Fear has a way of creeping into every part of our lives—our choices, our relationships, even our faith. This past year, I’ve learned that fear and faith can’t live in the same space. One will always silence the other.

When everything in my world felt uncertain, I asked God for answers, and He gave me one I didn’t expect: Wait.
What I thought was rejection was actually redirection. What I thought was loss was protection.

This blog isn’t about pretending fear doesn’t exist—it’s about choosing to trust God through it. Because real faith isn’t built in comfort; it’s built in the storm.

Change isn’t just about quitting a habit—it’s about becoming someone new. Over the last 11 months, I’ve learned that discipline can reshape your body, but only deep motivation can reshape your heart. My reason was survival—for myself and for my little person.

I’ve become more patient, forgiving, and deeply aware of others’ emotions. Still, the hardest part isn’t the change itself—it’s when others don’t see it, or when your growth outpaces someone else’s healing. But maybe that’s exactly how God planned it. Maybe He knew I’d be strong enough to change first, so I could show someone else what love, forgiveness, and grace look like in real life.

Being a parent is both the greatest privilege and the hardest journey I’ve ever known. Each of my children has taught me something different about love, resilience, and grace. These letters are pieces of my heart—written to help them understand not just who I am, but who I’m becoming.

Love doesn’t always break cleanly—it lingers in the quiet moments, in the ache of missing someone you still feel connected to.
Does He Know? is a window into what it feels like to love through pain—to carry forgiveness, faith, and hope even when trust has been fractured. It’s about navigating boundaries, healing in real time, and wondering if the person who broke your heart ever truly understands the weight of it all.

In my healing journey, I’ve learned that stepping into the light—facing hard truths about my marriage, myself, and others—is painful but necessary. Like Plato’s freed prisoner, seeing reality clearly forces reflection, growth, and the choice to live with faith, forgiveness, and love. Until we face our own shadows, we have no right to judge how others walk their path toward the light.

The hardest part about truth is that it doesn’t bend for our comfort. It just is.
Truth doesn’t care about timing, convenience, or the stories we tell ourselves to soften its edges.

But truth also carries freedom. It breaks chains, even if it breaks hearts along the way.
For me, living in truth has meant releasing the lies, the omissions, and the half-stories. It’s choosing honesty even when it stings—because pretending was costing me more than the pain of being real ever could.

Boundaries aren’t punishment. They’re protection. My heart became a crime scene, and I had to put up caution tape—not out of spite, but to stop the bleeding. Every boundary I set is less about keeping someone out and more about keeping myself whole, safe, and able to heal.

This letter is for anyone who’s ever found themselves in a relationship with someone who wasn’t fully available. I want to show that there’s another person on the other side of that choice. The person you’re drawn to might know the pain they’re causing, but the one you’ve never met—the one you may never think about—is hurting, too.

Every morning at 5 a.m., I test the limits of my body and mind. It’s not just about building muscle—it’s about building the mental strength to survive heartbreak. I’ve learned that if I can push through the hardest workout of my day, I can push through the hardest moments of my life. Because strength isn’t just about standing through pain—it’s about believing that love and resilience can exist in the same breath.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that life will hand us pain we never asked for, situations we never thought we could survive. I’m no expert in perfection, but I am becoming an expert at finding the good in the bad. Not because it’s easy, but because I’ve had to. Every dark corner has forced me to search harder for the light. Every heartbreak has taught me that love, resilience, and purpose can still grow out of shattered places.

So no matter what the “bad” looks like for you, I hope you’ll remember—you’re still breathing, still here, and that means there’s still a “good” worth fighting for.

When the people we love hurt us, everything in us wants to strike back, explain ourselves, or prove the truth. But what happens when you choose love instead? When you surrender the need for justice and trust that your peace is more important than being right? This is the story of how my broken heart was transformed—not by revenge, but by grace. Of how I learned to feel anger, and still respond with mercy. Of how God met me in the mess and showed me the power of doing the next right thing.

Even when their actions didn’t reflect it, I knew they loved me. Not out of habit or obligation—but deeply. I could feel it in the way they breathed near me, in the silence that still held care. And even now, after all the hurt, I choose them. Not because I’m weak or naive, but because love—real love—is a choice. And mine is unconditional.

Sometimes love isn’t loud. It’s quiet sacrifices, unspoken effort, and showing up—even when it’s hard. But in the middle of all that trying, we can miss what the other person is carrying. This piece is about how pain gets overlooked in relationships—not out of neglect, but because we’re often too close to see clearly. It’s about what happens when the dust settles—and someone else notices it before we do.

I used to think speaking my mind—right away, no filter—was a kind of strength. But I didn’t realize how often my words cut deeper than I meant. Then one verse shifted everything: “Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry.” It didn’t save my relationship, but it did start to change me—and that change has brought healing in places I never expected.

After the heartbreak of losing the life I thought I’d have, I was left shattered—struggling to find my self-worth and navigate the emotions of loving someone who was no longer mine. But through therapy, friendship, faith, and the quiet strength of motherhood, I began to see that broken doesn’t mean unworthy. This is the story of how I started to put the pieces back together—not perfectly, but beautifully.

I grew up watching emotional chaos play out in my home—loud fights, quiet punishments, and the heavy silence that followed. Years later, when my own world started to fall apart, I had a choice: repeat the cycle or rewrite the story. This is how I chose my little person—and myself.

I was hurting—angry, confused, and betrayed. But in that pain, God met me in the pages of a Bible gifted at just the right time. Through a single letter and one small verse, I began learning what grace really looked like… even when it made no sense to offer it.

When everything in my life fell apart, I started noticing strange little things—perfect timing, unexpected messages, moments that felt too personal to be random. It wasn’t the kind of God story I ever imagined telling. But it was the beginning of something real. Subtle. Honest. Weird. And somehow, exactly what I needed.

You don’t have to attempt suicide to understand the feeling of wanting to disappear. So many of us have carried quiet pain—questions about our worth, our place, our purpose. We don't talk about those moments enough. But maybe we should. This is part of my story. Not to shock, not to explain everything—but to help someone else feel less alone.

Let’s make it okay to speak the hard truths. Let’s be gentler with each other. You never know what someone is carrying.