The Space Between

 Life transitions are weird, and while navigating change is rarely easy, I've been noticing a certain theme as the seasons of my own life shift from one to another.

There's a strange phenomenon in the reading community known as a book hangover, and this week I've had one. The Freedom Series is complete, my celebration giveaway is fast approaching 700 entries, and as Christine's story of personal growth after trauma comes to an end, I'm moving on to The Selkie Trilogy—where Annie Jacobs learns that sometimes, new beginnings show up in truly unexpected places.

The first step should have been simple, especially because the first two Selkie books have already been written. I just need to re-read them, clean up sneaky errors that might've slipped into the first editions, re-polish (and probably expand) them as I prepare for the third book, then dress them up in fancy new covers and give them back to the world.

Instead, I spent a few days staring at my computer, wrestling with the shift from Christine to Annie, almost like I've spent the last several years sitting comfortably across the table from one woman...only to look up and find a completely different woman in her place.

They both have brown hair, but one is more auburn than the other. Christine has brown eyes, while Annie's are green. One was born and raised in the Appalachian South, and the other begins her story in coastal Bar Harbor, Maine. But they have similarities, too. Both stories begin with the end of a marriage and the pain of starting over. Both are orphaned, like me. And both have helped me learn how to navigate seasons of change, simply by being willing to live in the space between them.

One or two life changes at a time often seem manageable—and sometimes they seem to happen almost without notice. Time sweeps us from winter to spring to fall and back again, and while we often notice the difference from one mid-season to another, the slow daily shift tends to sneak along, quiet degree by quiet degree.

It's why we miss the coziness of a blanket in winter, only to reach winter again and miss the kiss of a warm summer sun.

There's something about August that sets our attention more firmly on the shifting world around us, though. Maybe it's the way seemingly endless heat makes us extra cranky as we head into (or out of) various local and national elections. Maybe it's the humid stickiness of summer's last hurrah, or the early stress of increasingly prevalent holiday-season countdowns.

For me, it's always the start of a new school year, complete with mandated shopping lists and fees that make no sense and an influx of emails from my daughter's school that borders on actual spam—but this year? This year is different.

My youngest will enter her senior year of high school tomorrow morning, and I can't stop thinking about the shock on a friend's face at church this morning. "A senior," he said, stepping back in surprise. He shook his head slowly, holding one hand out, just below his sternum, and I could see him remembering. When we first met him, my youngest daughter barely reached his chest. "But she used to be..."

"I know," I said. "And just like that, she's seventeen." Across the aisle, his wife and their new sixth-grader approached, and I arched an eyebrow, grinning. "Get ready, your turn's next."

The conversation moved on as he asked about my oldest daughter, who passed her teenage years at his side, running the tech booth at our church. And as I gave him updates on her various adventures, he seemed amazed.

Life is like that sometimes. You see someone every day and they're just...them. You notice if they change their hair, if they grow a beard, if they gain or lose a partner or spouse. But you don't see them slowly growing inch by inch, and you don't notice the steady deepening of a newly established wrinkle. Until something changes so dramatically that it shakes your perspective, forcing you to recognize the passage of time.

I notice it most with my oldest, who spent a few days with us this week, unknowingly reigniting the strange dichotomy of 20-inch baby girl and 63-inch young woman. So much the same in face and temperament, but now truly a person in her own right, with friends I don't always know and a life I'm not always privy to.

My friend asked what it's like, and I laughed as I answered, because the truth is both completely honest and completely ridiculous at the same time. "I don't know how to have an adult child," I said. "I'll keep you updated."

And maybe that's what it's all about, anyway. Maybe embracing change doesn't have to mean knowing what to do with it right away. We like to assume that when something changes, the old version of our lives ends, the new one begins, and somewhere in the middle of everything, life owes us an instruction manual.

But it doesn't. Sometimes you just wake up one day and discover that your last little baby is nearly grown. Or that the first one to call you "Mommy" suddenly has a whole life you only see in bits and pieces. Or that the story your heart revolved around is finished, and the next one is still patiently waiting.

You don't stop loving the good parts of the old season, and it's okay if there's a part of you that isn't quite ready for the new one.

Maybe the space between isn't so much about finding peace in change as it is about the courage to keep moving forward anyway—not because we've figured out what to do when life is changing, but because it's perfectly normal to feel uncertain as we study the climate of the season to come.

*****

In many ways, the hardest part of any transition in life is accepting change that refuses to tell the whole story. Anyone who knows me has heard me joke about "what I wouldn't give to get a peek at God's planner..." but the truth is, sometimes all we can do is trust the process, no matter how unsteady that process feels.

Sometimes we dance through changes that feel like music. Other times, all we can do is lower our heads and walk bravely into the coming storm. And while I'm sure we'd all rather be dancing (yes, even those of us with knees that have popped it, dropped it, and unfortunately locked it), sometimes we grow best when we realize that we don't have to stand on the edge of change, waiting to be "ready."

This week, I formally began the work on my next book, months later than I originally intended to. Last year's psychotic scheduling upended my writing routine, and while I'm proud to have gotten things done at least mostly on time, there were days when I wasn't sure I'd be able to get everything back to where it needed to be. And still, here I am, slowly sinking back into the delicious adventure that is Annie's story. The January re-release is looming on the horizon of my life, and even if getting there looks different than I'd thought it would, I'm looking forward to seeing Selkie reach new readers.

I'm also learning that sometimes, embracing new beginnings means celebrating the lessons that come with endings. My current giveaway started with a bucket of yarn, a hook, a story, and an idea, and as I watch the entry numbers climb, I'm excited to see it become something bigger than I was brave enough to imagine.

My motherhood journey is changing too, with one daughter learning what it means to be an adult, and the other somehow simultaneously a high-school senior and a precious ten-pound, cantaloupe-headed baby.

I still don't know what to do with that. And maybe I don't have to.

I don't think the space between seasons is a problem to solve. Maybe it's simply the space where we learn to move differently—to loosen our grip on what has been, pay attention to what is, and step into whatever comes next. The future doesn't need us to arrive with a planned itinerary. It just needs us to arrive, still standing, and still willing to...

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What Happens After "The End"

I recently spent several months crocheting a blanket for someone I've never met. It's the crocheted version of a quilt, with 750 tiny granny squares in a rainbow of colors, joined together in stark black that makes every color bolder than they could've been on their own. I prayed over every loop and swirl as I wove roughly 35,000 individual stitches into something beautiful.

Because this crochet blanket was never for me and I knew that before I ever tied the first slipknot—but it's a reminder of how we write the stories of our lives. One choice, one day, one moment at a time. And it's only when we look back that we see the pattern, where every choice we've made is just another stitch in the fabric.

I made it while I finished editing and finalizing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, the second book in the Freedom Series. And in between stitches, I collected little things that reminded me of Christine and her story—a bookmark, a recipe, a candle, a mug. Little things that might seem ordinary on their own, but together become tangible evidence of a story that escaped the limits of paper and ink.

The Freedom Series started as a tribute to my mother, who never got to experience the type of community and post-traumatic growth portrayed in Christine's story. But as Christine became so much more than a character in a book, what she left me with is a deep realization of how much stories matter. I ached with her, cried with her, learned from her, grew through her. And now, I'm not sure I'll ever be the same.

It's easy to think we begin as blank pages because we're born needing help for everything. We can't feed ourselves, clean ourselves, or even move from one place to the next on our own, but we're all born with inherited stories already written in our DNA. From the colors of our eyes to the tones of our skin, we can't help but echo pieces of the people who came before us.

And that's before the pages of our lives begin to fill with family legends, before the darkness of heartbreak stains the paper, before our stories are colored by the strength of survival. Before life stories turn into faith stories or success stories or inspirational tales of Adventures on the Struggle Bus. Sometimes we get to live stories we're proud of, and we walk through life collecting the creases of chapters spent in laughter. Sometimes our stories leave us dog-eared and wounded, and healing only comes with the turning of a page we weren't quite finished reading yet.

And sometimes we find ourselves living stories we're desperate to learn something meaningful from, lest in ignorance, we live that chapter over again.

I think the greatest purpose of a story doesn't have anything to do with whether it's remembered. Maybe a story is most truly successful when it reminds us that we're worth remembering too, and maybe in this, stories and blankets have more in common than most people realize. After all, neither can reach the fullness of its potential while folded up in a closet.

Maybe the best stories write themselves on our hearts because they don't end when the book does—they simply find new places inside us to keep living. First born in the writer and then raised to something new in the reader, the books that stay with us remind us of how every chapter matters. They stay when storytelling plants a seed of gratitude or understanding that wasn't there before, leaving storyprints like fingermarks, lingering in lessons learned and highlighted quotes to keep for later.

They remain long after the pages have turned. And when we're lucky, they become relationships that help us figure out who we are, regardless of where we're from.

Stories have taught me that love can still be real, even when it doesn't look the way we thought it would. They've taught me that no hero is ever all good, and no villain is ever all bad—and that depth really does make the difference. They taught me to look deeper at the roles I play as mother, as teacher, as mentor. And yes, they taught me to pay better attention in the chapters where I am the student.

That's why I've never been interested in simply selling stories. I've always wanted to share the things those stories have grown into. And it's why what I'm giving away in this blanket is more than yarn. It's why the signed books tucked into these carefully stitched folds are so much more than ink and paper. It's why I tested the recipe so many times before I created the card for Violet's Elisi Casserole.

And it's why the giveaway that begins tomorrow morning means so much to me.

It's more than just the chance to win books or a blanket or a few comforting trinkets, and it's more than cook time on a delicious new recipe filled with warmth and the flavors of fall. It's a chance for me to place something tangible into someone else's hands and say, "Thank you for making room for my story."

For someone, it's a few afternoons spent reading under the comfort of something handmade. Maybe it's the warmth of a cup of tea or the scent of a candle burning in the corner. Maybe it's the quiet sound of pages turning, the gasp of surprise as a particular scene unfolds, or the anticipation that overrides a readers need for sleep.

For me, it's the acknowledgement of a blessing. Because every email you've sent, every comment you've left, every chapter you've read has reminded me of something I hope I never forget: Stories matter because the people matter. Mine. Yours. All of them. And if my words have ever helped you feel even a little less alone, this giveaway can only be the smallest glimpse of the comfort you've given me.

*****

Maybe the real power of stories is the way they remind us even on the very last pages that endings are rarely as final as they seem.

A book closes, a season changes, and a chapter of life comes to an end, but the connections between readers and writers are still becoming something that sustains us long after the story is over. The things we carry forward—the lessons, the laughter, the courage, the reminders that we aren't alone—those things are still standing, still writing themselves into who we are.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about the stories that shaped and challenged and comforted me. The ones that gave me language for things I didn't recognize yet or couldn't explain on my own.

The simple truth is, the stories we love don't just entertain us. They leave fingerprints on our hearts, shaping us into something we weren't before. Maybe that's why stories matter, why the reading community has always felt like home to me, and why I love creating things that can be shared. It doesn't matter whether it's a book, a recipe, or a blanket made from thousands of tiny stitches. In the end, those things are just reminders that something made with love always travels further than we expected.

So whether you enter the giveaway or not, I hope you close this post feeling seen. Because your story doesn't have to be perfect to matter, and it's okay if some of your chapters are hard to read. What means the most is the certainty that every page is part of the person you're becoming—and The End is never truly the end.

Sometimes it's just the place where your story starts to live somewhere new. Because stories are never meant to stop with the storyteller, no matter how many times she tells you to...

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Still Standing. Still Becoming. Still Undaunted.

You guys. I gotta tell you, this has been a rough week. Not rough like I've had a headache for a couple of days (even though I have) or rough like my bum knee is extra hurty (even though it is). No.

Rough like seventy-seven degrees. Inside. For three days.

And here's the thing: I know I write a lot about Undaunted living. I've even written multiple posts about why I'm so in love with that particular term. I've written about resilience and perspective, and I've spent years sharing about choosing joy and how taking charge of your mindset can change your life, right there in the middle of dealing with setbacks. But that attitude was forged in the fire of life lessons learned on the battlefield.

Because I'm not just sharing tips I picked up from self-help books. I'm not regurgitating secondhand teachings from some formal education on stress management and personal growth. I don't pick up my phone, use AI as a diary, and let it tell me who I am or what my life means. And I certainly don't collect inspirational quotes just to post them and call it wisdom. The things I write about are lessons I lived first.

I'm out here learning perseverance and emotional resilience the hard way, in the trenches, just like you. Still learning how to stay positive when everything goes wrong. Still figuring out what to do when life keeps throwing obstacles in the way. And yes, still finding joy in stressful situations—even when I have to dig around a little because it's hidden in the struggle.

That's why, when I spent a sweaty half-hour wondering why I couldn't breathe on Friday afternoon, it wasn't a shock to see 75° on the thermostat in my dining room. It's why I was almost (but not quite) amused when I turned the A/C off and on again, only for nothing to happen. And it's why I laughed out loud when I switched it from Auto to Fan, only to realize that wasn't working either.

I'm a 68° girl in perimenopause, y'all. I'm forty-two years old and seventy-five degrees ain't it.

But as easy as it is to talk the talk when it comes to holding gratitude and staying positive...your girl spent the weekend walking the walk.

I've spent a lot of time in the last few months sitting quietly behind the scenes, trying to put words to the heart of what I write. And I've realized that regardless of whether it's me on the blog or a character in one of my stories, the theme is always the same.

It's always a woman standing in the middle of her worst case scenario—when everything goes wrong, when she's exhausted from constantly overcoming obstacles, when she's run fresh out of faith and resilience and she's tempted to quit but she doesn't. And I use words to paint a picture of the woman Still Standing.

I tell you where she went, who she met. How finding peace in those moments changed the fabric of who she used to be and altered the course of who she is now. And through the chapters of her story, my desire is always to offer you hope. Because like her...and like me...you're Still Becoming.

Every time you read something I've written, I pray you walk away with hope you didn't have before. I pray you recognize pieces of yourself in these stories—because it's okay to feel reminded that you're not alone. And because if you're still standing and still becoming, Still Undaunted is the honor badge you purchase with gritted teeth and determination.

But it's easy to love a slogan when life is behaving itself. So what about those moments when it all goes wrong? What about the sting your heart feels when it's like the whole universe is poking fun at you? What about when your air conditioner dies the same weekend you're responsible for showing up to share Jesus at a crowded youth conference?

What about when the A/C is just the opening act in a brand new series of Unfortunate Events? For me, it looks like this:

Friday morning. Wake up already pre-tired. Conferences are hard for me because I do not group. I am not a people person. I'm old enough to think most teenagers are intentionally disconnected, and I'm chronically annoyed by the constant attachment to phones. But I love my students with my whole heart, so I prep a backpack. Pain meds for my knee? Check. Bible for studying? Check. Leader notes for small group sessions between teachings? Check. I am prepared.

"But like, why's it so hot in here?"

For some people, maybe the A/C going out is just inconvenient. For others, perhaps it's a serious emergency. For me, when it's the second time this summer and both times were on the weekend when my apartment's maintenance office is closed, it's an irritating coincidence. But right at the beginning of conference weekend?

My daughter and I always listen to the same Andy Mineo CD on the way to this conference. It's on blast—and on repeat—the whole way there, and the whole way back. This year, we chose to bus with our church campus instead of driving (because surprise, my car has no A/C either)...and my CD player ate my CD. We got through half of one song, thirty seconds of classic 1990s CD skipping, and then the screen went blank. After which, it said, in all caps, "NO CD."

Pardon me? No A/C and no CD, either? I don't think so. Now there's a tone of spiritual warfare that's beginning to feel personal. And I am NOT about to let my attitude get ruined before conference. (Also, I take this as a sign that this conference is gonna SLAM.)

So we switch to the radio. It's cool. We'll get Jesus on blast through K-Love. Except we can't, because the station is all static. So we flip to Air1. Which is also static.

And all I can picture in my mind as my daughter and I are chatting about perspective is Satan doing that little virus tantrum from Dr. Mario (start this video at 1:02 and watch the red virus at the bottom left—you'll laugh, I promise), and it's hilarious. We laughed all the way to the church, where we boarded a bus (that also had no A/C), and let me tell you something.

The me from ten years ago would've been discouraged. Distracted. Defeated. Probably dangerously close to flat-out enraged. But the Friday me? The sweaty, slightly asthmatic me from this weekend? She was defiant enough to be absolutely pumped.

She took her meds. She made do with limited caffeination. She raised her hands and closed her eyes and let God speak through all the noise.

Because struggle isn't unique to Christians or non-Christians, and neither is ownership of your perspective. Undaunted living isn't about effortless living, and it isn't about refusing to tell the truth when something's wrong. We don't build resilience in the absence of interruptions, and we don't get stronger without struggling.

Undaunted living is refusing to let temporary frustrations steal permanent joy. It's looking around at situations that border on ridiculous, and finding reasons to laugh anyway.

Maybe it's keeping your heart open so you don't miss the moment when nearly 700 teenagers put their phones down to worship all at once. Maybe it's the tears that fill your eyes when little hands raise quietly around the room as the generation who will one day rule the world responds to the gospel. Maybe it's making new friends and fostering new connections, or finding the courage to keep moving when your knee smarts and your back aches and the boy beside you smells like onion tacos...but he's sobbing as he surrenders to Jesus...and you set your hand on his shoulder to pray.

*****

Let me caution you, though. Don't mistake mindset for miracles. I had a great weekend, but my knee still hurts and I'm still exhausted. The maintenance guy never showed up despite an emergency work order, and I'm relying on inhalers I haven't needed in months. I'm still unhappily uncaffeinated. But my heart is full.

And as I sat sweating through this post, nauseated from the heat, several neighborhood boys stood below my open window, arguing about why they aren't friends anymore because one of them keeps telling people another one's "business." They can't be older than 10 years old. Seriously.

So at what point do we decide what kind of story we're living?

This is where Undaunted comes in, not only as a brand but as a lifestyle—because hardship and inconvenience do not deserve to play the main character role in your story. Is it part of the story? Sure. There's no getting around it, because we all go through hard times.

And you don't have to win every battle either. You can't. No one does.

But you can show up. You can stand up. You can become the kind of person who grows through the struggle. And you can choose, no matter how sweaty you are, to...

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The Ingredients We're Made Of

This week, I created and prepared an original recipe from one of my novels, and somewhere between googling complementary herbs, chopping vegetables, and devouring the finished dish, I realized it was never about food in the first place. The official ingredient list may be largely meat and potatoes, but in the journey from chopping block to oven to table, my recipe took on the flavors of family history. By the time I sat down, beaming with pride, the bowl on my table was seasoned with something deeper and more savory than sage, something far more fragrant than thyme.

In The Freedom Series, readers see the women of the Safe House healing from various forms of domestic abuse, and because of my mother's survival story, the Safe House program is very close to my heart. The program I wrote over a decade ago is still so uniquely holistic, it doesn't exist in the real world—but in the infinitely imaginative pages of women's fiction, it's a recipe for wisdom, belonging, and identity. Finding a home at the Safe House is more than escaping danger. Within its walls, healing family wounds, cultivating personal growth, and savoring hospitality are only part of the recipe.

Because beyond the storytelling on the surface, The Freedom Series serves readers a chance to look more closely at the generational influences that shape us, sometimes whether we want them to or not.

So often, we remember a favorite dish by the name of its main ingredient—like a cheeseburger, which is not known by its condiments, but is enriched by them all the same. I think we do that with stories, too.

We relate to the main characters. We notice their interactions. We critique their speech. Occasionally, the transformations we witness as we read go on to inform our family traditions, flavoring our lives with bits and pieces that warm our hearts and inspire our minds. Sometimes they teach us lessons about faith and family that we couldn't have learned otherwise, like a dish beautifully served at just the right moment. These main characters, in many ways, are the story; a cheeseburger, after all, must have both the cheese and the burger. But beyond the main ingredient, there's a nuance that only comes from condiments.

In a story, this richness of flavor shows up in supporting characters like Violet.

There's a scene in STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM where the Safe House residents gather for a Thanksgiving potluck. For various reasons, many have no families of their own, and this is a chance for broken women to stand shoulder at a time that would otherwise be tainted with loneliness and fear. A physical therapist teaches a little boy to carve a turkey. Food is prepared largely from the produce of the program's garden. One woman offers a casserole flavored by her grandmother's influence. And while those few paragraphs offer little in terms of the recipe's contents, Violet's recipe is in many ways a nod to my own family matriarch—the grandmother who still seasons the moments of my life.

My grandmother would have marveled at me this weekend. The kid who once hunted and eliminated every piece of onion in every dish ever served stood fully grown in her kitchen, sharp knife in one hand, smelly onion in the other. She'd have been just a little smug as she watched me dicing, her faded eyes twinkling with silent mirth. She might've shaken her head as I peeled sweet potatoes, because I still peel a little too much potato away with the skin. She probably would've left the kitchen entirely when I decided not to peel the russet potato at all.

I thought of her hands as I measured herbs and seasonings, not with measuring spoons but with sight and scent and the cup of my own palm, and I wondered if this recipe might've tasted familiar to a farmer's daughter from rural Kentucky.

I could almost feel her peering over my shoulder. "Are you sure you need that much salt?" (I did.)

The wrinkles that mapped her life on her face would have shifted and rearranged as she arched an elegant brow. "That looks like a lot of broth...might be too much." (It wasn't.)

She would have snorted, quietly amused, if told her how much this little recipe means to me. She would have dismissed the sentimentalism if I said, "But it matters, because recipes don't just change and preserve food. They nourish and preserve people." And she'd have outright rolled her eyes at the idea that the ingredients of our lives influence our flavor—"Silly. It's just food!"

But I think she would have loved this dish that was quietly named in honor of everything she represented, because we really do become what we've been fed. We're all uniquely flavored by the words, the love, the grief, and the grace that make us who we are, and while my grandmother was never openly poetic, she was wise enough to know truth when she saw it.

*****

The funny thing about food is that sometimes life and death are in the preparation. And not every ingredient begins as something healthy or nourishing—some require a guided transformation before they become part of something good. Raw beans often contain dangerous compounds that must be broken down, olives are intensely bitter before time and patience make them delicious, and even a rhubarb plant has parts worth preserving and parts best left behind.

People are not so different.

Family legacy means we inherit ingredients left behind by previous generations. We witness their traditions, absorb their wisdom, bear the brunt of their fears and wounds. Sometimes we carry the weight of hopes and dreams they couldn't reach—or never reached for. Some of those things arrive healthy and fulfilling, while others need healing and discernment. And some ingredients, no matter how long they've been part of the recipe, were never meant to stay there.

Healing from the past may not mean rejecting everything that came before us, but it does ask us to learn the difference between honoring a chosen legacy and repeating a toxic pattern. And maybe that adaptability is what makes a recipe so magical. A cook can preserve and enhance what makes a dish special, while changing the things that no longer serve those gathered around the table.

In life, just as in the kitchen, we're shaped by what we receive, and we're responsible for what we pass on. The ingredients may have been handed to us, but the recipe is still being written.

This week, embrace the unique flavor of your life and the lessons you've learned. Linger over moments of joy, and savor the flavors that make you happy. Don't be afraid to add a little salt when life seems bland, or rewrite the whole recipe when it's no longer working the way it used to. And no matter what kind of life you're cooking up...

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Coloring With Broken Crayons

Building a writing career is harder than most people think. It's more than just making up a story, hitting "publish," and rolling in piles of money. There's a certain dedication required to create people out of nothingness, weave backstories through the fabric of imaginary time, and sculpt truth into places and worlds that don't actually exist.

It often means taking your characters through unspeakable hardship. To nurture resilience, you give them struggle. To illustrate perspective, you offer contrast. You imagine what they'll say or do, how they'll react when life is hard...and then you make it harder. Not just to see what happens, but to guide growth. And the reader sees an inspiring character finding purpose and overcoming limitations. Page by page, we follow a plotted path to personal growth and if we're lucky, we walk away at the end with hope or gratitude we didn't have before.

Because stories, after all, are teachers.

As a Christian, I believe God is the ultimate author, and sometimes I think about my life as a story. I imagine myself as a character and I wonder what God is writing next. And I think about the hidden blessings in each passing chapter—especially the lessons I've learned from living with a disability.

Chronic illness is one of the greatest challenges in my story, and to be honest, there are days when disability feels like loss. Some challenges feel insurmountable. My body hurts, my energy dips, my finances and resources don't always stretch far enough. It changes my relationships. Sometimes it changes the way I see myself. And it's so easy to measure my story by everything disability takes away, especially when the world is quick to tell us what our labels remove. But what if that label is only one part of a nuanced identity? What if, even as it prevents some things...it prepares others?

The stories that stick with us are rarely easy to read, and the characters we remember aren't the ones who never struggled. The best books give us characters facing impossible things and making the most of what they have.

I think good stories color our hearts with broken crayons. Fragile enough to snap. Harder for smaller hands to hold. Sometimes the point is shaved away or broken off. Maybe the wrapper has been shredded, and this crayon isn't as pretty as the shiny new ones. But maybe we're all just broken characters who could learn a lot from broken crayons.

They still color—because they don't stop being crayons.

I want to tell you a secret. A deeply personal, sometimes controversial, maybe even a little bit dangerous secret.

There's a part of me that's glad I'm disabled.

There. I said it. But before you roll your eyes and decide that I'm choosing to romanticize chronic illness, constant pain, unending fatigue, and humiliating financial limitations, just hear me out.

I've written a lot about finding purpose in pain and the value of keeping a positive mindset, but I think sometimes it's easy to miss what that really means. Sure, we'll talk about choosing gratitude, and I could absolutely turn this into a pretty post on trusting God in suffering—but I'm not going to. Because the truth is, disability sucks.

You know that annual check-up most people dread? Imagine doing it two or three times a year, and then multiply that by at least three doctors. Think about the reality of never feeling less than a four on that cute little pain scale in every hospital room. Or planning a day at the zoo a month in advance so you can check on the weather, the stock of medications, the mobility aids. Or the people who won't go with you because planning is a hassle...and what if something happens?

It's depressing, really. Friends stop calling when you're not as fun anymore. The mask slips one time too many, your discomfort upsets or worries someone, and they suddenly find someone easier to hang out with. Someone more spontaneous. Someone less complicated. Or maybe they don't even believe you, and every interaction is marked by the weight of proof until you withdraw from the battle. Your life shrinks. Your joy fades.

Before long, all you have left is the struggle, and it becomes the focus of your existence. The moral of your story. The disability defines you. But what if I told you it doesn't have to? What if your power lies in choosing gratitude without denying reality, and that's the key to making sure disability doesn't define you?

Hang on, let me flip the script.

You know that annual check-up most people dread? Imagine using those moments to celebrate making it another year. Imagine recognizing the strength it takes to keep going, keep advocating, keep trying—even when no one else can see what it costs. If you do that two or three times a year with three or four different doctors, that's a whole lot of opportunities to take yourself to lunch afterward. And if little kids get a sticker for being a good patient, I feel like losing yourself in a new book when the pain scale hits six is perfectly reasonable.

Let that month-long planning session help you filter out the people who can't handle what you're going through. Check the weather, check your meds, check your mobility, and go to the zoo with someone who doesn't mind walking a little slower. Someone who pretends to love the apes as much as you do—because that bench over there looks like a great place to rest for a minute.

Don't be afraid of your support network. Tell them why you can't get out today. But then invite them over for a movie on the couch. (Bonus points if your friends are slightly older or have similar disabilities. You can fill a whole afternoon trading horror stories and coping mechanisms.)

You don't have to shrink, fade, or withdraw. Disability may take a great deal...but you don't have to give it everything. And I'm not suggesting that every disability has an obvious upside or that gratitude erases hardship. I'm just saying that sometimes the way we look at things matters.

I can't keep a nine-to-five because of my health problems. I can't just get up in the morning, drink some coffee, and soldier through the day. In fact, I do most of my writing from my bed, where I can try to keep my back happy. But that limitation bought me the freedom to be a stay-home mom. And coping with it allows me to do what I'm doing right now, writing posts I hope encourage people.

I spent too many years wishing I had a different set of crayons. Brighter energy, sharper health, prettier labels. I've watched people give up on me when I didn't have the right colors. I've compared shades of complacency and swatched patches of contentment. I've ached and prayed for sturdier wax. But if these limitations mark the experiences that shaped who I've become, what would I lose by erasing them?

The truth is, we don't always get to choose our crayons. Sometimes the only choice we're given is what picture we want to color.

*****

I think we forget that gratitude is a valid coping skill. We overlook it because it seems too simple to matter, or we discount it because we think it means pretending everything is fine. We shake our heads because sometimes it looks like denial, and sometimes it looks like surrender. For me, it's just acceptance. It's the courage to recognize when nothing is fine—and the simultaneous determination to say, "This part is still good."

If my life is a story and I am a character, I want to spend the next chapter as Indiana Jones. I want to face the booby-trap on page ten, throw a rock at it, roll under it, dance around the giant boulder, swing over the pit, and punch the dude waiting to ambush me on page thirty (me and Jesus can talk about that later).

I know I'll get to the end of the story battered and bruised. I know I'll slide into that last chapter so exhausted I can hardly even speak. But if I have to hunt the blessings in a story fraught with challenge, just imagine the picture I'll get to color with my broken crayons. I bet it'll be a library filled with a rainbow of stories, with every title a reminder to...

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When Purpose and People-Pleasing Collide

There's a scene in the Freedom Series where Christine is in her first group therapy session, and everyone is sharing bits and pieces of their stories—talking about what they've experienced, what they've allowed to continue in their lives, what drove them to change. And as Christine sits observing, she can't help thinking the group feels a little like a twelve-step meeting.

So, with that in mind...for those of you who don't know me yet...Hi. My name is Brandi, and I am a recovering people pleaser. Setting boundaries with people in my life has never been easy for me, and I've long lost count of the times a strong boundary led to rejection, abandonment, or irreparable damage in relationships I valued.

Several years ago, I read a book that changed my life. As I turned those pages, they painted a disturbing picture, where each new page solidified the image of an exhausted woman, stumbling under the burden of people pleasing and porous boundaries. A woman who never learned how to set boundaries without guilt. A woman who listened when the world told her she was selfish for protecting the time and energy needed to prioritize intentional goals. She was managing time as a busy mom, balancing motherhood and personal goals. She was desperately overwhelmed—but still pursuing dreams no one else seemed to understand.

She was me.

I'd like to say that by the end of that book, I became an expert at balancing relationships and goals. I'd like to say I mastered the fine art of managing expectations from others. I'd really, really like to say that I no longer feel people pleasing guilt, that protecting creative time got easier, and that living with intention has magically made my writing goals and boundaries seamless.

But I can't say any of that without lying.

Too often, saying yes to a purposeful life comes with its own problems, especially when your calling is a solitary activity. These days, our lives are filled with calls to answer and invitations to accept. We've all got dishes to clean and laundry to fold and loved ones we wish we could spend more time with.

It's why so many of us struggle with guilt around boundaries. I know I'm not the first or only person to feel the weight of emotional burnout from overcommitment. We've all dealt with feeling misunderstood by others. We've all felt resentment in relationships. And I'm not a gambler, but I'd be willing to bet that if I mention "the constant pressure to explain yourself," we all know exactly what those words mean.

The trouble is, staying focused on your purpose means you can't accept every invitation. You can't answer every phone call. You can't meet every external expectation...because if you don't show up, the work doesn't get done.

It's funny sometimes, how well God knows what I need. At the beginning of this year, I chose "No" as my focus word—and while a few people did ask questions, I was surprised by how immediate the pushback was. Some people were sad because they saw the warning as I set time boundaries to protect my writing. Some were worried because they were afraid I was isolating due to overwhelm. Some were resentful because they weren't ready to accept the "No" they knew was coming.

What I've learned this year is that I can hold those feelings with compassion and still set boundaries that protect my purpose, because those things are not mutually exclusive. We don't always like the answers we're given. That doesn't mean the answer was wrong.

There's a story in Nehemiah, where the Jewish people are rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem. The people are still recovering from the Babylonian exile, and Nehemiah is tasked with overseeing the effort to rebuild and restore the city...but the work faces resistance on all sides. There are people who wish he wasn't working so hard. People who point out how challenging it must be to build with one hand and defend with the other. There are threats of sabotage, destruction, and even death—but I think the part we can all relate to is the struggle to balance boundaries and purpose. It's discipline vs distraction, the battle between guilt and calling.

What I keep coming back to is that each individual request probably seemed perfectly reasonable in the moment. One dinner date. One meeting. One conversation. Just for a little while. What we don't realize is that for Nehemiah, every "yes" to something else likely felt like a denial of his calling. That dinner date required him to put down his tools, wash his hands, change his clothes, and hope the work was still there when he got back. That conversation might even have been one he was longing for...but it also asked him to press pause on the work that kicked him out of bed each morning and drove his effort through the heat of each day.

Nehemiah finally had to put his foot down, and in doing so, he set a biblical example of focus and purpose that's still relevant almost 2500 years later. "No," he said. "I am doing a great work and cannot come down."

He never said, "My work is greater than yours." He didn't say, "Nah, bro, I can't be bothered." He just recognized that a great work deserves priority, and sometimes that means making sacrifices.

And what I think we miss here is that this is not a lesson in workaholism. It's a lesson in stewardship, discernment, and priority. It doesn't mean never take a break, but it does mean stop apologizing for working on something that matters to you. Nehemiah 6:3 is a reminder to protect your time and your calling. To hold your boundaries. To say right there on the wall.

And I don't know what your calling is. Maybe you're giving everything you've got to raising the next generation full-time. Maybe you're giving up sleep to dig through a dissertation you're beginning to think will kill you. Maybe you wake up each morning burdened for the homeless or the addicted. Maybe you spend each heartbeat mourning with the marginalized or coaching victims through the journey from surviving to thriving.

Maybe you're like me, and pursuing your purpose in life means building a writing career, where every moment of creative discipline and consistency pave the way for storytelling to offer hope.

Either way, every meaningful "yes" requires a thousand quiet "no"s. No to distractions. No to guilt. No to the expectation that we should always be available simply because someone asked. And I think for the people pleasers among us, it's especially vital to recognize that every life is built one decision at a time, and our futures are shaped by the boundaries we hold today.

*****

I know it's easy to read something like this and see a conversation about productivity or time management—Christian or not, we all know what it's like to search for purpose or struggle to set a schedule that works. But whether your issue is boundary-setting or prioritization, I think the heart of that struggle is permission, and that's what I hope you'll take from this.

Discovering your calling isn't always the hardest part of living it out. Sometimes the real challenge is continuing to pursue it, even when the people around us don't understand why we're not as available as we used to be. But if God has given you a wall to build, you can't climb down every time someone whistles for attention...and you don't owe any explanations for intentionally choosing how you live your life.

Whatever your individual purpose may be, protecting that purpose isn't selfish. It's intentional. And while some people will eventually understand, there will be others who don't. Or won't. Or can't. Some people will miss the all-access version of you that was always available. Some will mistake your priorities for rejection.

Just know, there will be others who celebrate your growth and admire your sense of purpose. Instead of calling you down from the wall, they'll meet you during your break, fill that time with laughter, and then—respectfully—leave you to your work. Those are the ones who understand that either way, the wall needs building. They'll understand that it matters. They'll know you should never have to apologize for boundaries that protect intentional purpose.

And maybe sometimes, they'll even remind you that when purpose can't make resistance disappear, it can still steady our hands. Because some days, it's that purpose that keeps us going. Some days, it's the root of determination that helps us...

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Between the Lines: Reading the Reader

As an author who is a Christian but not a Christian author, I've been thinking lately about why stories matter and what fiction reveals about us as readers. The only true sex scene in the Freedom Series is both graphic and traumatic. It exposes the inner world of a woman who is victimized and terrified, drawing the reader into what it means to have hope and intimacy stolen in the name of control. But purpose matters too, and the story wouldn't be the same without the power of those moments. They are the ash from which a phoenix is born.

All of my novels have at least one on-page sex scene, and I've met readers at every level of comfort with that. Some are disappointed because my stories aren't "spicy" enough. Others are scandalized to learn that my books are "spicy" at all. What's amazing is how two people can read the exact same book and walk away with completely different impressions. Where one avoids or ignores what they see as explicit content, another seeks deliberate understanding of trauma, shame, courage, and vulnerability.

Neither reader is incorrect, but what we notice most is driven by experience and perception—and I think sometimes we forget that it's not always about the sex in the story. Sometimes it's about the story happening between the lines, in the marginal space where every scene is a brushstroke on a portrait. We forget that fiction isn't just telling us what happened; it's inviting us to understand.

And I think maybe that's why fiction matters. Because the stories that shape us are always more than just a story.

I've been a reader most of my life, and the emotional impact of fiction on my personal development is a major part of why I do what I do. I still vividly remember the first romance novel I ever read, not just for the sexuality of a nineties bodice-ripper, but for the way that story introduced me to new ways of thinking, new people I wouldn't have met, and new understanding of how stories teach us.

That book welcomed me into a large, close-knit family. It showed me a culture I didn't yet know, and it held my hand as it walked me for the first time through the literary magic of unfortunate misunderstanding. A man with a terrible reputation thinks he's kidnapping a girl he knows. It's hardly more than a prank—but everything changes for everyone involved when he realizes he's got the wrong girl. Throw in a pirate uncle, a public scandal, and a couple of Regency-era ballgowns and...well.

Was there sex in it? Sure. Was that the point? Not at all. But that story showed me the power of storytelling. We have so few letters in the alphabet—but we mix and mold them in infinite ways, and the words we form shape the hearts of the people who read them.

This week, I read a book that's sticking with me more than I expected it to. It's the second in a series, and I was excited to see a story I loved continue to develop through the eyes of different characters...until the abundance of on-page action started to seem annoyingly gratuitous. I almost closed the book and set it aside, but somewhere along the way, I stopped asking why there was so much sex, and started asking why the heroine was so incapable of accepting kindness without it.

The more I read, the more I saw the depth of the story. And the more depth I saw, the more deeply I recognized the necessity of those scenes. They weren't interruptions in the story. They revealed the emotional foundation the rest of the story stood on.

I think we've all been through hard things. We all know someone whose love language is sarcasm because for them, sincerity is an open door to pain. We all know someone familiar with trauma. Most of us know what it feels like to mistake isolation for safety.

And apart from the sex, that's what the book was about. A woman so defensive she borders on hateful, and a man who looks hard enough to see through it. A woman playing the vixen because she thinks that's all she has to offer...and a man who allows it for a while, because it's the only way to show her the truth. Every scene mattered. Every physical moment carried non-physical context.

"Why does kindness make her so uncomfortable?"

"How can she accept physical intimacy while rejecting emotional connection?"

"Who hurt her? And how is this dude putting up with this?"

Those questions mattered, specifically because sex wasn't the point of the story. Instead, it was evidence of a story that wouldn't have been as powerful without it.

So, do I think every reader should read everything? No. Am I saying the content doesn't matter? Also no.

But what if we chose to look at stories as invitations, and characters as portraits of people? We often forget the dialogue, and we rarely remember what happened in which chapter...but if we look inside the story we're reading, perhaps we open a door that transforms anger into recognition of fear. Perhaps we see through arrogance to the insecurity hiding beneath. Or maybe, in the place where we once saw stereotypes, we begin to make room for humanity.

Maybe stories aren't the lessons we memorize. And maybe they don't have to be. But so often, the stories that make us fall in love with fiction are pictures of the people we carry...and maybe what we choose to notice inside them says just as much about the reader as it does about the author.

*****

Here's the thing, though. I understand why some readers gravitate to—or completely avoid—certain types of content. I know people who never read anything with even a spark of magic, people who can't sleep at night if they catch even a hint of horror, and still others who simply do not see the sense in fantasy. We all know ourselves, and it's okay that we all have different convictions, different temptations, different boundaries.

But avoiding and understanding are not always the same. We may not read war novels, but we don't accuse every war novel of glorifying violence. We may not enjoy memoirs, but we don't believe grief memoirs encourage or endorse suffering. So why do we treat romance or sexuality so differently?

At the core of almost every story, regardless of genre, we find a glimpse of what it means to be human—to work through fear, to hunger for power, to long for intimacy. Since the beginning of time, human relationships have always been the place from which we explore and understand who we are in relation to the people around us.

I've heard people describe the same novel as beautiful, dangerous, healing, offensive, romantic...the list goes on. Different readers, different experiences, different viewpoints. Maybe that's why we connect with fictional characters differently, too. Because stories don't just reveal the content of the character; they reveal the character of the reader.

So whatever you're reading this week, I hope you'll hold those pages with an open heart. I hope you'll see the characters with open eyes. I hope you'll open your mind to what reading fiction teaches us about ourselves. And I hope, as always, that you'll...

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