The Measure Of A Life In The Arena

I talk about perspective, healing, and learning not to compare yourself to others so often, I think sometimes people forget how much work goes into maintaining a healthy mindset. Our society seems to thrive on the superiority of judging people by appearances, measuring success by the sheen of a new car, the size of a fancy house, or the brand name on a handbag.

But something happened last week that made me wonder why we see those things as the ultimate sources of self-worth and success—and why we shouldn't judge success by appearances. Because the truth is, success isn't always visible and the assumptions we make can easily become barriers to useful connection.

If you were to see me walking down the street, you might never realize I have spina bifida. Still, I've spent every one of my forty-two years living in a body that can't quite do what I wish it could. I carry groceries well over the weight limit established by my neurosurgeon because I have no choice, and while I make the best of good days while allowing for the bad ones, I don't rest nearly as much as I need to. My spine is straight, my legs still work, and I've brought two incredibly beautiful and gifted young women into the world—young women I raised mostly by myself.

My apartment is small, but I'm grateful for the roof over my head. My car sucks, but I'm thankful to have one that still carries my daughter and I to countless doctor's appointments. My bank balance is laughable, but the bills are paid. There's gas in the car and food in the kitchen, and every time we flip a switch, the lights come on. I grew up in a place where none of those things were dependable, so for some, perhaps that's the meaning of success.

My youngest daughter is seventeen years old. By the time I was her age, I'd gotten sick of going hungry and having to move every other month, so I got an apartment of my own. A high school dropout working full time to keep the bills paid, because at least that felt stable. I was married by eighteen, I turned twenty a few weeks after my oldest daughter was born, and by twenty-one, I was a single mom being actively hunted by a husband in a drug-addicted rage.

Sometimes I think success is taking the next step up. Maybe it's just the act of determinedly giving advantages to the next generation that weren't possible before.

I spent most of the week pointedly ignoring my laptop. I'd stare at it, it would stare back at me, and I'd close my eyes and turn away. The sting of fresh rejection seemed unbearable in those moments, and the effort to work on my latest novel felt almost pointless.

This has been a hard year for a girl still learning the importance of perseverance, especially while overcoming judgment. But I guess that's the root of personal development, isn't it? Finding value in the journey, learning from life experience. Building a meaningful life and learning to recognize your own progress—even if no one else can.

As the week wore on, I questioned a lot of things. I re-examined my own personal growth and progress in life, looking for evidence of success beyond money, in a world where people feel no shame about saying things like, "You sure work a lot for someone with so little." Looking for proof of value, not for anyone else, but for myself after hearing, "Well, she can't be doing that well, look at what she drives!"

Fortunately, I found what I was looking for. I took my total book sales over the course of the last fourteen years and averaged them out...and I was stunned. Partly by the sheer number of book sales, but mostly by the realization of the millions of words I've written in that time. By nearly twenty thousand readers who took a chance on my stories. By messages and comments from people who found themselves in my characters.

What's funny is, it didn't actually make me feel better. The averages looked good, but some of those years were great, and others weren't. Sometimes I wrote so much and so quickly it was exhausting just to talk about...and other times I went months or even years without writing much of anything. Maybe the volume of those numbers would look like success to some people, and the failure to hold momentum due to personal crises would look like failure. Maybe it's all relative.

I told myself to open the laptop and carry on. To trust the process and the numbers, to hold faith in the readers and the God who gave me this gift. I told myself to let it go and get over it. Briefly, I indulged a mental fantasy of a future where the success I'm working toward is visible enough to matter to the people who once mattered so much to me.

And then I shook my head, curled up in bed, and took a nap for three hours.

I've never been the best at dealing with criticism. I'm not proud of that, but the fact is, even without the impact of complex PTSD, I'm sensitive and I get my feelings hurt, just like anyone else. Maybe that's why I focus so much on the idea of progress over perfection, especially when it comes to balancing in the space between success and failure—where success isn't always visible and the effort we pour out isn't always measurable.

The thing is, it didn't have to be that big of a deal. I'd heard that someone I know was working on a book and struggling with the publishing. I offered to help, not as an expert, but as someone willing to share what I've learned through the trial and error of long-term experience. I guess it was just a little surprising to have the offer thrown back in my face because that person looked for dollar signs as the only proof of value.

The next time I saw them, I made casual, respectful conversation just like always. I didn't say, "I know what you said." I didn't say, "I recently learned that you're two-faced enough to talk kindly to my face and then trash me behind my back." And I didn't say any of the mean things simmering behind the line where there are parts of me that Jesus isn't finished with yet.

Because Jesus isn't finished with that person, either, and their unwillingness or inability to see value in me doesn't have to impact the value I see in them—or in myself. Because maybe true success is finding value in the journey even when you're not where you want to be. And maybe the fruit of that success is the ability to show kindness to others who aren't there yet.

*****

The danger of assumptions is that they allow us to look at someone's surface and make up stories about what lies underneath. Too often we know just enough about people to think we know everything, and we forget the power we wield in taking the time to look beyond the surface.

In the end, the measure of a life well-lived lies in looking honestly at the progress made over time. It's about the growth and the value of lessons learned, and the transformations that make us who we are—no matter how we appear on the outside.

I could be a closet millionaire who drives a crappy car simply because it's still running. I could have loads of money and still choose to wear yoga pants and basic T-shirts simply because they're comfortable. I know a millionaire who actually buys all her favorite jewelry from Temu, and she's so beautifully grounded you'd never know by looking at her that she's wealthy.

For the record, I'm not a closet millionaire. I'm just a simple single mom chasing a dream—and maybe the fact that I'm still chasing it looks like failure to some people. But to me? The fact that I'm still chasing the dream at all shows a fortitude that looks a whole lot like success to me. Not because of the dream, but because I haven't given up on it. (And by the way, the book is still coming along, still releasing in January, and still utterly phenomenal.)

If you've ever felt the same way, I hope this gave you some encouragement, because there's no standard scale on how to measure success in life. What there is, is this: the determination to keep trying, the strength to believe in yourself even when you're the only one who does, and the will to...

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Why Book Reviews Matter (and Why Authors Love-Hate Them)

People tend to over-romanticize life as an author, but some aspects of author life sound more glamorous than they are. It's easy to imagine our favorite authors tucked into cozy writing nooks, sipping something warm and delightful as stories flow from minds to fingers to screens. Beautiful prose and obedient characters, plots without holes and unflagging creative inspiration.

Most of the time, it's just a person staring at a blank screen, wondering if what they're doing is even worth it...and how that sentence that seemed so brilliant in the shower now feels as awkward as a first grader making a frighteningly accurate "that's what she said" joke. And that's before the business begins, where months (or sometimes years) of grueling effort finally pass into the hands of readers whose hearts we hope to charm. We build characters, construct worlds, wrestle plot holes, and agonize over the placement of every comma, semicolon, and em-dash—and eventually, the story needs nothing but a reader.

This transition is both dream and nightmare, because once the book exists, we no longer control what happens to it. Readers come from all walks of life, bringing their own experiences, expectations, and perspectives to the stories they choose. They fall in love with characters we barely remember writing, and sometimes they loathe the characters we most hoped they would understand. They interpret scenes in ways we never anticipated. Occasionally they fall into a plot hole we absolutely did not mean to leave open.

And then they tell us about it. Sometimes in a private message or email. Mostly, it's in a good old-fashioned book review. Which, coincidentally, is also both dream and nightmare—but not for the reasons you might think.

The thing is, authors have a complicated relationship with reviews, too. We want them desperately because we crave the feedback, even if we fear the criticism. We need them because they influence the discoverability that helps us stay visible in the crowd, no matter how introverted we might be. And some days, those reviews are the reason we keep going, while on other days, they're the reason we wonder why we should.

And I don't mean that to make it seem like the review is a pressure point, because the truth is, it doesn't have to be. When we ask ourselves why book reviews matter, how book reviews help authors (and readers!), and why readers should even bother taking the time, I tend to think the answer is deceptively simple: In a world where preferences and opinions are so often policed by the public, book reviews are the quiet conversation a reader-writer relationship depends on.

In a world so focused on speed and simplicity, books are an opportunity to curl up and slow down. When we choose a book, we trust the author to give us something, whether that's adventure, escape, or a chance to believe in love (or ourselves) again. We stick with genres we know and authors we believe in. We light the same candle, snuggle under the same blanket, sip the same tea.

But what about when life carries us outside our comfort zones to a new author, a new genre? Often, we look to reviews. We use their volume as a quiet gauge for success and popularity. We look at the balance of positive and negative ratings. Maybe we even scroll through the opinions of other readers.

Perhaps you bought a book because someone else hated the thing you love most: too slow, too fast, too sexy, not sexy enough. Perhaps you left a book behind because the things that bothered other readers would bother you, too. Maybe you're curious about what other people think of the characters, the writing, or the pace.

Either way, if "To Purchase or NOT To Purchase" is the question, reviews offer chances to find the answer. They tell authors where we've hit the mark—and where there's room to grow. They hold perspectives readers can't find in a marketing blurb, and they offer something valuable when we encounter new stories (or storytellers) we hadn't heard of before. It's a reader's way of introducing a book to a friend.

And here's the thing. Reviews don't have to be glowing to be worth writing. Think of it this way: Imagine you're craving a pizza, and a brand new place just opened down the street. Since it's new, it's still likely to be clean. You can probably bet nothing's expired, and it's relatively safe to assume you won't end up with bugs baked into the dough. But is the crust crusty enough? Is the sauce phenomenal? Do they have a signature flavor or style or vibe? If you don't know, you look it up. You take a peek at what other people experienced. Maybe you try it, maybe you don't.

Now, imagine that there's nothing to look at. Do you still go, or do you head down to Pizza Hut, where there's nothing spectacular but at least you know what you're getting? Sometimes, all it takes is a headline that says, "Dang, that crust was buttery!" and one way or the other, the choice is made. Because the fact is, we're not all looking for the same pizza, just like we're not all looking for the same books.

The funny thing is, in many ways, reviews are just as valuable for authors as they are for readers. Reader reviews give us feedback on what stories work best, which characters stand out, and which lines made someone laugh, cry, or throw the book across the room. Sometimes we're thrilled when a reader finds something we didn't think anyone would notice. Sometimes readers relate in ways we didn't expect. Sometimes, they close the book having absorbed some message we didn't even realize we'd written.

In those moments, the review becomes more than a headline and a star rating. It becomes an avenue through which the reader shares their own version of the story—and for many authors (myself included), those micro-morsels of delicious communication are our drug of choice.

But there's room for painful reviews, too, and I think sometimes we forget that. As authors, we pour so much of ourselves into our work, and even when the writing is entirely fictional, there's always a part of the author invested in its outcome. But we can't all be good at everything. Sometimes we try something we shouldn't have, explore an avenue best avoided, or touch a subject that's too sensitive or too soon. It's normal for every book to have readers who fall in love and readers who don't.

Still, a reader's reaction is not a verdict on the author's worth, and a confident author will recognize that honest reviews can't always be positive. I have a favorite five-star review...and I have a favorite one-star review, too. Both have incredible value, because if we want readers to share genuine experiences, we can't demand honesty and only listen to what we want to hear.

Maybe you're sitting there, thinking, "Yeah, okay. They're a big deal. Great. But what if I don't know how to write one?" Maybe you've felt intimidated because you think reviews should feel smart or well-written. Maybe you think a good review should discuss technique, plot, and pacing. Maybe you just don't feel qualified for literary analysis.

Good news: You don't have to do any of that. You don't need a degree. You don't need a list of literary devices. You don't need to write an essay on symbolism. You just need an honest opinion. Did you love the characters? Did the ending surprise you? Did the story make you laugh, keep you up all night, or leave you thinking about it long after you'd finished reading? Did you enjoy the experience?

That's all it takes. A few sincere sentences give other readers useful insight, and they let authors like me know what's working and what isn't. It doesn't have to be universal. It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be yours.

*****

For many authors, reviews are a strange mix of practical help and personal connection. They help new readers discover our books, offer feedback on our work, and remind us that our stories don't simply disappear after publication. And yes, sometimes they make us question our entire existence for a while, but that's a different post.

My point is, both things can be true. And while reviews are a valuable way to support the authors you love, they're not the only way. Recommending a book to a friend, borrowing it from the library, posting about a book or author you enjoy, or telling someone in person about a story that moved you can all help connect books with readers.

Not everyone has the time, inclination, or opportunity to review every book they read, and while it pains me to say this...that's okay. Reading should be a pleasure, not another item on your to-do list. (Mine has sub-bullets, by the way. Don't be me when you grow up.) Still, if you've read a book that sparked a reaction, consider taking a few minutes to leave an honest review. They really do make a difference, sometimes in ways you couldn't possibly have known.

And if you're an author reading this, remember that reviews are only one part of this wildly creative journey. We write because the stories demand it, and we share those stories hoping they'll find exactly the right readers. Reviews may help that happen, but they don't determine the worth of the work.

The beautiful thing about books is the way they create connections between people who may never meet. A writer crafts a story, but an eager reader devours its substance. When we're lucky, that reader passes a piece of the experience along to someone else, and the magic begins again. So whether you're writing the story or sharing what it meant to you, keep showing up. Keep being honest. And as always...

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Silver-Plated Clouds

Sometimes we say, "every cloud has a silver lining," and it feels almost like a reflex. Something painful hits us, and we tell ourselves everything happens for a reason. We witness the sadness of someone feeling invisible and alone, and we crowd around, strained smiles at the ready, to help them look for the bright side. We talk about the importance of feeling seen when we rally for mental healthcare, but when we see a crisis of loneliness and belonging, we shame the people all but begging to be noticed.

And then we sing the words to, "At least it isn't worse," like they're the lyrics in a modern-day hymnal.

But the thing is, two things can be true at the same time. Life can feel impossibly challenging...and finding silver linings in difficult times is still possible. As uncomfortable as it is to see, hope and hardship often hold hands, right there in the middle of the struggle. Healing through connection, no toxic positivity needed. And it's amazing to realize how much lighter grief feels when someone comes along to help carry it, without searching for someone to blame or a quick fix to make it go away.

I think this is where we confuse the importance of community too, because as a society, we lean so heavily on choosing gratitude. We want the suffering person to hurry up and get over it, even if they're still hurting. We tell each other not to worry about being seen and valued, and sometimes we even frame that need as pride or ego...but what if it isn't? What if it's just a person being a person?

As a Christian, I believe the Bible is true, and I believe that right from the beginning, God saw the value and power of human connection. In Genesis 2, he said, "It is not good for man to be alone," and while we often use this verse in terms of marital commitment, I think in a deeper context, it also applies to a universal truth people of all faiths can relate to.

Loneliness is a poison.

But if that's true, then what's the antidote?

I'm no stranger to hard situations, and to be honest, a great deal of my daily gratitude practice came from the need to find hope in hard times. Because some things are just hard. Divorce is painful, motherhood is challenging, disability sometimes feels like equal measures of invisibility and invalidation. Life naturally carries us through cycles of disappointment, fear, loss, and pain. And while it's often true that good things come later, we don't have to choose which truth we're allowed to acknowledge.

It's okay to admit when your life feels especially stormy. It's also okay to search that stormy sky for a silver-lined cloud, even if you're peering out from under the questionable shelter of an incredibly threadbare umbrella. Because sometimes that silver lining looks like hope. Sometimes it's a band of light right there in the middle of the storm...and sometimes it isn't. Sometimes that barely-there lining is so thin you can still see the storm right through it.

This weekend, my car caught an attitude. It's a decrepit little seventeen-year-old embarrassment that I'm convinced is only running on the power of God's will, but as we inch closer and closer to 250,000 miles, this little car is doing its best to keep me worried. I have a credit card specifically limited to the care of this vehicle, because my car is one of the most important aspects of keeping my household running.

We use it for errands, like everyone else. We use it to grocery shop, and it carries my youngest daughter back and forth to school. More importantly, it allows us to nurture the social aspects of our life: we drive it to church on Sundays and youth on Wednesdays and Bible study on Thursdays. We occasionally meet friends for lunch or dinner, and we haul everything we need on hand when we house-sit. But even if none of that mattered...that car helps me manage my daughter's health. She typically has at least one medical appointment every month. Sometimes there are several in one week. Sometimes there are several in one day.

The current economy is challenging for everyone, I know. But as a single parent on disability, sometimes the limitations are especially noticeable, and if I'm truly honest, my car is my greatest stressor. I prioritize keeping that one credit card paid off as much as possible, and there's a part of me that breathes differently when I make a payment that takes that bill off my list. The whole world seems a little more secure when that card has a zero balance, and Friday afternoon, I was almost there.

Next month's payment would have cleared the card. And I thought, "Well, I'm gonna run down to the store real quick, grab a can of Spam, and make Musubi to celebrate." (It's the one rice-heavy meal that my autistic little rice-hater loves.)

So I got in the car, turned the key, and heard the starter click. Turned the key again, the starter clicked again. Tried a third time, same click from the starter.

Within a few hours, a friend showed up, husband in tow, to check it out. He tinkered with the battery, arched his brows in quiet amusement when he saw how old it was, and said, "Well, that's step one." It was too late in the day to do anything more, so I thanked my friend, thanked her husband, and waited for morning.

Saturday morning, she showed up and we were off on a mission. We headed out, confirmed the dead battery, and I swiped that almost-paid-off credit card to replace it, praying there was nothing else wrong. (Actually, there's still a lot wrong, and fixing my car would cost more than I paid for it five years ago, but that's another post.) So we went back to my house, installed the new battery, took a little test drive, and for a while, the silver seemed a little brighter.

Except that my car still sucks. It's still woefully untrustworthy. I still can't replace it. 250k is still looming on the horizon, I'm still wondering how much longer this car will hold out, and I still lose sleep wondering what to do about it with the limited resources at hand. The storm is just as cloudy today as it was on Friday, and those clouds are still as gray as the paint on my battered old car.

But a friend showed up when it would have been easier not to. Her husband lent his time even after working all day. And maybe that card being almost paid off was actually perfect timing, because it was there and available to use.

After we got the car running, my friend and I sat in my living room for a couple of hours, chatting about life and the lessons we've learned, while upstairs, our daughters experimented with make-up, played Monopoly, and watched TV. When they headed home for the day, my daughter and I rested in the quiet, had dinner together, and went to bed. This morning before we went to church, I sat in the driver's seat and prayed just like I always do. "Jesus, please start this car. And when I hit the brake pedal, pull on the bumper, would ya? Thank you for my blessings, please be with those who are suffering. Amen."

Sometimes the clouds feel beyond repair, like when you love someone with everything you've got and that's not enough. Sometimes the clouds cost us something we're not sure we have, like faith or trust or resilience in situations that feel impossible to change. And sometimes the clouds seem so deeply personal we didn't even know they were visible, like this morning when a guy at church made a point to come find me with a gluten-free communion cup that made me weep in gratitude.

Silver lining, indeed. My friend didn't need abundant thanks, and she asked for nothing in return for her time. That guy at church didn't even wait for a "thank you"—he just caught my attention, passed me a cup, nodded quietly, and went on his way.

And if loneliness is a poison, maybe the antidote has been there all along. Maybe it's in the little moments when we realize that hearing isn't the same as listening. Maybe it's in the difference between asking a question and actually caring about the answer. Or maybe it's hidden in the willingness to share our own light when someone else's looks dim...without needing anyone to see us doing it.

*****

Even in this, we balance the weight of two truths. One, we don't have to be seen all the time, and small acts of kindness don't need a celebratory parade. And two, sometimes in the midst of a struggle, the unexpected kindness of being seen and valued can turn a barely-there silver lining into a shining beacon in the clouds.

The world is full of suffering people who feel like they're standing on the edges of community. People for whom true vulnerability is challenging. People bent by the weight of shame or rejection, who don't ask for help because they've heard more than their fair share of "no." And for many of those people, it's often the smallest gestures that reach places we can't usually see.

It's sitting next to the kid who eats alone in the school cafeteria. It's sitting with someone when something sucks, not to find blame or even to fix it, but simply to offer compassion. It's standing in the gap when you can meet a need, setting a reminder to check in when a friend is going through something, and pressing pause on the assumptions we make without really knowing what someone's going through.

Because if God created us for community and relationship, then maybe the desire to be seen and known isn't a flaw to overcome or an ego that needs a reality check. Maybe it's just a need we could all be more conscious of, more patient with, and make more room for. And maybe in the end, that's the silver lining that makes it a little easier for all of us to...

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The Beauty of Not Belonging

Fun fact: I lived with a ghost once. A little girl. Every night after I put my children to bed, I'd sit in the living room to take my first deep breaths of the day. The ghost would pace the hall behind me, walking softly, never making a sound—other than those slowly padding footsteps. Every night, I'd sigh and tell her it was time for bed, and the footsteps would stop.

I think of her when my kids joke that I need a bell. Because creating a safe home while healing from childhood trauma is weird, because finding where you belong after a lifetime of feeling like an outsider is hard, and because no matter how healed you are, some scars never truly fade.

I'm five foot two but I am not a small woman, and still, I can enter a room with no warning. I've startled my kids countless times simply by appearing beside them—and once, I scared my oldest so bad, she burst into tears. All I did was enter the room. No anger, no animosity, no sneaking. I just walked through the door.

"God, Mom," she said, wiping her eyes. "Get a bell!"

And mostly, of course, they're joking—but I've often wondered how much of that instinctive silence was learned before I recognized what it was.

I spent a lot of time as a child trying not to be noticed. Trying to take up as little space as possible. To be quiet and stay out of the way. Don't ask for too much, don't feel out loud, don't draw attention.

I'm forty-two years old now, but in many ways, I'm still overcoming adversity no child should ever face. I'm still working on breaking generational cycles. Still learning to take up space. Still figuring out what it means to belong.

But sometimes I think about the girl who never believed she'd belong anywhere.

For the majority of my childhood, belonging felt like something only other people got to have. My parents divorced when I was four, and they both had horrible second marriages. My step-mother was psychologically unstable and often violent, but my father was trying hard to make the marriage work. My step-father was a prison-gang-affiliated ex-con, and that means everything any sane person would expect it to mean. My grandmother loved her family, but she was overburdened and overwhelmed. Her mother was aging and needed care, her husband was ill, two of her children were in impossibly dangerous situations, and she was already raising four grandchildren.

No room at the inn, indeed.

I lived in a lot of places. Apartments surrounded by bullies. Trailers where gang initiations were the soundtrack of the night. Houses where my father opened the front door with a shotgun by his side. Once, even a downtown hotel, where the music of the bar below drifted up through the floor as I slept. Mostly, I lived with family. My mother for a while, my father for a while, then back to my mother again.

But I felt alternately like a hassle to be managed and the rope in a tug of war—a piece in a game, a means to a win. Useful sometimes, but never unquestionably wanted.

Sometimes it was obvious, like the time my mom made me put everything I owned in garbage bags and call my dad to come get me. Other times it was more subtle.

I remember living with my grandmother in middle school, and I was an early riser just like her. I shared a bedroom with my cousins, so when I woke up in the mornings, I'd slip out of the room with a book, and I'd read in the living room while she drank her coffee. I didn't ask for anything. I didn't make noise or turn on the TV. I just wanted somewhere to be without bothering anyone. But sometimes she'd see me and roll her eyes and shake her head.

Eventually, I stopped going into the living room. I'd sneak into the bathroom instead, where I'd close the door as silently as possible, curl up on the floor, and read until everyone else woke up. And I don't think she meant for those moments to feel so brutally unwelcoming. Looking back, I think those early-morning cups of coffee were the only quiet moments she had, and she was probably just frustrated at having to share them.

But children don't always understand adult circumstances, adults don't always make time to explain, and I was a traumatized middle schooler, examining the silent signals of things I wasn't allowed to ask about.

My grandmother was an incredibly strong woman who carried impossible challenges without flinching. She pulled no punches, took no nonsense, and always seemed to know what to do. But she had a silly streak, too, and she loved giving prank Christmas gifts. Most of the time, they were funny, like the Hanson CDs taped into car magazines. Sometimes they were ridiculous, like the necklaces hidden in plastic pieces of fruit. But there was one year when the joke wasn't funny at all.

That year, everyone had presents. Except for me.

I remember watching everyone open their gifts. I oohed and aahed as expected, trying to be well-mannered and unbothered and as invisible as I felt in those moments. I didn't cry. I didn't ask why I got left out. I didn't leave the room. I just sat there. And eventually my grandmother went into the bathroom, waited a moment, and called to my mother for help.

They came back laughing, their arms loaded with presents for me. And I don't remember a single one of them. I remember being the only one without them. And sometimes, even now, I wonder what might have happened if I'd reacted differently. If I'd reacted normally.

I have children of my own now, and I don't have to imagine what they would have felt, as normal children who would never be subjected to that. So I wonder: What if I'd cried, or said I was hurt? What if I had asked, "What about me?" What if I had simply stood up and walked away?

I didn't come from a comforting family. I doubt there would have been hugs or apologies. Most likely, I'd have been told I should be grateful to be there at all.

I'll never know, and maybe that's part of why the scar still lies protectively over the place that was wounded. Because I learned early that silence was safety. By then, I'd already spent a year in a children's home—a fourth grader placed in a house full of older teen girls, because even there, I didn't quite fit where I should have.

And what's funny is, that year turned out to be one of the greatest gifts I ever received.

I shared a Jack-and-Jill bathroom with one of the other girls, and at night we'd sneak in there to talk. We'd put towels against the doors to block the light, we'd sit with our backs against the bathtub, and sometimes we'd talk until morning. That girl taught me to shave my legs. She taught me to make jokes out of hard times.

And when she found out I'd never seen Mary Poppins, she was stunned.

She and the other girls got the house parents to set up a movie night, and we piled onto the couches in the living room to watch. There were snacks and blankets and jokes and lots of laughter, and all I remember is the certainty that those messed up teens wanted me there.

And in a place no child should ever have been, in a home that should never have housed a girl my age, for a little while, people made room for me. Not as another thing to manage, another complication to juggle, or another problem to solve. They got excited about a child's movie, simply for the sake of sharing it with a child. They looked forward to the circus, simply to watch a little sister enjoy it for the first time. Because they didn't see a messed-up kid or a story waiting to be told.

They saw a person worth talking to. A child worth teaching. And even they knew the power in a spoonful of sugar.

*****

I still think about that little girl sometimes, especially now, as a mother. I listen to my children stampede through the house and I remember the girl who learned to walk softly and stay unnoticed. My daughter sings at the top of her lungs, and I think of the child who read in the bathroom to keep herself out of the way. The one who knew better than to cry when pain was gift-wrapped for Christmas.

Sometimes I wish I could go back, even for just a moment, to tell her something I didn't understand then. Something that might radically change the course of her life. I would tell her that feeling unwanted does not equal being unworthy.

Maybe the problem isn't that you're too much. Maybe it isn't that you're not enough, either. Maybe you're just in a place that doesn't have room for who you are.

I've carried the lessons of those years into adulthood in ways I never intended. Those lessons sit in the room where I lead students at church. They inform every conversation I have with my daughter's friends when she brings them to me (or they come on their own) for counsel and understanding. They are the foundation of a prayer that I will never leave any child wondering whether they're wanted.

And maybe they do complain when I appear unexpectedly. Honestly, maybe I do need a bell. But no matter how many times they roll their eyes or get mad or need space...they will never have to become invisible to earn their place in my home.

One of the strangest treasures of my childhood is that not belonging taught me what belonging should feel like. It should feel like making room and being wanted without having to earn it, even if it isn't practically perfect in every way. Because we all deserve a place where we don't have to disappear.

So until next week, stay visible. Stay silly. And as always...

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Survival Is Just The Beginning

Sometimes we hear things so often, we forget to actually listen to the words. It's why we hear favorite songs again years later and can't believe what we used to listen to. It's why a quote we've seen a thousand times suddenly lands in a new way. For me, this happens a lot with the Bible—not because a verse or story has changed, but because I have. The meaning of the words will shift suddenly, almost unexpectedly, into place. And because the words themselves remain the same, I think the thing that changes most is...well, me.

It happens with passages about healing and resilience, because they give me encouragement. It happens with stories about people overcoming adversity, because they give me hope. But it hits me hardest where trauma recovery is the transformation—in the places where moving forward doesn't mean forgetting where you came from, where pain and purpose truly mold a person into someone they couldn't have been before.

It's in those moments that I recognize faith as something more powerful than stereotype, and personal growth as more than a mental health trend. This morning in church, someone mentioned the story of a man unable to walk for thirty-eight years. It was a passing comment, but it got me thinking about life. And healing. And remembering. And how, whether you're a Christian or not, the concept behind Jesus's command to "take up your mat" might not always mean what we thought it did.

The story doesn't tell us how old the man was. It only says he was invalid, unable to walk for thirty-eight years. He could have been thirty-eight years old—or fifty, or seventy-five. We don't know.

In the story, Jesus asked the man if he wanted to be well, and modern teachings on this passage almost always imply that perhaps the man got so used to being helpless, he decided to stay that way. After all, he'd been lying for years on his mat, right there beside the healing pool of Bethesda, so why didn't he just creep closer as the years went on? Why didn't he just scoot over and roll in? Sometimes we even sprinkle a little shame into the teaching, because Jesus asked him if he wanted to be well, and he basically said, "Boohoo, so sad. I never seem to get there fast enough, and no one will help me."

Sometimes we make it seem like this man was stuck in his own emotional victimhood, laying year after year on that mat by the pool. But if he was truly incapable and truly without help, what did the accumulation of thirty-eight years look like? Maybe he was covered in sores or wrapped in the stench of his own filth. Maybe he was lonely, overlooked, or forgotten. Often, we simply paint him as lazy because his focus was on the help he didn't have, and we emphasize Jesus asking, "Do you want to be well?"

We love the authority that showed up when Jesus said, "Take up your mat, and walk." We love the miracle of a man who was crippled for nearly four decades and then suddenly wasn't, because it gives us hope in our own suffering...but I think we underestimate what Jesus didn't say. He didn't say, "Leave that mat and move on," or, "Walk away and forget about it." He didn't say, "Pretend it never happened."

He said, "Take up your mat, and walk." And I don't know about you, but if I was stuck on a mat for thirty-eight years waiting for healing that only came to the people around me...I'm not sure I could forget that. Even after the healing came, I'm not sure I could leave that mat behind.

I don't think we talk enough about that.

We like to think of healing as a process, by which we become the person we would've been if the hard thing hadn't happened. We think that maybe someday, when we've done enough and grown enough and learned enough and surrendered enough and taken back enough of ourselves, we should be able to look back with the right kind of separation. "It's over. It's in the past."

But what if leaving the mat behind is like only reading the end of a book? Because, make no mistake here—the mat is the bulk of the story. In that time, the average human spent less than eighty years in this life. This man spent thirty-eight of those years on that mat. 

When we look at it that way, it doesn't seem like much has changed, and maybe that's why the mat matters. I personally have a small collection of mats. I've stood, I've taken them up, I've walked away. I've carried them with me because they remind me of who I was and where I came from.

Some are woven with painful threads of divorce. Others are torn by the scars of abandonment. A few are worn thin because I laid on them too long or went back to them too often. Most of my mats spent long stretches of time heaped in the dark corners of my life because I didn't have the stomach or the skills to clean them properly—but I kept them. 

Because they wrote whole chapters in the story of my life, and the story wouldn't make as much sense without them.

Maybe that's why I do this. Not to rehash old things, but to share my own mats in ways that say, "I'm not that special. If I could get up, maybe you can, too." Maybe my sharing is my way of saying, "You're not alone by the pool."

And you know what...sometimes moving forward won't look impressive to anybody but you. Sometimes they don't know what it took to make that effort. Sometimes you're just getting from one day to the next. Some days, you're barely managing to get out of bed. Maybe it's the effort of one small choice, one more conversation.

Maybe for you, it means trying one more time, over and over again. Slowly flexing muscles you haven't used in a while. Slowly straightening the backbone you've been bending to keep the peace. Until eventually you make it to your knees, trembling and exhausted. And eventually, you climb to your feet, stunned by your own strength.

And somewhere along the way, you stop believing that getting stuck and staying stuck are the same things.

Either way, take up the mat, friend. And don't forget to carry it with you.

*****

I know there will always be people who skip to the end of the story. They want transformation without trauma. They want the happy ending, and sometimes they don't even care how it happened. Maybe that's right for them, wherever they are in this chapter of their own story...but for me, the beauty of a story is the journey it takes us on, and it just wouldn't be the same with pages missing.

I don't think you need to stay where you are. I think in some ways, we're all just moving from mat to mat, learning to stand over and over again. But with each new moment of stillness, each new devastating circumstance, each new lesson learned, we're reminded of what it feels like to be stuck. With each grueling climb to our feet, we gain understanding—and if we're brave enough to remember what it was like to lie on that mat, we find compassion for people still hoping for change.

There was a time when I needed someone else to believe getting up was possible before I could believe it myself. There have been times when I sat beside someone else and told them to get up. Some did it quickly, almost in obedience to a possibility they hadn't noticed before, but others needed a hand held, a shoulder braced. Some have needed an outright push. And I get it, because I've been there, too.

But maybe that's the power of the mat, covered in the scars of the past. It's not that the suffering was good or that "everything happens for a reason." It's just that some things happen whether we want them to or not. Some things are painful. Some things are unfair.

Still, healing from those things does not render them meaningless. The mat is more than a reminder of where you've been. It's evidence of what you've learned and where you've grown. 

I've always loved the idea that the things we survive become part of what we offer to others, because we can look back at (but not down on) someone still lying on their mat and say, "I know. It doesn't feel possible, and you can't see the other side yet. But this mat is not all that you are."

And for me, that's the magic of writing—because in a lot of ways, it's just me, taking up the mat. I can't change the things that happened to me. I can't erase the scars, rewrite the chapters, or become the person I might have been. But I can pick those things up and carry them. I can turn them over in my hands and absorb the lessons they offer.

And if I can put those experiences into words that make somebody else feel less alone, then that's the way I'll keep choosing to...

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Top Ten Pet Peeves, And The Trouble With Too Many Tabs

I love it when I sign on ready to share some meaningful behind the scenes moment, not only because I get to share something I've learned, but also because it's proof that I'm still learning. But the truth is, I have quiet weeks just like anyone else, and sometimes author life is actually...well, boring.

Some days pass peacefully, and instead of discovering some deep revelation, I just get out of bed, take my kid to school, go home and write, pick my kid up from school, eat dinner with her, and go to bed. Sure, I might read a little in between, or find something funny online, and my daughter and I often have long conversations I value deeply, but most of the time, those slow days are their own quiet kind of treasure.

The trouble is, they leave me without anything big to say—and here's a little fun fact about me: having nothing to say is SO. ANNOYING. So it was almost funny when I realized that maybe the things that annoy me are actually a great place for this post to land.

And it's not like I haven't talked about this before. I've mentioned rage-bait culture and why I generally refuse to participate. I've mentioned my trauma history and how painful it is to spend time around people who make it their hobby to piss everyone off. But pet peeves? Those little things that irritate me no matter how hard I try to look the other way? The everyday annoyances we all have?

Maybe today's a good day to get honest about mine.

A friend of mine recently finished reading the Freedom Series, and she texted me all the way through the second book (by the way, those texts are absolutely my new drug of choice, caffeine be damned). She told me how she shared parts of the story with her boyfriend, how Christine's trauma sat itself down and held hands with her own. She sent me quotes from sections she loved, told me when the story made her laugh, made her cheer, made her angry.

She told me how she felt about the end. She told me it's a true story—and when I said, "Not exactly, but it's based on real things that happen to real women," she put ten toes down and came back with, "It's a true story in my opinion." Because she found so much of herself in it.

Then she said, "I finished. I wrote a review. Never done one before." And she asked for more.

So I told her about Selkie, where I am in the process, and when to expect a new release. And I felt bad because I wanted to share more. I wanted to send screenshots and scenes. Pieces of Annie and Malik and the sheer beautiful magic of the Selkie Trilogy. I wanted to give her a promise that storytelling lives in the next story long after the first has ended, even when the two are not at all the same.

But then I thought about you. And I wanted to share with you, too. So I held back, planning to set up the Selkie page here on my author blog.

And honestly, that's where the peeves come in. I hate incomplete things. I hate a long to-do list. I hate holding back and I hate waiting and I hate the long-form admin that lives behind these stories that wake me up in the morning.

But I couldn't make the Selkie page right away because I had too many tabs at the top of this blog. Could I have made another one anyway? Sure, but it would've looked weird. Could I have set up the page and added it as a link in the sidebar? Sure, but it would've felt disconnected from the others. And thus began an entire day of effort, during which the Selkie page never actually got created and blog navigation made me want to tear my hair out.

Writing life is not all glamour, I promise.

So there I sat, consolidating three pages to make room for one. My favorite books, favorite products, and favorite Undaunted women are now listed together under "Top Tens." Just for fun, I also added a top ten list of things I've found myself wishing for. And by the end of the day, when it was finally time to set up that Selkie page?

Y'all, I closed the laptop, grumbled a couple of words Jesus wouldn't approve of, and went to bed.

And what's funny is that I ended up finding a list of my own Top Ten Pet Peeves a few days later, and it felt a little like my past self teasing my present self. "Keep it real, girlfriend, and don't sweat the small stuff." Which is hilarious, because that Top Ten list? It really is mostly small stuff.

But what can I say? I'm human, too.

*****

Sometimes there's no big revelation, and that's okay. Sometimes a quiet week sprinkled with minor irritation and ignorable grievances actually is the whole story. And even if this whole thing started because I needed a place to share information about the Selkie Trilogy, I think it all worked out just fine. The Top Ten page is up and I love it. The Selkie Trilogy page is up (excerpt included), and I love that too. I'm already checking my texts for tidbits from my friend, which is crazy because the new book won't release until January...

Exhibit A: We get impatient, too.

The thing is, it's okay if it took some rearranging to get there, because that's what life really is anyway. We're constantly changing, rearranging our views, our preferences, our hobbies, our habits. And yes, even our personal pet peeves.

And maybe the funniest part of this is that it all started with an impulsive trip down an unplanned administrative rabbit-hole, and I still ended up glad I took it. Either way, I'm proud of the progress. I'm proud of pursuing the best way instead of settling for the easy way. But most of all, I'm proud of another book that helped another reader...

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Beautiful Overwhelm: The Aftermath

I sometimes struggle to settle on the weekly topic for this blog because overall, my life is quiet. It's routine. It's slowing down again, finding balance after a storm of busy seasons marked by the kind of overwhelm and exhaustion inherent to the life of an introvert. Monday through Friday, my daughter has school. Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings, we have church. Thursdays, I meet with my women's group. And other than a sprinkling of doctor's appointments and the constant drive to meet my own writing deadlines, the biggest variable is my Thursday group cycling through hobbies and activities we all enjoy as we learn and grow together as women.

There's a lot of gratitude these days, but I don't always feel like I have something new to say because most of the time, nothing new happened.

But the last two weeks have been so wild and wonderful and crazy, I'm struggling to settle on a moment because there have been so many beautiful moments in such a short time.

We've had a whirlwind of family time, where each day folded almost invisibly into the next. We probably drove over 1,000 miles in the last fourteen days. My daughter slept in five different beds. We ate so much junk food, fast food, and restaurant meals that my body went into full rebellion and my little one begged for salad. There were mornings when the first thing I did was check the calendar just to be sure I was starting the right day at the right time.

But even with emotional exhaustion poured over an absolute failure to find enough rest...we made so many amazing memories. And maybe I just haven't finished sorting them all out yet. Maybe I don't even need to, and maybe if you're feeling the same way, you don't need to either. I think it's okay if, just for once, we sit in the quiet and let those moments be what they were.

Hours spent with people we love. Memories we wouldn't trade. And you know what? It's probably okay if you need three to five business days for recovery, too. I know I do.

I'm writing this lying down, propped on the pile of white pillows I nest in every night at bedtime. The afternoon sun is moving over my building, slowly shifting its light over the colors of my bedroom, and I've let my hair down for the day. The fan is whispering quietly to itself, there's a loaf of gluten free garlic sourdough rising downstairs in the kitchen, and a fresh cup of coffee waits, steaming on the nightstand beside me.

My knee hurts, my head hurts, and I can't remember the last time I worked on a Selkie scene. I miss Annie and Malik. I miss the excitement and the magic of their story, the joy of rediscovering them as I work through this second edition in preparation for January's release date. I miss the note-taking and the anticipation of fresh adventure in Selkie III.

There's an almost-seventy-year-old bookshelf standing to my left—built by my great-grandfather in 1958, scarred but still sturdy, loaded down with books waiting to be read. Directly ahead is a wall unit filled with yarn waiting to become something beautiful. I look around and am faced at every angle with projects calling for attention.

There's laundry to be done. Travel products to be organized and put away for next time. A potted string of pearls quietly craving a drink. Always, always, there is a surface begging to be dusted. And for the moment, I'm leaving it all. Not only to prioritize this time I spend each week with you, but to reflect on the beauty of what it means to be overwhelmed.

So often, we think of gratitude as a good thing. Energizing and positive. Gratitude is that leap of joy that brings our hearts almost into our throats as we celebrate the blessings in life. And in turn, we think of overwhelm as bad. It's the sudden realization of having gone too far, pushed too hard, done too much. The draining that leaves us on the edge of bewilderment even as we carry on.

I'm learning that this is yet another place where two opposing things can be true at the same time—and that nothing is ever only good or only bad.

I spent these weeks with the fresh new generation of my family. My nephew, who I once carried at my shoulder, who I once cradled to my chest, who I once helped to teach and love and nurture, is now a Marine with a family of his own. His children are five and three, and I spent hours wandering with them, their little hands tucked into mine, watching adventure and excitement light in their eyes. And every moment was joy...but I'm tired.

I drove until I could hardly stand up straight when I got out of the car. Long hours spent sitting, watching the world fly by outside the window, my hands on the wheel, my brows furrowed as an apparently drunken GPS offered more wrong turns than a backwards NASCAR race. I knew my exhaustion was real when I saw it echoed in the eyes of my usually-tireless teenager...and I am incredibly thankful.

Two truths, opposite to their very cores, and still they exist side-by-side.

And after all that, we settled at home just in time for me to kick my daughter out of her own bed, dragging her into my room for a one-night sleepover. We made her bed with fresh sheets, vacuumed her floor, folded a quilt at the foot of the bed, and welcomed my brother back to our city for the first visit in years. We spent too much on groceries, my oldest daughter joined us for taco salads, we shouted and joked and stayed up too late watching movies. It was exhausting. And it was wonderful. And you couldn't pay me to trade those moments.

Yesterday, I had both of my brothers in my house for the first time in ages. One seven years older, one seven years younger. And there I stood between the two of them, listening to the quiet way they talk to each other, broken by bursts of laughter and private jokes and the silly parts of our father that live on in us.

So here I am, wrapped in a soft silvery blanket in my nest of white pillows, delightedly sipping sweet vanilla coffee as I process what those moments mean, where they came from, and what they'll lead to. I hear my daughter whispering to herself downstairs, singing in quiet bursts as she braves the mysteries of a new Minecraft world, and now and then, the air conditioner kicks on, circulating random garlic-scented promises of the bread I'll bake just in time for dinner.

The whirlwind has passed for now, but nothing feels quite settled yet.

And sometimes, maybe that's a blessing, too.

*****

As an emotionally intense person so often focused on personal growth—especially as that growth connects to and reflects on my Christian life—I think sometimes it's easy to expect clear lines. Good and bad. Joy and sadness. Gratitude and grumbling. But maybe these blended moments, and the capacity for contentment in them, are where we tend to lose the plot.

Maybe gratitude doesn't have to be gleeful to be genuine, and maybe it's okay to feel tired after feeling all the things. Maybe it's moments like these, where everyone has gone home and reality rolls in again. Maybe gratitude is right there in the basket of laundry soiled by adventure. Maybe it's the cluttered mind, still buzzing with memories that haven't quite found their places yet.

And maybe it's needing a little more silence than usual, a little more sleep, or a little more time to find yourself again after pouring everything out for the people and moments that matter most.

I don't think any of that makes the gratitude less real, and I think sometimes it's the beauty of the overwhelm that makes us recognize its value. Being grateful for something doesn't mean it has to be easy, and loving people won't always feel seamless. Beauty can still be exhausting...and that's okay.

Because we don't need to rush to sort those memories and lessons into tidy little boxes right away, and I wonder if leaving them scattered like debris in the aftermath of the storm is the best way to let them find where they belong, all on their own, in the stillness of a sunlit afternoon.

And maybe as those pieces of days gone by fall like magic into place, we smile and drink coffee that tastes like contentment. And those moments help us...

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