Grateful For The Story

When we talk about gratitude and personal growth, there's a sense of embarrassment that lingers under the surface, because in many ways, those words have become almost clichéd. We think gratitude means having to be grateful for every aspect of everything, and we ignore the nuance that comes from being grateful for the story we survived, even when we aren't always grateful for every chapter. Too often, we oversimplify personal growth, boxing a valuable part of maturity into categories like ego or navel-gazing or even self-obsession.

What if we allowed ourselves to think of those things as the simple result of acknowledging how experiences shape who we are?

Last week, I had a conversation with someone on social media about the way people judge fiction as being less valuable, and aside from the natural instinct to defend fiction as an author, it made me think about the deeper reasons fiction means so much to me—and how stories and personal growth are connected.

For many, the value of fiction lies simply in the freedom of a story. It's the ability to experience different places, other worlds. It's the charm of magic, the power of a hero, the excitement of new romance. Maybe it's the curious exploration of possibility in science fiction, or the challenge of solving a mystery before the big reveal. And it's those things for me too, but it's also so much more.

I love how fiction helps us understand the human experience, regardless of category and sub-genre. In fantasy, we see courage born in the spirit of a character filled with self-doubt, we see egotistical villains humbled, and sometimes we even see quiet side characters step into the limelight and steal the show. In romance, we watch as broken hearts heal and disillusionment gives way to hope. In mysteries and thrillers, we observe the inner workings of twisted minds, collecting clues and gathering data.

But what about women's fiction, and why those stories matter in our lives? For me, it's all about joy.

The environment was new to me, though most of the people were not. A friend of mine hosted a party this weekend, opening the sanctuary of her home to our Bible study group for the first time, and those moments were beautiful because they gave us a new look into the hidden parts of a treasured member of our group. It was a vulnerable experience for her, and as I watched her home fill with people, there was a special kind of magic in the way her tension seemed to melt away.

There were several women most of our group didn't know, so the party started with quick introductions and a few simple ice-breakers. Questions like, "What's your favorite ice cream?" and "What do you do for a living?" and "What brings you joy?"

It's amazing, what you can learn about someone from a few simple questions. Ice cream became more than brands and flavors as the women around the table shared dietary sensitivities, food allergies, and family stories. The generalized topic of occupation became an invitation to mission statements, opening the door to deeper aspects of what matters to us as individuals. And joy? Of course there were the easy answers we could all relate to: our shared faith, our motherhood journeys, the resilience and self-discovery of lessons learned through life experiences. Not fiction at all, but it felt like a nod to the importance of storytelling.

So when my turn came and the eyes of the women at the table settled expectantly on me, I followed my friend's example and tip-toed over the edge of my comfort zone. You see, as much and as freely as I share my life online, there are certain parts of who I am that I don't often talk about in real life. Vulnerable things I keep tucked safely away—and in many ways, my writing is one of them.

Because in many ways, writing is the most intimate and vulnerable part of who I am.

"Well," I said. "I'm a novelist. I write women's fiction because I believe stories are deeper than imagination. I think they give us safe ways to explore who we've been, who we are, and who we want to become." I talked about having a traumatic past and what it meant to grow up without solid role models. I talked about how I found heroes and teachers, friends and family...all tucked neatly between the pages of books. And as the women around me nodded in quiet understanding, I thought about the importance of storytelling.

Some of my favorite books showed me what personal growth through adversity could look like, in times where I otherwise would've drowned in bitterness. Others taught me the skills I needed to maintain perspective and gratitude, no matter how big a mess I found myself in. Still others held my literary hand and patiently, page by page, walked me through the process of finding meaning in life's challenges.

And to be fair, I had to read with open eyes to see those things. Books like Five Feet Apart, The Fault in Our Stars, and Tuesdays with Morrie helped me look deeper at the space between life and death, exploring what it means to leave a legacy—and while I could simply have read and wept my way through those stories, I found them far more impactful when I let them touch my life more specifically. In the same way, other books helped me explore communication, forgiveness, healing, and self-compassion. Through those stories, I watched characters I loved in the early chapters become entirely different people before the last pages turned.

And while I have spent a great deal of money on stories through the course of my life, I believe I am far richer for having done it.

*****

Not every story is centered on finding gratitude in difficult times, but in many ways, mine has been. And to be honest, I wasn't always as focused on learning to appreciate the experiences that shape us as people. When I was younger, I didn't care about looking for silver linings, and I wasn't interested in smiling through suffering.

Actually, the angrier version of me probably would have found my present serenity insufferable. She might even have punched me in the mouth. Because she was still living the early chapters I can now look back and learn from, she couldn't see how difficult experiences contribute to personal growth—she was too busy growing. She wasn't "finding gratitude." She was mustering up whatever courage she could find, just to take the next step forward.

But she did it. She grew. And in that growing, she made me. And maybe, completely aside from everything else, that's why stories matter.

I bet present me will find future me just as insufferable, because I'm still growing too, still becoming whoever I will someday be. Still absorbing lessons from the stories I love, just as much as from the stories I live.

And I don't know what kind of story you're living right now. Maybe it's a thriller you're not sure you can handle. Maybe it's a mystery that keeps you up at night. Maybe it's a romance that makes your heart leap and your eyes sparkle. But whatever it is, I hope it's the kind that shows you how to...

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The Selkie Countdown Begins

With the Freedom Series now complete, I've spent most of this year diving back into the Selkie Trilogy, which is a little ironic since this story has been with me since the beginning of my publishing career. Like me, the story has evolved in fits and starts over the last fourteen years—and like mine, Annie's story has remained, in many ways, unfinished.

I first wrote To Love A Selkie in the early winter of 2012, and from the beginning, Annie's story was a fantastic blend of the everyday and the supernatural. She was a woman healing from heartbreak, having moved to a new city to rebuild her life and her confidence after a crushing divorce. She found a new house, bought a new car, made a new friend. And then on a day that should've been beautiful, she found herself in the midst of unspeakable danger.

It was a contemporary fantasy novel, beautifully blended with the themes of personal growth and transformation inherent to women's fiction. The kind of character-driven fiction I've always loved reading, where sometimes the greatest villain is the struggle within. But I am also in many ways a hopeless romantic, so in those terrible moments of Annie's devastation, a surprise rescue led to new love...

Because I believe in the possibility of new beginnings.

From there, Annie's story took on a life of its own, but as my own personal life seemed to implode, I struggled to maintain the pace I'd set for my writing. To Love A Selkie was absorbed into Selkie, the first book in the Selkie Trilogy, and a few years later, I wrote and published Selkie II. But behind the scenes, things were getting worse—and eventually, I was forced to put the development of the Selkie Trilogy on the back burner.

Now, I'm digging back in, and more ready than ever to write the end of Annie and Malik's story.

Step one? Like I said, I've been reworking Selkie this year, preparing for a book rerelease in January 2027. This will be a newly revised second edition—the same story readers fell in love with so many years ago, full of resilience and new beginnings, complete with a Celtic mythological twist. So what's changed?

That's simple: I have.

I was terrified, actually. After so long, I knew I couldn't give Annie proper justice without at least rereading the story.

I knew I'd grown as a writer, and I knew there were details I'd forgotten. Stories about overcoming adversity require a certain attention to emotional detail, but there were also the simple things to be remembered: names and timelines, side characters and histories. Resilience and new beginnings sound wonderful, but strength is built through resistance and struggle, and I wanted to write Annie as a woman balanced by vulnerable dignity—even as I ripped her from the human life she'd always known and sent her straight into the middle of the selkies' impending war. I wanted to be sure that every reader could see themselves in her struggle and relate to her growth.

And honestly, I was excited to get to play with my writing in a way that isn't always my style. Women's fiction is the core of who I am as a writer, but fantasy opens doors to entirely new people and places and themes. I hoped readers would fall in love with Annie, and that she would shine a light on the beauty of rediscovering yourself, even in the midst of the struggle. Through her courage to become something more than seems possible, I hoped she would quietly show readers what finding strength through vulnerability really means.

I hoped I could manage such a complicated story, and that I wouldn't read through those previously published books with embarrassment. I have, after all, grown a lot since they were written.

But then I dug in. I turned pages and highlighted passages. I reworked sentences and paragraphs, enriched scenery and dialogue. I gained a new understanding for Annie and Malik, for the selkies as a people, and for the younger version of me who started that story with nothing but grit and determination.

I've always loved stories about finding strength after heartbreak, and as I read through the pages of these books, I can see the version of myself who wrote them. The one struggling through medical trauma. The one suffering through grief. And yes, the one healing from pain too deep to share out loud. But I also see the starry-eyed version of myself with big hopes and impossible dreams. The one with unshakable faith. The one so deeply fascinated with ancient cultures that she nearly drowned herself in their richness as she blended bits and pieces of favored peoples into fantasy.

I did find an embarrassing plot hole, and yes, I was embarrassed by it. But I'm also thrilled with the way I noticed it, the way I repaired it, and the way it made the story better illustrate growth and culture and functionality.

Mostly, I've been so proud of young me that I could hardly stand keeping quiet about it. I've reread scenes and wished I could time-travel, just to pat my younger self on the back. I've discovered deeper, almost allegorical meanings woven into Annie's life that I never realized were there. And I've confirmed that this story was one hundred percent worth coming back to all along.

I'm nearly finished with the re-writing and re-editing. Selkie will re-release in January, and then I'll dig back into Selkie II, where I imagine I'll end up on another adventure of rediscovery—both for Annie and for myself.

Because as it turns out, sometimes the best parts of a story are the ones that were there all along.

*****

Blending contemporary fantasy with Celtic mythology isn't new. It wasn't new when I did it back in 2012. And writing women's fiction with fantasy elements isn't new either, but I think there's a deeper reason so many stories blend those things together.

There's a special kind of magic found in fantasy. It's the freedom to become and explore, to be deeply passionate, fiercely loyal, desperately protective, and even sometimes immensely powerful. So many boundaries, simply erased. Contemporary stories set in the real world give us room to explore trauma, healing, and relationships in ways that allow us to examine how we become who we are. Combining the two gives the real world the magic of imagination, and maybe that's why I love Annie's story so much.

The countdown to release day has begun, and if you're as excited about the Selkie rerelease as I am, keep an eye on this page for more updates, including excerpts from the trilogy, upcoming cover reveals, purchase links, and—who knows?—maybe an eventual Selkie-themed giveaway.

But until then, think of Annie. So far, she's been through divorce, drowning, supernatural romance, life-altering grief, and the remaking of everything she once thought was real. And still, she's determined to...

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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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