The Painful Price of Joy

I have pretty severe chronic hypersomnia, so I'm always a long way past "I need a nap". But today, I’m tired—even by my standards. Our church's annual student conference wrapped last night, and between the worship, the Word, and the wild games, I literally limped away from the weekend physically emptied but spiritually full.

It's more than just a conference, more than a series of meetings and meals. It's two solid days of watching God move in people's hearts, like His own supernatural version of "take your child to work day." Almost five hours on Friday evening. Nearly fifteen on Saturday. And scarcely enough time in between episodes of spiritual growth for everyone to rush home, fall into bed, take a nap, and get ready to show up again with a smile and a fresh outpouring of sacrificial love.

Twenty hours of youth ministry, of Christian leadership working to open doors for God moments that show students there is joy in service and purpose in pain. And that time fills up fast—with small group conversations that foster healing from trauma, unexpected generosities that make joy overflow in rivers of tears, and countless arms sore today from time spent reaching toward God like children stretching to take a trusted father's hand.

That's when I remember why I love being a small group leader. Why I'm thankful for the privilege of struggling to balance faith and fatigue. Because in those moments, when 600 nearly teenagers gather together, tired but thankful, with full hearts open to hope...when the music ends and they're screaming, "One more song! One more song!"...when you can barely walk but you stand with hands raised and eyes streaming in gratitude...that, my friends, is when God shows up.

I've always thought the biggest blessings in life are hidden, tucked quietly away between the "little things."

Tired legs and sore feet mitigated by the gift of an elevator button. The trust buried beneath an over-the-shoulder, "I'll just leave my stuff with you." The partnership and protection of, "Wait here, I'll save our seats."

I ended the weekend with one knee nearly twice the size of the other. With pain at an all-time high, despite the very best of medication, elevation, and BioFreeze application. But somewhere between worship music and water games, I found healing that went deeper than physical pain, and between small group circles and handwritten sermon notes, I saw generosity that tore a hole in my heart—not to empty it, but to fill in and repair all the cracks.

In a semi-quiet hallway, a small group of tenth-grade girls opened up about insecurity. About fear. About seeing God in others.

In a crowded sanctuary brimming with spiritual energy, a few dozen teens made their way to center stage, where they knelt together and welcomed a call to ministry. Heads bowed, eyes closed, hearts hungry, they prayed boldness and courage over themselves and each other. My youngest daughter was among them, her face hidden behind her curtain of waist-length chestnut hair.

A quiet hallway conversation about servant leadership and lessons from ministry turned into a deep dive on trauma and grace. Compassion and understanding shared over taco bowls.

But the moment that wrecked me most deeply was quiet. Simple. My little daughter, still sometimes careless in her teenaged pursuit of instant gratification and potty humor, came to me with twinkling blue eyes and a smile. Her group leader her offered to treat her to a bit of conference merch—and my daughter, only half-aware of what the gesture might mean, chose a gift for me instead.

Surprised, I took the shirt and held it up, reading the printed back. Clear eyes. Full hearts. Can't lose. "Why did you do this?"

Shrugging, she smiled again, and tipped her head as she leaned in for a hug. “You need presents, too,” she whispered.

And when she walked away, I wadded the shirt in my lap. I blinked fast. Wiped away silent tears. Because I spend my professional life as a writer hoping to share stories people will be moved by...but I spend my personal life pouring into the children I love, parenting through faith that sustains my spirit even when times are hard and money is short and my body is breaking down.

Because I felt seen, and poured into.

Because the gift I received...well, it was so much more than a shirt.

*****

I’m still tired. Still hurting. Still hobbling around my house like a drunk octogenarian. But I wouldn’t trade a second of what got me here, because there’s something special about joy that comes with a price tag. Something holy in happiness that supersedes pain. Because when you serve with everything you have (even all you have is fumes) God shows up and even the most desperately broken places begin to heal.

And maybe that’s what this weekend was really about—not just tired leaders and rowdy students and long hours. Maybe it's a reminder that love poured out leaves room for joy poured in.

So yes, I’m tired. But I’m also full. And the joy? The joy is what's helping me...

Life gets loud sometimes, but lately, social media’s loud all the time. So if you’ve ever missed a post you meant to read or wondered why you're not seeing me on social media anymore (thanks a lot, algorithms), I've got the answer to that—a weekly roundup, straight to your inbox.

Purpose In The Middle Of The Mess

Okay, confession time. I’m stretched pretty thin these days. With my oldest daughter settling in after the transition of moving back home, a new school year launching a new season of growth for my youngest daughter, our church preparing a fresh call to purpose at our annual youth conference, learning to be content in the chaos of constant doctor's appointments, and creating space for peace in another weekend of house-sitting (yes, again), things are feeling a little bit like...well, chaos. Clutter. Overwhelm.

And in the midst of it all, I'm revamping how I handle my social media presence while trying to finish a book.

To tell the truth, sometimes even the smallest wins feel like precious drops of orange juice—tangy sweetness squeezed word by word from my crazy life. I'm juggling a lot of “almosts” and unfinished things right now. Still learning to let go of perfection. Still finding peace in the chaos, even when progress feels invisible.

I fully intended to clean my whole house this week. To restore order. To be productive, focused. Calm. But as it does so often lately, life had other plans. And somewhere in the middle, right there in the battle of emotional clutter vs physical clutter, in the space between motherhood and mess, I remembered that unfinished work still matters. Even when the very picture of "unfinished work" looks like...me.

I didn’t realize how noisy my mind had gotten, how hungry I was for peace and progress, until the bedroom was clean. I accept grace from God, pour that grace out as well as I can on the people around me...but grace...for myself? From myself? When life feels out of control? When the only steady thing I have to hold onto is my faith in the middle of the mess?

Well, that's not so simple.

A few decluttered spaces, a stack of things put back where they belonged, a tied-up trash bag, a vacuumed floor. And a clean bed, prettily made. When I finished, the room wasn't perfect, but it was clean enough to let me breathe again. The tightness in my chest eased, the lingering sense of constant panic faded, and my thoughts finally had a little room to slow down and settle in—but just a little.

It was one room, in a two-story, three-bedroom apartment where every nook, corner, and cranny begged for attention. And even then, the absence of physical clutter in that one room gave my mind a place to recognize emotional clutter, still clinging like cobwebs to the edges of a desperately weary heart. The pressure to check off the lists, to be present for the people who count on me, to smile through unshed tears and keep teaching everyone else how to hold on to hope.

Wednesday night, I sat in church with my students, my heart aching as one of my precious girls tearfully shared her fear of drifting away from God. Of becoming numb enough to look away from the miracle of love that deep. Of losing her spiritual purpose in hard times, when it's easier to slide down the slope of distraction than to slog through the wilderness of slow spiritual growth. She said she gives her heart to other things sometimes—the excitement of a new crush, the quiet of a comfort show, the dissociated apathy of doom scrolling. "I don't want to love anything more than God," she said, deep eyes like shining pools, her little face etched in pain. "Why do I do this?"

Our little group surrounded her, laid hands on her, and prayed. I covered her shoulder with my hand, but in my heart I doused her with the faithfulness of Ruth, the boldness of Esther, the courage of Deborah. She bowed her head, still crying softly, as my palm settled over springy coils of dark hair. And I prayed her mind might be filled with the discerning wisdom of Abigail, the conviction of Rahab, the desperate hunger of Hannah. As she straightened, I slid my hand slowly down to rest between bony shoulder-blades, begging God to help me teach this precious girl that it's those lessons from messy seasons that show us what progress really looks like.

I reassured her, sharing stories of my own, showing her she's not alone. Because the truth is, life has a tendency to pile up on all of us, no matter who we are. And sometimes we don't even notice how cluttered things have gotten—spiritually or emotionally—until a hard reset highlights harder truths.

House-sitting this weekend kept that message marinating long after the church doors closed. The home I'm in right now is clean and clear of chaos. It's delightfully decorated. Spacious and serene. It's beautiful...but it's not mine. It represents a different journey, tells the story of a life I haven't lived. It holds its own troubles, tucked away in drawers and cabinets, lingering in closet corners.

And while I'm grateful to be here, trusted again to protect and preserve my friend's sanctuary, I'm just as grateful these days for my own—no matter how humble, no matter how harried. Because between the laundry and the dishes, there are my daughters. Beneath the dust and the dirt, there is a dignity that shines. And it's in that place, that magic middle ground where nothing is perfect but everything is mine, that I remember how to find purpose in everyday moments...purpose in the mess.

*****

I don’t have it all figured out—not in my house or my career. Not in my schedule. Not in my heart. But this week? It reminded me that clarity doesn’t always come in grand revelation. Sometimes it’s waiting quietly in a clean bedroom, saving space for a sacred conversation, a still moment when the noise dies down and the quiet reminds you that you’re not as lost as you feel.

I'm still finishing the book. Still wrangling words between appointments and dishes and too many browser tabs. And maybe I’ll finish cleaning the rest of the house next week. Or maybe I won’t. Either way, I'll keep coming back to this trusted truth, right in the middle of my mess: I’m not failing. I’m just not finished becoming.

If that’s where you are too—struggling through the day with a cluttered heart, a half-finished to-do list, and a soul still under construction, I want you to know that you're not behind. You're not broken. I promise you're right on time, even if it doesn't seem like it.

There is purpose in the mess, my friend, and you already have everything you need to..

I'm craving less noise lately. More meaning. Less mindless scrolling. More genuine connection. If you're feeling that too, I'd love to welcome you to a better, more gently way to keep in touch. That's why I've started a weekly roundup just for your inbox. And the best part? It's simple—and free.

The Next Evolution

I've been writing stories and poems since childhood, but making the switch from writer to author in 2012 changed everything about my life. I was a 28-year-old mom juggling an 8-year-old, a 3-year-old, a failing relationship, and my mother's most recent health scare. I had been blogging off and on since around 2006—but the first novel I ever completed was written, edited, polished, covered, and published in December 2012. It gave me an escape from the emotional exhaustion in my life, hope for the future I imagined giving my children, and a way to battle the loss of joy that loomed around every corner.

Publishing that first book was like jumping from a super-spring-loaded launchpad. I opened my very first paperback in January 2013, and as I sobbed quietly, alone in my kitchen with a dream come to life in my hands, I knew there was no going back.

I started studying writer visibility and how to build a digital presence. I wanted to publish independently, retain creative control, and keep myself free of deadlines, contracts, and the risk of creative overwhelm...but I knew that as a mostly one-woman show, I had a lot to learn. As I honed my craft, learning to weave emotional stories and infuse characters with a realism that made readers fall in love, I threw my heart into learning how to make it as a writer.

How to keep creative fatigue at bay. How to sustain writing motivation. How to set digital boundaries. I built my author blog with well-written and carefully curated content, sharing my personal stories and life lessons even as I wrote 5 more novels in 2013. I got invited to conferences and signing events. I was featured on online podcasts for authors and readers long before BookTok was born. I had a semi-productive street team, an email subscription list, and a PO Box.

Then my life fell apart. And the next evolution began.

By the summer of 2015, my relationship was mostly over. My children and I were living with their grandmother, and they were struggling to cope with all the changes. Honestly, so was I.

Despite the effort I poured into posting intentional content on my author blog, lengthening time between new book releases led to audience disconnection I didn't know how to prevent, and in 2016, heightened political dissention began to soak everything in my world in poison. Everything from long-term friendships to casual book clubs suddenly became spaces to discuss policies, debate perceptions, and destroy people. Social media burnout and content fatigue delivered new hits to my emotional energy. My children began to develop serious health problems in the aftermath of their dad's abandonment, my favorite aunt died, both of my grandmothers died...and I simply couldn't keep up.

So I let it all go, focused on my kids, got us all into therapy. For a long time, this deeply discouraged writer stopped writing. The loss of my creative outlet felt like an amputation of some vital part of my soul, and I walked each day like a vagabond in the desert, going through the motions of life even as I desperately feared the death of my dream.

In 2019, my children and I moved into the apartment we live in now. My mother died, my ex made himself as non-existent as possible, and as my daughters adjusted to the new sense of quiet in our lives, I started rethinking visibility, reevaluating priorities, and wondering if reclaiming time and momentum might be possible. If this new space might birth a creative reset. One that would let me return, restart, rebuild. But then COVID hit.

By the time 2023 ended, I had entered into—and swiftly escaped from—a Disney-dream-turned-Brothers-Grimm marriage. My oldest daughter spent most of that year in a wheelchair with a sudden and unexplainable loss of function in her legs, my youngest daughter struggled to find compassion for a family she loved despite feeling overlooked and underprioritized, and my home looked a little like a recovering war zone...but my faith was stronger than ever. And I was writing again.

Since then, I've rewritten, repolished, and recovered FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM. I published the second edition in May of this year, and I'm nearly finished with its sequel, STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM.

But here's the thing: digital burnout and content creator fatigue are still everyday issues for me. An online presence reset meant relearning sustainable content strategies, exploring what would and wouldn't work, adapting to every new platform shift—and juggling my desire to be a visible and positive presence in a social world where algorithms are set by animosity.

And it's happening again. The joy I feel when I write is being siphoned away by the soul-sucking bitterness that bleeds into every community, every comment thread, every passive(and not-so-passive)-aggressive interaction. Engagement is down, compassion for others is an increasingly rare treasure, and creators who refuse rage-bait and can't or wont pay to play on social media are swiftly buried or bullied out.

My various social media profiles show a modest following. I have just over 3000 followers in total, and I do all the things the "experts" recommend. I post daily (except Saturdays) on Facebook, Twitter/X, and Instagram, sharing quotes that inspire me, each quote paired with a story or lesson from my life. And every day, I sign on to all three platforms intentionally, to scout and interact on other pages. To engage. Not just to show up at the party by posting, but to walk through the crowd and mingle. To shake hands. To offer hope. To "be the change." I share occasional reels, YouTube shorts, and TikTok videos. I reply to nearly every comment I'm tagged in. I answer nearly every comment posted on any of my content. And on average, less than 50 people see my posts.

It's just not fun anymore...but I can't give up writing again. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever. So I guess it's time for the next chapter in my evolution.

*****

I need to slow down. To get back to basics. To write in a way that I love, without spending all my time pouring into places with no visible ROI. I need to carve out a corner where I can stay connected—away from the cesspool of social media.

But I'm not disappearing from social media. I'll still be posting every day (again, except Saturdays), but I'm only logging in once a week to quietly check notifications, kindly respond to comments, and peacefully give the rage-bait a good old-fashioned Irish goodbye. Because I’m done chasing unwelcoming algorithms.

And I'm definitely not shutting down this blog. If anything, I'm hoping to make it easier for us to stay connected as a community that thrives...only, without the constant emotional feedback of a world overflowing with half-hearted but full-throated mic drops.

The next evolution for me is a no-algorithm alternative with simple content delivery. One where you won't have to search for my content anymore. One where a simple (and FREE!) subscription to my Substack blog and newsletter combo will automagically drop a weekly roundup of inspiration directly into your email inbox.

I'm hoping this shift in how I show up will help me manage the chaos with a little more constancy. I'm hoping it'll open the way for more writing that feels less like wasted effort. And I'm hoping you'll come along. That you'll subscribe. That you'll show up. Not for the algorithm, but for the prospect of a world where it's still possible for people like us to evolve and...

Too Human To Choose A Side

My youngest daughter and I are home from one house-sitting staycation, and with another one coming, this week was meant to be a space of rest. Time to sweep and dust, water plants, enjoy the quiet we've worked hard to cultivate in our home. Space to breathe before another summer fades into the background and a new school year begins.

But I don't feel rested. I feel drained. I feel overwhelmed by opinions as the political divide in America continues to worsen and the emotional impact of polarization makes nuanced conversation a barely-noticed casualty in the left vs right culture war. I feel heartbreak over political division that cripples our ability to balance empathy and disagreement, as opinions become weapons and the cost of cancel culture begins to include an actual death toll. Only a few years ago, we argued over the value of building bridges not walls, but now in the dangerous territory between silence and free speech, what we're building are graveyards around the monuments of true diversity in our culture. When did we forget how to choose compassion over conflict? When did we forget the power of listening across differences, even when values collide?

Maybe the most tragic cost of all of it is the way dehumanization in politics doesn’t just strip dignity from those we silence, it erodes our own. Because when anger becomes fear in disguise and disagreement justifies destruction...when we turn political burnout into political trauma...when we cease choosing humanity first regardless of party lines...we don’t just forget to see others as human—we forget to be human, too.

I froze when I saw it, stunned for a moment by how stunned I wasn't—and stunned again by a sudden depth of heartbreak that wasn't new but was surprising all the same. Maybe I should be used to it by now, the way we get used to the nuisance of mosquito bites around a campfire or waves crashing over our heads when we pit the smallness of our selves against the majesty of the ocean.

"I want for you whatever you want for immigrants." Posted without fanfare. Unpretentious. Uninhibited. Uninviting. A perfect example of what happens when social media and political outrage form storms that crack like lightning strikes, sparking flames of dissention. I lowered the screen and pushed the laptop away.

This is how politics ruins relationships, leaving us grieving lost friendships in a world where kind communication is seen as weakness and we've forgotten how to disagree without demanding destruction.

My daughter lost a friend over politics once. She was fourteen at the time, unable to vote or even fully comprehend the intricacies of the political world. A simple discussion at the lunch table, the simple voicing of an opinion, and that was it. A friendship that had previously been open, supportive, and fulfilling was mercilessly strangled to death over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And two young girls too young and too emotional for politics walked away scarred by new fear of speaking out.

I'd like to think this was the result of immaturity, and I would have liked to counsel my daughter that day with a reminder that having a political disagreement with friends doesn't have to mean the death of a friendship. But the truth is, too often it does.

I lost a friend over politics once, too—and neither of us were fourteen. We were two fully formed and functioning adults, both in committed relationships, both raising young children. We were close in age. We shared childhood memories, fears and dreams, the stresses of daily living. Through dozens of messages sent each day for well over a year, we shared financial woes, mundane moments of daily living...and his journey toward death. The thousands of miles between us dissolved into nothingness as I kept him company through the boredom of his cancer treatments—and I shared his outrage when, one afternoon as he sat on a bench outside the hospital, he coughed a few times too many.

"It was a verbal attack like I've never experienced before," he wrote, still sitting on that bench, soaking up the Canada sun as he waited for his wife to pick him up. "This woman was sitting at the other end of the bench, and she gave me the dirtiest look as she got up. And then she said, 'Yeah, go smoke another one, buddy.' But I've never smoked a day in my life!"

"She doesn't know you," I wrote back. "Did you tell her about your cancer?"

"I didn't have the chance," he told me. And then... "God, what happened to grace? We were right outside the cancer unit, and I'm skin and bones."

A few months later, a casual conversation about universal healthcare abruptly severed our friendship. He asked if I was voting for Bernie Sanders and I said no. "Oh," he said. "So I guess you want me to die."

I stared at that message in shock, eyes filling slowly with tears. He was going to die anyway, in some hospital room, surrounded by machines and bathed in the tears of a wife he had loved since they were children—and my political leanings couldn't save him even if they could suddenly cross borders. We both knew it. We had grieved his death and the unavoidable suffering of his wife and children many times. "What? Of course not," I wrote.

"I can't be friends with you anymore," he wrote back. "I don't need friends who want me dead."

He never spoke to me again. We never talked it through. And within another few months he was gone.

I’ve carried his words with me ever since, like an aching wound that won't heal. Not because they were fair, but because, for him, in those moments, they were true. He had done the work of accepting death, but grief and pain and looming mortality turned difference into danger in a flash so fast it was dizzying.

I wasn’t his enemy. But political narrative told him I was. And he believed.

And maybe that’s what hurts us all the most, both then and now. It's not the disagreement—it's the fear of an exhausted society screaming in extremes, drowning out the grace we might find on common ground. It's the way so many of us simply refuse to hold love and difference in the same hand, even as we tear each other to pieces in the names of acceptance and awareness and inclusion.

This is what polarization steals from us. The quiet space where nuance lives, and the comforting memory of shared laughter.

When we leave behind the solidarity of standing together as humans—even when we stand on opposite sides of an issue—we sacrifice the understanding that disagreement is not disloyalty, and differences in expression do not equal enmity. And most often, the true solution to the problems that grieve us all are somewhere in the middle ground no one seems willing to explore.

And this? Well, this is what we lose when we stop listening.

*****

Maybe we can’t fix everything. Maybe the world really is too loud, too angry, too divided. But I choose to believe we still have a choice. I choose to believe that every new day is a new chance to soften the edges and resist the urge to dehumanize what we don’t understand. I want so much to believe that we can still find grace when someone else’s truth collides with our own. That we still have the capacity to listen, even when it’s hard.

That’s part of why I keep showing up here. I'm not writing to stir up debate or shout into the void; I'm doing it because I don't know how to exist in a world where stories no longer matter. I know what it is to feel silenced, and the lingering pain of that silence feeds my hope that listening still matters. It’s also why I write fiction—because even when it feels like the world has forgotten how to hear each other, I get to create worlds where people still try.

STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is slowly coming along. This novel is shaping up to be one of the most personal and healing stories I’ve ever told, and I can’t wait to share it with you in March.

But until then, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep listening. And wherever I can, I’ll keep choosing humanity over hostility—because I still believe there’s beauty to be found in the in-between. And I hope wherever you are tonight, you’ll keep choosing to...

Domestic Abuse: The Hidden Epidemic We're Still Failing to Stop

Domestic violence isn't a game, a joke, or a passing topic of conversation. It isn't just a tool for virtue signaling, and survival is more than a trauma-scar to be used for sympathy. Domestic violence is, unfortunately, still a way of life for too many people—and as aware as we like to think we are, so much of the world still willfully ignores the fact that domestic crime is one of the most pervasive epidemics in history.

We campaign constantly against violence, speaking out against guns and terrorists, war and deportation, racial injustice and rights for the LGBTQIA+ community. And in many ways, we boldly acknowledge that the violence we speak against isn't just on the other side of the world. It isn't just on the other side of the political divide, and it isn't just in the places where racism runs rampant and poverty drives desperate people to crime in order to survive. It isn't limited to the shadows. Because men, women, and children victimize each other right in the open: in malls, theaters, churches, schools.

The truth we don't want to examine is that violence is right here, in front of all of us. It's in our homes, our neighbor's homes. And how many of us turn our heads? Why do we pretend we don't see? How can we be so brutally aware and so militant about protecting the rights of others...but in this, we tell ourselves it isn't our problem?

While you're reading this, at least 1 in 3 women worldwide have fallen victim to domestic violence. One in three. In the last six months, close to 400 women lost their lives to domestic violence—and that's just in the US.

Right now, someone is being brutally beaten to death by a partner they loved and trusted. Right now, someone is being stripped down and violated by a partner who promised never to hurt them. Right now, women and children are homeless, living in cars or cramped shelters, desperately trying to rebuild what's left of their lives.

Right now, there's a victim living in fear. A victim who desperately wants to be a survivor but can't escape the danger zone they call home.

And maybe they can't see it yet, but there's hope. Through the provision of shelter, hotline assistance, and legal aid to victims of domestic abuse, organizations focused on taking a stand against domestic crime provide desperately needed support to countless victims every day. These are the places where victims of domestic violence start over. Places that teach advocacy and do the work to help victims become survivors. Places that are real-life versions of what I imagined when I designed the Safe House program in Fighting For Freedom.

When my mother fought for her own freedom after her second marriage left our family and her health in shambles, those places didn't exist—at least, not in the same ways that they do now. The stigma was greater, the shame and the impact were often overlooked. And while we've come a long way since then...the need for a book like Fighting For Freedom proves that there's still a long way to go.

I grew up in a place where domestic violence was a daily norm, and I witnessed abuse in almost every living situation I ever experienced as a child, regardless of where I was or who lived there. I saw things thrown. I saw things broken. I heard ugly words and vile threats. There were members of my family who knew what scattered brains looked like before they even made it to Kindergarten. It was the dirty little not-so-secret hiding in the homes of nearly everyone I knew.

When I was young, I saw my mother's body held against a wall, her toes barely touching the front porch of the single-wide trailer we lived in, her husband's hand clenched tight around her throat...because she made his sandwich wrong. When I was in third grade, I got pulled out of class and utterly humiliated in the guidance counselor's office as police stripped me down to my days-of-the-week panties...so they could photograph the bruises on my body.

I remember rage. Fear. Helplessness. And I didn't realize yet how pervasive desensitization to that lifestyle would be. I hated my parents for exposing me to people who hurt me. For failing to protect me. But I had to learn my compassion for victims the hard way.

In my first serious relationship, I got slapped in the face once, because when he warned me that he would hit me, I didn't believe him—and I tickled him one time too many. I was fifteen. And for the longest time, I believed with all my heart that it was a little bit my fault. That I "asked for it." That because he had threatened me, I "should have known better."

By the time I realized how wrong that was, I was in another relationship, and that one got abusive too. He grabbed my wrist, held me back from walking away from an argument. I panicked and turned around swinging, with fear twisting my gut and rage like fire in my eyes. Maybe a part of me was warning him, or maybe a part of me had gone back in time to finally stand up for my right to space and the control of my own body. When I left him, he threatened to kill me, screamed violent threats on my voicemail, and even hunted me across town with a truckload of his friends.

Other relationships and experiences have forced me to develop a compassion I should never have needed to have, igniting a fire that should never have needed to burn. I know what it is to need help and not be able to find it. I know what it is to have the very people who say things like, "Why don't you just leave?" actually take the side of an abuser. I know what it's like to speak out—and get punished for daring to use my voice.

But I have daughters of my own, and as I raised them I watched them closely, even with other family members. Even with their dad. Even with people I've trusted all my life. Because all too often, the people you trust are the ones who hurt you the most.

And that's why domestic abuse is the worst kind of violence. It isn't just ugly bruises or broken bones. It isn't just sad hearts or scary situations. It's sneaky. And it's quiet, like an unacknowledged demon squatting in our homes, stalking the people we love but don't protect. And too often, we don't move to stop it. Too often, we shake our heads and turn away.

And that's why Fighting For Freedom is so important. The world needs stories like Christine's, to rip the secret skeletons from our closets and air out the proverbial stench of dirty laundry. To tell perpetrators of domestic crime that the world will be silent no more. That frightening statistics will never drown out the courage of resilient survivors. And that every woman of any age, race, shape, style, and color deserves the safety to believe she can...

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...