I know I can't be the only one who feels a little shocked that we're so close to 2026 right now. This is one of those moments where I'm torn between two realities, caught like a rope in a tug of war. On one end is the hopeful version of me that walked into 2025 joyful and glowing. I had celebrated a full year of freedom from a marriage that was an absolute mistake, I was writing again, my platforms were growing, my word of the year was Restored, and as if that weren't enough, my Bible verse for the year was Joel 2:25-26, which says (in paraphrase), "I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten…You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied..."
Y'all, I was ready. Emotional resilience on tap. Strong faith and boundaries, set and ready to go. Focused on mindfulness. Suited up for another year set on breaking generational cycles because if I'm not dead, I am not done. 2025 rolled in like a blessing, and pre-'25 me was all for it.
Pre-'26 me looks a little different. Because it takes a toll when God's promises don't look like you expected—and healing while life is still hard? Well, that's gonna leave a mark.
According to Google, Restored means to bring back, reinstate; or return someone or something to a former condition, place, or position. In theory it sounds like a wonderful thing. Barren fields filled again with produce, abandoned homes returned to their original glory, lost things retrieved. Lives revived.
In my world, it meant hard times. Fighting for space to write, even as God continually confirmed my calling. Finally getting my house decluttered and organized, just in time for my oldest daughter to move back in. Watching new maturity bloom beautifully in my youngest, only to wonder if a rare genetic mutation was already writing her last chapter. It meant holding onto faith after trauma. Again. And trusting God in overwhelming seasons I never thought I'd be ready for.
Somewhere along the line, the thought of restoration also taught me how important it is to see—and set—healthy boundaries as spiritual discipline. And as this crazy, crushing, completely consecrated year began to wind down, I began to see the value in learning to say no without guilt. Because sometimes, saying no to protect your calling is the difference between knowing your calling...and living it.
For the most part, the year went well despite the setbacks. My oldest daughter's return to our house has been chaotic because she's full of life and boundless energy, but it has also been a blessing in many ways. Most days, I know what her curls look like, that she ate well, and that she's safe and sound in her bed at night. She's as easy to check on as taking a few steps down the hallway, and our relationship now is far less strained than it used to be. In many ways, we might even call it...Restored.
My youngest daughter's genetics are still a source of stress, but we have an incredible team of doctors and I'm constantly amazed by her steadfast resilience. Newfound maturity made so many hard conversations feel like growth rather than grappling, and I'm grateful.
We talked a lot about purpose this year, and I'll never forget the first moment we really talked about what a scary diagnosis might look like. We discussed IVs and long waits. I lost sleep over possible side effects, and we contemplated the idea that if this was what we were heading toward, she might soon find herself surrounded by sick, scared little children. At the end of one particularly challenging conversation, my little superstar squared her shoulders, firmed a trembling lower lip, and found ministry in the middle of the mess. Because even in the worst of times, "The little ones will need someone to look up to."
The trouble with all of it was Isaac Newton, because he was right when he said an object in motion stays in motion—and he was also right when he said acceleration is proportional to force. As the months passed, 2025 seemed to be going faster and faster, and by the middle of August, I was drowning. I felt overwhelmed, overstretched, and under-supported. So I had a little breakdown, and in a fit of frustration, I growled, "I bet my word for next year is, 'No.'"
And God laughed. Because he already knows how porous my boundaries can be. He already knows my instinct to people-please. And he's watched me overexert and overperform for forty-one years, trying to earn things I never needed to earn in the first place. Things like autonomy, patience, respect. Reciprocation. Validation.
There was immediate backlash from people who aren't comfortable with the word No. People who aren't used to hearing that word from me, whose instinct was to think about what my No might cost them, rather than understanding what it cost me to get there. Doubt crept in, and I began to wonder if I had chosen wrong. Or if a different word might be better. Easier. More palatable. Fear reminded me that the last time I felt secure enough to strengthen the boundaries around my time and energy, my life imploded. The pain of rejection showed me flashback photos of people who valued what I could bring to their lives...until I asked them to value mine.
But then I heard a sermon on boundaries. That same week, someone reminded me of how lonely Noah must have been, building a boat in a desert where everyone in the village must have thought he was insane. The following week, on a random trip to the Dollar Tree with my spiritual Mama, all my doubts were cancelled by a big red button. It wasn't easily in the line of sight. It wasn't in an aisle we were walking down. I didn't trip over it, and there wasn't a huge display.
It was just sitting on top of a drink cooler. Stamped with the word, "No." When I pointed it out, Mama just laughed and threw it in the cart.
In the months since, I've seen multiple sermons, heard multiple songs, and discovered multiple verses. I carried a list of them on my phone, collecting them like shells on a beach, waiting for the right one to stand out. Just after Thanksgiving, I was stunned into tears when a church I watch every week online but rarely get to in person devoted an entire service to the story of one of my verses.
Nehemiah was a man tasked with overseeing the rebuilding of Jerusalem's boundaries. The city had been destroyed by the Babylonian invasion, the nation was in recovery after 70 years of exile, and those walls represented the security and identity of the returning people. And he faced opposition too, in the forms of constant distraction, chronic ridicule, gossip, lies, threats, and even sabotage.
But Nehemiah knew his calling. He knew the task set before him. He answered invitations away from that calling with discernment, saying, "I am doing a great work and cannot come down. Why should the work stop while I leave?" And in 2026, I intend to do the same.
*****
Looking back on this year, I can see that restoration was never about returning to who or what I used to be. It was about allowing conviction to reshape the core elements of my calling into something stronger, fortified with new clarity. And as hard as this year was in light of what I expected from it, I'm proud of the courage to notice what was draining me—and the honesty to call it what it was.
Joel’s promise over my word for last year wasn’t wrong. My life was certainly not quiet, but learning to step back, stay focused, and refuse distractions that cost me my peace showed me how much God did restore. He just did it by strengthening my discernment. Rather than calming the outer storm, he spoke peace to the storm within. Which is why No feels like exactly the right word for what comes next.
No to urgency that isn't mine. I will no longer carry someone else's poor planning as my personal emergency. No guilt disguised as responsibility. I am only one person, with the same needs as anyone else, and I will no longer ignore my own needs for people who refuse to see them as valid.
No to invitations and obligations that pull me away from the work God has placed in my hands. He has set the task, ordained the purpose, and confirmed it more than enough times to erase doubt. I don't need to know where it's taking me or if it will ever become the dream I've been laying my heart on for so long—I do know I'll never find out if I don't protect what I've been given.
And like Nehemiah, I won't be saying no because I'm unwilling. I'll say it because I am already committed to boundaries worth defending, and a work that requires my presence.
There is rebuilding to do—and in order to finish it, I'll need my No to help me hold the line and...
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