reasons.

The first time around, I changed the brackets so that the question read: "Why do I like reading more than housework?" and "Why do I like texting more than talking?" And in both instances, the answer was simple: I am a procrastinator. I like doing things in my own way, at my own pace, on my own time. Back then, I saw this as a deep personal failing. Evidence of laziness. Stubbornness. Lack of drive. But what I see now is a deep respect for my own time and goals. I still prefer texting to talking—because it allows me to stay focused on what I'm doing in the moment. I like to tell people that "I use my phone; my phone does not use me." And I do always answer texts...usually in three to five business days.

Probably because I still use reading to avoid housework.

5. How do I want the world to be different because I lived in it?

Honestly, I still love my first answer to this question, so I'm just going to share it:

It's hard to grasp the reality that any of us have the power to impact (or even change) the world by the things we do or say or accomplish while we're here. Even our greatest stars started as children—regular kids who ate weird foods and drooled a little and fell down a lot. It's easy to get caught up in the idea that I'm just one person. And then we think, "I can't change the world! I don't have that kind of power or influence!"

But the thing is, we do. 

We interact every day with men, women, and children who might remember us. People who might be left with an impression of a more loving world if we would take the time to love them. They might believe in a more accepting world if we accept them. They might know a kinder and more forgiving world if we were kind and forgiving. And through this, we choose the world we leave behind.

*****

It's funny how people change over time, and how looking back at old journal entries can show us where we've grown, where we've stayed the same, and where we've moved slowly from one person to another. Sometimes I barely recognize the woman I used to be, and other times, I can see exactly where the focus of young-me set the trajectory for the life I'm living now.

There are days when I ache for the version of me who was hurting and didn't know how to deal with it, and other days when I look back on a young girl learning the fine art of living...and I admire her fortitude.

Every once in a while, I discover a quiet thread of magnificent continuity woven through the chaos. Similar questions. Similar longings. The resilient—and possibly stubborn—determination to believe that life can mean something more if we’re brave enough to examine it honestly.

Maybe that’s the magic of questions like these. Not that they change your life overnight, but that they invite you to keep asking where your life is going. That they urge you to keep growing, not by accident but by paying attention to the person you’re becoming.

Next week, we’ll revisit the next five questions from this list and see what's changed, what's stayed the same, and what's improved with time. Feel free to leave your own answers to these questions in the comments below...and until next time, remember to...

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Especially With You: Excerpt From STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM

Healing after trauma isn't easy, and moving forward after a toxic marriage can feel almost impossible. The fear of being hurt again drives protecting your heart to the top of your priority list, where the boundary between vulnerability and strength blurs until you can't imagine ever trusting yourself again—let alone anyone else.

The Freedom Series has always been an exploration of what that really looks like behind the scenes. FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM was never just a women's fiction novel about healing after abuse, and STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM goes deeper than the average romance. Christine's story walks boldly and honestly through one of the hardest parts of life after domestic violence: the emotional healing and self-discovery that often feel like drowning, long after you leave.

Learning to trust again is complicated, and Christine's struggle with balancing caution and connection leave her unsure of everything—except Aiden. Cautious but hopeful, she embarks on a journey of strength after heartbreak. A journey of growth after betrayal. A journey that asks whether courage in relationships means closing your heart… or opening it with care.

FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM showed us the death of everything Christine believed. This month, STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM invites you into a resurrection, where the stakes are higher than ever.

This is her freedom story.

Excerpt from Still Fighting for Freedom by Brandi Kennedy

© 2026 Brandi Kennedy. All rights reserved.

I twisted my hands in my lap, strands of my hair whispering against his t-shirt. “I’m ready to move on, partly for myself but also because I’ve felt safe here. The trial’s coming…and I can’t risk him getting out and finding this place, putting the other women in danger. But my stomach’s in knots all the time and my mind has been running circles all afternoon. It needs to happen, but there’s a part of me that…just doesn’t want it. And I’m terrified of being on my own.”

He waited in silence, his arm still around my back, his thumb tracing slow circles at my waist. Finally, he took a deep breath and rested his chin on top of my head. “Are you actually afraid of moving, or are you afraid because taking that step means you’ll have to take other ones?”

“What if it’s both?” When he lifted his chin, I tipped my head to look up, gazing into golden brown eyes shadowed by thick lashes.

The lashes lowered as he examined my face, and I wondered what he was thinking. Before I could ask, he cupped my cheek in his hand and gently set his lips on mine. “You didn’t say which was more.”

“I don’t know which is more.” Complicated as they were, my feelings for Aiden gave me hope. And after everything I’d suffered, I needed that. Torn, I pressed my face to his chest, and as my cheek slid over the dogtags he still wore under his shirt, I hated myself.

“Talk to me, Chris. What’s on your mind?”

The softness in his voice brought tears to my eyes. I pulled away and sat up, turning to face him. Needing to see his eyes, gauge his reactions. “Are we friends, Aiden? Or is this…old time’s sake?”

His mouth fell open and his eyes widened with surprise. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

I crossed my arms, leaning back as he closed his mouth. I couldn’t tell which reaction was more dominant, hurt or anger. “I lied. I do know what I’m most afraid of.”

He closed his eyes, shook his head. “Okay.”

“It’s you.”

He frowned, taking a shaky breath, and as he turned—carefully avoiding me—to straddle the bench, I realized how much I’d gotten used to physical contact with him. I wanted him to reach for my hand like always, but he crossed his arms, only to uncross them and run his hands down his thighs, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “You’re afraid…of me?” He slid back, increasing the space between us, and I suddenly felt as if those few inches were an infinite chasm.

He wasn’t angry or surprised anymore, but the pain on his face made me scramble for words. “It’s just a lot at once. It’s not that I’m afraid of you, or even that I don’t trust you.” I raised a hand when he opened his mouth, and he clamped it shut, arching his brows. “It’s that I don’t trust myself or my choices anymore. Am I feeling this way because I’m ready to move on, or because it’s you? What if I’m not as ready as I’d like to be, or you think you still have the same feelings but it’s nostalgia? I can’t risk having my heart broken again. Not now.” He was still frowning, looking everywhere but at me. “And you didn’t answer my question either.”

Now his eyes darted to my face. “Which one?”

“Are we still friends? Or is this remnants of old feelings? Unfinished business?”

He held my gaze, a slow smile softening his mouth as he took my hands. “We are not friends.” I moved to pull away, but he tightened his grip. “We will never be friends.” My eyes filled with tears and I pulled harder, but he didn’t let go. “We will always, always be more, Christine. And while there are remnants of old feelings, I doubt this business between us will ever be finished.”

As the words sank in, I stopped struggling and he loosened his grip on my hands. I stared down at our fingers, blurred by a film of tears, struggling to control emotions that clogged my throat and robbed me of words. My hands were shaking, my heart was pounding—and still, my skin warmed as joy flooded my bloodstream. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

*****

Several scenes from this series are drawn from or inspired by real events in my life, and because of those experiences, overcoming a fear of love was especially challenging for me. Poor partner choices left me with complicated feelings about love, and for many years I saw emotional safety in romance as akin to fairy tales—cute, but not entirely believable.

Writing Christine's story gave me space to sit in the tension, on the battleground where fear and hope coexist. It gave me room to explore the idea that there is love after survival. More than that, it taught me the power of setting emotional boundaries. Of reclaiming your voice. Of rediscovering yourself after trauma. And I think that's why personal growth through pain has become the core of my brand.

Because sometimes, choosing love after heartbreak means learning to choose yourself first. Sometimes the best second chance love story is the one you share only with you.

STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM releases this month, and I hope you're just as excited about it as I am. I hope it touches your heart. I hope it nurtures your compassion. And if you've ever struggled to heal after domestic abuse, I hope Christine reminds you to...

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My First Memory is Silent

Last night, I finally finished editing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM. There are small steps left to complete before the book releases in March 2026—but the big stuff is done. The thing is, finishing a novel is easy to minimize, even if you're the one who wrote it.

I saw a meme once that challenged people to describe their jobs or hobbies as crimes, and I laughed as I added my answer in the comments: "I force people to pay me to lie to them." In some ways, that's totally accurate. I write fiction novels populated with made-up characters living imaginary lives in carefully crafted settings. And yes, people pay for them. But in other ways, the comment itself is the lie.

Because for me, as the author behind the scenes, every character and plot-line and setting are sculpted in inescapable truth. Writing a book is more than just making up a story. It's the co-mingling of real-life trauma and healing in progress, not only for me but for the readers I hope to reach. It's resilience and hope, packaged together as proof that there's light after darkness.

I used to think the idea of hope after trauma was idealistic, and that healing through art was almost idiotic. When childhood trauma teaches you that monsters are real, surviving and creating don't exactly feel like they'd go well together—the cost of creativity seems too high, writing through adversity looks too hard, and stories that heal are relegated to Disney-level fantasies. Nothing more than cartoons and fairy tales. Daydreams for children.

I actually didn't realize how wrong I was until someone asked me if I found healing in my own writing, the way I hope my readers will. But that's exactly what I've done, literally turning pain into beauty. Writing through grief, fear, rejection, insecurity, all in the name of art as healing. Every book I write, every time I muster new determination to publish, is a wound turned into light—and not just for my readers.

At the end of writing a novel, the air changes and suddenly everything is different. The last sentence ends, the story is over—and while the world moves on unknowing, the writer pauses. Alone with the cursor on the page. Realizing that life has shifted, and something that did not exist before has come into being.

Sometimes this recognition is simple and quiet, but there are times when it washes in like ocean tides, each new wave crashing higher and reaching further than the last. Joy builds like rushing water, salty with the taste of incredulous tears. And the rhythmic pull of disbelief catches confidence in its grasp, dragging toward the undertow of imposter syndrome.

"How could I have done this? I'm only...me." And the waves crash in again, bubbling with pride, adjusting landscapes by grains of sand—just as novels are written one word at a time.

For me, editing is part of writing, and the novel is not truly written until it's polished. Holes closed, errors repaired, imaginary people ruthlessly sculpted into mothers, brothers, sisters, friends. Some books take months to complete; others take years. This one took over a decade.

Because my first memory is silent.

I can't remember the version of me who existed before trauma. The first conscious memory I have is a two-clip silent film of a little girl. She's three or four years old, and in the first clip, I watch her walk into the frame. Slow and steady, with curious blue eyes and reddish-brown hair, her nightgown nothing more than an oversized hand-me-down t-shirt. She freezes at the end of the hallway, blue eyes tracing the wreckage.

And suddenly I am looking through her eyes...because she is me.

The living room I'd played in the day before was destroyed. The place where I learned to laugh sparkled with broken glass; glittering shards of shattered crystal figurines winked in early morning light, and it might have been beautiful. Except that it wasn't. The cushions on the wood-framed furniture I'd climbed on, cuddled on, napped on—each one sliced brutally open, spilling stuffing like blood from a wound.

There are no voices. No footsteps. No sounds. Just the light, twinkling in a broken home.

I don't remember fear or crying. Just the confusion and curiosity of a child observing the aftermath of disaster. And for a long time, I thought healing meant erasing that moment. Forgetting, or maybe outgrowing, the story those images told. Now, I know that healing does not remove the wound. Like light on shattered glass, it reflects. It refracts, shifting perceptions.

I used to write with constant company. The steady weight of a dog at my feet. Sometimes he'd curl up beside me, drop his big, heavy head in my lap, and sigh peacefully, lulled into sleep by the tapping of computer keys. Sometimes, because he trusted me so completely, he'd sprawl out and surrender himself to dreams. He snored often, unapologetic and utterly relaxed. And he barked in his sleep.

My first memory was silent, but those years of writing were not. Those years were filled with warmth and life and the steady brown eyes of my most trusted secret-keeper.

This is the first novel I've written without a snoring, sighing, sometimes-barking soundtrack. The first story I've finished without ever reaching absentmindedly to ease his dreams or scratch behind his ears.

And yet...it is written. So nearly complete.

STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM has earned its title. I wrote it through loss and grief, and a hundred doctor's appointments as my youngest daughter juggled a cancer scare. I wove words through the tension of balancing isolation and fear, shaping bits of my real-life world into a story painted in shades of truth. I typed slowly through illness and exhaustion, climbing mountains of words pock-marked with setbacks and delays and moments when it would have been so easy to just...stop.

Last night I watched the cursor blink at the end of the last sentence and I wanted to shout it to the world. To squeal like a child on Christmas morning. But I didn't, because some joys bloom best in the quiet, where victory is treasured alone before it is shared.

Because light is not just the absence of darkness. It is the metamorphosis of survival.

As a little girl, I stood on the outskirts of a room glittering with brokenness, and I could do nothing. I could not mend the holes, erase the mistakes, or inject hope into the pain of loss. But I am not a little girl anymore. And with these mountains of words there is something I can do to heal wounds and shift perspectives. I can take a scene so common it's hardly fiction no matter how it's labeled, and I can paint sunlight that illuminates sparkling devastation.

I can steady the echo of grief with courageous determination. I can blend the confusion of a child with the clarity of an adult, shaping the realization that beauty and hope are not naive—slowly molding pages into permission to leave the dark behind, without pretending it was never there.

Because that was always the point. A wound turned into light does not deny the wound, it merely acknowledges the truth. It remembers the silence even when it cannot remember the scream. My life will always be colored by those early years, sparking truth from a place that wrote childhood dissociation into my story.

My first memory is silent. But this book is not.

The girl is gone. And now, the woman speaks.

*****

People who don't understand what it took to write this novel often ask why the Freedom Series highlights darkness, why the trauma stays on the page. Why I won't soften the edges.

I tell them trust and safety are built on honesty, not denial. I witnessed my mother's survival. I saw the depth of her suffering, and the help she needed but never got. I lived in the echoes. And I learned that silence changes nothing.

If even one reader finds hope in what I've written—or proof that silence does not get the final word—then every single solitary second spent sculpting this story was worth it.

STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM will release in March 2026. Because survivors do not lose their ability to rise. They do not lose their ability to create. They do not lose their ability to speak. Our darkness does not erase our capacity for light or our right to shine. And our wounds do not write the end of our story, as long as we...

I write a lot. And between this blog, social media, and my novels, I can seem hard to keep up with. But here's the good news: you don't have to keep up with anything, because I 've got a weekly newsletter written specifically for you. It's one Monday-morning recap that links everything I'm up to, all in one place—your inbox.