Phoenix Rising

People sometimes ask why I use a phoenix in my branding. Why I'm so intrigued by the destruction of fire, so inspired by beauty from ashes. The symbolism of a phoenix rising is violent—to rise from ashes, one must crash and burn. But in that process is resilience we don't always appreciate. It's reinvention. Rebirth. Something wholly new, dragged into existence by the death of what was.

It's trauma and growth, scars and strength working together. It's the process of overcoming fear, reclaiming your voice, and recognizing that healing is not linear. Because some of us were burned before we even noticed the fire. Some of us are still walking with a limp, searching for hope after trauma, wondering if beauty after brokenness is even possible.

This week, I wanted to announce that I've finally finished editing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM. It's the second book in the Freedom Series, a story about a woman healing after domestic abuse. And I wanted the celebration. This is the first book I've written from scratch in a long time, and the first I've ever completed without the dog who lay beside me as I wrote all the others. I wanted the exhale of relief. The tidy bow.

I'm still editing. I'm almost done, and the book will be completed on time—but I am still editing. And maybe that feels fitting.

Because Christine's story was never about a finished woman arriving with a smile, neatly healed and perfectly polished. Christine is not the standard warrior woman archetype; she never comes out screaming survivor empowerment like that's the answer to everything. Actually, she's still mastering emotional recovery while life keeps dealing cards she doesn't know how to play.

The Freedom Series isn't about the slow burn romance or the friends-to-lovers twist. It has always been about the inner workings of the crash and burn. The painful death of what was. Christine's story is built on the reality of survivor resilience—stripped of the Instagram filters that would make it pretty—because the hard truth is, rebuilding after trauma is rarely pretty.

But it's also about the quiet pulse of life that warms the ashes after a hardcore crash-and-burn. The grit that drives post-traumatic growth, the rebirth of self-worth after abuse, and the process of learning to trust yourself again. We don't need to debate why survivors stay or untangle misconceptions about abuse. And true compassion for survivors needs more than a trauma-informed perspective.

Sometimes, real domestic abuse awareness comes from the example of women overcoming adversity, starting over after escaping...and then using pain to help others heal.

I grew up with disturbingly intimate knowledge of violence and terror because I saw it firsthand, and before I even hit middle school, I knew more than most people ever will about life after domestic abuse. I watched my mother struggle with the aftermath of starting over after divorce, clothed in shame and deafened by victim-blaming. She spent the rest of her life bitter and angry and starved for compassion.

And even with full awareness at an early age...I walked into terrible relationships as a young woman. Relationships where I should've known better. Where I should've left sooner. So maybe it's sad, but the graphic horror portrayed in the beginning of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM was actually the easiest part for me to write well. The physical pain and emotional battering were already there in lived experience—all I had to do was put it on paper.

The proudest moment of my career was an email from a woman apologizing because she couldn't read the book. She said it was too real. She said she had to have an emergency appointment with her therapist. And I grieved because it hurt her—but I also celebrated a job well done. Because she told me the realism honored truth most people aren't willing to look at.

Still, the legality of a criminal trial wasn't so easy, and the first edition of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM glossed over most of it. I told myself I would learn what was needed. I prayed over how I'd portray those scenes in the sequel, STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM.

And then life got crazy. A long-term relationship exploded. My kids developed serious health problems. My writing career was forcefully shifted to the back burner, and I felt like part of my soul had been ripped out. But writing is a part of who I am, so I made peace with that back burner—and left it quietly simmering. Waiting for resurrection. Because coming back to this part of myself was never about "if." It was always about "when."

I wrote the second edition of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM because I could no longer live with the idea of Christine's story staying unfinished. I owed her something more, and she deserved all the detail and nuance of her story—everything from the medical truth of her injuries to the intimidation of a courtroom. I had spoken with medical professionals, discussing logistics, treatments, healing times, scar tissue.

And I gave myself to researching the legal aspects of such a story. I watched true crime shows and police procedurals. I read statistical studies and courtroom transcripts like I was studying for a degree. I built a search history fit for an FBI inquisition. But it felt...sterile.

So I reached out to the local District Attorney, expecting nothing. I opened a reply in shock, and I read in awe as an ADA offered to make time for a story like mine.

We talked for almost two hours, tucked into a stuffy little office in a courthouse corner. He took notes on a legal pad as I outlined characters and plot lines, my hopes for the book, and my plan for the outcome. He sighed when I asked how realistic it sounded, and he put his pen on the desk. "I wish it always worked that way," he said, frowning as he shook his head. "What's hard is that it's not always flaws in the system. It's victims who won't cooperate, either because they're afraid or because they're in love."

He spoke like a man who knew more than the courtroom, and I wondered about his childhood. About his mother.

We talked about problems with support for victims of domestic abuse, both inside and outside of the legal system, and I told him about the Safe House program I created for the Freedom Series. For me, it felt hopeful and innovative—a gathering together of tools and resources my mother needed but never had access to. "But how possible is it?" I asked. "Do systems like that actually exist? Like, outside of food stamps here, and rent subsidies there, and counseling somewhere else? Is there anywhere that pulls those things together, especially with the life training my Safe House provides?"

And my heart shattered in my chest when he shook his head again. "We're getting there," he said. "The pieces are there, or at least forming. But they're still pieces. And what you're describing is infinitely better than anything that's out there right now, because it's holistic. I wish it wasn't fiction."

In those fleeting moments, briefly shared between a storyteller and a real-life hero for justice, a quiet truth settled in the air. This is what the writing is for. Fiction doesn't have to be real to illuminate gaps or offer hope. So I wrote STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, not only to finish the story, but to sit in the dark with people who feel lost. To clasp hands of sisterhood in the ashes of something ugly, and whisper affirmation that stokes a smoking ember back to life.

*****

The Freedom Series is not a love story. There is romance, because humans crave love no matter how broken they feel, but there is no handsome prince on a white horse. There is no helpless damsel. And there is no rescue.

There is a woman who questions her own judgement because abuse distorted everything she thought she knew about herself. A woman who persistently resists love because she's afraid of what will happen if it falls apart—and because she's afraid of what will happen if it doesn't. She learns to defend her heart as well as her body. She gets a job, signs a lease, sits through a criminal trial, and faces unimaginable turmoil at every turn.

The relationship is not salvation. Christine's exploration of a deliciously slow burn is evolution. It's the evidence of her courage and healing. It's hope that trades silence for solidarity and supports the quiet strength of reclaimed autonomy. It's experience that wipes away the tears and says, "You're not alone. I've been there."

I've cried through scenes in both books, and there are lines of dialogue that were actually spoken to me. Toxic thought patterns and cultural injustice are not sugar-coated or painted over with pretty colors. Because even in fiction, reality deserves recognition.

Sometimes, abuse awareness has nothing to do with not knowing, and everything to do with the way seeing makes us feel responsible. Because seeing asks something of us—and sometimes it's just easier not to look.

I choose to look. Not to dwell in darkness or wallow in the victimhood of trauma, but because the light of survival comforts those still finding their way. A wound cannot heal unless it is seen and tended to. A phoenix does not rise renewed until it has crashed and burned. And victims do not become survivors until they're able to name their circumstances. Until they learn that they don't need permission to survive or believe that there is life after this.

If Christine hits a little too close to home for you, I hope her story honors what you endured. If her story feels outrageous, I hope it widens your compassion and reminds you that every fire burns, even if your burning looks different from mine. I hope the truth of Christine's story softens a world that questions the victim before the abuser, and replaces those questions with an acknowledgment of how complicated "just leave" can be.

I may not be finished editing yet, and that's okay. Maybe I'm not quite finished healing yet, either. But I'm using what I have—hoping someone somewhere will read what I'm writing and believe just a little more in something better. Because every tear, every draft, and every hard conversation are worth it if they help you...

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Kindness Without Compromise

I’ve written openly about coping with childhood trauma and complex PTSD. I’ve explored the pain of feeling misunderstood, the power of intentional perspective, and the peace that rolls in when emotional resilience and self-trust collide.

I’ve also shared my life as a mom, pulling the curtain back on how motherhood shapes my faith, my writing, and my compassion for others.

One thing I don’t share as openly is my role as a student small group leader at my church. But lately, my students are learning relational discernment and personal integrity that feels universal. They’re learning how to apply boundaries without bitterness. How to recognize growth without validation. How to accept when friendships change—and how to choose discernment over reaction when friendships no longer fit.

My youngest daughter is a junior in high school. My students are sophomores. But as young as they are—and as old as I feel—we have more in common than it seems. In today’s world, we’re more connected and more educated than ever. We’re more aware of emotional maturity and personal growth. We’re surrounded by life hacks for choosing peace, responding instead of reacting, and nurturing emotional self-respect. And yet…modern loneliness is at an all-time high.

When my students ask me why, this is what I tell them: Kindness without compromise means setting boundaries with grace, but there will always be people who mistake integrity for rigidity. Choosing yourself demands an inner strength that’s scary, especially when finding your people means making space by outgrowing friendships that aren’t meant to last. So we settle. We accept feeling unseen in friendships. We carry the weight of loneliness while surrounded by people. And slowly, we begin to wonder if belonging without shrinking is even possible. Especially when the need for healthy detachment creates conflict with people you love.

She’s young and sensitive and eager to be liked, but she avoids eye contact and speaks in her smallest voice when she talks about her friends at school. “I mean…I don’t want to start anything or cause problems, but…”

Sometimes she feels guilty for complaining when her feelings are hurt, because she doesn’t want to seem selfish or dramatic. She doesn’t want to be seen as a gossip, and she doesn’t mean to be whiny. But rejection is hard—and I’m increasingly convinced that today’s cancel culture started in an emotionally malnourished high school mean-girl’s clique.

It doesn’t usually take long to get to the root of the problem. “I don’t want to be unloving,” she says. “Am I just bad at friendships? Or am I…too much?”

The thing is, she’s kind by nature. Empathetic, generous, perceptive. But somewhere along the way, she learned that softness keeps peace. That if she’s quiet enough, compliant enough, malleable enough, small enough—if she compromises enough—she’ll be easier to love. She’s still learning that kindness and compromise aren’t the same things. She’s still learning how to recognize the good in people, even when it means realizing who isn’t coming into the next phase with her.

I’ve watched her dim her light to stay included. I’ve heard her apologize for her enthusiasm. I’ve seen her stand on the edge of things, longing to be right in the middle, because she fears the uncertain space between tolerated and celebrated.

So we talk about boundaries. We talk about self-trust vs self-abandonment and kindness vs people-pleasing. Sometimes she sits a little taller when I tell her that if she has to shrink to belong somewhere, she doesn’t belong there at all—because belonging should never require smallness. Because finding your people shouldn’t mean editing who you are.

Sometimes she’s afraid to let people go, and I see the struggle in her eyes when she says, “I don’t want to be someone who gives up on people. I’m not better than them.”

She cares about the comfort of others. She wants to be accepting. Welcoming. Humble. But humility is not smallness, and I remind her of the delicate knowledge that while she is no more than anyone else…she is no less, either. One day, I asked her, “Do you wear the same size jeans as your friends?”

When she said no, we talked about people as clothing. Different styles, different fabrics. Different patterns and sizes. Quietly, I asked her, “What if you grew three inches taller? Or if you gained or lost a bunch of weight? Would you keep wearing jeans that don’t fit anymore?” She said no again—and feigning surprise, I leaned back, my hand on my chest. “What? Even if they’re still fine? No rips, no stains, all good?” And I watched the concept click into place.

“But if it’s good to let go and move on…why is it so hard then?”

I sighed, nodding slowly as I thought of long-ago friendships in my own life. People I once loved dearly and still think of often. People who are better without me, and people I am better without. “Losing people is never easy,” I said. “And it’s okay to grieve the loss even when you know it’s for the best. Sometimes your growth will disturb the sameness that keeps other people comfortable—and sometimes their growth will disturb you. That doesn’t mean either side should stop growing, does it? You ever seen a tree with all the branches growing in the exact same direction?”

She laughed and leaned in for a hug.

And as I held her, I closed my eyes in gratitude for her trust, whispering to both of us, “Learn to recognize the difference between people who make your spirit breathe easier, and people who make you hold your breath. Remember that sometimes separation is the space where it’s easier to hear God. Like a hallway between rooms—it’s meant to be quiet. But it’s also temporary. And I promise, there will be people on the other side, who will celebrate who you are without competing and support your needs without suppression. Grieving the people who came before? It doesn’t mean you chose wrong. It means you cared.”

*****

Sometimes my students (both young and old) look a little doubtful when I teach them about the power of pausing to think first. Now and then, I’ll see fear in their eyes when I tell them it’s normal for people to come and go from each other’s lives—not because anyone is replaceable, but because we all grow at different rates, in different directions.

If you’re struggling with this too, let me tell you something: healthy relationships might ask you to give a little, but they should never ask you to compromise your convictions, your callings, or your capacity for depth. Your people won’t make you compete for space. They won’t punish your growth. And when you find them, you won’t need to trade integrity for proximity.

Maybe you’re standing on the edge of change, and you’re unsure. Maybe you’re wondering if you’ll ever have people who will truly see you, know you, and love you anyway. People who won’t need you to be small so they can feel bigger.

Keep holding on. Be kind. Be open. And know that you’re not alone.

You’re not too much, and you’re not behind. You’re just learning, like everyone else, how to stay soft without shrinking, stay kind without compromise, and always…

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Hindsight, Written In Time

Writing has always been one of my favorite techniques when it comes to healing from childhood trauma. It's a powerful tool for processing the past gently—because it maps the journey of learning self-worth in a way that's private, but still undeniably tangible. And whether those words are carefully catalogued or simply tucked into the nooks and crannies of your life, the act of writing through pain preserves something important. They're a record of you, becoming yourself.

Each time we sit down with a racing mind or an aching heart and we spill those things onto paper, we save pieces of who we are, like snapshots buried in time capsules. Evidence of lessons learned from hard seasons, proof of how time brings revelation. Sometimes our writings are intentional, tracking emotional growth over time. Other writings give us clarity along the way to self-compassion.

Still others are there simply there to remind us that healing does happen, even when healing doesn't happen all at once.

I don't send a lot of mail, but I write a lot of letters. I write to my parents, even though they've been gone for years. I write to my children. To old friends and new ones. To people from church. Once I wrote a letter to a coffee pot after it broke—because pouring my frustration onto paper helped me avoid pouring it over the people I love.

Periodically, I write letters to myself, too. I share hopes with a future me who doesn't exist yet, and lessons learned with a younger me who didn't know better. Now and then I write letters to the present me, offering grace that only seems easy when I pretend it's for someone else.

Every so often, I come across an old piece of writing that feels less like something I wrote and more like something I survived.

It wasn't the first time I'd written a letter to myself, and it wouldn't be the last. My early years weren't soft or easily summarized, and I was still learning how to be treated gently. The aching girl behind my aging face still didn't know that life lessons could come softly, and she still carried tender wounds that had been poked and prodded, but never healed.

Back then, when I wrote letters to previous versions of myself, I often felt uncertain. The unhealed wounds that bled in my past self still ached sometimes in the present, and I didn't always have the emotional language to speak to the pain without unraveling. But even then, writing was the one place I felt most freely honest. The place where I didn't trip over words or worry about how they'd be received.

And that day, the words found me all on their own.

My daughters were little then, sitting quietly in the backseat, watching through the windows as our city faded to countryside. We were on our way to see my mom after a long stretch of illness and distance, and I found myself praying—not for answers, but for presence. Just one good day. Just enough strength to carefully hold the fragile gift of time. I never knew which drive to my mother's house would be the last.

The road wound through the outskirts of Knoxville, wooded and familiar, as we headed for the small town my mom lived in. I remember noticing that the leaves hadn’t yet turned—I’d been hoping for fall colors, but everything was green. Lush and alive. And unexpectedly, those familiar roads carried me back to the first time I'd seen them.

I was sixteen when my mom and I moved to Tennessee from central Florida, and I didn’t know it then, but that summer would reshape everything in my life.

It was an emergency move, forcing me to leave my father behind, without even getting the chance to say goodbye. I'd left my best friend, and my heart was still shattered by the memory of us in those last moments, clinging to each other in the parking lot of her first job. Both of us sobbing even as we pretended we were fine.

But there was quiet hope, too. Staying with my grandmother meant reconnecting with my favorite cousin—the sister I’d always wished for. And there was a boy I loved deeply, who was moving with us. In the middle of chaos, I believed love might steady me. I had no idea how much I didn’t know.

Years later, as I drove with my own children behind me, I thought about the child I had been and the words she never heard spoken gently. So in the quiet of the car, with the wind in my hair and old pain echoing in my heart, late-20s me sent a letter to the past:

* * *

Hey, kid.

I know things are heavy right now. I know you’re grieving people who are still alive, even if you don't know how to process what that means yet. I know your heart is broken over relationships that'll never look the way you hoped they would. And I know you’re angry at being young and feeling everything so intensely—especially when you can't control the options, the impact, or the circumstances.

Please hear me when I tell you that the boy you’re crying over is not who you think he is. Even when the anger burns out and you talk again...even when you finally make peace...he isn’t your future. Let him go and trust it's for the best. Take what was good and raise your standards. Take what hurt and strengthen your boundaries.

People who hurt you will come and go, and there's no escaping that. But life will also bring people who take time to know you. People who will see your intelligence, delight in your humor, and grow through your resilience, even when you can’t see it yourself. But they won't show up until you stop trying to please impossible people. Let the impossibles go too, even when the loss hurts. Loss only writes your story if you let it.

And the crazy thing is, you won’t end up where you think you will—not for a while, anyway. You’ll wander through life. You’ll question yourself, your beliefs, your origin, your existence. You’ll crash headlong into darkness and you'll learn the magic of light. And by the time you're me, you’ll realize that you never needed to look that hard for someone to believe in. Because she's been in your mirror all along.

*****

Writing a letter to your younger self isn't always easy, and finding that old letter today made me wonder what I would tell my younger self now. But only for a moment, because I realized I already know what I'd say. I speak to her all the time now.

I see her in my daughters, who are 22 and 16. Motherhood and memory shape the relationships we have, and in every conversation, I get to be the coach I never had. To tell them that finding your voice is worth it even when it's hard, and that looking back with compassion gives grace to more than just you. My students are just slightly younger than my youngest daughter, and I speak to them as if they were my own. I tell them my story and they marvel because I've been through so much. They ask me how I survived like that but ended up like this, and I smile as I warn them: Sometimes becoming the woman you needed means trusting the long process of letting go of who you thought you'd be.

Well, not always. But sometimes.

Because the truth is, we spend so much time waiting, don't we? We wait for the right person, the right moment, the right version of ourselves. And we tell ourselves that that's when life begins. That's when we'll be worthy of love. Or rest. Or joy.

But what if this moment is already enough? What if you just believed that you're already worth loving, that you're already someone who matters? What if you embraced that hope as truth—right now, without asking someone else for permission?

Time can't erase the past, but it does give us perspective. And if we let it, it gives us a chance to speak to ourselves with the kindness we've been craving all along.

I won't pretend it's easy even now, because it isn't—but I can promise it's worth practicing. And maybe that's the whole point anyway, because it's the practice that changes us. Consistent listening, determined hoping, intentional becoming...these are the tools that help us...

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The Making of a Daughter

My motherhood journey is probably the most highly valued and transformational part of my life, and growing up without a strong mother daughter bond made me acutely aware of how motherhood and identity work together, shaping the people we become. I wasn't surrounded by soft maternal love as a girl—but while healing through family trauma has rarely felt like a gift, raising daughters of my own taught me about strength through adversity, teaching by example, and love that lasts. Even when it isn't built on rich emotional inheritance. And yes, even with full awareness of how temporary this journey can be.

Because I was a mother the moment the first strip turned pink. I was a mother as I heard the first heartbeat. And I was a mother when the blood began to flow. When the doctor said, "Miscarriage." When I filled a room with heartbroken sobs, mourning the loss of a life. In those moments I learned a devastating truth. We do not own our children. For however long they're with us, they are only souls to steward for a season. To love fiercely, guide intentionally, and—slowly, sometimes painfully—release.

I carried that truth into my second pregnancy, holding it dear as I raised the girl who made a brokenhearted, childless mother into a determinedly steadfast mom. And today, the baby I once cradled carefully is evidence of the process of generational healing. She is strength passed down from the women who came before her, and a reflection of the women who shaped me. She's a legacy of mothers she never knew, a legacy of love learned the hard way, and undeniable proof of how beautiful becoming your own person can be. 

My oldest daughter is the living truth of how watching your child grow transitions into letting go as a parent—and how parenting adult children with grace leaves a legacy beyond motherhood.

Control fades quickly as a child's hand loosens its grip, and presence changes shape as more and more decisions are made without consultation. The job becomes less about immediate direction and more about managing subtle influence. And always, the love remains, in every conflict, in every sleepless night, in every whispered prayer: "God, I trust in you—because you love her more and better than I ever could." Because I'm not here to manufacture outcomes. I am here to model faith and resilience, compassion and courage. To teach my daughters who and how to be, even as I honor who they are.

Raising a daughter is a masterclass in paradox. I raised my girls side by side, under the same roof with the same values—and somehow they've emerged as entirely distinct from each other. They're so like me, and so unmistakably not. They have their own quirks and convictions, their own bubbling joys and aching wounds. But through it all, there are quiet echoes of generational strength.

She comes home carrying stories instead of lesson plans. Sometimes it’s artwork—misspelled sentiments and clumsy drawings on bright construction paper she files away for safe-keeping. Sometimes it’s laughter over something absurd, like the way her students love peeling glue from their palms. Sometimes it's a lesson she learned while teaching it, like the day one boy launched himself from a table in a spectacular Spider-Man leap, misjudged the distance, and kicked her shoulder on the way down.

She told me that story with a head shake and a smile, because the rules are there for a reason...but she hated having to write him up. I like to think those moments help her understand something I’ve tried so hard to explain over the years—sometimes love looks like boundaries on the outside, even when your insides are laughing.

Other days, she comes home crying, and she tells me about children whose lives are harder than they should be. She tells me about kids whose stories echo parts of my own childhood in ways that still catch me off guard. I tell her when I see red flags she might not know to look for, and when I'm alone, I weep for the children who break her heart. Sometimes she asks me to pray for her students. Sometimes she just sits quiet, alone with the weight of her calling. And in those moments, I see the depth of her compassion, the way she carries pain without flinching. The way she loves children who are not hers, as if their safety is hers to hold.

I don’t often get to watch her teach. But her heart is written in every story that follows her home.

I notice her hands when she talks. Long fingers. Elegant. I counted them once, when she was impossibly small and fragile and unfinished. I’ve cried a lot over those hands. When she first went to school. When she came out of heart surgery and I spent the night watching her chest rise and fall, those little hands folded beneath her chin. And later, I watched those rebuild who she could be—when her legs stopped working the way they were supposed to.

She didn’t lie still for long. That was never her way.

She took to her wheelchair like a wizard takes up a wand—fiercely, decisively, and utterly certain it would not be permanent. After one weekend of near helplessness, she declared war, and made physical therapy her battleground. Three times a week, she rolled in with her jaw set and her faith anchored, armed with determination sharp enough to cut through despair. Doctors had no answers, pain washed over her in crippling waves, and treasured opportunities vanished—including the mission trip she’d been so excited for. The one that still makes her heart ache and her ire crack like lightning.

She was embarrassed by that season. Ashamed, sometimes. She remembers fear and disappointment, and will always be troubled by the weakness she thinks it revealed. But I was there too, and I remember it differently.

I saw her strength refined. I saw newly rooted compassion for the disabled, especially those whose limitations aren’t obvious or explainable. I watched her learn what illness demands, how unfair it can be. I saw her wrench her legs from the hands of loss, driven by deep faith and relentless work—and when she runs now, my soul leaps with joy.

There are echoes in her she doesn’t always recognize yet. Parts of her that are not wholly hers, but handed down from the warrior women who lived before us. The ferocity. The refusal to stay down. The joy and stubbornness woven together in her DNA. The shadows of women who endured because they had to, survived because they must, and adapted because there was no one to save them. She carries inherited strength with honesty—even when it makes her difficult.

I cried the first time she told me she didn’t need me anymore, her little-girl voice edged with independence, sharpened by impatience, strengthened with certainty. I cried again later, when I realized she was right.

Last summer, she moved back home, older and sharper, and wounded in ways I can’t fix. Our house reshaped itself around her presence, and we still clash often—two stubborn women under one roof, both certain, both tired. The hierarchy still exists, but it no longer fits the way it once did. She isn’t a child returning to safety. She's a woman regrouping, replanning. Resetting the foundation she'll stand on.

It's proof of how thin the line is between guidance and interference. How easy it is for her to mistake proximity for permission. How hard it is for me to hold my tongue and trust the values I poured into her to rise when she needs them—even if they don't always look exactly like mine.

This strangeness is both the sacred and the struggle, here in the middle of motherhood. Not the beginning, when they cling to your hands, or the end, when they no longer look back. But here in the in-between? Presence loosens, influence deepens, and love learns to embrace without engulfing.

She's still becoming. And so am I. But in this place between who she was and who she is now, I recognize the wonder in the work. The making of a daughter. And the beautiful truth that what we leave behind will always matter more than anything we managed to hold.

*****

Watching my daughter grow into herself has taught me that the hierarchy of motherhood softens over time. I am not always the one with all the answers, the one who defines every boundary or shapes every moment. And yet, my presence matters in subtler ways—in listening rather than instructing, observing rather than leading, and celebrating victories I didn't manufacture.

Motherhood may be temporary because life is fleeting, but influence endures. I see it in her compassion for others, stubborn joy, and her refusal to let hardship define who she is. I see it in the echoes of the women who came before her—her grandmother's courage, her great-grandmother's endless endurance. Their unspoken lessons live on in this woman I raised, this daughter who is my heart outside my body. They live in the choices she makes, even when she doesn’t pause to acknowledge them.

And letting go doesn’t mean stepping back from love. It means trusting that love to grow outside your hands, allowing it to stretch, bend, and flourish in its own truth. Because the most important work of parenting isn’t always about the outcome; sometimes it’s resting in trust, believing that when the roots are planted deep enough, the tree will weather its storms.

My oldest daughter is proof of that work. She carries strength I helped shape and strength she inherited—but also the strength she claimed for herself. And in her growth, I know fulfillment I could never have imagined at the start of this journey. I am unspeakably proud, frequently humbled, and endlessly amazed.

And somewhere in the quiet, transformative spaces between guiding and releasing, I see what it really means to steward a life, to honor individuality, and to leave a legacy that whispers long after I cease to be.

Because in the making of a daughter, there is joy, grief, and endurance, too—shaped by love that never fades, even as it teaches us to...

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Square Peg In A Round Hole

Anyone who knows me knows I'm a collection of contrasts. I'm open and welcoming, but so fiercely protective of my home as a sanctuary that most of my friends have never been there. I'm a strict, present, and sometimes authoritative parent, but I'm also the reason my children know how to cuss in perfect context and exactly when to flip the bird. I'm outgoing but painfully introverted, and always friendly but will rarely make the first move. I'm doormat-level kind...until I'm a battle-cry of vengeance.

I'm a professional, but I live my life in yoga pants and oversized t-shirts. I teach what I've learned about purpose and intentional living, but much of that learning is in response to cPTSDs impact on my emotional health—and I still struggle with self-worth, people-pleasing, burnout recovery, and setting boundaries without guilt.

I spend multiple days a week in Bible study groups, where it's not uncommon for me to make a dick joke right there in the space between verses twelve and thirteen. And I'm a deeply faithful Christian whose calling as a writer is a constantly confirmed piece of who I am. But I don't use my writing in the church.

Because they don't want me to. And that's okay.

Ironically, it was the church I attended 20 years ago that taught me how to be comfortable with giftedness even when your gifts aren't valued. And it was the leadership of the church I attend now that taught me the power of personal fulfillment and the difference between servanthood and servitude. Perhaps even accidentally, they taught me to embrace influence without authority and purpose beyond religion. Because here's an uncomfortable truth: when you're asking how to use your gifts authentically, sometimes the most faithful answer is to use your gifts outside the church.

My youngest daughter's been taking a class at church, designed to help people discover their gifts and how to use them. Naturally, we've talked a lot about what this class is for, what it might lead to, and how to implement the wisdom gleaned.

For her, it's exciting. She's sixteen, and eager to understand more about herself and her place in the world. She's thrilled to explore how she's wired, what comes naturally, and how who she is might help other people become more of who they are. For me, it's an exercise in grace—and a motherly call to action.

While I love watching her explore her strengths, I'm also using our conversations to gently remind her that discovering your gifts doesn't always mean you'll fit into the places that taught you to look for them. Because sometimes, calling is deeper than finding the right box. Sometimes, it's realizing the box was never built for you in the first place.

And I know that because I learned it the hard way.

I've been a writer longer than I've ever been anything else, and it's not a skill I learned on purpose. It showed up early (like, we're talking floppy disk-early), it stuck around stubbornly, and it became the way I processed the world, long before I had language for trauma, faith, or purpose.

As an abuse survivor, it took me a long time to feel safe sharing the realities of my life. As a woman, it took even longer to acknowledge pain without minimizing its origin or severity. And as a mom, I'm still learning that my desire for fulfillment isn't selfish—it's just human.

Motherhood is one of my greatest callings, and my children are my greatest sources of pride, joy, growth, and inspiration. Raising them has clarified my gifts just as much as it revealed my limits, just like church taught me to nurture my faith and recognize my calling, even as it showed me that some gifts aren't meant to be used inside its walls. Not because they lack value, but because they exceed accepted limitations.

Because of the contrasts that make me who I am, I'm used to having my convictions challenged—and over the years, I've learned to appreciate what those challenges bring. Our challenges open space to explore who we are and why, label the things that matter and how we came to value them, and share the roots of what we believe, even when our fruitfulness doesn't look the way other people expect it to.

Our challenges give us freedom to be influenced, even as they permit us to influence others, and when we learn to appreciate the complexity of what it means to be human, we begin to see our challenges in new ways. We recognize that a Christian is not only a Christian, just as a Mom is not only a Mom. We are not only our color, our size, or our nationality.

And if the parts of us that are too square for round holes show us we're not in the right place yet, it's okay to pause and think about what that means—because discovering our gifts may not always secure our position, but they do help us find our calling.

My daughter is the poster child for ADHD, and as a kid on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum, she's spent her whole life learning to interact in a world that tells her to sit still, be quiet, pay attention, try harder. And while she does need to learn those skills, I've also made a point to acknowledge the perks of her "flaws." She may not be able to sit still, but she's got energy for days. She may not be very quiet, but she's open and articulate. And she may not notice or care about some things, but she feels deeply for others.

When she was little, we called her quirks her "superpowers." And just like Clark Kent, struggling to blend in with fledgling hyperspeed and the teenaged temptations of a boy with x-ray vision, I taught my daughter to ask herself how she could use her powers for good.

Watching my daughter learn to recognize new aspects of herself has reminded me that it's important to understand how you influence others, because calling doesn't need confirmative applause. Calling is found in the consistent choice to show up authentically—even when it doesn't lead to recognition because the room you're in wasn't ready for you yet. 

*****

The thing is, gifts don't mature all at once, and it's not always easy to find meaning beyond institutional roles. But serving others without losing yourself is a gift of balance found in the acts of courage we repeat daily, sometimes without even noticing. It's "How can I help?" just as much as it's "Is this what I'm here for?"

A purpose-driven life isn't just what you're doing on Sunday. It's who you are and how you live Monday through Saturday. It's trying and adjusting and trying again, and realizing that present follow-through matters more than future resolution—because becoming who we're meant to be rarely happens by grand declaration. It happens in the everyday moments, as we learn new things, grow in new ways, and use our "superpowers" for good, even when it costs us comfort or approval.

Sometimes that means the path feels slower and the walk is a lonely one. Sometimes it's quiet, and the celebration you expected just...doesn't come. But true leadership walks anyway, on that road less traveled, paving the way for others to come later.

And walking alone doesn't necessarily mean you're on the wrong path. It just means you're walking it first. So keep on walking. And as always...

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FAQ: "What Does Undaunted Even Mean, Anyway?"

I've been some version of different since the moment I was born. Deformed. Marked by the lipoma at the base of my spine, dangerously interwoven with misplaced nerve endings. A year later I was marked again, this time by scar tissue, as neurosurgeons worked to disentangle my tiny nerves, carefully shaving that growing lipoma down. And with the accidental resilience of a child, I healed. With endurance I didn't yet have words for, I walked when I shouldn't have been able to.

By five, I was altered in new ways, because everything in my life had changed. Loss and violence became regular parts of my identity, and healing got harder because trauma doesn't hide the way scar tissue does. You can't just cover it with a longer t-shirt. By six, I had escaped an early death...and paid the price in a partial amputation.

Later, I was the weird kid who loved books almost more than anything. The kid who liked rap music in a country music family. The one who learned to crochet in middle school, back when it was a granny hobby and not a pop culture trend. The chunky kid with skinny friends. Perseverance wasn't a cute meditation, it was a way of life—not because I had any special courage or discipline, but because the human instinct to survive offered no alternative. I woke up, I survived the day, I went to bed, I did it again.

Growth wasn't something I looked for, but it came little by little. Height: minimal. Boobs: decent. Curves: bodacious. But faith? Nonexistent. Consistency? We don't know her.

No one held my hand and said, "Okay look. Here's how to keep going when you feel discouraged." There was no gentle mentor full of wise guidance on living with purpose. And I learned the value of growth that no one applauds the hard way, by showing up when no one noticed...because I could drift into and out of rooms and lives as unseen and unacknowledged as a ghost, but choosing not to show up was never an option.

It wasn't until later that I learned to recognize the beauty of the marks my life had left behind. Strengthened resilience through consistency I built on my own. Personal accountability and growth I embraced, in a desperate effort to give my daughters more than I'd been given. Writing as healing practice. Faith that altered how I saw the world and my place in it.

And it was later still when a string of unremarkable moments solidified everything I knew about myself—who I was, who I had been, who I hoped to become—under one word. One definition. One unchanging theme that suddenly seemed to make all the little pieces of my fragmented being fall into place. Undaunted.

I opened her email the same way I always did—with the kind of joy that sits quietly in your chest when a good thing is on the way. She and I had connected through blogging, become fast friends over similar struggle, and bonded over a passion for writing average things in extraordinary ways. We'd never met in person, but we exchanged emails almost daily, sharing who we were, who we wanted to be. We talked about things we feared, what we hoped for, the lives we dreamed of.

She taught me about healing through daily habits like journaling, and trusted me with writings she was too cautious to share with the world. We coached each other through finding discipline without motivation, holding onto quiet strength in difficult seasons, and she taught me so much about trusting God in small steps when big ones felt impossible.

I never realized I was teaching her too, until the day I got that email. The one where she said, "I admire you so much because you are who you are despite what you've been through. I know you still love Disney movies and cheesy romance, but I need you to know that you don't need a hero. You've become your own."

And I sobbed because it felt good to be seen. To be allowed to put a name to the things I'd experienced without someone else shying away, to be able to share freely and never feel like I needed to sugarcoat things or search for silver lining.

Those words stayed with me long after children and life and the changing world around us made that friendship fade slowly into the past. And years later, a popular book series brought it all bubbling back to the forefront as effectively as a lightning strike. I read the Divergent series, and fell madly in love with Tris Prior's courage.

It's a futuristic dystopian series about a world where people are divided into factions based mainly on personality traits—and it is dangerous to be multi-faceted. Those without clear definition are classified as Divergent. And Divergents are generally annihilated. Tris is Divergent, but she games the test system, gives everything she has to hiding what she is, and chooses a faction: the Dauntless. But her differences create waves, draw notice, and eventually put everyone she loves in danger.

The Dauntless are the law enforcement of the community. The risk-takers, the brave ones. The adventurers. Where other factions focus on brilliance, integrity, peace, or power, the Dauntless are the survivors. Like me.

I'm a nerd, so after I read the books, I couldn't shake the depth of relation to the story, and one day I dug deeper into what it means to be dauntless in today's society. The definition is simple: showing fearlessness and determination. The problem for me was less simple though, because I am not fearless. And while I am determined, I am easily shaken. Complex PTSD is no joke.

Undaunted may sound mostly the same, but the differences made it ring like a bell in my mind. I am not fearless, because I have seen some of the worst things the world has to offer...and I know that monsters are real. But for those same reasons, I am not easily intimidated. I may be terrified, but I will not show it. I will move toward what's necessary, because I must. And while I may be accompanied by—or bombarded with—difficulty, danger, and disappointment along the way, I will always dust myself off, wipe the grime of battle from my face, and keep moving. Undaunted.

The show, as they say, must go on.

These days, this is the core of everything I do. Sharing my life so publicly isn't always easy or comfortable, but I hope in sharing, I can offer strength and encouragement to other people who are still struggling. And my novels are full of hard stories that explore the deepest parts of human suffering because I want to stand my characters right there in the dark, close beside the ache of someone who's hurting—and let the characters promise my readers that they're not alone.

I aim to write stories filled with women who didn't need heroes, women who learned to become heroes on their own...even if they do often find love along the way. Because after everything else, that's what faith and perseverance are made of.

*****

Sometimes people ask what the point is—especially when it doesn't look like my writing is likely to explode into riches and fame. They ask what connects the words I share here, the stories I tell in my novels, and the Christian life I live so openly in the space between. They ask why I use a Phoenix in my graphics, how my faith fits with my non-Christian stories, and sometimes even what the actual end-goal is. Most often though, they ask, "What does undaunted mean?"

And the answer is...I haven't figured out the secret to life and I'm not special or particularly unique, but I've learned how to keep going when everything feels pointless. Even when no one sees the effort. Even when it makes other people uncomfortable. Even in the quiet moments where something magical happens and there's a gaping emptiness where applause should be.

Undaunted living isn’t fearless living. It’s just choosing to move forward anyway. It’s presence over paralysis, consistency over collapse, and faith over the temptation to disappear when life feels too hard to show up for. It’s realizing that courage doesn’t always have to be loud, and accepting that courage won't always lead to victory. Sometimes it's just the desperate slog of a tired soul taking each step by faith, trusting that obedience matters even when the outcome seems uncertain.

For me, staying undaunted lives best in the ordinary moments, in the small disciplines and daily habits that carry me when motivation fails. Undaunted is the fence-line around the boundaries that protect what matters most. And it's the foundation every word I write is built on, strengthened by the faith that is both my refuge and the source of my calling. It is the tangible representation of how faith and endurance shaped the woman I am.

Nothing I write or share will offer perfect answers, and anyone who knows me in person can clearly see how unpolished I am. But the facets carved by the life that sculpted me are why I share so openly. Not to offer perfectly polished inspiration, but to stand with those still searching for a foothold in the dark. To remind anyone who will listen that strength can still coexist with tenderness. And to show the transformational power of survival when we allow it to give us purpose.

You don’t have to be fearless to live bravely, and the scars you bear do not undermine your strength—as long as you choose to keep moving, keep trying, keep showing up, and always...

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You Don't Need Resolutions—You Need Repetition

One of my most favorite things is the hope and optimism of a fresh, new year. I love the focus on goal setting, the crisp new planners, the beautiful vision boards we fill with dreams. It's exciting to look at the blank space of a new year, to meditate on my spiritual growth and what I'd like to learn, to analyze my daily habits and find places where a little more discipline might make a lot more difference.

In those moments, self-awareness leaves ego behind and becomes a practice of intentional living—where personal accountability without shame teaches us how to build better habits with more consistency. This is where we overcome all-or-nothing thinking, in favor of a slow growth mindset nurtured by gentle discipline. Because we've all wondered why resolutions fail, and I think we've all stumbled across the answer without taking time to think about what it really means.

Because the truth is, resolutions fail when we do. And big goals don't mean anything without follow through. It doesn't matter how much we want to lose weight if we never take care of our bodies. It doesn't matter how much we want to travel if we don't make room in our budgets. It doesn't matter how deeply we're longing for sustainable personal growth if we're looking for growth after burnout and still refusing to make room for rest.

Our efforts will never seem meaningful until we learn to choose progress over perfection and consistency over motivation.

I know, I know. "Easier said than done," right? Building consistency over time sounds great until you lose your habit streak and that failure opens the door to disappointment. Learning to follow through feels like the answer to every missed milestone and the solution to every unfinished task...until it requires showing up when motivation fades.

But small habits can change your life—even when they feel too small to matter. Even when you miss a day. Or two. Or five. You don't need bigger, better goals. And you don't need to become a better person overnight to achieve the goals you've set. What you need is to rebuild trust in yourself, stick to it even if it takes longer than you wanted it to...and quit quitting.

We had been church friends for a while. We'd cross paths on Sunday mornings, exchange tidbits from the passing week. I'd compliment her fabulous outfits, she'd ask about my kids. Eventually, we were sharing parenting tips, scheduling conflicts, and personal testimonies.

One day we were chatting about how overwhelming life can be, and she shared a personal struggle with a health problem. "I don't want people to know because I don't want it to change the way they see me," she said. And I told her that I understood. Because I'm disabled.

At first she looked almost doubtful—which is perfectly understandable, because on the outside, I look fine. I've got two functioning legs, my back is relatively straight, and most days I can safely ignore my neurosurgeon's recommendation to use a cane. I usually show up on time (give or take ten minutes), frazzled but prepared, and I participate actively wherever I choose to go.

As the conversation went on, her eyes got wider and wider. Because while I may have two functioning legs, I can't feel the bottoms of my feet. My back may be straight, but it's damaged and deformed at various points all the way from top to bottom. And I may get away with leaving my cane at home but it's only because I walk slow, tending to my balance, protecting my feet with flat-soled, closed-toe shoes. And I did it all while corralling, parenting, and attentively caring for two chronically ill kids, mostly by myself. Constant doctor's appointments. Frequent surgeries. Occasional hospital stays. Car troubles, life troubles. Spiritual growth. Trauma healing.

It's almost funny now, to look back on that moment. I did understand what she meant when she said she didn't want her health to change the way people saw her value and capability.

But as she stepped back, in beautiful heels and a sparkly tutu fluffed as much with personality as it was with taffeta and tulle, I realize maybe I didn't understand after all. Because she didn't pity the hardship I was walking through. She didn't fill her big brown eyes with sorrow for my struggle.

Instead, she shook her head, flaming red hair swung back to showcase dangly beaded earrings, and she said, "I don't know how you do it."

At the time, the best answer I had was a laugh, because in those days, the real answer would have been, "I don't have a choice." The dishes needed cleaning, the floor needed mopping, the laundry needed folding, the children needed raising. And I was all I had—so I shoved myself through each day with a dash of hope, a collection of whispered prayers, and a bloodstream that was probably 50% caffeine.

She and I don't cross paths on Sundays anymore because her family moved and they go to a different church now. I don't see her crazy beautiful fashion statements all that often, and she's not there to see me rush into the lobby with tired eyes and my daily jolt of caffeination.

Our friendship is mostly over the phone these days, where we still share parenting tips, commiserate over the challenges of our lives and families, walk each other through spiritual struggles—and trade tips on the healing habits, spiritual practices, and daily disciplines that keep us growing.

What's amazing is that everything in both of our lives is different now, even though nothing seems different at all. Because what we see in each other isn't struggle vs. strength or challenge vs. capability. It's consistency. We've chosen to show up for our hobbies, our children, our careers, and our goals over and over again. Even when it was hard. Even when it was exhausting. Even when we were probably overcaffeinated and definitely underprepared, and every step felt like slogging through the quicksand of our childhood nightmares.

Not because we felt especially capable. But because life demands follow-through.

*****

The point is, sometimes it's too easy to let our big goals feel too big or our big dreams seem outlandish. Sometimes we don't feel confident enough to accomplish what we're hoping for—and sometimes we don't even try because we don't feel worthy.

But I think the biggest thing we overlook when we talk about growth is that discipline isn't just about becoming stronger or overcoming more. We don't need magical moments of inspiration. Most of the time, we just need to plant our feet and keep standing when we feel like falling down, or take that next small step even when it seems too ordinary to make much difference.

When no one applauded, I couldn't keep the streak going, and I had no visible results to make my efforts seem worth the work, the habits that carried me weren't impressive ones. They were just there, each one as meaningless as a lonely brick on a patch of grass.

It wasn't until one brick covered another...and another...and another...that the faithful stacking of small daily habits built a life that looked resilient on the outside, no matter how fragile it felt. And it wasn't until I stepped back to look at my life with compassion and respect for the versions of me that built it, that I truly learned what it means to...

It's normal to feel like life is too hectic, but this is a problem with a simple answer: show up, streamline, and simplify. One way I'm doing this? I'm looking more closely at what I take in during the day. No more mindless scrolling. So if you're working on that too, let me invite you to my Substack roundup—it's a once-weekly email that gives you links to all the best of my content, writing updates, sneak peeks at my life behind the scenes, and more!