The Gifts We Don't Wrap, Part One

Every year at Christmas, the internet floods with gift guides and shopping lists. It's a world-wide collection of "Top Ten Stocking Stuffers for Your Wife" and "Tools Your Husband Wishes He Had." We scroll through endless curations of "Christmas Gifts for Christians"—or writers, or musicians, or athletes, etc.

What's weird is that there's one specific thing most people want more than anything, regardless of size, shape, color, religion, or political standing, and it's hardly ever on any of those "Meaningful Holiday Gifts" lists—because emotional presence, meaningful connection, and relational mindfulness are gifts that aren't things. Maybe that's why they seem small, or maybe it's because we live in a fast world, a hustle culture that taught us time is money, validating others makes you a simp, and asking for empathy and compassion is seen as weakness rather than humanity. 

We treat the gift of attention like a priceless and limited commodity that must be rationed—or something manipulative to be wary of—and it's not because we can't see the hurting people around us. The truth is, we all know someone healing from trauma, someone scarred by invisible wounds that usually aren't as invisible as they seem. We see them feeling unseen. We hear them beg to be noticed. We know their hunger for compassion and connection. And we brush it off. 

In fact, we literally call it a "cry for attention," even as we withhold the dignity and humanity of being heard and valued. And when those unseen people in society silence themselves like babies who stop crying when no one comes...when they break down or give up...we gasp collectively and wonder "why they didn't say anything." 

Then, of course, we have endless talks about the importance of mental health awareness or emotional well-being. We read (or write) articles about reclaiming identity, emotional resilience, mindful living. We create calendar days for noticing people or supporting friends, and we talk about the power of listening like it's complicated spellwork, rather than the simple act of showing up for others with gentle compassion. 

But the need for attention isn’t borne of vanity or ego. It’s the outward presentation of the most basic human hunger—the hunger for connection. Which is why, when it comes mindful giving (especially at Christmastime), I truly believe the gifts that matter most are the ones we can't wrap.

When I was little, it wasn't exactly safe to be seen. On a good day, being visible only meant being in the way—but on a bad day, visibility made you a target. Asking questions was nosy, answering them was backtalk, and emotional expression was usually frowned upon, if not punished directly. Once, my cousin and I got sent away from the dinner table for laughing. 

By middle school, I learned that being invisible wasn't any better. Walking softly meant I was sneaky, speaking quietly sounded like mumbling, and keeping to myself seemed to prove I was arrogant or thought I was better than everyone else. I was so closed off that one year, my grandmother hid all my Christmas presents in her bathroom just to see what would happen. I sat in silence on the floor beside the tree and watched my cousins open piles of presents, trying to cover heartache with a smile.

When everyone was finished, my grandma gave me a curious look, went to her bathroom, called my mother for help...and they came out with their arms full of gifts, just for me. 

Maybe it was just a prank, but the humiliation of being so purposely and publicly set aside still lingers decades later, like a cloud of bad cologne. And I will never stop wondering what might have happened if I had allowed myself to react. I was twelve years old at the time, and the fact that I knew better by then breaks my heart.

The thing is, with or without childhood trauma, most of us can look back and see the moments that shaped us. For better or worse, those emotional memories become the very bricks that pave the paths of our lives. 

My childhood is why I value kindness, safety, routine. And maybe in some ways, it's why I write—to offer healing through storytelling, the seed of which was planted (quite ironically) by my father. 

One of his favorite zingers was a sharp, "You writin' a damn book? Well, leave that chapter out!" He'd shake his head, satisfied with my silence, perhaps unaware of the sting, and move on. And now, writing reclaims the voice I was forced to silence and the depth I was forbidden to share. It recounts every chapter I was told to omit. And in doing so, it lets me offer something priceless to people who feel as unseen today as I did back then. 

I don't share these stories to shame the people involved, or to garner pity, or even to "trauma dump." I share because I want people to know they're not alone. Because I want them to know that emotional neglect and healing are not mutually exclusive.

And because the hard truth is, the older I get, the more I see those same patterns everywhere. The elderly, the homeless, the overlooked, the inconvenient. We swat away their stories and sidestep their needs. We look past their humanity—and we tell them, without ever saying a word, that they are burdens.

We forget that listening is love in action, that attention affirms value, that presence offers dignity. And that the absence of those things leaves a wound only healed by the giving of those things.

Your ancient Granny might have plenty of non-slip socks, and she probably doesn't want to complete yet another puzzle alone. Your Papaw probably doesn't need another screwdriver; I bet he's good on wrenches, too. And your loved ones won't treasure a bad-guess gift that only highlights how little you know them. 

So maybe this year, give gifts that don't need wrapping.

Instead, take a loved one to lunch. Ask them to tell you a story. And listen—truly listen. I bet they light up like Christmas trees.

*****

In a season that often seems overrun by sales and obligations, sometimes even gift-giving can feel like a hassle. And I think that's why I keep circling back to this truth: the best gifts we give each other aren’t things. They’re moments. A shared meal, a story learned, a memory created. Showing love through actions that don't come with gift receipts. Being present for loved ones—instead of buying presents for loved ones.

When I look back at Christmas past, I don’t usually remember specific gifts from particular years. What I remember are the moments I felt unseen—and later, the value I placed on the moments that made me feel known. As an adult, I understand that both kinds of memory shaped me, taught me who I want to be, and helped me recognize how I want to love people.

Maybe you’re feeling it, too. Maybe you’re exhausted by the pressure to perform Christmas “correctly,” or you’ve got someone in your life who's hard to shop for, hard to reach, or hard to read. Maybe you feel that way yourself. Maybe the holidays are a lonely time for you, and the constant sense of celebration makes you feel like an outsider.

If you're nodding along with any of that, let me tell you what my younger self would have given anything to hear: your presence is a gift. Your attention is a gift. Your listening is a gift. You are a gift, simply because you exist. And these gifts don’t just fill stockings—they fill the hearts of the people we touch.

So as we move through this holiday season, I hope you find ways to honor the people you love, not with perfect presents, but with attentive presence. I hope someone invites you into deeper connection. I hope you find the courage to accept. And reciprocate.

Because if we could stop hiding the good gifts in the bathroom, and start placing them in other's hearts instead, maybe it wouldn't be so hard to...

Life gets busy and social media is so chaotic. You follow people and pages only to never see them again—and you can't seem to escape the content you don't want to see. If you'd like an easier way to keep up, I've got you. One email, once a week. Spam-free, stress-free, and sent right to your inbox.

The Quiet Comforts That Carry Me Through

Okay, look. Single mom life is overwhelming. I tell my kids I'd fight a bear bare-handed at the drop of a hat for them—and while we all know I'm going down, at least my babies know I'd go down fighting hard enough to buy them some time. But even without the bears, my daily life is packed. From chaotic mornings and hypersomnia struggles to food allergies, trauma healing, and parenting with chronic illness, some days even I wonder if finding hope in chaos is really possible.

Which is why my most treasured tool for empowerment and emotional healing is mindfulness. It's a determination to stay in one moment at a time, to allow myself to be present right where I am, right when I am. To look at the thing that must be done, the obstacle that must be overcome, the season that must be lived in...then I give it my best, and move on to the next.

It sounds simple, I know. But it works. And staying in the moment has guided me through nurturing emotional resilience, reclaiming identity and empowerment after abuse, learning to engage in guilt-free self-care practices, trusting God in healing, and yes, even surviving the holidays.

But with Thanksgiving behind us, leftovers still dwindling in the fridge, and the Christmas gift-giving season upon us, I thought this might be a good time to let you in on a little not-so-secret truth: mindfulness and gratitude aren't the only everyday survival tools I count on.

Most mornings in my life are routine. I stumble out of bed, wash my face, brush my teeth, wake my youngest daughter. Check the calendar. Caffeinate.

Maybe it's Strike Force energy, maybe it's Celsius powder; either way, these energy drink alternatives are everyday essentials. And honestly, I'm not even sorry anymore, because between late nights, early mornings, the physical symptoms of cPTSD, and chronic hypersomnia, my brain is half-asleep three-quarters of the time even with medication—so caffeine isn't just my recreational drug of choice. Some days, it's my personality.

Years ago, I would have apologized. For needing help, for needing energy. For needing to feel seen and heard and cared for. But those days are over, and now I do whatever it takes to be able to show up for my life and my kids. I use the tools at hand, the little things that seem so meaningless but mean so much—because they're the things that help me to be me.

Not so long ago, I was married to a man who loved few things more than making me feel small, stupid, and insignificant. He hated my music, my makeup, my faith. Even my perfumes. So I stopped wearing them. I let my home fill up with the stench of condescension, and for a while, I forgot the fragrance of confidence. These days, I wear what I want. And because I can, I start most days with a little spritz from a bottle that looks like nothing but is filled with magic. A simple refillable perfume bottle—currently holding the last of my favorite (and sadly discontinued) Vera Wang Pink Princess Eau de Toilette.

After that, the days are a mess of places to go, people to see, things to do. I check in with my cousin, take my daughter to school or doctors (or both), and do my best to squeeze in a little writing. I wash the laundry, sweep the floor, clean umpty-million dishes I'm pretty sure I didn't use. I make gluten-free sourdough. And I pause for conscious gratitude every time I open the dedicated 11-in-1 Cosori air fryer that makes gluten-free living just a little more possible in my world.

When the day fades and the house settles...when I've given the best I had to the moments available...I let my hair down and comb my favorite Maui Moisture hair mask through ends that usually look as tired as I feel. Aging may have changed the color and texture of my hair, but these simple moments of self-care are more than a last-ditch effort to keep these long strands smooth and shiny. They're a reminder to slow down. To see myself as valuable enough to care for, important enough to nurture.

And then I curl up in bed with a book. Long before I ever wrote one, books introduced me to healing through storytelling. They taught me to breathe when cPTSD survival felt like suffocation. They opened doors to Christian encouragement when my faith was young. And they kept me company in my loneliest seasons. My Kindle Paperwhite is a treasure trove of adventures, an infinite library of worlds to explore. (And it's backlit so I can read with the light off, waterproof so I can read in the bath—and digital so my youngest daughter can't steal my bookmarks anymore.)

These "favorite things" seem so ordinary, so simple. On their own, they're just everyday items that don't really matter. But when I pull them together, they're sparkling reminders of God's redemption story in my life. They are the seeds from which I harvest gratitude in hard seasons, the threads of empowerment woven into who I am and how I survived.

They're the invisible lifelines that taught me how to heal the past—with gentle faith, passing time, practiced patience, and stubborn, habitual hope.

*****

Even now, sometimes I'm surprised by how easily the little things in life become the things that anchor us in our storms. Not because any of these things are special in themselves, but because of the way they quietly bandage wounds in our hearts.

The perfume that smells like freedom and autonomy. The caffeine that feels like capability. A home that sighs peacefully, rather than trembling with fear. A Kindle filled with stories to sink into, learn from, grow with. And my own books—once, nothing more than impossible dreams but now, shining reminders that God still uses broken things.

You might not find them on Christmas shopping lists or holiday gift guides. They won't be counted in this year's top ten winter comfort essentials, and I still don't know if they're self-care must-haves. They're not big, and they're not fancy. But they don't need to be, and maybe that's why they're my favorite things...because they are the steady, dependable comforts that remind me who I am. And what I can still become.

Maybe you're like me, and living life moment by moment also means prepping and surviving one holiday at a time. Maybe you're like my youngest daughter, with every gift wrapped and ready before December even arrives. Or maybe you're somewhere in between, and always on the lookout for the perfect stocking stuffers.

Maybe you're on your own this year, and just hoping for something small to warm your winter. Either way, I hope you found something valuable here, even if it's only this encouragement to...

The greatest gifts we give each other are moments of connection, and in our post-tech society, many of those moments are virtual. We touch the people we care for every time we unlock a screen—through our texts, our messages, our video calls. And yes, our emails. That's why I'd like to reach out especially to you, with a Monday morning note that'll help make sure you don't miss the next thing I'm up to. There, you'll find links to the week's content, news on my latest books...and maybe even an occasional giveaway. Want in? Sign up here!

Grateful For A Landscape of Scars

I've written a lot this month about gratitude and thankfulness—partly because it's November and Thanksgiving is a perfect time to refocus on life lessons and little blessings, but also because resilience and emotional healing have always been the greatest focus points of my brand.

As a Christian, I was taught that the greatest purpose and potential of my life is in using my personal testimony to showcase God's redemption, and when I introduce people to Jesus, I don't do it as a preacher; I do it as one friend inviting another to share something beautiful. As a mother, learning how to break toxic cycles helped me see survival as a gift; motherhood showed me there is beauty in brokenness. And as a student leader, trusted with guiding others forward in their spiritual growth, I've seen countless confirmations of how lived experience matters—because overcoming hardship is fine on its own, but when you find purpose in pain and take time to unfold the map of your story, your experience becomes a guide through someone else's emotional landscape of scars.

Writers are often told to "write what you know." To use knowledge and authenticity as tools, to draw characters and sculpt storylines from emotional truths. To mold the roads of our own experience into the mountains and valleys of unknown worlds, because the lessons we learn and the storms we survive aren't just for us.

Every mountain climbed and every emotional river rapid navigated becomes part of who we are, each experience a landmark on a lifemap drawn in the scars that tell our stories.

So as November winds down and we move from Thanksgiving to Christmas gift-giving, I've been thinking about how easily our everyday gratitude for survival might become the survival guide we gift to those around us—because the best thing about stories is, they're meant to be shared.

Everyone who knows me knows that I hate waking up in the morning. Every day is a riot of things to do: problems to solve, appointments to show up for, tasks to complete. Every night is a late one: dragging myself through brain fog and fatigue in the effort to finish each day, desperately fighting the fear of starting the next day already behind. And every morning starts too early.

Quiet moments are hard to come by, even with extensive effort. I receive somewhere around 300 texts and notifications every day, 50-100 emails, and rarely less than 5 phone calls—my phone would ding itself to death if it wasn't always set on Silent. The washer always seems to be churning, the dryer always seems to be humming, and my car always has something rattling around that shouldn't be.

My personal circle of friends is loud and energetic. We update each other on everything, share Tiktoks and video shorts like there's no tomorrow, offer each other tips and advice, openly broadcast our pain, our problems, and our prayers. My kids are like tornadoes, complete with gale force energy, unpredictable shifts in tone or location, and yes, the occasional bout of devastating wreckage.

But most mornings, my youngest daughter and I chat easily on the ride to school, and every conversation I share with her is a waterfall of gratitude on the map of my existence. Autism might have made these conversations impossible...but it didn't. She's sixteen years old, and every day of her life has been a fragile gift—from the oxygen-starved blue newborn to the yellow-eyed infant with severe jaundice, and through thirteen surgeries she might never have woken up from. Every sleepy morning, I grumble out of bed to stand in her doorway and watch her breathe. Because she's still here to do it.

I often get home from that morning drive to school just in time to find my oldest daughter making coffee, awake and already full of plans for the day. She rarely spends more than a few hours at a time at home, and when she's home her entire personality is a blazing inferno of boundless energy, high-speed chatter, and randomly abandoned press-on fingernails. She leaves signs of herself everywhere she goes—not only in little scraps of paper and forgotten coffee mugs, but in the echo of her laughter and the hope in her prayers. Sometimes I wonder if her mental gas pedal is glued to the floorboard of her mind. Sometimes I wonder if it's because abandonment issues and self-hatred make her afraid of solitude, or if it's because she's just so damn grateful to be mobile after spending most of 2023 stuck in a wheelchair. Sometimes I compare who she is now to the blue-eyed, rose-lipped baby she used to be. The one who had to be tickled and pinched awake just to eat...because otherwise, the gigantic hole in her heart would have let her sleep herself quietly to death. The young woman she is now overwhelms the introvert in me. Until I remember that sleepless night in the summer of 2007, when I sat praying over her as she slept. Desperately hoping the heart surgery meant to improve her life would not end it.

And always, I nod to the shadow at the edge of those memories. The unknown child I never got to hold. The heartbeat that was so sure, so steady...until it wasn't. The life that left me in unrecognizable bits and pieces. The would-be first child, whose greatest accomplishment in life was to show its mother how precious life is.

After breakfast each morning, I log onto my computer and start a new day in my life as a writer. I plan and organize social media posts. I write blogs like this one (and books, too!). I engage and interact, sharing my experiences. Offering understanding. Always with the hope that something I might share could shed some light on someone else's darkness. That I might open the map of my life, share a similar scar with someone suffering, and hold their hand in wisdom as they find their way.

The roads may vary. Not every soul is scarred by childhood abuse or domestic violence. Not every heart is marked by the pain of miscarriage. Lifemaps are not universally covered in paths of poverty, disability, trauma, and loss. And while they are all filled with milestones—mountains and valleys transected with floodwaters of challenge—most are not covered in notes and calculations. Most do not come with guidebooks full of compass roses, inch-to-mile translation aides, warning signs, and disaster protocols.

For many, survival is instinctive, just one lost person stumbling from one trial to the next, anxious and afraid that every suggestion of brokenness on the soggy terrain of their life guarantees pain and failure.

I choose to see survival as instructive. To mark my map with stories, like dispatches from the wilderness, because my map—as messy as it is, with so many roads paved unevenly in grief and grace—isn’t abstract.

It's the truth of a life lived. And the promise that if I can make it, you can too.

*****

The truth is, the roads of life are messy, full of unexpected twists and sudden floods. We're all navigating maps torn by exhaustion, creased with heartache, damp with the sweat of fear. But when we see that map through a floodlight of hope, trusting God to walk us through—and trusting ourselves to keep moving forward—survival seems a lot more possible.

Every scar and hard-won lesson matters. Not just for you, but for the people who might one day walk a path you’ve already studied. Owning your story doesn't have to mean you're stuck in it, and sharing your story can be more than simple reflection. When you share your map and the stories written on its margins, you offer guidance to those still lost in the wilderness, lifelines tossed to souls still finding their way through the storm.

Take time to notice the small victories, the moments that go unseen, the brilliant treasures in ordinary days, and celebrate them. Mark them on your Lifemap. Let them be reminders of hope in the chaos. And when you get the chance, share that map. Let people trace the roads you’ve traveled, and show them that their journey is survivable. That joy and healing are real places.

Because your life, your scars, your story? They're gifts meant to be shared. And while you can choose to survive just for yourself, you change the map for everyone when your survival lights the way for others to...

There's a special magic in choosing to show up for each other, and every reader who shares their time and emotional energy with me is a precious part of how and why I write the way I do. Now, I'd like to make that as simple as possible for you—with free updates you don't have to search for. Sign up here!

Contentment In The Chaos

Okay, so I have a confession. And I don't know how it'll sit with you, but I value honesty and openness and...well, here it is: I have a serious love-hate relationship with the end-of-year holiday season.

And I know, I literally market myself and my writing on the power of perspective. Every week I'm here, talking about choosing gratitude, finding contentment, and learning to slow down in order to appreciate life's unexpected blessings. No degree necessary to share the lessons I've learned, living life in what often feels like the Boarding School of Hard Knocks—so I give glimpses into my process, hoping that what I've learned the hard way might help someone else skip a course in Remedial Struggle.

I offer glimpses into my busy mom schedule. I share stories of faith and motherhood, and through the waves of emotional exhaustion and ADHD overwhelm, I hope my longstanding practice of mindful gratitude helps someone somewhere to make it through with a little more hope.

Honestly, I should probably be one of those annoyingly Hallmark Christmas-lovers. You know the ones. They have their tree up by Halloween, and they don't care about Black Friday sales because they finished their holiday gift shopping in July. They smell like pumpkin spice hot chocolate, and they somehow manage to host every holiday dinner without a hitch.

I am not those people. Not even close. Because the fact is, the holiday season does not slow life down; instead, it takes your regular daily life and cranks it up to Nascar-level insanity, complete with a rotation of parties, events, gatherings, and gift exchanges that almost literally feel like one dizzying left turn after another. Kids' schools take a break, but parents' responsibilities don't. The house, the chores, the doctors, the church stuff, the work things, the hobbies...they all remain the same, but now they're buried under a whirlwind of decorations you're afraid to move because you can't remember where you hid the Christmas presents. It's always a mess, and every year I have to work harder to hold gratitude for what I have—while drowning in days that don't go as planned.

I have to remind myself sometimes that those overwhelmingly crazy days are still beautiful, with their sparkly lights and perfectly imperfect trees. That the gifts are fun and the parties are a chance to catch up with people I missed when life got too busy. That the work of managing busy weeks looks different with a thankful mindset, because the alternative is loneliness.

And this week, as we edge deeper into the 2025 holiday season, I got a timely reminder of why contentment is such a lifeline for me—because true contentment isn't always waiting peacefully in the quiet. Sometimes you have to choose it purposely despite the noise.

Friday morning, I woke with a groan and turned the alarm off, flinching as my phone's virtual assistant began her daily recital of the annoying information that drags me from sleep. The date, time, weather. Calendar events, appointments. News headlines. I stumbled out of bed, woke my youngest daughter for school, and brushed my teeth in dismay.

The week started with hope. I was going to get ahead of schedule, get fully prepared for another house-sitting weekend, and enjoy the chance to relax...but my youngest daughter had three doctor's appointments, we had three separate church group meetings, schoolwork, housework, scheduling conflicts, and the complication of me missing my medications for three days. The ones for hypersomnia.

Thursday's tasks weren't finished, Friday's list was already longer than usual, I had only been asleep for four hours, and there was no possible way to make the day go the way I needed it to.

By 8:30 that morning, I had dropped my daughter off at school and checked exactly zero items off my list. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel. My chest was tight. I was edging toward a full-blown anxiety attack. My gas light came on halfway through Hope Darst's "In The Might Name," and I rolled my eyes as I pulled into the gas station. But I turned the radio up—and by 9, I had my mojo back. I had adjusted my mental plans. My gas tank was full, my belly stopped churning, and I was ready for a morning spent with my sweet spiritual Mama, whose house I'm currently sitting in.

We've found a compromise, she and I. I'd never let her pay me for house-sitting, so in exchange for the arduous tasks of petting her dog, feeding her cat, and sleeping in her unspeakably comfortable bed, she insists that we begin every house-sitting staycation with a grocery shop. We hang out, choose gluten-free goodies, usually get some lunch, and then separate to pack and prep. Except this time, the getaway she's gone for is a family wedding, and she also had a hair appointment. Which took almost four hours, because apparently this time, her hairstylist was that sloth guy from Zootopia.

By the time I dropped her back at her house, picked up my youngest from school, drove home, cleaned the kitchen, and made dinner...I was wiped. I had a kinked neck, stiff hips, and brain fog as thick as molasses. And that to-do list from earlier? Still mocking me with its neat little line of unchecked boxes, each one singing their own version of "No Rest For The Weary" like they were auditioning for The Voice.

But here's the funny thing about intentional gratitude practice: once it becomes a habit, it automates itself.

It doesn't erase exhaustion or fatigue, and it doesn't silence the constant hum in your mind...but it reads the truth of your days and highlights opportunities for joy.

I spent the morning well, talking about nothing and everything with a friend and mentor I love dearly, every moment a precious pebble in my life's stream of memories. Brunch was fabulous, and by the end of the meal I couldn't decide which was more delicious: the gluten free burger chosen from an actual gluten-free menu, or her delight in watching me discover a new place to eat safely. We raced from there to her hair appointment, and four hours later, her slow-motion hairstyle was fabulous.

We laughed at the way the morning had gone and, mindful of my schedule, she apologized for everything taking longer than we'd planned. She thanked me for driving her to the appointment, for waiting to take her home. And in those moments, as we talked on the way back to her house, a messy morning morphed into exactly what we hadn't known we needed.

The boxes may have gone unchecked, but the day was full. Full of laughter. Full of connection. And in the middle of the chaos, for just a little while, nothing mattered but presence.

Getting ready for bed that night, my body was sore. My mind was tired. But my eyes sparkled in the mirror as I brushed my teeth, filled with echoes of the morning's laughter. Not because everything went smoothly as planned, but because contentment is a choice—and I chose to see what had been done, rather than what hadn’t.

*****

Trusting God with my day isn't always easy, and finding joy in the little things is always more challenging when tasks pile up the way they did this week—but contentment doesn't wait for calm, and gratitude doesn't grow on schedule. We have to seek them out, right there in the chaos, and collect the moments that matter.

And I know that's hard sometimes. We're trained to discount the accomplishments and obsess over the failures. To count those checkboxes, complete those endless chores, and trudge through each day like drones with perma-charged lithium batteries.

But why? To achieve someone else's definition of success? To keep up with people who are so busy racing, they don't even see us beside them? To stay on top?

Do yourself a favor and turn that to-do list over. Take time to breathe. Let your face remember what it feels like to smile. And write yourself a little Ta-Da! list instead. Acknowledge your progress and savor those moments. List the blessings in your life, add some checkboxes, and fill 'em all in. They're your proof that even in chaos, life is a gift.

You don't have to stay on top. You just need to...

We all get busy, and I know how easy it can be to forget to check in, especially with the holiday fanfare, which is why I've built a weekly update you can keep up with. No spam, no pressure, no cost—just a little food for thought, delivered straight to your inbox every Monday.

I'm Thankful for Dirty Dishes.

As much time as I spend writing about faith and gratitude, you'd think contentment would come easily by now. You'd think I'd be so busy finding joy in small things and feeling giddy over simple blessings that I'd never have wonder how to be more thankful ever again.

But here's the deal: I write about it because a grateful mindset doesn't come easily to me. Sometimes, when I find blessings in the ordinary passing of my life, they seem just as ordinary as everything else. So I share these stories, not because I'm especially gifted at being thankful in all things, but because cultivating gratitude feels like training for a marathon—just when you think you've got it, WHAM! Shin splints.

And sure, there are days when I'm overflowing with gratitude. Days when I'm walking with my head in clouds, all but oozing thankfulness. Every time I watch my oldest daughter run across the parking lot of our church, my thankful heart swells with joy...because not so long ago, she couldn't walk at all. Every time I study my youngest daughter's bloodwork, comparing every cell count so carefully, cross-referencing everything against her genetic mutation and the threat it imposes, I'm overwhelmed with thanksgiving...because as her doctor once said, "There's a dark genetic cloud over her head...but it's not raining yet."

Between my childhood, the challenges of my life since then, the ongoing battle of single motherhood, and the constant effort to build something with my writing, it's easy to get discouraged. To feel defeated. To forget about choosing gratitude—and overlook the 'small blessings, big impact" moments.

If you know me, or if you've been following along here, you probably know how much I love seeing God in the ordinary moments. You'll know how much I use those moments as the guideposts of my life. And you won't be surprised by the idea that finding joy in chores is...well, it's not exactly my thing.

So what if I tell you that a few years ago, my gratitude practice was forever changed—when a sink full of dirty dishes washed me?

I mumbled his name, but we both knew it wasn't a prayer. "Jesus," I said, "It's like they're freaking multiplying!" I was standing at the sink for the umpteenth time, my water-logged fingers covered in soap suds. My glasses were smudged, my hair kept falling in my face, and I was sick and tired of washing dishes.

There are only three of us in this house. How could three people dirty so many dishes, over and over again? Why does it feel like I can clean the dishes, turn off the water, wash the stove, wipe the counters, dry the sink, turn around...and there will be more dishes?

The worst part? Dish-washing is easily the chore I hate most. It's an endless cycle of tedious silverware, slippery water glasses, giant coffee mugs, and plates smeared with stuck-on food—or worse, covered in soggy, wet globs of unidentified gross. But with my food allergies, it's the one chore I can't trust anyone else to do.

It's like I'm stuck in my own personal Groundhog Day, with one singular thought circling my mind like a swarm of irritated bees: I. Just. Cleaned. This. Kitchen!

But that day, something changed. Maybe it was the cold floor against my feet that made me thankful for hot water on my hands. Maybe it was a brief flash of remembered delight as a soap bubble popped. Maybe as I washed those dishes that day, they washed something just as dirty out of me. Or maybe Jesus answered the words that weren't prayer.

I watched, my grumbling silenced, as my hands moved. As they picked up a plate and held it under water. Water that was warm and clean and fresh on demand. I stood there on legs that (still mostly) work, and my hands reached for the bottle of soap. Two pumps on the sponge. Soap that kills germs and breaks down filth. Soap that protects my family.

Somehow the world itself seemed to still as I picked up the last plate. The water seemed louder. The silverware, shifting in the miniature tide at the bottom of the sink, seemed brighter. And I washed away food particles made of provision, smudges and smears made of safety—each one a word in the story of a family who has enough.

We don't have much. Our place is small and cluttered. Our battered car runs on prayers and miracles. Our biggest splurge is Chick-fil-a, and the fanciest thing we own is probably those dishes.

But if it rains, we go inside. If we're cold, we grab an extra blanket. We flip a switch and light fills the room; we hit the tap, and water flows.

Those dirty dishes are evidence of a life that's still happening. And while they may sometimes look like a disorganized pile of chaos, those plates and bowls are proof that someone was able to walk to the kitchen. Proof that when someone hungry opened the fridge, they found sustenance.

I turned off the sink when I finished, and wiped the stove like I always do. I wiped the countertops, and I dried the sink. I shined the faucet. I hung the towel...and as I stood looking at vintage china lined up in a Walmart drying rack, I cried for seventeen-year-old me.

It was easier for her to keep her kitchen clean.

Because the fridge was empty.

*****

I've thought about that moment so many times since then—partly because I'm still always at the sink, and partly because that lesson in grateful perspective came so abruptly that it still feels scalded into the tissues of who I am as a person.

It's funny how something so normal can become such a turning point. No fanfare, no lightning bolt of revelation. Just a reminder that everyday gratitude is right there in the mess, if we just pause long enough to notice it.

I wish I could say that I never complain anymore, but I don't always get it right. Some days (alright, fine, most days), I still mutter under my breath when I look at the dishes in the sink. I'm still learning contentment, and I still have to remind myself that gratitude isn't a feeling—it's a focus.

Gratitude changes everything, because it moves us from wanting more to noticing more. It opens eyes weary with exhaustion, and shows us how to honor the blessings we used to pray for. And every time we choose to see blessings over burdens, every time we make mindful thanksgiving an active practice, we make something meaningful of the moment we're in.

And that, my friends, is how we...

Maybe it's the coming winter and an urge to hibernate, but I'm craving less noise and more meaning. I don't want endless newsfeeds and pointless reels; I want deeper conversation and genuine connection. If you're feeling that too, consider this your invitation to a better, more gentle way to keep in touch. With my weekly roundup, you can sip your Monday morning coffee perusing a curated collection of my content, created just for you. The best part? It's simple—and free.

Beautifully Broken

I have spina bifida, so I’ve spent a lot of time straddling the line between disability and self-love. Struggling with self-acceptance, disability acceptance. Sometimes I still hate the long list of things I can't do. The limitations that slow me down. But as I get older, I've come to see living with disability less as a healing journey and more as an exercise in gratitude and growth, because embracing limitations (without accepting shame) makes room for adaptive living—which nurtures a growth mindset that lets you to love who you are.

Learning to love yourself is hard though, isn't it? With or without chronic illness, letting go of self-hatred and loving your past self demands a determination to stop flinching from the memory of old wounds and start turning pain into purpose.

You can't love who you are if you still hate the moments that made you.

The trouble is, we live in a world where people think personal growth means "getting over it" and "letting it go." We think trusting God in hard times should promise an end to those times, that faith and healing must each be a guarantee of the other's existence—but that's not always how it works. Sometimes, thriving with disability means learning to love your story as it is, with grace for what it was and hope for what it can still be.

Sometimes, the most powerful prescription you can fill is a daily dose of self-forgiveness.

You may not have disabilities, invisible illness, or a trauma recovery story, but I'll bet you know what pain is. I'm sure there are things you would change, moments you'd rather erase, mistakes you wish you hadn't made. And in a society so hungry for optimism we often tiptoe over the edge of "toxic positivity," I'm sure you've heard your fair share of advice that tells you how to heal from resentment, how to find gratitude in hard times, and how to choose joy in all things.

I can't tell you how to do any of those things, because I'm still learning too.

What I can tell you is this. When you hold the past with hands of compassion, and you offer understanding to the version of yourself who lived there...when you thank each previous version of you for how they created who you are now...the life you're living won't feel as heavy, and the future you're headed toward won't seem as daunting.

With my background and my childhood, the search for emotional healing isn't new. Making peace with my parents, separating myself from their choices, and digging into the stories that made them who they were...wasn't easy. Compassion for them often unsettled the fragile compassion I held for myself, and even as I learned to appreciate the value of spiritual growth through suffering, I struggled to hold gratitude for the past.

People who couldn't bear to hear how bad it was would shrug their shoulders and say things like, "At least you survived," and, "It could have been worse."

I learned to tread carefully in the space between an eternally optimistic mother-in-law who said, "I wish you wouldn't talk about that. It's too hard to listen to," and a trauma-informed specialist who, rendered nearly speechless, leaned back in her chair and whispered, "Wow."

I found strength through faith, searching for God's purpose in pain filled memories—like my life was a photo album that would suddenly make sense if I could find his face in even one picture.

I raised children, protecting them with such ferocity that sometimes they resented me for it. I taught them with mindful intention even as I was learning. I wrote books that used my life, my experiences, and my emotions to fuel characters, driving them through hard stories that offered hope.

Then in 2021, I started leading a student group at my church. In the time since, I've walked a middle school girl through an abusive situation at home. I've held someone's sobbing young daughter as shame over sexual assault shattered everything good she saw in herself. I've encouraged their dreams, uplifted their identities, supported their goals. I've baptized them, cried over them, prayed for them.

And in every picture, in every circumstance where my past made me capable of coaching someone else's present, God was there.

But in the background, I could still see the chains of disability and chronic illness. The events I missed because of heat intolerance. The moments cut short by the impact of nerve damage. The chores I couldn't manage, the meals I missed making because pain laid me out on the living room floor.

In 2023, I took a weekly ministry class for several months. During that time I had a cancer scare, my car broke down constantly, every TV in our house broke, our washer broke, my marriage fell apart, and my oldest daughter briefly lost her ability to walk. But as I took her and her wheelchair to physical therapy three times a week, kept up with my class, maintained my student group, battled the finances of constant car trouble, cook and cleaned (and wrote), and struggled with grief over my marriage, I began to see my physical limitations in a new light—not as disability, but as different ability.

Not as a chain, but as an open door to possibility. Disability might keep me from holding a steady job society approves of, but it doesn't stop me from contributing to the world around me. I just have to do it differently, and when I use the boundaries of my life not as stopping points but as redirection, I can see them pushing me toward deeper strength—the kind that's measured by presence and purpose instead of titles or financial achievements.

My body has broken me and rebuilt me. It's slowed me down, softened me, and taught me grace I might not have learned any other way. But as I learned to see it for the gift that it is, I shifted the limits. Transformed them from closed door to clear calling.

And this moment? Well...it simply wouldn't exist...without all the moments that came before.

*****

I don't always feel grateful for the pain, the limitations, or the days when my body gives up long before my heart and mind. But gratitude isn’t about pretending everything is easy. It’s about recognizing that even hard things become holy ground when we stop asking, "Why me?" and start asking, "What now?"

Maybe the point was never to prove that I could do everything. Maybe it was to learn that I don’t have to. And maybe that’s why I'm grateful for the way God's still using it all—every broken piece, every slow, unsteady step—to shape me into someone who shows up with empathy, perspective, and grace.

Because every limitation has led me somewhere I wouldn’t have gone otherwise—and those experiences gave me what I needed to...

I'm a busy mom. My carefully curated social feeds are filled with ads, and I don't want to miss news from friends and family—but I don't always have time to seek separate pages and profiles. So I found a better way for us to stay connected: a weekly roundup of my content from around the web, straight to your inbox. No algorithms. No manipulation. Just you and me, starting our Mondays together.

Life's a Gift. Open It.

Imagine a chemist in a lab, surrounded by shelves of beakers and jars, each neatly labeled and corked. 

Imagine him gathering supplies. Ominously colored jugs of unseen battles and silent struggles. He turns a handle, initiating a slow drip from a bucket on a high shelf: the pain of feeling alone. He sets the drip to increase as the mixture brews, like intravenous misery, and reaches for a beaker filled with the black sludge of invisible pain and mental health stigma. The tang of bitterness fills the room as the brew begins to boil.

But what if the chemist is life? And what if we are...what if I am...the vile concoction created?

If you've been with me for any length of time, you probably wouldn't be surprised to learn that there's a lot of focus on mental health awareness in my life. I grew up largely invisible in a noisy world, feeling unseen and unheard. Everyone I knew was broken on some level, burdened with the weight of abuse, abandonment, violence. Poverty. Shame.

We didn't talk about emotional wellness. We didn't circle around and lock arms on a communal trauma recovery journey. "Validation" and "emotional healing" were more likely to be terms of ridicule than to be skills gently handed down, and no one much cared what it feels like to live with unseen pain. But I know what it is to give up. I know what it looks like when no one notices your pain, and when choosing life when it feels impossible just starts to seem...not worth it.

I know because my mother showed me when I was fifteen years old, with a mouthful of pills that may just as well have been manufactured by the proverbial chemist.

So this morning in church, when the news broke that a local pastor had taken his own life, it made me think about why.

Our pastor told us softly, quickly. A hint about health problems, a recent diagnosis, followed by, "He took his life."

He took his life.

Four words that set my mind reeling. Four words that, especially in connection to physical health and emotional illness, opened the spillway of a memory dam I couldn't close.

He took his life.

As the daughter of a person who attempted that very act in my presence, the personal connection is inescapable. And as our pastor went on to pray for a grieving church and a devastated family, I thought of a shattered wife. Thankfully grown but certainly no less heartbroken children. His siblings. His grandbabies.

I know what they'll feel. And my heart aches for them.

We prayed for his friends, his co-workers, his congregation—and I thought about their grief. Their confusion. I know what they'll feel, too. And my heart aches for them.

He was a man of such faith and encouragement. What diagnosis could drive him to such a desperately hopeless act?

I have spina bifida. I've been coping with invisible illness since the day I was born. And I have complex PTSD, so living with anxiety is now just as common to me as any Tuesday morning. Three generations of women in my family have succumbed to the devastation of Alzheimer's disease, and I still remember what it felt like to have my grandmother introduce herself to me on a phone call. As if we were strangers. I'm allergic to wheat and peanuts, and I often joke that if or when I get my own terrifying Alzheimer's diagnosis, I'm leaving the doctor's office and heading straight to Olive Garden.

But it's not funny. It's fear. It's a desperation to never reach a point where I introduce myself to my own children—or grandchildren. It's the echo of a violent childhood that taught me to be as quiet and self-sufficient as possible, to stay out of the way, to never be a burden. It's a recognition of the fact that faith and mental health don't always play well together in a world where there is no way to ask for help when you're struggling...because all too often, the answer is, "Pray harder," instead of, "Wow, that sucks. How can I help you?"

Because all too often, the chorus is singing, "Stand up taller, have no fear," instead of, "I'm so proud of you for trying, even when you're terrified."

On the one hand, I have been berated for thanking God for the miracle of my body—because there are people who assume that if I don't fall to my knees and beg for miracle healing instead, it is evidence of weak faith. On the other, I have been applauded for finding beauty in brokenness—because some people think learning to see life as a gift, even when it's hard, is evidence of resilience through faith. Radical trust in the God who created me without mistakes, perhaps deformed in the eyes of man, but with no less purpose.

I look back on my youth, feeling invisible and unseen, without access to or knowledge of anxiety and depression support...desperately clinging to small blessings in hard times like Hansel and Gretel's trail of breadcrumbs, hoping each one would carry me to the next...completely unaware that those tiny crumbs, in time, became the things that taught me how to find purpose in pain.

And those moments—so many of them colored with the faces of my children, my friends, my loved ones—they're why I'm here.

*****

Another thing our pastor said this morning was, "It can happen to anyone." And he was right. Hopelessness isn't limited to people with terrifying medical reports, people with traumatizing childhoods. It touches us when we've lost yet another friend or relationship, when yet another job doesn't work out, when we're not sure how to pay the five bills on the table...and yet another shows up in the mail. It touches people who don't know or care about God. And yes, it touches people who do.

Holding on when life is hard is...well, hard. Small blessings in hard times can seem so...small. So insignificant. So without power to change anything.

That's why I write what I do, the way I do. It's why my social media is full of inspiring quotes and turn-around perspective stories. And it's why my books are full of people just like us—healing from burnout, searching for hope, learning self-compassion—with each character a portrayal of human need, human suffering, and yes, human healing.

There are give-up moments in almost all of my books, because pretending emotional turmoil doesn't exist is pointless. In the Freedom Series, Christine reaches such a depth of helpless despair that she actually hopes her husband will finally do the unthinkable. When he does, an entirely new existence begins for both of them, and it sets Christine on a journey of growth she could never have imagined. At the Safe House, she learns to walk again, learns to breathe again. In a boxing gym, she learns to love again. But most importantly, with every step she takes and in every place she ends up, I hope she teaches by example what it really means to...

Life is fragile, but we’re stronger when we share it. Every day we wake up is another unopened gift, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, but always worth unwrapping. If my words helped you feel seen today, I'd love to keep sharing moments like this with you—each week, always free, and right there in your inbox.