Handle with Care: Lessons in Trust, Treasures, and the Things We Break

This week, my single mom life was a whirlwind of exhaustion, and not just because of the heatwave.

On one side of town, my youngest and I have juggled summer school and church attendance along with three doctor appointments, two social events, and a slumber party—all sprinkled in with the other aspects of our regular life. But on the other side of town, we’re house-sitting for a friend, so we’re feeding and cuddling pets, watering and weeding gardens and flowerbeds, caring for and keeping up with the home we’re being trusted to guard.

From writing to showing grace to parenting in chaos as an already overwhelmed mom, it’s funny how the heat made it all seem harder somehow. Driving back and forth across town in a car with no A/C for appointments is a far cry from soaking in my friend’s fabulous jetted bathtub at the end of a rough day...and hoping my old clunker of a car would start and stop as desired in no way compared to the terrifying thrill of sitting in the driver’s seat of my friend’s roaring Maserati.

But we made allowances to minimize the dangerous symptoms of my heat intolerance. We finished summer school. We made it to all the appointments. We went to a concert, showed up at a movie night, and hosted my oldest daughter (who stayed behind to finish moving back in) for a sleepover. We teamed up to conquer to-do lists that kept growing. We made space for rest, and took time to appreciate unexpected blessings.

Now, the week is done. And here I am on a quiet Sunday afternoon, caught somewhere between grit and gratitude, trying to process the sheer amount of life haphazardly crammed into these last seven days.

And I can’t help noticing a theme that showed up again and again this week—sometimes in a quiet realization but other times with the sting of a sudden slap.

Trust. Honoring trust. Trusting others with what matters. And the generational lessons learned when we set our hearts on growing through chaos rather than griping along the way.

It started with the key to a car that’s worth more than the trailer park I grew up in.

When my friend left town, she handed me the keys to her life like it was no big deal. To her, they’re slips of metal cut to fit the tumblers on various locks—but to me, they’re trust. They’re full and unencumbered access to my friend’s home. Her belongings. Her geriatric dogs. Her family heirlooms. And her cars.

She handed them over with no hesitation, along with a personal security code for the alarm and a printed page of household tips and instructions. When and how much to feed the dogs. Where to find the Swiffer. Which mailbox to check. And then… “Please start the cars and feel free to drive at least once. Especially the Maserati.”

Uh, what? Never once have I even wanted to start that thing. Ride in it? Sure. But start it? Drive it? Potentially ding it, dent it, or scratch it? Absolutely not. 

Everyone who knows about it has teased me for resisting the temptation to drive that car (and believe me, I am tempted). I have the key. I have permission. My friend is on the other side of the globe. I could hop in that thing and joyride it all over the place. But I won’t, because trust isn’t about what you can get away with, it’s about what you do when no one’s looking.

Honestly, I put it off for longer than I should have. And I did finally start it, but I still refuse to pull it out of the garage. Not because I can’t, but because I understand the gift of being trusted with something so rare.

Still, all the teasing eventually led to an unexpectedly deep conversation with my oldest daughter about dependability, modeling responsibility, and how sometimes, the reason people give you access to beautiful things is because they know you won’t take advantage.

I don’t choose my friends based on their net worth, their homes, or the cars parked in their garages. Those things don’t impress me just by being, but growing up in poverty and living with limited means has taught me to notice value—not only in terms of cost, but in the effort and sacrifice something valuable represents.

For me, being careful is more than a personality trait seeded by nature and rooted in trauma. It’s part of who I am. It’s a value I live by, and I think that’s part of why the car left me a little breathless. Maybe that’s part of why she trusted me with it, too. Not because I have experience with luxury, but because I don’t. And she knows I’ll treat it like it matters. Because to me, it does.

Trust works the same way. Whether it’s a Maserati or the shape of someone’s heart, emotional and relational trust are just as delicate—and I’ve spent enough time in fragile spaces to understand how easily something precious can be broken, which is part of why I’m so determined to teach my daughters how to handle value gently and wisely. Not just things, but people, too.

Because the truth is, when we’re trusted with something meaningful, the way we care for it says a lot about who we are. And sometimes the most sacred lessons are the ones that come when something breaks…and we have to choose how to respond.

This week, my youngest daughter accidentally broke not one but two sentimental heirlooms belonging to someone we both love deeply. The first shattered before a concert on Sunday, and the second during a movie night on Thursday. Both were deeply personal, irreplaceable gifts—but in those moments, grace showed up.

Anger and even heartbreak would have been perfectly understandable, but what we got was patient compassion. Mercy. And the kind of love that absorbs the pain and still redefines the moment. Watching my daughter learning responsibility—learning grace—was one of the most tender moments of my week. She’s clumsy and deeply sensitive, but she’s learning. And so am I.

*****

So I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be trusted. Not just with objects or animals or luxury cars, but with people. With memories. With truth. Because here’s the thing: we're all being trusted with something.

Maybe it's someone’s story. Maybe it’s their secrets or prized possessions. Maybe it’s something fragile you didn’t mean to drop. Maybe it's your own healing or emotional growth. And yes, sometimes we break things. Sometimes we get it wrong. But grace exists. Restoration is possible. And the older I get, the more I realize the value isn’t in the thing itself, but in being trusted to hold that value gently—in whatever form it comes.

I'm also learning that trusting others is just as important as being trustworthy myself. That’s never been easy for me...except when I'm writing. Every time I open my heart through a story, whether it’s these reflections from real life or fiction shaped by the scars I carry, I’m choosing to trust you, too.

Progress on STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM has been slower this week (chaos will do that), but I'm so proud of this book. It’s the next part of the Freedom Series, the next step in Christine's journey into life after domestic abuse. It's the part where she begins to wrestle with trust, too. And while it won’t be released until March, I’m already so excited for you to see it—because sharing these stories, both real and imagined, is how I hold space for both pain and possibility.

Until then, I’ll be here. Writing. Growing. Learning to trust. And praying you always...

I Lived It Before I Wrote It: The Truth Behind The Freedom Series

Lately, my youngest daughter and I are house-sitting, and the change of scenery has given both of us space to rest and breathe. My friend's home is lovely; shades of cream sprinkled with bright color, accented by thoughtful touches and gorgeous art. Plentiful garden, huge bathtub, cuddly dogs. And a living room couch perfect for writing.

Earlier this week, during a break from sculpting fictional fear and fury in STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, I sat surrounded by real-life peace and simple beauty—and had an online conversation about survivor stories, resilience after trauma, what healing really looks like, and why I write what I write.

This isn't a Christian blog, and it isn't likely to become one. But I'm a writer, focused on using trauma-informed storytelling to help hurting people find light in the darkness of life's hardest seasons...and my faith isn't something I can ignore. Because in the darkest days of my life, when the legal system failed me and complex PTSD symptoms took over, God met me in my trauma. And changed everything.

Sometimes I think people are resistant to God because they believe they're too far gone. Too messed up. Too hopeless. Too lost. Maybe they think that if Jesus is love and redemption, then church and uncomfortable stories can't co-exist. Maybe it stems from the fearful human instinct to look away from grisly wounds and painful birth and bloody wreckage, lest it somehow soil us by proxy. Maybe it's the need to silence stories that aren't pretty.

Christians love to zoom in on their post-Jesus era. The shiny, smiley, “God is good” part. It's Diet Redemption: a watered-down version of the miracle of salvation, without so much as an aftertaste of the mess that came before. Too often, all we accept is a two-sentence backstory, a painted scene from the moment God showed up, and a three-minute montage of sugar-coated hope. And I'm not saying testimonies don't matter, but the fact is, healing doesn't look the same if we never see the wound.

Maybe that's why the Freedom Series matters so much to me. Why I'm willing to start a domestic violence survival novel with a graphic beating and a mortal wound. Why I chose to ignore all the rules on how to write triggering scenes with care, in favor of writing difficult truths with honesty. Because diluting these stories is a disservice to the people who live—and die—in them.

Yes, FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is an emotionally raw fiction story. And yes, writing about domestic violence is difficult. But the best, most authentic stories are often molded from the courage to use real-life inspiration for fiction. And in many ways, the story behind my novel...is real.

I’ve never been, and may never be, invited to share my own story—not in its entirety, because there are some stories that just aren't easy to hear. They're too scary. Too sad. Too...dark. But for me, darkness is more than a backdrop for light. Darkness isn't just the intro to my story. It's the whole reason the light in my story matters.

It was April, 2005. My daughter slept peacefully every night in her crib, but I hadn't done more than nap in days. Every moving shadow looked like my husband. Every sound was a window sliding open.

He told me he'd kill me. "I'll hunt you down, bitch!" Right there in the voicemails the judge wouldn't listen to, the man who swore to love and protect me only a few years before screamed obscenities. "I'll shoot you, I swear. I'll take the baby from your arms while you bleed out."

And what if he really did it? He never even learned to spell her name. How would he know what do if her heart problems got worse? What if she got ahold of his drugs...again? No, there was no space for sleep. There was no one to guard her but me.

God and I sat alone together in the dark, getting to know each other. Not as acquaintances introduced by mutual friends, but as friends in our own way for the first time. We met on Easter weekend, I'd told him how afraid I was, and he hadn't left me since.

But I didn't trust him yet. Not really. So I sat curled in the dark, in a chair wedged into a corner. Door locked. Windows closed and covered. Every cell attuned to my surroundings, every heartbeat strained, every breath painfully slow. Surrounded by silence, only broken by the quiet rustle of thin paper as I turned the pages of my first Bible.

I read Israel's escape from slavery in Egypt, filled with fear as I thought of those voicemails. I read the Egyptian pursuit, tears rolling down my face as I thought of how I couldn't shower without panicking. Couldn't bear the vulnerable nakedness showering required. Couldn't stand closed doors, not knowing what might be unseen on the other side. I read Israel's fear at the seaside, their terror, their sense of entrapment—and I wept at the similarities. They contemplated going back, giving up. Giving in. I had done the same.

And then God whispered, from the pages in my hands. "Do not be afraid," he said. "Stand firm, and you will see deliverance. I will fight for you; you need only to be still."

It wasn't a magical fix. Everything wasn't suddenly better. I still didn't sleep that night. And I was still afraid. But for the first time, I started to believe that God wasn't.

*****

There is a shower scene in FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, complete with the same breathless panic that used to terrorize me. Art imitating life, I suppose. There is graphic violence in the first chapter, much of it modeled after real beatings I saw my mother subjected to. There are flashbacks and nightmares. There is sorrow, and grief, and regret. The Freedom Series is meant to be a full and complete look at one woman's escape from domestic violence, and I had no intention of sugar-coating the devastation of spousal abuse.

I don't know if there are specific rules or guidelines on how to write dark fiction—and honestly, I suspect that the challenge of this particular topic will limit the success of The Freedom Series. But writing the hard stuff still matters. Mustering the courage and the will to look matters. Domestic violence awareness and survivor support matter. Because somewhere, someone out there is still desperately fighting for their own freedom, and if this story makes even one person feel a little more seen...then it's worth every moment I poured into it.

My writing is in many ways both the seeping of poison from my soul and the healing salve that eases my wounds, but I want to leave this post on a lighter note, with a reminder that there is hope. I won't lie and say these last 20 years have been a field of rainbows and gumdrops...but I'll say that in between moments of struggle these years have been filled with growth I'm grateful for. I have had moments of fear, moments of heartbreak. But I've also celebrated blessings too numerous to count.

And maybe that's the lesson that matters most: to truly appreciate the beauty of light, we must first understand the desperation of darkness. Because that’s where all the best stories begin.

With darkness that teaches us light is worth hoping for—and gives us the strength to...

A Little Rest, A Long Walk, and A Love That Lingers

Yesterday was one of those days that almost didn’t happen. The forecast held threats of rain—and even in the morning, the air was hot, heavy, and thick with humidity. The current political unrest in America made us debate the safety of our plans. It would’ve been easy to cancel, choose another day, another location. But we didn’t.

I couldn't help noticing how perfectly the weather acted as a metaphor for this particular season of my life. Thick clouds overhead, a little dark, a little uncertain, sometimes briefly broken by bits of sunshine. The truth is, we’ve had a very different kind of cloud hovering for a while now. A genetic one. And we've been waiting for test results, examining blood work, scheduling and attending appointments, chasing symptoms no one can quite explain. This week was the first time one of our doctors actually said the word "cancer" out loud.

And while he was encouraging in the moment (no cancer, but certainly things to watch for), if I could condense my youngest daughter's doctors' words over the last few weeks into a simple turn of phrase, it would be this: “You've got a potentially dark genetic storm cloud over your head. But it’s not raining. Yet.” So we keep moving forward, not because we’re pretending everything is okay, but because we’re learning how to live even when it’s not.

My cousin is my best friend, my favorite genius, and only person on the planet I ever feel completely relaxed with. So when she asked if my daughter and I wanted to join her and her wide-eyed, energetic little grandson at the zoo, we jumped at the chance to spend time with people we love, doing something distracting, enjoying the magic of proximity to creatures we could never see otherwise.

Still, these outings aren’t as easy for me as they once were. Life with disabilities that include chronic pain often means even fun comes with a cost. I knew that when the day was done, I'd be paying the price—but I also knew that every second would be worth it. Not just for the awestruck moments spent standing two feet away from a three-thousand-pound rhino or the playful antics of a river otter, but for the time invested in a lifelong friendship, the widening of a little boy's blue eyes, the little smiles I caught my daughter wearing throughout the day. It's about enjoying the presence of people you love, wherever you find them. It's about taking time to walk slower, stay longer. Appreciate deeper.

And I loved every painful step.

I thought I was prepared. I wore my most supportive shoes, took my pain meds, brought my cane. Slept well. Hydrated. And none of it worked.

My knee started aching halfway through the first loop. I ignored it, knowing we would pause often, sometimes to rest, sometimes simply to marvel. We scratched the shell of a massive centenarian tortoise, laughing as he heaved himself up, his leathery neck stretched, his quiet eyes half-closed in bliss. We fed a rainbow of fluttering parakeets, admired the herringbone scales of a king cobra, shared moments of both surprise and amusement as we flirted with a langur. We watched red pandas and black bears and a Malayan tiger at rest, each in pockets of shaded semi-privacy. Each one simultaneously safe—and seen.

We stopped for lunch near the end of the first loop, and afterwards I gave into pain, stubborn pride submitting to the visibility of my cane. My knee was screaming. But it hadn't rained, lunch was delicious, and there was still so much to see. My cousin and her grandson left early, but my daughter and I stayed to wander the trails, sharing moments of joy between bits and pieces of conversation. And maybe for just a little while, we forgot about the doctor visits and the weight of the other slow, uncertain journey we’re walking together.

She has a rare gene mutation—zbtb7a—and while we still don’t know much about what it means in the long term, we know enough to live with caution right now. Enough to feel the weight of it on even the best days. I haven’t written about it much because my daughter deserves her privacy, but as her mother, its presence lingers now in the background of everything. Every plan we make. Every choice I second-guess. Every prayer I pray for heaping measures of time and wisdom. And with that weight keeping me mindful of every moment, when we get the chance to live freely, untethered however briefly from research and wondering, I take it.

We did talk about sore feet though, and at one point, I mentioned how long my knee had been hurting—even before the appearance of my cane. And she looked surprised when I said, “Well, it’s been hurting since before the carousel.” She sat very quietly for a moment, brows furrowed over a bowl of electric blue Cookie Monster Dippin' Dots.

Then she leaned over, rested her head on my shoulder, and whispered, “Thanks, Mom.”

She's sixteen and not always perceptive. She's autistic and sometimes amusingly unaware. But she's also bright and understanding, and she's learning at this early age that it's not about the zoo or the cane or the summer heat. It's about the moments when our choices show the people around us who they are and what they mean to our lives. Moments warmed by companionship that costs something. Moments that help us fill the empty places in each other's spirits.

We walked longer than I probably should have, and I paid for it later with wobbly steps and uncertain stability. I'm still exhausted, and my knee is still hurting. But, despite my physical body, I think my daughter and I both found rest at the zoo.

Emotional rest. Mental rest. For her, a fresh breeze, a change of scenery, the energy of a toddler relative. The peace of a gentle duiker watching us with calm curiosity. For me, a temporary pause from the burnout, uncertainty, and emotional labor of my life in its current season.

My older daughter is home again, and while I love having her back, I'm also discovering that parenting adult children is its own kind of exhausting. There is love, yes, and sometimes even a return to the security of knowing she's tucked away safe at night. But there is also the tension of a new learning curve, the exercise of balancing boundaries, and the not-always-silent tug-of-war between autonomy and responsibility.

Most days, I’m stretched thin. Between caring for one daughter whose future is unclear and coaching the other as she continues to learn what independence really means, I often feel like I’m trying to breathe underwater. But for just a little while on that zoo trail, with an aching knee and a quietly thoughtful teenager, I could breathe again. We didn’t talk about zbtb7a. We didn’t talk about blood work, or household stress, or the fear that creeps in when we let ourselves think too far ahead.

We just lived, right there in that moment. And that, too, is a kind of healing.

*****

Yesterday wasn’t restful in the traditional sense. I didn't lounge in bed or take a nap. There wasn't much silence. And I never did make it to the grocery store. But yesterday brought rest in the ways that matter most: shared laughter, lingering awe, small kindnesses. And the feeling of being seen.

I’ll probably never forget the cobra’s unblinking stare. The ancient tortoise slowly reaching toward affection. The soft, grateful “thanks” from a daughter who’s already had to grow up faster than she should. Or the stillness that came at the end of the day, when we were aching and exhausted, but somehow still more full than we’d been in the morning.

Because sometimes, the most sacred moments are the ones that cost us the most. Because they’re the ones we carry with us, long after the trail ends. Because they're the ones that remind us of the miracle each breath brings. And because they're the moments that help us, in the hardest times, to...

P.S. Last week, I mentioned that this week's post would be more of an update on the Freedom Series, including a progress report on STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM and a look at how my life became such a part of Christine's story. That post is still coming—next week.

The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same

This is shaping up to be a challenging summer at the Kennedy house. Emotional exhaustion is taking a toll, my complex PTSD triggers seem to be lurking around every corner, and the mental load of motherhood during a health crisis has me revamping the coping skills that taught me how to stay strong in hard times.

It's ironic that all of my writing is about this. Whether it's here on my blog, out on social media, or in the books I write, the focus is always on how to heal from past trauma—even if life doesn't always get easier. Whether they're my personal stories or those of the characters I create, every word is an exercise in choosing faith over fear and finding grace for yourself in hard seasons.

Sometimes, like lately, when I find myself feeling stuck in life and writing through grief...when crisis fatigue gets too heavy and I feel like even on my best days I'm barely surviving the storm...I turn to real stories of healing and search them for inspiration.

And sometimes, as silly as it may sound, the story I find the best inspiration in is mine.

Shoving a sundress aside, I frown at a pair of jeans before pushing those away, too. Coffee with my younger self is shaping up to be more stressful than expected. I want to look put together, to show up with a gentle smile and a mouthful of encouraging wisdom. The clock says I'd better get on with it if I want to be on time.

But my life feels like a mess, and even though I can't cancel the date with ten-years-ago me, the fact is, I don't want to go. Not in my yoga pants. Not in my embarrassingly un-fancy car. Not with such obvious stress dimming my eyes and straining the smile on my face. Meeting with her right now feels like a pretense, because a decade of living, spiritual growth, and trauma healing stand between her experience and mine...but we still have so much in common. Maybe even too much.

I show up in my yoga pants. She shows up in hers. We're both late.

I can feel her insecurity as we make our way to the counter—and the gratitude underlining her shame as I offer to buy both our drinks. We chose a table for two, and the tension breaks as we angle our chairs, backs to the wall. She sips her drink, sets it on the table between us, and sighs. "That part never changes, huh?"

I shrug. "Some days are better than others. I understand it more now, though. Therapy helped."

"Therapy?" She looks disgusted, then embarrassed...and then suddenly very afraid. "I end up in therapy?" Her voice is small, her eyes locked on the condensation slowly puddling around her cup.

"Yep, and it was just as hard as you think. But it was worth every second."

She frowns, disbelieving. But she's not ready yet, and that's okay. Her hands tremble as she slides a napkin beneath her drink, and I know the words running through her mind, painful words spoken in the voices of people she still wants to trust. Words I no longer live by. People I haven't seen or spoken to in years. Finally, she looks at me, eyes searching the face of her own future, and asks the very same question that's circled my mind so often lately. "Does life ever get easier?"

We talk about the highs and lows of life as a single mom, the value of spiritual encouragement. And I nod when her eyes fill unexpectedly with tears—because I know where she lives and who she lives with. I still remember the desperate grief she's trying so hard to hide. "You know," I say, taking her hand, "it's okay that you're struggling right now. Trusting God when life is hard can be challenging, and I know that being surrounded by people who hurt you in his name doesn't help."

"I don't even know if I'm doing the right thing," she whispers. "And I'm just...I'm trying so hard. Does any of it even pay off in the end? Is it...is it even worth it?"

I think of the tightness in her chest, the way she squares her shoulders every time she enters the house she can't bring herself to ever call home. The people in that house, who tell her how unwanted she is there, but shame or outright sabotage her every effort to leave. The pieces of herself she gives away as she tiptoes through every moment in the name of a peace that always seems to elude her. And I think of the years she will endure that place before she's strong enough to walk away. I think of the fear she feels when she looks at her children, wondering if they'll be okay, if they'll ever be healthy, if the people who cover her in horrible accusations might actually be right. And I know there's a part of her that believes she's the problem. So I grip her hand a little tighter, and I lean in with all the hard-won wisdom and confidence I have.

"Look at me," I say, and she does. I tell her about her beautiful daughters, and who they are now. How impossibly strong they are—like her. Like me. Not in spite of their challenges, but because of them. I tell her about the apartment I call home, and how it's always a little messy but sometimes I can't help smiling as I open the door. "It's freeing," I say, smiling without forcing it for the first time in days. "It really is. Letting go of mom guilt, realizing you've done the best you could. Learning to love yourself again, because you deserve that just as much as anyone else does."

She nods quietly, equal parts hope and fear. "That's something. But I know there are things you're not sharing. Nothing ever changes for us, does it? Not really?"

The time between her age and mine has been so full. Grief and celebration have both come and gone. Money has increased—and decreased again. There have been times of relative health, broken by periods of crushing sickness. Weeks that felt like sunshine and grace, months so torn by turbulent storms they felt hopelessly unending. Looked at from that perspective? No. Nothing changed. Nothing changed at all.

But she and I are more different than I thought, and it's more than the creases on my face or the gray in my hair. The best changes are the ones no one can see: the confidence to keep trying, the determination to make the most of every moment, the faith that promises hope for tomorrow even if today's a hard one. And finally, I know exactly what she needs to hear. "Even when nothing changes, you do. And that makes all the difference."

*****

Sometimes, I still wonder if life will ever stop feeling like a raging storm. I wonder if I'll ever see a season that’s truly easier—where emergencies stop stacking up and grief isn’t as close to the surface and I finally feel like I’m "past the hard part."

But as I sat with that younger version of myself, even just in my heart, I realized that even if lots of things look the same, I’m not stuck in her world anymore. I’ve walked miles since then. Grown roots. Shed layers. Built a life. And my life is a good one, even if it doesn’t look like she wanted it to.

I’m still navigating hard things. This week has added more emotional weight than I ever thought I could carry, complete with flat tires and full medical schedules and summer chaos I didn’t ask for. But I’m giving myself grace for the personal growth journey I'm still on, and patience for messing up as an overwhelmed mom juggling too many balls with not enough hands. I'm not the same woman I was ten years ago—I'm stronger, more confident, more resilient. And yes, more faithful.

So if you’re tired of waiting for external change and some days even one more step feels like too far to go, take some time to sit down with your younger self, too. Maybe those talks with our younger selves aren't about giving the promise of ease, anyway. Maybe our younger selves just need to see us still standing and showing up. Finding beauty and choosing hope.

And maybe sitting with our younger selves is the best way to show our present selves that some things do change.

If all you’ve got left today is the courage to keep going, that’s more than enough. So keep going. Hold faith, and give yourselves (both past and present) a little more grace. Walk into every storm like a buffalo, knowing that future you is waiting on the other side. And as always...

P.S. Yes, Still Fighting For Freedom is coming along. Not as quickly as I wanted, but it's coming. And it's incredible. Stay tuned for next week's post, where I'll share a little more of how my life became such a part of Christine's story.

Finding Calm in the Chaos, and a Message in the Mess

In January, I chose “Restored” as my word for this year, clinging to the hope and the promise of Joel 2:25-26. The second chapter of Joel speaks closely to the journey of my own life in many ways: single mom struggles, sensory overwhelm of PTSD in motherhood, emotional burnout, mental exhaustion. Often, people around me see only the woman who prays her way through every problem, the one surviving the hard days with delicately balanced grit and grace. I teach faith, growth, and the power of personal boundaries—sharing my own healing while parenting alone.

Earlier this year, as I entered what I prayed would be a season of peace and growth in my life, those verses sounded beautiful. Healing. They held the blooming potential of fresh harvest after devastation. But in these last months, the earth under my feet has so often felt torn. Blistered. Thirsty. I’m not rested, I’m wrestling. And I’m not reaping—because I’m rearranging everything in my life. Again.

There are days when the winds of change are fragrant with the scents of almost unimaginable joy, days when my cup of life truly runs over. But as carefully as I still guard myself from the world, there are still days when life is too loud, when peace feels impossible. When I’m just an everyday overwhelmed mom, carrying the mental load and emotional clutter of fires I didn’t light and storms I never chose to be caught in. Some days, like many of you, I feel like I’m barely surviving.

And yet, in the middle of PTSD decompensation, trauma triggers at home, decluttering setbacks, and nervous system overload, I keep thinking of Matthew 8:23-27…and of buffaloes.

Lately, the winds have carried the acrid scent of smoke—a fire smoldering in the distance. One I did not light but will be expected to fight. Skies don’t look as blue, clouds don’t stay as white—and the red tones of blood stain a world perhaps more ill than it yet knows. The threat of danger floats on the air, covering the ground in a powdery film of impending doom.

Thunder rolls, the power of its rattling cry shaking the earth, raising the dust. Lightning strikes, illuminating the landscape in jagged streaks of weaponized worry and wanton weariness. Surrounding rocks shaken loose by the coming storm tumble and drop from long-settled places, and I wish for the peace of the valley beyond this rugged terrain, where the land lies waiting—so long ravished and grieving lost peace, only recently rested and ready for planting, nearly desperate for bountiful harvest.

Somewhere in the hidden depths of my heart, frustration whispers, “This isn’t what restoration was supposed to look like.”

The grunting bellow of a lone buffalo confirms the coming storm, but he doesn’t cower, doesn’t seek the safety of shelter. The terror pounding in his great heart must mirror mine, and yet he doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t run. Instead, he raises his face, nose shifting as he fills his lungs, testing the air. Scenting the storm.

He lowers his head, snorting, and as his dark eyes light with determination, I know it’s time. The skies tear open above us and the buffalo freezes, briefly bracing himself against the downpour—then suddenly, he’s on the move.

I can’t saddle his wild strength or harness him to pull me along. And despite my desperation to follow this single sign of life in such a lonely place, I cannot hope to keep up. Breathless and alone, I squint into the driving rain, hoping to gauge his speed, his direction. I cannot use him…but I can follow his example.

I break camp and cover myself in the best of my armor, mustering courage as the storm grows stronger. My instincts are to run—or at least to hide—but the buffalo is an ancient species grown wise with time, and his facing the storm carries something far more valuable than the meager tools at my belt. The quickest way out of the storm…is through it.

*****

Life has been more chaotic than usual. My youngest daughter is facing new health problems with implications I’m not yet ready to talk about. On the heels of a declutter that cleansed old memories and quieted stinging wounds, I’m entering a brand new season of feeling overwhelmed by clutter—the house is a mess again, with every space being reorganized and reassigned. My oldest daughter is moving back home, and while I hope it will be a positive experience all around, the fact is, adult children moving home reshapes the layers of motherhood and transition—each moment a plot twist in balancing grace for adult kids and boundaries that guard against upheaval.

I’m grieving a writing rhythm I’d finally found…only to lose it again in the summer routine chaos. I’m re-learning how to care for myself when everything in my life feels upside down. I’m revisiting the coping skills that helped me balance motherhood, mom guilt, and the realities of life with complex trauma. I’m respecting my own emotional capacity, honoring my own limitations, allowing myself to be honest even when it isn’t always appreciated, and digging deep for extra grace.

Because this is what it’s like to prepare for a storm. You rest up, charge your batteries, watch the radar, prepare your safe space. You choose peace wherever you find it, even if that peace feels more like a battle than a balm. And you don’t stop showing up—even when your heart’s stretched a little too thin and the physical clutter around you mirrors emotional clutter you can barely contain.

You draw inspiration from the buffalo, the only animal that walks instinctively into a storm, head down as it plods along, one step at a time, because it knows that the fastest way out is to dig for courage and find the faith to muscle through.

Maybe I’m idealistic, but I haven’t given up. I haven’t stopped believing in beauty, and I haven’t stopped trusting that healing is possible. Still, I’m giving myself permission to be honest about the mess in the middle, because that’s where so many of us are right now. In the storm, searching for the valley, choosing to believe there’s rest on the other side—even if we can’t see it yet.

And if you’re like me, maybe you wonder if that’s what restoration really looks like in a year like this one. Not the expectant bloom of new growth or the adventure of a fresh harvest, but the soul-deep celebration of welcoming a prodigal back into the fold—and the wonder of every faithful, God-dependent step along the way.

If your nervous system feels fried and your soul feels a little forgotten...if you’re doing your best to love the people in your life without losing yourself in the process…if you’re quietly grieving peace you worked so hard to build only to lose sight of it again…you’re not alone. I’m right there with you. And I’d like to remind you (and myself, too!) that restoration might not only be the calm after the storm…it might also begin with what’s breaking inside us as we walk through.

So today, we stay the course. We carry the weight. We inch forward, head down and heart open, like the buffalo. And as always, we…

Faith, Fiction, and the Woman at the Well

I've said many times that while I am a Christian who is an author, I am not a Christian author—and I don't plan to become one. But as a Christian author writing secular fiction, I'm often met with challenging arguments from both the Christian community and the secular one.

• "Can Christians write romance novels?"
• "Can Christians write women's fiction?"
• "Why would a Christian write romance novels?"
• "Is it okay for Christians to write secular books?"
• "Can Christian writers write about sex?"
• "I'm not sure Christian writers and non-Christian characters go together."
• "Faith and fiction don't mix."

Regardless of how it's framed—whether it's genuine curiosity or judgmental side-eye—the message comes through, loud and clear: writing sex scenes as a Christian is BAD, Christian writers in the secular market probably have something missing in their faith, Christian mission through storytelling is at best misguided and at worst active rebellion, and if I really loved Jesus, I'd have no business writing trauma-informed fiction or stories for the hurting, especially if they involve open-door sex scenes.

The thing is, I get it. I’ve even questioned those things myself, both with and without compassionate understanding for nuance. But the nuance is there, and it means the answer isn’t a simple one; the real answer is more than just blending faith and fiction. Fiction that incudes healing after trauma, the longing for connection, and the human need for love and touch all address real stories, real people with real pain—and writing about real-life struggles is all about meeting people where they are with stories that reflect grace even if they aren't directly about Jesus.

I remember my life before Jesus. I remember the brokenness, the church hurt. I remember being shamed by people who injured my body and spirit while telling me they were doing it with the hands and feet of Jesus. And I remember wanting nothing to do with him because of those people. Whether we like it or not, the Pharisees are still alive and well in the church today—but that's part of why I want to write from the perspective of honest Christianity rather than idealized Christianity, acknowledging that while salvation is instant, sanctification takes time and it's okay to be saved but still growing. Jesus carried faith beyond church walls, and he met the Samaritan woman right where she was, at the well in the middle of the day, rejected and alone. And I want to do the same.

I didn't actively choose secular writing to eliminate or avoid the boundaries of my faith in the writing process. I never intended to subvert my Christian identity in storytelling, or to showcase lukewarm Christian perspective in non-Christian fiction writing. But somewhere between healing and heartbreak, in my fortress built of memory and mission, deep in the wilderness between pain and purpose...I found myself writing the kinds of stories I used to need, long before I knew Jesus. Resilience and growth in fiction. Emotional healing through story.

Because I remember what it felt like to be empty.

I remember what it felt like to be bruised by control masquerading as love. I remember how it felt to be told I was the problem. Too much. Too needy. I remember what it felt like to show up at church and still leave starving to be seen and heard. Broken, unclean. Scandalous.

And I remember what it felt like when a character on a page said the thing I hadn’t known how to say myself. When stories I read planted seeds of the faith I now depend on.

I remember finding hope through storytelling; the well-spring of eternal life poured out in the birth of my own faith in secular writing. And that’s why I write the way I do. Because trauma doesn’t tidy up with a worship playlist, and some people are living through hell—and the last thing they need is another Christian pretending not to see.

I think writing Christian themes without preaching is possible, and I think a Christian author writing for non-Christians from personal experience is in itself an open door to sanctification through creativity. Because the truth is, those open-door scenes so many people are scandalized by aren’t an author's invitation to sin; more often, the craving for them is a reader's own cry for connection. A picture of the ache so many carry in silence.

And if we as Christians talk so much about finding the lost and reaching the unchurched but we can’t speak about the aching heart of humanity, then how are we ever going to offer the healing? Anyone serious about following Jesus can't just stay safe in a pew. Jesus went out to meet people where they were, telling stories that started in the dark—because that’s where light matters most. Jesus chose the outcasts, loved the unlovable, and touched the unclean. He didn't shake his head and turn away from the ugly in the world. He went after it boldly, with grit and grace in equal measure.

I believe God made us for community; he made us to need each other. And so often, when we are disconnected from him, we’ll do just about anything to feel held, honored, known. That’s not rebellion—it’s the visual picture of soul-deep longing.

And I am not ashamed to write stories for people still in that space.

I know, not everyone will understand how I can reconcile being a Christian with writing books that don't always follow Christian rules. But I've walked a long way with Jesus after a long time without him, and my Jesus went out of his way to meet the woman at the well. The one no one else wanted to talk to. The one with stories no one wanted to hear and pain no one wanted to see. The one with a heart hardened by loss and rejection. And he didn’t shame her. He didn’t scold her. He started a conversation. He spoke gently, and he offered hope.

Jesus left the temple to show people what God looked like in the streets. He sat down to dinner with sinners. And he loved people so well they wanted the change he offered. So no, my characters aren't always clean-cut and church-ready. But neither was I when he found me—and if he hadn't met me in the darkness, I never would have been able to see his light.

*****

I hope you know I’m not writing this to stir the pot or tiptoe around shock value. I’m writing from personal experience, with the hope of warming hearts too long frozen in silence and a desire to see grace-filled storytelling offer beauty where shame has burned desperate stories to ash. I am and will always be a Christian—but God isn't limited to safe, shiny narratives with perfect people. I've never been perfect, and my narrative has rarely been safe or shiny, but I believe God works through all kinds of stories. Even the ones that start in the dark and aren’t nearly finished yet.

So if you’ve ever felt like you didn’t belong in the church because of what you’ve lived through, or questioned whether there’s space in faith for someone like you, I want you to know you’re not alone. If you're a believer who still reads stories you can't talk about in church because you still relate to the pain of life before Jesus, you're not alone in that either. I hope my writing creates space to meet in the middle, and maybe one of my stories will help you feel a sense of community that can sometimes be hard to find.

Right now, I’m about halfway through the second edit of STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, and Christine's next chapters are a tender, complicated, grace-filled exploration of the exact kind of faith-meets-feeling tension we’ve talked about here. The characters aren’t perfect, but neither are we. Most of these characters aren't Christians, but they still offer each other grace and growth our world is starving for—and while my books don't aim to bleed biblical worldview in fiction, they do carry truth, invite healing, and meet every reader right there at their personal well. Because that’s where God found me, and that's the kind of Christian I want to be. Writing what I know, from where I've been, to shine a light in the darkness for every reader who opens one of my books.

I may be a long way from the grace and honor of Jesus, but I know he called his people to go out and touch the rest of the world. In obedience to that call, I pray we all find the courage to meet people where they are, spread kindness and compassion like the plague, inspire change rather than forcing it, and as always...

Presence Over Perfection: A Pirate Party Survival Story

Post traumatic stress disorder isn't a secret in my life, and I talk about it often. As a storyteller, I don't shy away from vulnerability—even when I'm drowning in overwhelm and burnout, I show up with the lessons of a lifetime of healing childhood wounds.

I wasn't raised by people who knew how to love well. Most marriages ended in divorce, relationships were built on competition and passive aggression, love and respect were transactional—and if you weren't careful enough to toe an ever-moving line, you landed in a discard pile faster than an Uno card. Guilt and shame were served as often as hot dogs at a barbecue, and emotions that broke the surface of toxic tradition were as unwelcome as flies. I got good at finding joy in the hard moments, and I lived a "laugh or cry" philosophy that helped me joke my way through trauma.

And then I became a mom, learning to navigate parenting with trauma, which added new layers of wanting change for the next generation. I learned to combine cPTSD and motherhood with grace for both my children and myself, balancing tenderness as a mom with pride in who my daughters and I have become. Even when it's hard because I'm juggling emotional exhaustion and gratitude. But lately, life is brimming with challenge—both new challenges and old ones resurfacing—which means lots of practice to keep my perspective locked on gratitude and my heart filled with peace. Because even when love costs something, choosing love anyway is maybe my greatest strength.

Recently I told a friend, with complete honesty, that "my cup runneth over" because my life is so good. I have good friends, good kids. Stimulating conversations. Enriching hobbies. A life filled with purpose. But then I said, with equally complete honesty, that "it's running so far over, I'm drowning in it!" I can't keep up with all the texts or accept all the invites, there are too many things to worry about, and sometimes I feel like I've got a salad plate in my hands but life is serving a Thanksgiving buffet.

Perfect example: this past week, when I gave everything I had to throwing my youngest daughter a fabulously pirate themed birthday party for her sweet sixteen...and just about lost my mind.

She took my phone, her mouth falling open in surprise as she scrolled down the list. "This is the kind of stuff you've been doing? No wonder you're tired!"

I hadn't touched my book in three days. Instead I'd been frantically reorganizing the entire house, repacking heirloom china to protect it from careless teen guests, cleaning every nook and cranny, stashing clutter. Staging my home. Stressing over dust bunnies and the spider population. A recent bout with depression still held me like a weighted blanket made of fatigue, and anxiety covered my face with a pillow stuffed in shame. I was barely breathing, but I smiled anyway and tucked the phone in my pocket. "Yep. Imagine what's NOT on that list." In less than twenty hours her party guests would arrive—and we still needed to dismantle, clean, and reset our pantry, clean our kitchen, bathroom, and floors, attend a doctor's appointment, eat, shower, and sleep.

She turned the phone over and sighed. "Well, maybe we'll pull an all-nighter." And in my head, I laughed. While she had been excited and carefree, anticipating her pirate party, I had been pulling all-dayers AND all-nighters entirely alone. Because sometimes, showing up with love means sacrifice...and I had sacrificed myself so quietly she hadn't even noticed.

That afternoon, time seemed to slow down—or maybe teamwork really does make the dream work. Either way, we settled the doctor and picked up last minute food and decorations from two different stores within an hour, and then we headed home for the hard stuff. 

Our pantry is built of wire shelving. Completely visible, utterly cluttered. And since it's nearly impossible to move, it was backed by a wall of only mostly-vacant spiderwebs. It took almost three hours to empty, disassemble, clean the pieces, murder the spiders, mop the floor, wipe the wall, and put it all back. She kept hugging me at random moments. She offered a massage when a leg cramp threatened to cripple me. She made dinner when the sun fell behind the mountains and our growling bellies got louder than our spider shrieks. Small acts of love, the offerings of a child realizing what motherhood really means, in the unseen moments of service suddenly brought to light.

"You were right," she said, while the vacuum choked on spiderwebs and we ate our dinner with an episode of Golden Girls. "We are the most disgusting people to ever live."

And I laughed because it's mostly a joke...but childhood shame, depression, and anxiety...well, they were laughing too.

The hours passed and one day turned into another. We swept, vacuumed, shifted, and rearranged. Every time she asked if it was time to decorate yet, I said, "Not until the house is done," and watched her smother discouragement with determination. We checked our list, she took her shower while I tackled the dishes, and with ten hours left on the clock, we chose sleep and an early wake-up. The list wasn't finished. The decorations weren't up. There was still too much to do. But in those hours, we collected joy, swept up giggles, and sprayed a cleansing solution of jokes over the stench of hosting anxiety. And she saw a little more of what sacrificial love really looks like.

"I can't believe you're doing all this just so I can have a birthday party." She wrapped her little arms gratefully around my neck, and as her shining curtain of mahogany hair spilled over my arm, I held my fifteen-year-old daughter for one of the last times. Still my baby, but so nearly grown. And the funny thing is, choosing presence over perfection gave us both.

In the end, the party was a spectacular success made all the more wonderful by friends who showed up early to swab the decks, hoist the sails, and raise the Jolly Roger. Tables were covered, gold coins and plastic gems sparkled in organized chaos, and no one got stuffed in Davy Jones' locker. The galley held a chili bar fit for any ship's captain. And for dessert, we walked planks made of caramel rice crispies. Because in the end, what love really looks like is sharing the load and showing up—even if your back hurts and your to-do list mocks you.

Love is laughing at the mess and choosing joy anyway, even if you're grossed out by spider guts.

*****

In the same way I'm open about the impact of PTSD, I want to be open about the challenges of motherhood with disabilities—especially when those challenges mean hard choices in prioritizing my time and energy. And I don’t always get it right. I don’t always finish the list.

But in the mess and madness of motherhood, mixed with ambition and tempered with limitations, I’m learning not to measure love by what I checked off; instead, I'm making a point to recognize it in showing up.

Am I exhausted? Absolutely. Does my back feel like a shipwreck today? You bet. But my daughter felt seen, celebrated, and loved. And her honest recognition of what it took to make it all happen meant I felt those things, too.

Healing from trauma doesn’t mean I never struggle—it just means I choose love anyway. I choose presence. And I remind myself that the mess doesn’t mean I failed. It just means we lived. Because even when there's dishes in my sink and crumbs on my table, there’s laughter in my lungs and love in my home.

And that’s more than enough to help this mom...