You Are What You Eat

I overheard a simple question today, and it felt a little like pieces of a puzzle falling together. It wasn't even a question meant to be answered, but I thought about it long after the moment passed—because maybe the answer to a question like that says a lot about who we are and what we're made of.

We talk a lot about consumption these days. We have catchy slogans like, "You are what you eat," and we watch hundreds of thousands of body and health-related videos every day. How to look better, how to eat better, how to do intermittent fasting. We're worried about gym clothes and how to burn fat and which foods have the most fiber or least carbs or highest protein.

Then we worry about screen time and technology addiction. We analyze the music we listen to, the movies we watch, the books we read, and the impact certain words may or may not have when passed from one person to another. (Seriously, don't get me started on the Christian aversion to modern-day "cuss words." Side Note: The fear of cuss words is called Kakologophobia, which I think is hilarious.)

"You are what you eat" usually comes from a good place of dietary mindfulness, self-awareness, and moderation. But what about non-traditional consumption—like social media and advertising and all the other things we take in during the course of the day? What about the idea that what we absorb with eyes and ears shapes us just as much as what we eat? And what if we learned to look at this consumption with compassion, rather than comparison?

The question I heard this morning was, "When's the last time you put your phone down feeling more grateful than when you picked it up?"

I still remember the world before smartphones, and the way my first one felt like an open door. Through it, I could access people and places from all over the world. I could look up anything I wanted to know, and as social media became more and more prominent, I fed my sense of curiosity almost endlessly. At a moment's notice, I could research any topic, learn the answer to any question. The smartphone connected the ecosystem of humanity in a beautiful way...until it didn't. Somewhere along the way, our phones stopped being tools we use, and became collars that tightened with each passing day.

I think social media had a lot to do with that. And I don't often struggle with comparison, but I think we're all susceptible to how it chips away at gratitude and contentment. We want that body, that house, that relationship, that life—and before we know it, we've consumed so much of other people that our personal development isn't even personal anymore, and our sense of identity is dictated by where we stand on a scale of systemized envy.

We talk about it all the time. We limit social media, campaign against screen time, campaign to keep our kids from drowning in an ocean of content they're not ready for. And now, we compare that, too. We judge each other based on how often we post, what apps we're using, how many devices our children do or do not have access to.

But maybe social media wasn't the whole problem after all. Maybe it only highlights a problem that was already there: the trap of all-or-nothing mentality.

We've all fallen into this one. It's the one that makes us think that if eating an entire cake is bad, cake itself must be bad. The one that tells us if green eyes are pretty, brown eyes are not. The one that makes us choose between perfectly sterile, photo-ready homes and the cluttered spaces we actually live in.

The all-or-nothing dichotomy that stole our discernment. That made us forget the joy of all-things-in-moderation, leaving us afraid to consume and interact at all.

But what if we exchanged comparison for curiosity? What if we saw the world as a giant spice rack that's delicious specifically because of its variety?

As a mom, I watched my children learn the world around them by consuming. Dora the Explorer helped them learn about adventure and problem-solving. Ni Hao Kai-Lan nurtured my oldest daughter's fascination with foreign language and culture. The Backyardigans taught my youngest that despite the rigidity of Autism, pretend play is not illegal. And music taught them both to love movement and storytelling.

They weren't comparing themselves; they were learning that the world is bigger than they are. That one person might feel this way, and another might feel that way. If the world is a spice rack, media consumption taught my children that it's okay if some people like cilantro and other people don't. Not because one is better, but because it's okay to be different.

They learned about the world from books, from songs, from TV shows. They've watched how-to videos, listened to podcasts—and yes, they've scrolled through social media. And now I wonder if one of the greatest life lessons for all of us was buried there all along.

Maybe it doesn't have to be all-or-nothing. Maybe our phones aren't the problem at all. Maybe it's deeper than the vicarious experiences we find on those screens.

Maybe the real problem is what we allow those things to bring out of us.

*****

These days, I keep my phone on silent most of the time. I've turned off the notifications for almost every app. And I'm getting better and better at asking "What can I learn from this?" instead of "Why don't I have that?"

The truth is, we're consuming some thing in some way almost all the time—but there's a difference between consuming something and being consumed by it, and we still have a choice. We can consume endless content and surrender control of our narrative, or we can consume the experiences of the people around us and let those experiences fuel our growth.

The same Instagram feed that discourages one person inspires another, the same movie that softens one heart will harden another, and the same phone that connects us to people we love can convince us we aren't enough. Because the problem isn't the feed or the phone or the book or the number of letters in a particular word. The world is not inherently dangerous, and the things we consume universally are not universally problematic.

And maybe it's not about consuming less or comparing less, either. Maybe we just need to pay closer attention, to notice what leaves us more grateful. To appreciate what makes us more curious. Undaunted living has never meant hiding, isolating, or rejecting the world, and we don't need to avoid every challenge that comes our way.

We grow the most by moving through our challenges without losing ourselves in them—and a truly Undaunted life is found in the courage to choose curiosity over comparison and appreciation over envy.

You don't have to be fearless or untouchable to be Undaunted. You just need the kind of heart that still sees beauty in ugly places and creativity where everyone else conforms. Choose abundance no matter what you have. Remember who you were before the world had an opinion, before comparison convinced you that curiosity wasn't enough. Wherever you go, there you are anyway, so you might as well...

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Permission to be Human

Today in church, my family lined the row beside me: my youngest daughter, my oldest brother and his girlfriend, his two youngest daughters, and a family friend. The church felt full in those moments, and so did I.

Our pastor talked about the balance between faithful work and spiritual rest, and how easy it is to slip away from that balance. The tendency to perform as a workaholic. The easy slide into laziness. The way imbalance impacts self acceptance when we think we're not keeping up, and the way that same imbalance stunts our personal growth when we stop trying for too long.

It's funny sometimes, how what I hear in church is so aligned to what I'm experiencing privately. Struggling to keep self compassion from becoming self absolution. Embracing imperfection without letting go of effort. Giving myself permission to rest without hearing hurtful echoes of my childhood. 

Letting go of unrealistic expectations, learning how to be more authentic, allowing myself to celebrate growth after hardship without fear of pride. Accepting the complexity of being human.

When I got home, it was seventy-six degrees in my house because the a/c is on the fritz—and the trouble with seventy-six degrees is, I have Chiari Malformation, post-covid asthma, and moderate heat intolerance.

So...I took a cold shower, turned my bedroom fan on blast, and spent most of the afternoon feeling guilty for being affected by something as simple as the weather. Because here's the thing. My to-do list doesn't care if the house feels like an oven. My giveaway blanket still needs crocheting. My office desk still needs building. The paperback for STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM still needs formatting. This blog post still needs writing.

The show must go on.

And maybe that's part of the problem—or maybe it's the solution I didn't know I was looking at.

My oldest daughter told me once that I have "main character energy," and I was insulted.

I'm a single mom, and I raised my kids mostly alone. I went to the appointments, waited during the surgeries. I learned the names of dozens of doctors. I kept track of favorite foods, dietary limitations, medications. I hosted friends, drove endless miles. And I bought eleventy-thousand glue sticks every August for as long as I can remember.

I did those things while building a career from the ground up—again, mostly alone. I wrote every chapter, coordinated every blog post, designed every piece of social media content. I did it while my books briefly made bestseller lists, and I did it when weeks passed without so much as a single sale. I noticed when comments flew in like hurricane winds, and I wrote anyway when every word was met with silence.

And I did those things while juggling relationships that mean the world to me. The time with God that keeps me healing from the past and looking toward the future. The bond I share with my cousin, without whom I could not be what I am. The friends who taught me emotional resilience and vulnerability, healing and personal growth. The safe people I laugh with, who give me permission to be human and keep loving me anyway. The ones who see the intensity of a deep-thinking introvert...and never turn away.

For forty-two years, I have been daughter, sister, friend, aunt, and mother. I have been wife and ex-wife. Student and teacher. The counselled and the counselor, the driver and the driven. In turns, I have played the parts of chauffer, chef, event coordinator, financial advisor, interior designer, maid, nurse, party planner, and therapist. I have acted as coach, handyman, nutritionist, and tutor.

I've made critical decisions that impacted everyone around me—and as the mother of more than one child, I've more than earned my unofficial badge as Peace Talk Facilitator.

But I've never once felt like the main character in anything. Not because my life is small, but because I’ve always understood it as something I’m moving through, rather than something centered on me. And I'm just trying to stay faithful to the human experience I'm caught in, to be mindful of what's in my hands. To see beyond the surface. To stay present, even when I'm stewarding responsibilities that don’t pause just because I’m tired or unsure.

Not because I am the center of the story…but because I choose to be fully present in it.

I think that's what my daughter and I both missed about whatever "main character energy" actually means. Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with a spotlight on a star at center stage. Maybe it doesn't need to be cinematic at all—even if my life does look a little like a sitcom sometimes.

Maybe it's something more simple.

Like light, shifting slowly on the facets of a gem under pressure.

*****

Halfway through the year of no, what I'm learning is that truly knowing yourself, understanding yourself, and accepting yourself are all deeply tied to being okay with being more than one thing.

Some days you're the comedian, some days you're the joke. All too often, you're both at once without knowing how to separate the two. The trick is to embrace all the parts of yourself boldly, with no apology—and trusting the process as time shapes you, facet by facet, into who you're meant to be. Because becoming who you are means you can no longer go back to who you were, and that truth always brings both grief and freedom together.

We've all seen growth through challenges. We've found, or are at least looking for, purpose and healing. We've learned how to push through emotional exhaustion. And regardless of personal identity, I think we all know what it feels like to wonder why people hide parts of themselves in the first place.

And maybe that's part of authenticity, too. Learning to accept yourself as you are, where you are, instead of pretending to be someone you're not. Accepting your limitations, giving yourself grace for mistakes. Overcoming perfectionism that always seems to make just-fine feel like not-enough. Maybe it even means seeing people clearly for the first time, without painting them into who you wish they were.

Maybe it means offering more empathy and understanding, not only to others but also to yourself.

But what if at the core, it's more simple than that? What if you've just been living under the pressure of "main character energy" for too long—and you've started thinking you need someone else's permission to be human?

If that's you today, print this out or take a screenshot or something. Call it a permission slip if you need to. Either way, I hope it reminds you to make room for rest, to make peace with all the facets of who you are, and to...

Full of Possibility

One of the biggest challenges in my life is kind of surprising sometimes. I talk a lot about my author life, sharing what stories have meant to me over the years and how deeply I feel called to spend my time writing books. And sure, sometimes I share about faith and motherhood and what my life looks like behind the scenes; I share what I've learned about personal growth, self-reflection, and healing after trauma. It's no secret that uncertainty and overthinking are constant companions in my mind, and anyone who knows me has probably noticed how close I am at all times to drowning in a pile of unfinished projects.

Currently, I've got a binder full of books to be written, half a dozen baskets filled with crocheted blankets in various stages of completion, boxes of fabric waiting to become something lovely, and a Pinterest account so overstuffed it's almost unbelievable. My creative life is full of possibility.

And to tell you the truth, sometimes that's actually the problem.

It's funny how life transitions can leave us feeling stuck. I mean, here we are, overcoming obstacles, embracing change, moving forward, creating momentum. Some of us are making difficult decisions on the daily, turning potential into something tangible because standing still is simply not an option. And still...trusting the process isn't always easy, is it? Sometimes choosing a direction means letting go of possibilities we might have been excited about. Sometimes taking the next step means learning to accept progress over perfection.

But what about when too many choices keep you stuck, or when waiting for the perfect time leads to decision paralysis? What about when you're standing in a moment brimming with potential, but fear of making the wrong choice makes it hard to move from possibility to progress?

This week a pile of lumber showed me the hidden cost of keeping your options open, the freedom that comes from choosing, and maybe even why it's so hard to make a decision in the first place.

I could almost feel them looking at me. The first time my oldest daughter moved out, I bought them to use as bookshelves as I converted her empty bedroom into an office. Layered with bricks and lined with books, those 2x8 slices of unfinished pine looked like a writer's life on the move. Natural, sturdy. Strong.

I sat beside them for months, using a wobbly card table as a desk, sharing my thoughts on personal growth through everyday moments illustrated in prose. Slowly letting possibility become reality, surrounded by stories I loved. The shelves filled with books, but they held more than words on paper—a stack of memoirs from people I admire stood beside the box that holds my dog's ashes. A little gnome figurine kept my daughter present in the room, even though she didn't live there anymore. A postcard from my mother's house kept her alive in my mind as a I wrote a book she didn't live long enough to read. Potted plants and gifts from friends brought life to the stories those planks held.

And then my daughter moved back in. My younger daughter and I readjusted schedules and plans. We rearranged and made space available again. The bricks went downstairs, where they still stand stacked on the front porch, occasionally swarming with tiny trails of spider mites. And those planks got stacked on the floor. Still full of promise and potential.

Maybe for a while I even liked it better that way, because the options felt unlimited. They could be strong and sturdy bookcases used to replace the cheap ones I got from Walmart years ago. They could be tables, measured and fitted and customized to the couch I built. They could be a new TV stand, or modular storage cubbies, or plant stands. Or they could be the vanity my youngest daughter has been dreaming of. So many possibilities—and I spent countless hours deliberating.

That was over a year ago. And those planks are still exactly what they've always been. Full of potential...and cheated of purpose.

I'm not afraid of messing them up. I'm no expert carpenter, but I'm plenty capable of cutting wood planks into small pieces and turning those pieces into something functional. I'm not afraid of the effort, and technically, I have everything I need to turn that wood into something wonderful. I just haven't done it.

Because once I measure it, cut it, glue it, screw it, and finish it...that's all it can be. If I cut it down and turn it into cubbies, I can't ever make those little pieces into long planks again. When I cut the wood, I cut the options for its usefulness. And maybe that's why choosing one path when everything feels possible feels...impossible.

My oldest daughter doesn't live here anymore. My youngest daughter moved into her room because it's bigger, and once again, I have space that could become an office dedicated to my calling as a writer. That same wobbly card table. Those same plants. The same digital photo frame that reminds me of everything I'm writing toward. And those planks, lying stacked in the corner.

This weekend, I folded the card table and stashed it behind the door. I used some old wire cube shelving to prop those planks up. I ran my fingers over the wood, tracing the warmth of something full of options. I set my laptop there, and stood back for a while, just looking. Thinking about how writing books and crocheting blankets and building furniture are all just different forms of the same thing: turning ideas into reality. Letting go of perfectionism. Making peace with imperfect decisions and building the thing that's needed now, on a quest to create a future you couldn't see before.

Tucking that rickety card table behind the door triggered a mindset shift I hadn't realized I needed, and I stood in that room for while, slowly absorbing the lesson of the moment.

Sometimes, keeping every door open isn't about preserving possibility after all. And we're not always stuck because we don't have enough options—sometimes, what keeps us stuck is the fear of making the wrong choice when there are more options than we know what to do with.

I still need paint or stain or varnish before those planks become the functional desk my office needs. But the planks themselves? Well, I'm pretty sure their destiny has finally been defined.

*****

I won't pretend that overcoming indecision is easy, and I won't discount the fear of choosing one path over another. What I will say is this: I think learning to move forward in uncertainty is directly tied to our emotional healing, commitment, and growth.

There's a grief that comes with decision making, with taking a step forward when the ground feels uncertain. In choosing a direction, a destination, or even a furniture plan, we release other things we might have been hoping for or working toward. And it's okay to admit that sometimes it stings a little.

For me, the addition of a new desk will represent accomplishment and capability. But at least in the short term, it also means the loss of bookcases and end tables and storage cupboards. And even if I change my mind tomorrow, there will come a day when a choice is made, action is taken, and going back is no longer feasible.

And that's okay too.

Someone told me recently that they hate the season I'm in, and there's a part of me that understands why. The truth is, I'm busy. I'm often overwhelmed, I rarely have time for the kind of rest my spirit needs most, and I simply cannot do everything I wish I could. But while this season may be filled with challenges, it's also full of opportunities. To learn. To grow. To change and observe. And through it all, to...

Slow Growth and Steady Hands

I’ve been thinking a lot about slow living, but it's more than building a morning routine or filling quiet weekends with creative hobbies. I mean the kind of slow that puts emotional healing and personal growth on an automated drip. The kind of slow that looks like an IV bag collection, but the bags are filled with self-worth and self-expression, emotional resilience and rejection recovery.

Or maybe I just mean the kind of slow that allows beauty to develop without pressure. Gardening for mental health instead of social media views. Sewing without sharing, crocheting without selling. Just letting this creative life of mine build over time—one small piece layered softly over another until even empty space feels filled with meaning.

Ironically, the slow things I love the most tend to require the most patience. When I'm not creating characters and sculpting plot lines, I hand sew. I grow plants in the scattered corners of my house, and I fuss over their needs like tiny green roommates. I crochet a lot. A few years ago I made a duck for a student at church, I recently made a turtle for another student, and last week I finished a giant wall hanging for my office. I've spent months working on a blanket I'll be giving away here...and once, I literally built a couch because I couldn't find the kind I wanted.

These days, even my home feels like an unfinished project. My office is still evolving. There are Pinterest boards full of furniture plans, screenshot folders packed with crochet inspiration, and sometimes I feel like my brain is buzzing with ideas I'll never have the time or energy to finish.

I think that's why learning to slow down and building a peaceful home are so much on my mind these days. Maybe I'm beginning to notice how much quiet growth happens behind the scenes. Maybe I'm learning to rest without guilt. Maybe slow creativity is teaching me how to overcome perfectionism.

Or maybe letting go of people pleasing is showing me the difference between stillness and stagnation.

This morning, I sat cross-legged on my bed with yarn pooled in my lap, working on the giveaway blanket I mentioned. Allowing myself to appreciate the simplicity of ice-cold water, listening to a sermon on learning boundaries and finding identity in God. The pastor talked about the joy of acceptance and belonging without the complications of legalism, and I found myself nodding along in the quiet spaces between words.

This blanket consists of 725 tiny one-row granny squares in a riot of color, bound and bordered in a deep black that makes the whole thing look like pixelated stained glass. Each square handmade, each color placed with purpose, each join just as imperfect as I am. And in those moments, as my mind stilled enough to soak in the teaching, those one-by-one stitches untangled a chaos I hadn't realized I was caught in.

For the first time in days, I wasn't wrestling words on a page or drowning in the guilt of a closed laptop.

I love writing almost more than anything else but sometimes, even after all these years, the words trip over themselves in my mind. Plots stop moving, characters go silent. My writer life shifts from creative healing to crippling weight. And sometimes, even without fully recognizing the need, my hands move toward slower things. Repetitive things gently built on muscle memory and easy routine.

One stitch, then another and another, counted in whispers that regulate my breathing, my blood pressure, my sense of peace.

I think for a long time, even I misunderstood why I'm so drawn to creative work in the first place. On the surface, I might've said it's about artistic self-expression or the whimsy of a handmade life, and part of it is, but...deeper than that, I think creating with your hands is reclamation of agency. Even when it's silent, creation is the use of a voice you may not have even known you had.

Growing up, writing gave me permission to speak without feeling interrupted or dismissed, and fiction started my healing journey even before I learned to tell my own truth. Stories of hope and healing after trauma gave my real-life experiences a way to exist, in places where I didn't have to fight to feel heard. And sometimes I think that instinct still follows me, into quieter creativity.

There’s something strong and precious about building something slowly when life feels rushed or performative. Crochet teaches patience because you can’t skip ahead. Plants grow on their own time no matter how badly you want proof of what's happening beneath the soil. And building furniture takes trial and error, mistakes, adjustments, and time. None of it happens instantly, and it rarely looks impressive until it's finished.

Maybe that’s why these things are speaking to me lately. Internet culture has trained us to crave visible progress. Numbers and growth charts, recognition and applause. Evidence that our work matters. For writers and creators, it’s easy to fall into measuring success by visibility, and I’ve been wrestling with that for a while now—not because I want fame or spotlight, but because like most people, I want acceptance.

I want connection and authenticity. I want to know the things I create matter to someone beyond myself. But I also think longing to be seen becomes dangerous when it pulls us away from ourselves.

And maybe that’s part of why I’m reevaluating certain things lately, including my newsletter, because I’m learning that growth should nourish your life rather than consume it. Sometimes we think of more obligation and constant visibility as proof that we’re working hard enough, trying hard enough, being enough. And in some ways, I've done that. I've set myself up for it. But the truth is, I’m tired. Not hopeless or defeated, but tired. The way we get when we spend too long carrying everything at once.

This weekend, both of the churches I attend touched on themes that have been echoing in my head for weeks now, and listening felt like answers to prayer. One talked about legalism and spiritual bullying, the other about idolization and the subtle ways we turn our eyes from God in favor of human validation. And somewhere in those messages, I realized how often my own desire for acceptance has convinced me to loosen my boundaries...just to avoid rejection.

The worst part of this is that it rarely prevents rejection anyway. It only teaches you how to reject yourself more convincingly. To abandon yourself more quietly.

I wonder if that’s why slow growth feels so meaningful lately—because healthy things grow in steady hands.

Gardens don’t bloom overnight, homes aren’t built in a day, healing takes longer than we want it to, and faith tends to deepen ever so slowly. Boundaries strengthen gradually, and even creativity unfolds in layers. And maybe people are the same way.

Maybe the most meaningful growth in our lives is the growth that happens without witnesses, in quiet rooms and ordinary moments nobody else would ever think to celebrate.

Maybe the Bible is right, one prayer at a time, and life stories are truly best written one word at a time. Because what I'm learning most in this moment is that the fabric of my life is being woven almost invisibly.

One stitch at a time.

*****

I think the deepest lesson I’m carrying through this season is deceptively simple: growth is still growth behind the scenes, healing in private is still healing, and not everything meaningful has to happen quickly or perfectly to matter.

Some of the most beautiful things in my life are still unfinished. Still growing roots beneath the surface. And even if they never become impressive by the world’s standards...they’ve taught me patience. Presence. Stewardship. Rest. They’ve reminded me that creating slowly is still creating something.

Maybe crochet and creativity are teaching me that quiet growth is healing too, even if no one sees it. Even when part of you wishes they would. Rebuilding your life can be silent without being secret. We can exist right in the middle of the process, completely ignoring the world's demand for an apology, because it's okay to be unfinished. And we don't have to perform worth in order to see it in the mirror, because value and existence are inexplicably interwoven.

My office may be a work in progress, my giveaway blanket may still be in pieces, I'm not sure I'll ever see fruit on my indoor potted lemon tree...and the stories in my head are still unfolding one paragraph at a time, just like always. But I'm learning to rest, and to recognize the beauty of simply becoming. Without racing toward proof. Without striving for more progress. Without stretching myself beyond the limits. And without guilt.

And the funny thing about all of it? When we stop treating growth like a performance and give ourselves time to bloom, it gets a whole lot easier to sit back and...

Warmth Isn't Visible Anyway

Some of you know that outside of my faith as a Christian, my favorite tool for personal growth is my annual focus word. As each year draws to a close, I spend a few weeks reflecting on things I've learned—the ways I've grown, the changes that shape my worldview, the events I witness in the lives of the people around me. And honestly, it sounds a lot deeper than it really is. Mostly, I just try to pay attention.

Intention leads to awareness, awareness feeds observation, observation ignites pattern recognition...and suddenly your one-word theme becomes your catalyst for change.

Each year, I learn more about self worth and self respect, and these lessons form the foundation of my personal boundaries. Each year, I gain new understanding of how healthy boundaries and gentle strength show you who you are. And each year's journey shows how standing up for yourself after a lifetime of people pleasing reveals the people you're surrounded by.

This is not always easy—especially if you're still healing from trauma—and the search for safe people often requires an uncomfortable process of emotional healing that makes you wonder if it's even worth the effort. You trust someone, you open yourself up, you share something vulnerable...and the next thing you know, you're overcoming shame again. You question your progress, your spiritual growth. You see emotional safety as an unattainable fantasy. If it's really bad, you might even let cynicism hit the pause button on your healing journey.

Visible flames make flashy impressions, but fire burns. And maybe this is the beauty of crossing paths with someone just as openly burned as you are. They see you flinch, expecting judgement, and meet you with recognition instead. And then, leading by the example of compassionate faith and simple kindness, they show you why warmth reaches people in ways performance never can.

Perhaps the difference is this: while external flame burns, internal flame warms.

"I know you don't mess with witchcraft and stuff anymore but...I have a spiritual question." He said it so quietly, I almost asked him to say it again before I realized what he'd said. Before I realized what he was after.

I've noticed that non-Christians often trust God more than they're willing to admit, but they never say so because they can't bear the thought of another self-satisfied religious performance. But the first time I met this boy, he casually mentioned his Grandmother's cauldron, laughed at my surprise, then laughed some more when I teasingly threatened to anoint him with oil. And then he asked what it meant—and listened patiently as I tried to explain the protective blessing of faith in a way that would make sense to him.

He's tall and thin, with eyes shadowed by too much life and an attitude built on shame he hasn't fully recognized yet. He's got a smile that would be brilliant if depression didn't linger at the edges, and if you stand too close to him he freezes completely, wide-eyed and tight-lipped enough to make you wonder what he's been through. He's angry at the world, angry at himself. Perhaps because at sixteen, his instinct to guard and protect is bigger than he is.

But he came to me—and as he forced himself to lean back in his chair, crossed ankles hidden beneath the coffee table on my front porch, he asked about spiritual warfare. He told me about scary visions and weird noises and faceless beings that hover in corners, waiting with outspread wings. In a low drawl he thought would hide his fear, he outlined things that sound irrational in daylight, but keep your body tense and your eyes open at night. And at the end, he looked away and said, "I don't know. It's kinda scary."

Maybe he felt safe enough to talk because he's seen my youngest daughter flip me off and get away with it. Maybe he thought he'd get honest advice because when I see him with his vape, something in my face makes him smile, put it down, and leave it alone. Maybe he thought I'd have answers that wouldn't feel tinged with shock and disapproval because in my house, he's witnessed the kind of quiet faith that offers understanding.

So I did what Jesus might do, if Jesus could sit on my porch in the afternoon sun on a Saturday afternoon with a struggling teenaged boy. I frowned a little, and I nodded and quietly said, "Yeah, no shit."

And he didn't ask me for Christian encouragement. He wasn't looking for Bible-speak. In those moments, he was just a boy scared of things he couldn't make sense of, slowly finding hope in a lived faith that doesn't come with judgement. But by the time he left my house, he taught me something, too.

People don't always understand why I talk so much about growth and faith after trauma. About the power of relational ministry that doesn't always mention Jesus by name, and how those convictions lead everything I write. They don't always understand the beauty of an open story that doesn't hide from ugly things. I think sometimes, other Christians are a little afraid of me for that.

Because I don't run from darkness—I square my shoulders and walk right in. Because it's lonely in the dark. And when you've been there, you never forget the cold.

This weekend reminded me of why I'm so determined to keep my faith and my humanity at the same time. Not because I'm uncertain or ashamed. Not because I'm a lukewarm Christian. But because I still believe kindness changes people, and I don’t ever want to be so far removed from humanity that my faith makes my God inaccessible.

And I don't have to burn people to teach them about fire. I just need to show them it's warm.

*****

Christian or not, moments like this are why healing changes the way we move through the world. When you know what it's like to feel cold and alone, warmth starts to look different, and you can't help but notice the people who make room for honesty. The ones who laugh easily, listen carefully, and never bother to ask for perfection. The ones who leave others feeling lighter, rather than smaller.

The people who laugh at inappropriate jokes right there between verses, because they don't treat humanity like it's something separate from faith; they recognize that each piece is part of the other.

That's the kind of person I've been trying to become for years. Not to be louder or more impressive. Not to preach boldly or seem spiritually intimidating or make people behave a certain way. Not to walk around convinced that I have all the answers. But to feel safe enough for vulnerability, so that when someone trusts me enough to speak up, they don't walk away regretting their honesty.

Because growth after trauma teaches you something important: living things lean toward warmth, but only when they're safe from getting burned. And maybe that's what the last few years have been teaching me all along. That kindness is not weakness, gentleness is not compromise, and human connection reflects authentic Christianity better than performative faith ever could.

Maybe that's why my books have sex and violence and cuss words in them. Maybe that's why this Christian writes mainstream fiction. Maybe it's why when I write about Jesus, I usually spell it like "hope." I'm not trying to shock people or demand attention. I'm just mindful of the kind of fire I leave behind...and I hope it's the kind that reminds cold and hurting people that there is still warmth in the world.

I hope it's enough to keep the darkness from feeling so lonely. And I hope it helps my readers...

My Mom Always Said "Imagine That"...So I Did

There's something about motherhood that pushes you to grow beyond your upbringing. Your perspective shifts as your body changes. Your imagination runs wild with hope and hormonal fluctuation. Your joints ache, your feet swell, and the constant awareness of new life brings new meaning to the concepts of resilience and emotional growth. There's a slow-but-somehow-sudden influx of weight, not only in pounds and ounces but in the burden of accepted responsibility to teach and guide and protect.

The labor starts, and everything changes again. The mother suffers excruciating pain—and yet she carries on, driven by anxiety and survival instinct, drowning in the inherited fear of unimaginable risk.

All this, for the sake of hope after hardship.

Often, there's a complicated grief that settles in your spirit as the womb empties and the child within becomes real in a whole new way. The mother's body is still overcoming survival mode as the child is placed in her arms, small and helpless and so often screaming with mindless need. Birth itself is the beginning of generational trauma.

In those moments, when a mother first looks into the eyes of her child, emotional resilience becomes a superpower. In the years to come, she'll blend trauma and imagination into perspective and healing. She'll spend stolen moments healing invisible wounds and growing through pain.

And if she's anything like me, she'll strive to rewrite generational stories by finding humanity in broken parents and meaning in the past. Imagine that.

Mother daughter relationships are weird even when they're great. Good or bad, mothers and daughters float together for a time, on a steadily shifting tide of tradition so deeply steeped in generational patterns they sometimes seem written in stone. Maybe the stories we inherit are lush with color and filled with gentle love, punctuated by annual vacations and family reunions and people that keep in touch because they want to.

Or maybe they're not.

My stories are fossils from the wildlands of trauma recovery. They're faded finger-paintings in forgotten caverns, fragmented drawings of emotionally immature parents who never knew that hope after trauma was possible. They're the old bones of childhood emotional neglect, surrounded by soggy scrolls, where cycles of pain and healing make the thought of becoming soft after survival feel like a fairy tale. I am only a chapter in a timeless compilation of stories, each with a heroine struggling. One woman after another, surviving difficult childhoods, healing while parenting, searching for life after trauma...and not always healing from the past.

My mother's chapter ended in 2019, and while so much of her life showed me the power of becoming different than your parents, her death taught me more about PTSD and healing than I could ever hope to fit in a blog post.

My mom was...quirky. Eccentric. Cynical. The older she got, the more bitter she seemed. The more bitter she was, the more isolated she became. And the more she withdrew from what she saw as an impossibly dangerous world, the more she embraced paranoia. For her, safety was a darkened living room with foil on the windows—and history was the stack of forty-gallon totes hidden in her bedroom closet, filled to the brim with unexpected perspective.

I remember sitting alone in her house after she was gone, surrounded by the scents of fresh laundry and old cigarette smoke. I sat on the floor in the bedroom I'd helped her decorate, my lap slowly vanishing under piles of paperwork. Photos, birthday cards, bills so old the papers were faded with age. Cancelled checks from the 90s, when our favorite way to spend an evening was Pizza Hut and WWE. I wept for her hope when I found a hidden invitation to her first wedding—and for her sorrow as I read the details of the divorce.

I took a break to throw up, halfway through the medical record of gangrene and amputation at the end of her second marriage.  And as I walked, page after page, through the secret parts of her life, I listened to the echo of her spirit in my heart.

"Imagine that." Two simple words, held together with infinite meaning. She said it when she was bitter, when she was angry, when she felt defeated. She laced it with surprise when I told her I'd finished my first novel, filled it with pride when I gave her the first paperback. And injected it with rage and disappointment when I couldn't drive an hour away to bring her a gallon of milk—because my youngest daughter was in surgery.

So often, my mother's history drove her to imagine a world waiting to betray her. A hard and hopeless landscape where all the colors are muted and the light at the end of the tunnel will always be attached to a train. Her survival mindset was built on stubborn determination to win a war she never realized was over, but the legacy she left is more than dusty trinkets and ink on paper. It's a record of imagination as survival, and a daughter still learning to imagine hope as healing through stories.

Imagine that.

*****

Honestly, healing after childhood trauma is never easy, and breaking generational cycles can feel almost impossible. I know, because I've been there—and if you've read this blog for long, you know that most of the time, I still live there. Nobody's perfect, and we're all going through things. But when you face motherhood and healing as a dual process, you can't help but realize that reclaiming your story takes time.

Learning compassion for your parents requires a certain intentionality, especially when you're young and struggling to see them as people. It's easy to resent the things they couldn't give or didn't have, and looking at them in a different light often means making peace with complexity. But it takes another level of purposeful growth to learn empathy for abusive parents and the stories they lived before we came along.

And I'm not saying it's okay, because it isn't. I shouldn't have to break cycles my parents started, and there are parts of my life I'm not sure I'll ever be able to forgive. I'm just saying that maybe sometimes, I understand. And maybe sometimes, the growth that comes from that understanding is the very thing that helps me...

The Freedom In Letting Go

The last several years have taught me a lot about why letting go is hard. In today's mental-health culture, we talk it all the time—people pleasing vs boundaries, releasing expectations in relationships, healing from rejection, moving on without closure. We're drowning in life hacks on how to let go of people, how to stop seeking validation, and how to find peace in solitude. 

And for a long time, I wondered if the relief I felt was just exhaustion in disguise. Like I was too jaded, too tired to bother feeling hurt anymore. And then I got scared because...well, what if the detachment I felt was really just emotional numbness? Or worse—what if I wasn't feeling things I should feel because I'd spent too long feeling things I shouldn't? Were my experiences teaching me self worth and boundaries...or was I letting go emotionally because of ego or bitterness or self-protection? 

Was letting go without cutting people off even possible? And why did learning to step back from relationships that hurt still feel like loss?

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I learned three distinct truths. The first is that no matter how hard we try to balance feeling like an outsider with releasing the need to be understood, there's a sadness that cannot be ignored. The second is that no amount of self-questioning or relational overcompensating will ease the grief of unmet expectations. The third is that choosing yourself without guilt leads to an unexpected peace that feels like freedom. 

The thing is, I didn't find that peace when the people around me changed. I found it when I realized I didn't need them to.

I used to wonder why boundaries feel so lonely. It shouldn't be hard to ask the people who love you to truly know you, and it shouldn't feel unsafe to communicate pain when your people don't show up for you. Honesty shouldn't be offensive, vulnerability shouldn't need defending, and it should be safe to tell the people in your circle when you feel unappreciated, unheard, or unwelcome. 

One thing about boundaries is that they teach you what you think you deserve. The other thing is...they teach you what the people around you think you deserve, too.

The year of No has gone almost exactly the way I expected it to, and some days I hate it, because it isn't always easy to stand in the space between blooming hope and looming disappointment. There are days when the silence is too loud and loneliness looks like proof of failure. Moments that still ache in my chest, interactions that taught me the difference between being tolerated and being accepted. Little pebbles of pain that don't seem heavy until there are too many to ignore. 

And as I collected those pebbles, I did what I've always done. I told myself I was probably overthinking. I wondered if I was expecting too much. I toned down. I showed up. I shut my mouth, turned the other cheek, and I pretended it didn't hurt when fake smiles went unnoticed. 

It wasn't until recently that I realized how often I step away. How hungry I am for the quiet healing moments sneak themselves like blessings into my schedule—soft and subtle, the way the sky brightens as the sun rises and the world welcomes a new day. At first, I chalked it up to introversion. Just the simple need for space to breathe. Emotional independence.

And then I recognized it. Relief. From the sting of rejection. From the struggle to stay present in pain. I thought about how many times I've heard pastors teach about Jesus stepping away to be alone, and the way those teachings are always guided by discipline and devotion, using Jesus as the model for seeking God in the quiet. And those teachings aren't wrong.

But this week, in a moment of quiet withdrawal, I felt something a little more...human. Because when Jesus withdrew, he wasn't always surrounded by strangers. Like me, he was often surrounded by people he loved, who loved him. People he chose, knowing that they couldn't understand him. Knowing that in the end, they wouldn't stand with him. They wouldn't stay.

I couldn't help wondering if sometimes those moments weren't just about prayer for him, but if maybe they were about finding places that molded pain into peace and pulled solitude from loneliness. It was a reminder that this feeling is not unique, and that reminder shifted something in me. Like a sudden tide catching those pebbles and carrying them away.

I let them go. I stopped trying to cross the chasm, close the gap. Stopped reaching for a connection that wasn't there. Stopped hoping that if I explained better, showed up sooner, gave more, things would feel different.

And I found freedom in letting go. Not because I was angry or bitter. Not because I settled into indifference. But simply because if you spend all day wearing pants that don't fit...it feels really good to finally take them off. Even if they're perfectly fine pants.

Because it's okay to admit when perfectly fine pants don't fit, and it's okay to recognize when a delightful addition to your circle isn't meant to stand in your corner. And as it turns out, I never needed to worry about loss after all—because this was never about letting go of people I love. I didn’t need to cut anyone off, I didn't need a confrontation, and I didn’t need big exits or hard lines in the sand.

What I needed was to let go of the expectation. The hope that kept shifting toward disappointment. I needed to realize that letting go was never about losing people. It was about releasing the craving for something that wasn't on the menu.

And what's funny is, I couldn't access the freedom to truly love people until I stopped needing people to love me the same way. I couldn't access the freedom to enjoy showing up until I let go of asking certain spaces to offer what they didn't have. 

I know there will still be moments that feel lonely, but more and more, I'm learning how to hold a quieter kind of joy that doesn't need to be shared to feel real. An inner celebration that's exciting specifically because it needs no recognition to exist.

A letting go that doesn't feel like emptiness. Because it feels like light.

*****

Sometimes the lessons we learn in life are painful, and personal growth through seasons of loneliness often hit us harder than we expect them to—but there's a sense of self-certainty that settles beautifully when we learn that silence can feel like peace rather than punishment.

With my upbringing, that hasn't always been easy for me. I still remember the crushing weight of days spent in silence because my father would speak to everyone but me. I still remember the devastation of eagerly sharing a major accomplishment I'd seen celebrated in others, only to have mine treated like it was half as cool as an unfinished grocery list. And I still remember exactly where the pain broke in my chest when I confessed a big goal...and was met with such utter betrayal that I gave up and never followed it through.

I know what it is to feel like your circle is full but no one's in your corner, because I've been there. And I know what it is to feel like you're on the outside looking in, with your face pressed against the window glass. I've been there, too. In fact, I've stood there with my face to the glass while people urged me to come inside...while refusing to unlock the door.

But maybe the magic of comfort in solitude is clarity. Maybe it's the realization that none of us are immune to loneliness, and the recognition that if we've all felt it, none of us are really alone.

Maybe that's why I never leave my house without a book. At the very least, I know I can always count on a good story to help me...

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