My Life Is A Teacup Ride

Have you ever been on a spinning teacup ride? You sit down, buckle in, and at first it's fun—you laugh, you spin, you wave at people watching from the sidelines. You and the other people in your cup take turns trying to make everything go faster. But then suddenly, it's faster. And then it's faster still, and before long it's too fast. It's chaos and overwhelm. There's no "stop" button, and by the end of the ride you're halfway in your own seat and halfway in the next, gripping the wheel with one hand and your churning belly with the other. You might even shake your head as the ride's slowing down, and wonder why you got on in the first place.

In the aftermath, as you walk away, finding balance with careful steps and slow deep breaths, you might swear you'll never do that to yourself again.

And if you're an overthinker like me, just barely on the other side of a week that felt very much like a teacup spinning out of control, you might realize in the quiet that follows...you've learned a valuable lesson.

Last week's ride began with a minor car accident early Monday morning, which quite literally spun the day out of balance. In the stillness of a deserted parking lot, as traffic continued largely uninterrupted on the nearby road, I stood with a stranger, exchanging insurance information—and grace. There was compassion, kindness, and even a little laughter. But by the time I fell into bed on Friday evening, I had also dragged myself through the busyness of three Bible study groups, three doctor's appointments, and another week of driving both my oldest and my youngest daughters back and forth to work or school. In separate directions. At separate times.

Exhaustion and stress were wearing me down, despite the fact that the week fairly overflowed with beautiful moments: no injuries or significant damage in the accident, a 24-hour computer crash was solved, I made a beautiful mini-loaf of gluten free sourdough bread, my youngest daughter received good news at both of her doctor's appointments, and I had a beautiful revelation while studying the book of John.

Parts of the ride were beautiful and fun...I found peace in an unexpected conversation with an old friend, connection in a shared moment of respect with my doctor. But my teacup was still spinning too fast. What about all the things that weren't happening? What about dishes and laundry and grocery shopping and everything else I simply wasn't home long enough to complete? What about writing?

Inner peace felt like a distant memory as my mind's eye returned over and over again to an imaginary wall of clocks all neatly labeled with expectations and responsibilities—and all of them shades of angry red, each one counting down to abject failure. Clock hands, all spinning like teacups.

The thing about clocks (and teacups) is that they know nothing of humanity. They understand by their own design the boundaries of space and time, but they can't measure rest or resilience, and I doubt anyone has ever truly found emotional health in either a clock or a teacup—with or without the spinning.

Friday morning, my doctor commented on my blood pressure, which has been normal for ages but was suddenly high again. Internally, I added another worry to my mental checklist; externally, my doctor and I discussed the changes in my life since I saw her last year. The new diagnoses for my younger daughter. The carefully juggled transitioning boundaries as my oldest daughter moved back home. The challenge of learning to slow down in spirit even as my body is constantly urged to greater speed in the dizzying teacup that is my life. The lessons learned. The perspective shifts.

She laughed at my calendar, shaking her head a bit. "I don't know how you do it all," she said.

"I look for humor in hard times," I answered wryly. "Some days, it's laugh or cry."

"And you laugh."

And in those moments I felt seen. Not just in my weight and blood pressure and blood work, but in who I am and why. In a reminder that people matter more than programs, prescriptions, and platitudes. In the simplicity of shared recognition that sometimes, handling stress while living in the storm means finding wholeness in the chaos, rather than frantically seeking an exit.

Sometimes the best self-care is holding onto calm and staying grounded right there in the mess, trusting that this too shall pass.

*****

The teacups don't have a "stop" button, and unfortunately, they don't have a "slow down" button either. Sometimes the ride keeps spinning no matter how much we want off or how dizzy we get.

But the beauty of internal wholeness is a grounding acceptance of the fact that stillness doesn't require removal. Often, the stillness on this teacup ride of life is found in the stolen glimpses we catch as the world spins on around us. Grace that softens mistakes, laughter that shatters tension. Kindness and compassion that make a person safe to be who they are, flaws and all.

Sometimes the storm is inescapable, like the way I must straighten my shoulders and navigate my youngest daughter's health no matter how tired or sad or scared I am...because I am the only one here to do it. Sometimes you're stuck in it because the struggle is worth it, like the way I sigh wearily and grab my keys for the umpteenth time to drive my oldest daughter to work...because I want to see her succeed, I want her to know that it's okay to need help, and I want her to trust that I'm here for her just as much as I have always been.

Sometimes stillness meets us right there in the chaos, in the meeting of eyes filled with understanding or a voice laced with patience. And right now, I'm living for those moments. Because no matter how fast this teacup spins, I'm still as determined as ever to...

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Ditching the Doormat

I’ve always been better at yes than no. Yes to helping, yes to serving, yes to juggling a dozen things at once because surely, somehow, I’ll make it work. Overperformance and people-pleasing, touched with a little part-time perfectionism, have been lifelong coping skills. They protected me when survival meant usefulness and worth was tied to self-sacrifice. They kept me safe when acceptance required carefully creeping through a childhood that felt like a minefield.

As I began to lay those things aside, I nursed the wounds of losing people I loved. People who watched me learning to set boundaries, cheered me on as I grew...and then left me behind when I stopped suffocating myself to keep them breathing. I told myself it was good, even if it hurt. That those people showed me the difference between who valued me and who valued what I could give. That saying "no" as self-care was part of learning how to balance servanthood vs servitude.

And honestly, I thought I had done pretty well...but the last few weeks have taught me that there's still work to do. Still balance to be found between serving and self-care.

Because now, it's bigger than finding peace in boundaries. It's about resting in the space between exhaustion and obedience, realizing when helping hurts.

I still say yes when I don’t have time or energy. When it costs me money or meals. When it means living on less sleep than an African bush elephant—with the weight of one strapped to my shoulders. 

I show up because I enjoy being helpful. I'm in umpty-billion groups because I value the invitation to participate. But now I wonder if there's still an echo of the old belief that taught me love had to be earned. And I wonder if that echo has been drawing me slowly away from a purpose that makes my soul sing, only to pacify people who don't (or don't want to) understand it.

This year began with incredible hope. The promise of restoration. And I'm still trusting in that promise...but after the last few months of chaos, I feel more devoured than restored. So I wasn't that surprised when this week, through a string of moments far too ironic to ignore, God reminded me that saying yes isn’t always the right move. Sometimes it’s obedience—but sometimes it's distraction. Often, it's hidden under the veil of good things, like mold that goes unnoticed until it makes you sick. Someone once told me, "If the enemy can’t take you out, he’ll wear you out." And they were right.

So maybe my word for the year ahead is one I’ve never thought of as “spiritual” before. Maybe my word is a very quiet, very simple, perhaps sometimes frightening...No.

Monday, I suited up and spent the morning cleaning house for a friend—alone. My own house sat neglected, waiting patiently for "later" while I gathered supplies, reorganized writing time, and lent energy borrowed from empty reserves. I was thrilled to be able to help someone with something they truly could not do on their own. I was honored to be the kind of person someone else could see as a blessing.

But I was also silently seething.

The anger I drowned in worship music and Fabuloso had nothing to do with the person whose home I scrubbed; it was about being the only one who made time, out of so many. In the Christian church we talk about being “the hands and feet of Jesus,” but that day I wept in frustration because sometimes when the work gets dirty, Jesus looks like a quadruple amputee.

And it's me who shows up when no one else will. The divorced, single mom who gets the chronic side-eye for writing women’s fiction instead of devotionals. The one who doesn’t fit, has never fit, may never fit...but shows up anyway.

By evening, running on heat exhaustion, caffeine withdrawal, and a handful of gluten free crackers smeared with cream cheese, I was studying my schedule for the rest of week and crying out to God. "Why is it always me?"

And in his quiet way, he arched timeless eyebrows and raised an age-old shoulder. "You do this to yourself," he said. "You never say no. But you'll learn."

Every year he gives me a word. I guess next year, it's No.

Later that night, God gave me a verse—and the next day he gave me another. And they're not about judgment or selfishness or abandoning the people I care for; they're about discernment and stewardship. They're a reminder to protect my calling.

Wednesday, the message got louder. During church, I saw how easily even good things can pull us from right things. How easily a calling can be swept under and drowned in a sea of “yes.” If my pastor had played every sport, coached every team, and organized every tournament, he might never have had time to pastor those who count on him. Sure, he might still have taught and coached with mindful intention. He might not have been taken out.

But he would have been worn out. Like me.

Thursday morning’s Bible reading hit me like a ton of bricks. Micah, chapter seven. Discouragement tempered by hope, lamentation wrapped in restoration. I was still carrying those moments on Friday morning, turning them over like pebbles in my hands as I discussed boundaries and stewardship with my surrogate spiritual "Mama" in the bright lights of the local Dollar Tree.

And there it was, sitting right beside the checkout line: a literal NO button. The box promised this button would cycle through half a dozen ways to say no—and my little "Mama" and I broke into giggles as she plucked the button from my hands and tossed it in the cart.

If God had been standing there with us, between cheap pregnancy tests and cute back-to-school notebooks, I think he would have been laughing too. "Mama" might have bought it, but that button felt like a gift from my Father.

I've pressed it dozens of times throughout the weekend, just for the joy of it, unable to hold back the smile it brings. And for the first time in a long time, "no" doesn't feel like failure. It feels like freedom.

*****

I never meant to trade peace in the name of service, and I never intended to let exhaustion become a qualifier for obedience. Either way, it hasn’t been fair—to me, to my kids, to the people I serve, or to you, the reader for whom I am called to write.

Because the truth is, while overperformance and people-pleasing in various areas of my life are habits I picked up to survive, they no longer serve me like they used to. They're not protecting me anymore. Still, I think the hard part is yet to come—choosing differently will probably cause tension. It may bring a wave of rejection or loss.

But I'm ready now. Because servanthood and servitude are not the same thing, and my no doesn’t diminish my faith or hurt my calling. Actually, it makes me more available to the call I've always been meant to follow. And it's okay if the people around me don't get it, because they didn't hear it.

So maybe in 2026, my word is no. No to emotional exhaustion. No to constant overwhelm and distraction. No to playing the rope in a tug-of-war between the Word I count on and World I live in. But maybe even the no is a yes in some ways. Because I'll still be serving where and when I can. But I'll do it when it serves in a way that works, saying yes to stronger boundaries, greater discernment, and truer freedom.

And maybe that's the next step in learning to...

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Unscripted. Unfiltered. Unseen?

Sometimes just for fun, I'll check out what crazy National Holidays are on the calendar, and this morning was one of those times. If you didn't know, today is National Update Your Bio Day—and I'm not planning to update my author bio today, but it did give me an idea for this post.

A while ago as I fought for space and visibility on my social media platforms, not just feeling unseen but literally being unseen, I spent some time trying to brainstorm social media post ideas that would help trigger engagement. I refuse to rage-bait. I still want to present my authentic self in my content, embracing imperfections and using my love of storytelling for healing, not only in myself but also in those who find me online.

I posted a game: "If your life was a book, what would the title be?" I imagined an opportunity for friends and readers to share witty, heartfelt, funny, or maybe even dramatic titles. I wondered how real people would be in the comments. Would they share their self acceptance journey? Leave hints to their own unseen struggles? Would the idea of a book title spark someone's desire to try memoir writing? What kinds of conversations might follow?

But as is often the case, no one played and the post just sat there. Invisible. Like me sometimes. And maybe like you?

And despite the quiet of the comment section, that post has stuck with me—maybe because of the many times people have told me I should write a memoir or autobiography. That perhaps a project of that kind might be the very "purpose in pain" I've always hoped to find in my life. That in sharing the deep, dark shadows, pouring out vulnerability in writing, truly living with authenticity to that level, I might see God's plan for my story. Every word would be another willful act in the journey of finding my voice, living my calling.

But what would I even say? Online, I’m the version of myself who can paint with pretty words and frame the lessons of my life in metaphors that make sense of chaos. Offline? I’m unscripted and unfiltered. I limp through every day with chronic pain, constant exhaustion, and a brain that’s half horror, half comedy show. And the truth behind the bio is, my personal storytelling isn’t always pretty. It is always real, though—and maybe that’s why I still think it's worth telling.

In my author photo, I'm smiling just a little. Chin tilted. Eyes laughing. Hair looking like it knows how to behave. Smooth skin, subtle makeup, slightly blurred background. Decent lighting. And it's a real photo. I really do look like that—sometimes.

But it's me at my best, with pride in who I am, with ownership of my story, with the confidence to sit in front of a camera and preserve the moment. It's a picture of possibility, a modern-day portrait of the balance between faith and authenticity.

But if you could come and spend a day in my life...I'm not sure you'd meet her. Not really.

If you could knock on my front door, I'd probably answer it in ten-year-old yoga pants. One of about fifteen pairs. They might be black, they might be dark blue. Most likely, they'd be paired with a merch t-shirt from my church. Regular white ankle socks. Hanes, with the grey heels and toes. My long hair would be twisted up in a clip, baby hairs and broken strands raging against the machine. If there's makeup, it's rarely more than the sheen of a Vaseline lip balm. I'll limp a little, and if I smile you'll see all forty-one of my years on my face. There will be dust.

My oldest daughter will be hyper if she's home. My youngest will probably panic because she isn't wearing pants. Someone will be in the middle of laundry, there'll be dishes in the sink, and the living room floor might shock you—but I promise, we do have a broom. In fact, we have two. And a Roomba. And a steam mop. And a stick vacuum. And we use them all.

You'll see me pick my phone up, roll my eyes, and put it down again. My phone notifications make me understand why famous people go to rehab, where devices are banned. I bet it's quiet there.

Online-me writes captions that read like distilled pain with a hearty scoop of humor, like the flavoring we mix into medicine hoping to hide the bitterness of healing. She wraps trauma in metaphors to absorb the sting. She knows how to crop out the laundry piles, the ongoing battle with wasps on the porch, the frustration of ants under the back patio.

But real-life me is living unfiltered, and she stares down at that army of ants and shakes her head. She wonders how many times she'll bleach the kitchen counter before they realize they're not welcome in the house. She squints her eyes, wondering if she's tired because she's tired...or because she forgot her meds. She checks her schedule, trying to choose between pushing through pain and taking time to rest. And as she muscles through the morning, she curates every moment of her day as carefully as possible, hoping to mitigate an unstoppable influx of PTSD triggers no one truly understands.

Sometimes the way she injects these moments with humor makes her funny and pleasant to be around. She's outgoing and friendly even as she's withdrawn and deeply introverted. She's quirky and offbeat. Fiercely protective, undeniably brave. And sometimes sharper than she means to be. Harder than some people can handle.

Online-me posts about perseverance, highlighting the beauty of life's little moments of joy. But offline-me mutters under her breath about dishes that always seem to be dirty, money that never stretches quite far enough, and effort that sometimes just doesn't seem to work out.

But the longer I live in this space of real live vs online life, juggling the balance of what to share online vs offline, the more I realize that neither version is more real than the other. The photo is just as real as the yoga pants. The wise words and the muttered grumblings—they're all truly me. It's just that the one is carefully curated for consumption, and the other is behind-the-scenes, complete with B-reels and bloopers.

If I were to write a memoir, it wouldn't be just one version of me. It wouldn't be 300 pages of beautifully organized wisdom, nor would it be a full-on specialty expose of messy reality. It would be both, woven tightly together, because I'm never going to be just one or the other. I'm both, all the time, whether you see it or not.

And maybe that’s what makes this life worth writing. It may not be perfect, but it’s always lived as fully and authentically as possible. Full of contradictions. Beautiful photos displayed on the way to wash yet another sink full of dishes. Moments where I look like I’ve got it all together...and ones where I barely remember what day it is.

If you met me in person, you probably wouldn't recognize the woman from the headshot. But if we sat for coffee or tea, you’d know her by the end of the conversation. Because the real story of my life? It’s unscripted. Unfiltered. And yes, mostly unseen.

Until you’re close enough to read the fine print.

*****

I know I'm not the only one who struggles with social media burnout or how to balance public and private life. And I think if you're here, you're probably still learning to be yourself online, too. You probably wonder about whether telling your story would mean anything to anyone anyway.

If you're like me, you've googled autobiography ideas and memoir topics, but self-doubt and imposter syndrome tell you that even if you knew how to write your life story...no one would read it.

But when you read these posts, you tell me that the voice is my head is wrong. Because someone will read it. And that means it means something to someone—whether they tell me or not.

So thank you for sitting with me. For letting me share a little of the behind-the-scenes version of who I am. The one you don’t always see online—the messy, tired, beautiful, complicated me who’s still learning to balance humility that isn't shame with confidence that isn't pride.

If you can relate, or if you’ve ever felt like your “real self” is hidden behind polished photos and carefully crafted posts, you’re not alone. I’m here too, still choosing to live with bold honesty in both my writing and my life—and I hope that means we can all feel a little less unseen, a little more understood. Because it's in that space of peaceful contentment that we learn to...

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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...

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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..

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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...