Restored: A Harvest of Hope After the Locust Years

 A few weeks ago, I shared my focus word for this year, along with a bit about why I chose it and how it connected to previous focus words. I don't know if it's because we're still in January so I'm still thinking heavily on the topic, or if it's just that I tend to be more introspective during the enforced stillness of winter and snow days, but this week I wanted to dig a little deeper into the imagery of locusts and the symbolism of a damaging swarm.

Every year, I choose a Bible verse to go along with my focus word, something to hold onto, meditate on, learn about, study, and pray over. This year's verse is a perfect metaphor for what I feel about my life and the path I've been on in recent years as a writer, a mother, and a woman still learning to thrive after trauma:

All my life, I’ve been a writer; even as a child, I loved books and stories of all kinds. In many ways, the stories I loved were the hope of adventures I never believed I could experience, people I never thought I would meet, and loyal friends who could be accessed as easily as turning a page. I covered the trauma of those early years with a wallpaper collage—pages and pages of unfinished tales, undeveloped characters, stories with infinite potential because they never ended. But it wasn’t until 2012 that I completed my first novel as a way to cope while my mother went through a cancer scare. My daughters were three and eight at the time, and every time I glanced up from the computer to watch them play, I thought about how to mother them differently, how to offer them more than I had. How to leave something tangible behind if the cancer running through our genetic makeup should find me before they were ready.

That book birthed a new career for me, and a chance to mold a lifelong passion into a legacy I hoped my little girls would be proud of. Proof that the dreams of our hearts don't have to be passing fancies only applicable to other people. Proof that when you go for it, when you muster the courage to give it all you've got, when you're willing to sacrifice and put in the effort...a dream can become so much more than the secret longing of a heart.

What's funny about dreamers like me is that we often find ourselves surrounded by people enraged by a dreamer's audacity. As a young writer, family and friends would happily pat my shoulder and smile indulgently and praise my efforts. They'd read my writing, discuss my poems, brainstorm characters and plot twists. They were happy to talk about fantasies of fat wallets and big houses—until I published my first novel. It felt like a dream; I cried the first time I held one of my own books in my hands, my name on the cover blurring behind a film of tears. By the end of 2013, I had written and published five novels. If my writing was a crop field, I would have needed a team to help me manage the coming harvest.

There are a few people who have been with me since the beginning, people who held me up when I wanted to quit, who believed in me when I didn't, and who reminded me of the bigger goals when I listened too hard or too long to people trying to tear it all down. Those people would have showed up for the harvest...but to keep with the metaphor, locusts are often an unpredictable and devasting plague.

Setting boundaries around my writing as it gained momentum nearly cost me everything in the beginning. I lost relationships with people who wanted access, credit, and control. I saw people I had previously trusted turn on me and begin to actively sabotage what I was trying to grow. I went into therapy, got diagnosed with complex PTSD, and had to step away from writing to focus on my children as the turmoil in our private lives left them both with chronic mental and physical health problems.

In the years that followed, as my daughters and I rebuilt our lives, I often questioned my calling as a writer. I believed in my writing as a gift from God, and believed that my stories were meant to minister to others and provide beyond the needs of my family—but as everything fell apart in my hands, I wondered why God seemed to be holding back. Was I doing something wrong? Was I missing the point?

Looking back, I see how God was teaching me about stewardship—and discernment. I began to focus more deeply on the present blessings even as I hoped and planned for a greater future. I also became more discerning about who I am, who I want to be, and the people I allowed into my life. I learned to recognize more quickly the difference between those who would help me grow something meaningful and those who would destroy it out of jealousy or greed. I learned the hard way that if I wasn't careful, my deepest mission as a writer could be devoured from within, as quickly and completely as a field consumed by locusts.

Sometimes, protecting my calling has meant stepping away from people or places I previously loved, and though it left me feeling isolated, I’ve also learned that these periods of loss were seasons of growth. Lessons gleaned in the darkness of those painful years planted seeds only now beginning to sprout in the everyday moments of my life; the time I spent away from writing to focus on healing and raising my daughters was like a seed lying dormant in soil, hidden but not forgotten.

In the darkness, unseen, those lessons rooted my faith—not just in God’s purpose for my writing, but in myself as someone capable of stewarding this calling well. The landscape of my life, though scarred, turned over, and fertilized by the pain of the past, finally feels fertile again, and every new sprout, every new reader or follower, is a reminder of hope.

There are still setbacks, of course; beginning this year with illness threw off my schedule, and STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM isn’t as far along as I’d hoped. I wanted to be finished with the writing and on to the editing by now...and yet three scenes remain incomplete.

Hopefully next week's post will be an announcement that STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is on to the next phase, because I've never been a quitter (not for long, anyway), and locusts aside, every word I write still feels like water on the field. The locust years didn’t destroy my calling. They prepared it. The land is ready, the seeds are growing, and I fully intend to...

Q1 2025: Laying the Foundation for a New Year

Starting the new year with a head-splitting, body-roasting, snot-producing, constant-hacking virus was definitely not in my plans; I can't say I'm surprised, though.

It got both of my daughters first, with the oldest falling ill the day after Christmas and the youngest taking to her bed two days later. It was only fair that I have a turn, so I prepared my stock of medicines and snack/hydration options, sanitized and cleaned and sprayed - and waited. And waited. Thursday rolled around (one full week since my oldest daughter got it) and I still wasn't sick, so I started thinking, "Hey, this one missed me!"

Then it rolled over me like the germ version of what you'd get if the British SAS, the US Navy Seals, the Chinese Snow Leopard Commandos, and the Polish GROM had some sort of freakish combo baby that grew up to be even more of an expert at ambush tactics. I haven't felt that deathly ill since Covid literally almost killed me. (Seriously. Ever wonder what a sternal rub feels like? Awful. It feels awful.)

Today, I'm still hacking and sneezing. I'm terribly sore and remarkably tired, which is impressive considering how much I've slept. But I don't have a fever, I can string two thoughts together (I've leave you to judge how coherently), and I'm so desperate to take a shower that I'm using it as a reward to get this blog post written.

So without further ado, an update to my quarterly goals from Q4 2024...

The holiday season was blessed but busy here at the House of Kennedy, and I fell slightly behind on my writing schedule. I thought after Christmas I'd buckle down and catch up - but then Christmas ended and I spent the next week playing nursemaid instead of novelist. With myself falling ill just as my kids rounded the corner, I've had to reevaluate my schedule a bit, adjust my expectations a little, and generally dig deep to give myself a little extra grace. That being said, here are my goals for first quarter of 2025:

Tomorrow, my youngest heads back to school, and I hope to buckle down and take advantage of new-year motivation. These are manageable, but they're still goals that'll take some planning on my part, and I'm honestly not sure I'll get them all checked by the end of the quarter. Still, life is about progress, not perfection - and moving toward my goals is progress even if I don't get them all accomplished as quickly as I'd like to.

If you're setting goals like me this quarter, remember to set goals that are possible within the timeframe. Don't be afraid to take those quarterly goals and break them down into monthly milestones or weekly targets. Even if the end goal is a little intimidating, have faith in your capabilities; create a plan, map out the steps, and then start taking them one at a time. Each step is closer, and those steps will add up if you keep moving and remember to...

When Quiet Speaks: Lessons from a Year of Reflection

In 2023, my annual word of the year was Persevere, and let me tell you, the year lived up to the challenge! For my household, 2023 will always be a year marked by health crises, financial struggles, the end of my marriage...and the revival of my writing journey. So when Quiet showed up in my meditations as the word for 2024, I felt immediate gratitude—and hope. I even joked that I didn’t care if Quiet meant a restful year or waking up deaf on January 1st; either way, I’d be thankful. What I couldn’t anticipate was just how much the simple concept of Quiet, and the deeper meaning to be found there, would shape my perspective and growth as the year passed.

All my life, I’ve struggled to control what I say, and even as I've learned to control my tongue, I still lack the power to control my facial expressions. It stems from a deep-seated value for honesty and openness; still, my determination to display those qualities has definitely backfired a time or two, and through the consequences of those times in my life, I've learned the importance of boundaries.

Maybe that's part of why Proverbs 21:23 became something of a cornerstone for me this year: “Those who guard their mouths and their tongues keep themselves from calamity.” More than just learning when to speak or stay silent, this verse was a reminder to protect my inner world, to value privacy, and to safeguard my home and my heart.

Another layer of Quiet? The acceptance of personal rejections I’ve faced because of my dream to live as a writer. Family and friends have often dismissed (or even sabotaged) my efforts, but love and service to my family and community are often the root of my deepest drive to succeed. This has been confusing, lonely, and incredibly painful—so Genesis 37:5 became another anchor in 2024:

“Joseph had a dream, and when he told it to his brothers, they hated him all the more.”

Joseph’s brothers, and later, his parents, couldn’t (or wouldn't) understand the dreams he tried to share with them, and my year of Quiet reminded me that understanding and validation aren't necessary for me to move forward with what I have always seen as a calling on my life. Rejection from people I respected and valued, though painful, allowed me to lean more fully into my purpose and the God who set that purpose on me, trusting in him to fulfill his plan for me.

Joseph’s story resonates in a lot of ways. Like him, I’ve often been the black sheep of the family; moving away from toxic patterns and behaviors has cost me relationships I've been heartbroken to let go of. Still, even as recently as last week, I’ve seen evidence of that same separation protecting my daughters from the trauma I grew up in. They don’t know what it is to witness hard drug use, violent behavior, sexual abuse, or the kind of deep poverty that marked so much of my own upbringing.

The rejection and resentment I've faced has often been the result of my desire to provide a better life for my children, one where potential can be celebrated rather than stifled by dysfunction. Keeping my mind and heart focused on Quiet helped me accept that someone else's inability to understand my purpose isn't about me—and I don't need permission to move forward with what I feel called to in life.

In Joseph’s story, we’re not told whether he was bragging or simply sharing when he told his brothers (and parents) about his dreams, but his brothers' collective offense led to years of hardship for Joseph: slavery, false accusations, imprisonment. Through it all, Joseph’s journey was marked by his determination to behave with the kind of integrity and faithfulness that eventually empowered him to save the very family that sold him out. In seasons of quiet waiting and preparation, the restoration in this story fills me with hope and encouragement.

Maybe that's why I'm so excited to share that my focus word for 2025 is Restored. Joel 2:25-26 says, “So I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten…You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied, and praise the name of the Lord your God, who has dealt wondrously with you.” Over the years, I’ve definitely faced my share of swarming locusts in terms of people and circumstances that devoured my time, energy, and joy—but the Quiet lessons of 2024 taught me to protect my inner life, to listen for (and follow) God’s direction, and to trust that He is working.

I’m stepping into this new year filled with optimism. Restoration isn’t just about reclaiming what's lost, it’s about stepping into the promise of hope, trusting that a foundation of Quiet strength and steady Perseverance will lead to visible growth and the kind of success I can make a difference with. Like Joseph, I’m trusting that even the hardest seasons prepare us for blessings ahead.

As we close this year and turn toward the next, I invite you to reflect on your own lessons from 2024 and dreams for 2025. Have you had similar seasons of Quiet? If you're in one right now, what might Restoration look like in your life? If you've chosen a word, verse, or goal of some kind for the coming year, I'd love for you to share in the comments—and until next week, I pray you...

Joy in the Overwhelm: Lessons From an Overstuffed Christmas

I admit, I love Christmas as much as the next girl. I love the magical sparkle of twinkling lights, the beautiful patterns on gorgeous wrapping papers, the joy of giving someone just the right gift. I love when someone gives me just the right gift too, like the feathered dip pen I got from my oldest daughter's best friend, the little pink Christmas gnome I got from my oldest daughter and never put away, the poem one of my students at church wrote for me, the cross my youngest daughter chose for my thirty-ninth birthday gift - which I never take off - or the laptop I'm using to write this post.  love Christmas.

But yall, this Christmas season has been more overstuffed than a Granny's favorite chair, and I am overwhelmed. This last week alone, I helped coordinate (in small ways) and attended two large events at church, partied through a third event with a small group of besties, house-sat for my spiritual parents, and finally (I think) finished shopping. I also got my youngest back and forth school, spent some time with my oldest, did my best to keep up with my writing schedule, and kept all of us fed, warm, healthy, and relatively happy.

Side Note: I have wrapped zero presents, my house is a mess, I can't remember the last time I slept more than six hours in a stretch, and I still have way too many things to do in order to maintain the level of Christmas magic my children and family are accustomed to experiencing.

It's one of those seasons where there is not a moment to spare - and every task takes twice the time allotted for completion. The pressure is on. No one has matchy pajamas. The food isn't prepped because I haven't bought it yet. And as Christmas morning gets closer, I keep joking that my kids are going to wake up Christmas morning to find presents under the tree but not one of them will be wrapped. With increasing seriousness and an exhausted grin, I laughingly tell people that maybe this year I'll just point at an unwrapped pile of gifts and cheerfully dictate: "That ones yours, and that one's hers, and that one's for our friend, and that one's yours..."

Honestly, it would be so easy to curl up in bed with a book that isn't mine, refuse to get up other than to refill my stash of corn nuts and rice crispy treats, and just call this whole season a wash. I failed to keep up. I couldn't get it all done. I'm tired and I don't have my usual spark. I dropped the ball. But then again...none of those things are the point anyway, are they?

On Tuesday night, it didn't matter that I couldn't find the battery pack for the Christmas trees in the center of my table at the Stephen Ministry party. What mattered was that my cranberry relish was fabulous, my table turned out beautiful in the end (I bought a new battery pack), and I got to share those moments and the joy of that ministry with my daughters. On Wednesday, it didn't matter that I hate the mess of Gingerbread houses and the chaos of kids doped up on too much candy. What mattered was the vulnerability shared with my ninth grade students as we discussed Godly dating standards and the value of boundaries as daughters of the highest King while we spread icing and scattered sprinkles. What mattered was knowing those girls felt seen and heard - and that's what I carried with me through the rest of this week's busyness.

It helped me stay mindful of what counts, and mindfulness helped me to be more intentional. I used the same strategies I always use for keeping up:

• I kept my calendar filled in, prioritizing tasks and events by due date.
• I said "no" where I needed to, respecting and honoring my own boundaries and limitations.
• I accepted help when it was offered, recognizing that I'm only human and simply cannot do everything all at once.
• I kept my internal focus on God and let Him carry through the moments of struggle. (Matthew 6:34 is a great reminder to prioritize what's needed today. Sometimes you really do need to let tomorrow worry about itself. Matthew 11:28 keeps me grounded in seeking peace and rest in the right place. And Galatians 6:9 keeps me focused on the calling on my life and reminds me to hold onto my "why.")

In the hardest moments, I didn't give up and retreat from everything for one simple reason: hope. I have lived a hard life in many ways, but one thing I've learned is that nothing lasts forever. If what goes up must come down, then the opposite of this must also be true - what goes down must come up. Life is rarely lived in a straight line, and sometimes you just have to ride out the low moments believing that the best is yet to come, and that one way or another, this too shall pass.

I applied these things to my writing as well; trying to juggle everything all at once is overwhelming and I confess, I've let my writing schedule slip a little. I'm pretty far behind right now, and there's a good chance I'll miss my Q4 goal to finish writing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM before the end of the year. But getting through hard things is all about framework and perspective, so I'm choosing to see this as yet another opportunity to practice prioritizing - Christmas is over in a few days, but 2024 isn't finished yet. There's time to focus on sharing the holiday season with my loved ones, give myself grace and permission to rest - and hope that in the quiet between the sleigh bells and the ball drop, I'll catch up.

It's a timely lesson, especially considering the content of The Freedom Series and its focus on managing and coping with overwhelming things as gracefully and efficiently as possible. There were moments this season where I found myself wishing for more quiet, more alone time, more rest - but in those moments my heart broke for Christine as I remembered her aching loneliness in the Christmas scenes from FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM (available now for preorder!) and how Christine worked through those moments. Too many real-life people just like Christine are hurting this season, and the world is full of people for whom the holidays are quiet and hold very little joy.

I had to recognize that even in my overwhelm, I am blessed. I hope that this Christmas, you have reasons to feel blessed too, even if you have dig deep to find them. I hope you have moments of joy to savor when things are too busy, lights twinkling in your heart no matter how dark the world around you might be, and that even if you aren't seeking a God-centered Christmas, someone makes you feel like you are their favorite gift.

Because in the end, it isn't about the chaos, the mess, or the magic - it's about the moments we make, the love we share along the way, and the strength of spirit to...

Your Secret Garden: Circles of Trust and the Power of Boundaries

Recently I saw a Facebook post asking, "How do you deal with the people who pretend to like you, but talk about your behind your back?" There were, as I'm sure you can guess, loads of people in the comments with various creative ways to reject, repay, or discard people who prove themselves untrustworthy - and the more I thought about it, the more I noticed the contrast between those tones.

It's all about REactivity vs PROactivity. Most of the answers I saw flooding the comments of that post were colored by hurt, anger, defensiveness. There were stories of regret and revenge being shared. But the thing is, the way we respond to these situations says more about our own sense of worth than it does about the people who hurt us. It’s easy to react from a place of pain or anger but...what if we approached it differently?

What if, instead of focusing on them, what they did, how they failed or they were wrong or they should/shouldn't do this/that...what if we focused on ourselves—our values, our boundaries, and the safe spaces we build for our lives? What if, instead of targeting our efforts on defending and avenging, we instead learned better methods for protecting and empowering?

Picture this:

You're walking along a pathway filled with sunshine, and there before you is what appears to be a rounded stone wall, low enough to peer over but broken only by a simple wooden gate, standing invitingly open. You step through and find yourself looking around a circular garden. Here too, the sun streams freely over a pebbled trail lined with flowerbeds. Cheerful blooms perfume the air, and you know all the flowers here; daisies, marigolds, sprigs of blooming lavender. You walk the pathway around, admiring the blooms, perhaps inspired but probably not too impressed. The garden, after all is lovely, but you've seen these plants before.

Having lingered a while on the blooms, you begin to get a little curious about the second stone wall lining the inner circle of this garden. What might be further inside? Eventually you find your way to a second gate; this one is wooden as well as the first, but the planks are carved decoratively, and while the gate is not locked, it is also not open. Instead, an iron sign hangs from a post nearby, emblazoned with a simple monogram. Below this sign, a gentle request: Tread with Care.

In this second garden, the flowers are taller. The perfume is stronger but somehow more delicate, and the colors are more vibrant, enhanced by the way this second circle overlooks the first. Roses climb trellises in full bloom, delicate orchids sway in the breeze, and the air is fragrant with jasmine and honeysuckle. The pathway is somehow less defined, yet more enchanting; the borders are lined with brilliant greens, and something about this place hints at an unseen sense of longing expectation. There is an inner wall here, too, and you can't resist the urge to look for another gate.

This inner circle isn't as easy to find, but you relish the searching, the sense of adventure, the power in the chance to discover and reveal something more. And there, behind a wall of spilling ivy, a spark of sunlight draws your eye to the gleaming lock on a hidden gate. Intricately carved with swirling filigree that offers only the barest glimpse at the inner sanctum, this gate fills you with a longing to be invited in. You stand a while, contemplating, peering curiously through the vines as cool breezes stir the leaves around you. In the wavering light you see only teasing glimpses of sanctuary beyond: soft grass in rolling pathways that invite bare feet to wander there, heirloom plants rich in scent and color, leaves and petals soft as velvet and lovingly tended. The center of this most inner circle boasts a stunning fountain, with spraying droplets of water shimmering like crystals in the sun as they fall to gather in the pool below. An ancient tree shades a wide stone bench, its branches heavy with fruit so succulent you can't help imagining its sweetness. In this place, you could rest - and you find yourself longing for the peace so plainly found here.

Sadly, you touch the lock, perhaps wishing for a moment that you had the key.

It's only as you make your disappointed way back out of the garden that you spy the evidence of careless footsteps taken by other visitors. Here a trampled bloom, there a gap in the foliage - and beside that second gate, below the beautifully monogrammed sign, a forgotten gum wrapper, so out of place in this beautiful setting. Nearby, a passerby tears a flower from a rosebush, smiling softly to themselves as they lift their prize. Behind them, the newly broken stem shrivels as it mourns the loss, unnoticed.

You recognize now the need for the lock at that inner gate: to step beyond it requires invitation, and to be trusted with the key requires careful intention. The innermost circle isn’t open to everyone, because only those who’ve shown they can walk carefully...those who understand the value of what grows here, are welcome past the gate.

What a dream, right?

The beauty of this metaphor for life and boundary-setting is the recognition that you can cultivate this same protected sense of sanctuary in your own life. You are the garden, friend; you decide when and how the gates open and close, who enters each circle, who gets access to the rarest blooms.

The truth behind the need for this metaphor is this: not everyone will respect the sanctity of what you’ve cultivated, and that’s okay. You don’t have to tear down fences and you don't have to rationalize locks. You don’t owe anyone access to your innermost spaces - especially when they’ve shown they can’t, or won't, tread gently.

It's not about shutting people out in anger or nursing bitter wounds. It’s about generally sharing space - but also choosing to offer access wisely. It’s about knowing your God-given worth, and honoring that worth even when others don’t. It’s about tending, nurturing, and yes, protecting your own garden, so that it remains a place of refuge and joy for those who’ve earned the right to sit on that bench beside you.

At the end of the day, there will always be people who can’t see your worth. Let them walk by, missing the beauty of flowers they’ve been barred from trampling. And know that it's their loss, not yours.

Tend your garden with care. Protect what’s sacred. Welcome what's good. And if you wish, grow something fuchsia in that garden of yours, to help you remember to...

Unfinished But Undaunted: Claiming The Next Chapter

This quote has always resonated deeply with me, but lately, it feels more personal than ever. It’s so easy to fall into the trap of believing the window for our dreams has closed, or that past mistakes and circumstances mean change isn't possible. One thing I’ve learned is, while some opportunities do pass us by, the most important transformations - the ones that happen inside us - are never out of reach.

I’ve faced a lot of moments in my life where I thought it was “too late.” Too late to repair relationships. Too late to recover from setbacks. Too late to become the person I hoped to be. Maybe I'm too old, too broken, too stuck. Not quite smart enough?

I love that despite all those things, time has a way of teaching us that the story isn’t over until we decide it is.

I have lived forty very long years on this earth, with far more than my fair share of traumatic experience - and in those years, the idea of “too late” has often felt painfully real. I’ve experienced estrangement, heartbreak, and moments where the weight of past choices or the limitations of disability seemed impossible to overcome.

For example, something that is too late: my relationship with my father is something I’ll never be able to mend. We were estranged for the last decade of his life, and I often felt incredible sorrow over the divide between us. I struggled with guilt too; he was my father, my childhood hero, and I wondered if I should have been the one to bridge the gap. He was my father - but I was no longer a child, and I often struggled with the idea that I needed to step up and be the bigger person.

But then my mother passed away in 2019, and any semblance of lingering guilt disappeared. In the days after her death, he reached out to my brothers to comfort them in their grief - but not me. Not even a word. One of my brothers wasn't even her son, and my father's silence in those days severed something in me that no amount of time would heal. Through the pain and the shock of those moments, I realized it wasn’t my job to carry the weight of our broken relationship anymore.

Still, letting go of that guilt didn’t mean the pain disappeared. My father died in 2020, and with him gone from this life there's a good chance that I will always feel like a rejected daughter; I will always struggle with the parts of me that are handed down from the worst of him.

It has taken years of reflection, prayer, and self-compassion to find peace with those feelings - but over the years, I've learned that while it may be too late to heal that relationship, it’s not too late to heal myself.

It’s not too late to let go of toxic patterns, choose compassion for both of us, and move forward.

The funny thing about the best lessons in life is that they usually apply in almost universal ways, and this lesson applies to my writing journey as well. In 2013, I was in the middle of stepping into my greatest and most terrifying calling in life; I was building momentum, publishing novels, and growing fast as an author.

Then in 2014, life intervened in ways I couldn’t ignore. My children needed me to prioritize caring and advocating for them, so writing had to take a back seat. Not writing felt like having a part of my soul unexpectedly amputated, and year after year, I tried to get back to it only to be derailed by new challenges - moving, health problems, the deaths of my parents. Covid. Marriage. Divorce. Big things, big complications that left me feeling like I had been away too long, lost my readership, lost my momentum. Lost the point, perhaps.

For a long time, I felt like writing was behind me, like the door was slammed shut, and I grieved the loss as honestly and deeply as if I'd lost some vital part of my life and my self - because I had.

But then I remembered: if I’m still alive, it’s not too late. Coming back to the keyboard, the blank screen, the chapters still waiting to be written - even after such a long hiatus - has been more than a comeback effort. It's the reclaiming of my own truest self.

And now, as I approach the completion of STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM...as I soak in the excitement of finishing Christine's story with honor and skill and a reflection of my own growth in the time since her story began...I'm more determined than ever to prove that it’s never too late to chase the dreams that set your soul on fire.

Life has a way of convincing us the windows of opportunity are smaller than they really are, but...please let these words soak in: it’s rarely too late to start again. You may need to take different steps than you would have years ago, but those steps are no less meaningful, no less worthwhile. Starting over takes courage, but every step forward reaffirms that you’re not defined by what’s behind you. If you're still alive, then you are not trapped by the choices you didn’t make or the chances you didn’t take.

Wherever you are right now, let me encourage you to pause and ask yourself: What dream have I left sitting for too long? And what step can I take toward it today? Maybe it’s a creative project you’ve abandoned, a relationship you're longing to mend, or a passion you’ve been too afraid to pursue. Whatever it is, remember that if you're still here, it’s not too late.

Life will always be filled with obstacles. There will always be reasons to wait, or doubts about whether you’re ready to move forward on something. But you'll never know what might have happened unless you try, and as long as you’re alive, there’s still time to become who you might have been - whoever you want to be. So take that step, trust the process, and always...

Polished Through Pain: Finding Strength in the Struggle

I'll never forget reading that quote for the first time. My women's group was reading Captivating together at church; I was early for group that day but behind on my reading. So there I sat, alone in my car in the church parking lot, trying to catch up - and that passage hit me like a ton of bricks. In the end, there were many parts of that book that touched (and healed) deep wounds I hadn't even known I was carrying, but this one stuck with me for weeks afterward.

That time in my life was a deep, unspeakably painful season of questioning myself, my purpose, my worth. I was struggling with who I was, the burden of unmet expectations in my life, challenges with my daughters...and I was trying desperately to ignore the fact that I was headed fast for a second divorce. Everywhere I looked in my life, failure was glowing like a neon sign, and no amount of running faster, working harder, or giving more could turn it off. But that book...it was like a personal whisper from God, a reminder that my value wasn't lost. It was there - even if the people around me couldn't (or wouldn't) see it. The message of value and beautiful potential in Captivating was a lifeline, offering a new perspective on who I am and what I can be as a woman.

I knew, on the most intimate level, what it meant to be cast aside. I grew up being treated largely like the bad fruit hanging from the rotten branch of the family tree. Always too much (too serious, too curious, too opinionated, too outspoken), but never enough (grades not high enough, room not clean enough, accomplishments not impressive enough). I was shamed as a quitter when I gave up on things, and shamed as an uppity egomaniac when I shared my ambitions. If you take that beginning, add a woman-hating father, and sprinkle liberally with a cultural/societal blaming of Eve (and therefore, all women) for the downfall of everything in the world, what you get is a young woman who believes on every level that she is inherently flawed. Lacking. Off balance.

That shame lingers, creates shadows in your soul. It leaves hidden pockets of infection that continue to rot even as you make desperate choices you hope will heal the wounds. As a young adult damaged by abuse, abandonment, and misplaced loyalty, I made choices that mirrored my brokenness. I accepted toxic relationships, grieved failed marriages, stumbled under the weight and pressure of single motherhood.

Captivating opened the way for me to explore how I felt about all those things - but it also taught me something new and magical and so filled with graceful encouragement that I sobbed in the overflow. Women are not the last-second afterthought of God's creative genius - and we today are not responsible for Eve back then. Woman was the final touch in His creation, the crowning glory, the completion of the project. Man alone was not good because he needed companionship; woman filled the gap. The icing on the cake of creation. And in the many years since Eve, God has continued to honor and provide for women in countless ways, as beloved daughters of his heart.

In the clarity of that realization, I began to shed layers of internalized shame I should never have been carrying in the first place. I went into group that day, and over the next few weeks we finished the book, but that book changed my life with a quiet whisper of worth that wouldn’t let up.

In seeing and accepting that worth, I began to see boundaries differently, too - rather than restrictive acts of cruelty, they too are a work of love. Just as a parent builds a fence to keep their children from the street, I had to learn that it was okay to set boundaries around myself and my children, to build a fence that could keep good things in and bad things out, and to be proud of knowing the difference. I've always been a “survivor,” but beginning that journey gave me the chance to thrive, to rebuild and reclaim the worth I had always possessed but never recognized.

I wish I could say it was easy, but it wasn't. Healing from trauma and shame is like the emotional equivalent of lifting heavy weights -you tear your muscles in the lifting, and often spend the next few days sore and aching, but that healing is where the growth happens. The healing, the growth...they're the foundational structure of true strength.

Another thing I learned is this: while too much pride is toxic, so is too much humility. Seeing yourself as less than everyone else isn’t humility; it’s a form of self-neglect. It was easy to accept that I’m no better than anyone else - after all, I'd had that idea drilled into my all my life. What was harder to get comfortable with was the idea that I'm no less than anyone else, either.

These and other lessons weave through every form of my writing. Most recently, this journey has spread like welling blood in every chapter of the Freedom Series; FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is currently available for preorder, and STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is nearly complete. For those who might be new here, this series follows a year in the life of a woman rebuilding her life after domestic violence; Christine's journey out of abuse requires not just physical escape but emotional and spiritual healing. As she learns, grows, and adapts to new perspectives, I hope she shows readers the power in learning their own value, the comfort found in setting strong boundaries, and that worth isn’t determined by the hands that try to break us. Writing this story has been one of the most painfully challenging and beautifully healing journeys of my life - and I’m thrilled to report that I'm right on track to finish writing by the end of the year.

Until next week, remember that life’s hardest moments bring out the strongest parts of us. Gems aren’t beautiful when they’re first mined (they have to be cut, polished, and shaped), and seeds only grow when they’re buried. So if you're feeling lost lately, or if you've been all but buried under the weight of a heavy life, know this: you're stronger than you think, and every small step forward matters. Keep going. Keep growing. And always listen for the quiet whisper that says...

NOTE: If you'd like to read Captivating too, you can find it here. (Please note, this is an affiliate link; it costs you nothing extra, but qualifying purchases might help keep me caffeinated, thus paving the way for faster writing.)