It’s time to lay some things down; to get low.
To lay down my weapons, my defenses.
To stop running.
Trying to check the boxes.
Zealous? Ambitious? Yes.
But it’s time to rest, to know rest and not mere relief.
It’s time to open my eyes, to allow the Holy Spirit to open my eyes to all of the places and spaces I strive.
To my idols.
To the things I chase, the things I fight for, the things I wear myself out to accomplish.
It’s time to be quiet.
And listen.
Stop asking questions.
Stop spinning webs of doubt.
Stop seeking answers.
And be still.
God, forgive me for trying to write the story the way I want to see Your goodness. Forgive me for not trusting that what You could possibly have for me is good. Forgive me for not trusting You at all.
Trust requires the laying down of my pride and protection, requires vulnerability and intimacy, requires a stillness that I much prefer to drown out with a cacophony of my capability.
But the chaos is jarring, wearing me down day by day and year by year, and I wonder why it’s so hard to hear You, why it’s so hard to believe the things You say about me.
Maybe because it’s always been about following You, but at a distance, where You can’t touch the insecurities and call out defenses. Because it’s been about me performing, to make You proud, but missing Your presence altogether.
God, send Your refining fire. I invite You to touch the most tender parts of my soul, the ones that are more comfortable silenced, the ones that have made me hide from shame when You have called out, the ones that bring honest tears at a mere mention. Touch the places of pride, the swallowing insecurities, the anxiety that has defined me; the places where I’ve fought to make my place, to earn my worth, to show You that I have something to offer.
Forgive me for how I’ve fought You, wrestled with You, tossed up my doubts and questions like angry daggers. Forgive me for how I’ve tried to shove the puzzle pieces into places they were never meant to fit because I was so desperate for perspective and didn’t have the patience for the process.
All I’ve ever wanted was to please You, but I think I’ve missed it. Because I’ve been trying so hard, that I’ve missed You. And I think if I miss Your presence, I’ve missed the whole point.
It’s time to be still and KNOW who You are.

The central focus of what I’ve learned through coaching this past year is that it is my thoughts which dictate my feelings. Such an idea is revolutionary when I had operated for most of my life under the assumption that feelings just happened to me and I was a victim to them.

Of course, feelings do at times come on us unaware. Anxiety and depression do this to me regularly, blindsiding me even when things seem to be going just fine. And although I’ve yet to discover a 12-step program that will make anxiety and depression disappear forever, I now know how to take them as the opportunity to assess my thoughts. For example, what thoughts have I been thinking (even unknowingly) that might have contributed to this? How can I take care of myself right now instead of shaming myself for being human? How can I access the peace of God that He has already provided me? What abundant thoughts can I begin to try on rather than allowing my thoughts of lack spiral out of control?

Operating under this new approach to thoughts and feelings is empowering and liberating.

Encouraged by such freedom, I have decided to begin to pursue some of the “way too hard” things I’ve been putting off for years. I started creating digital products for my company. I launched a store. I opened an Instagram account. I started writing an advanced American literature class that I’ve had notes for sitting in a file two years running. I started blogging again. I started writing a book.

I think what I’ve realized is that there’s never a perfect time to start all the things to want to do, and you’ll never ever feel “ready.” You’re brain will jump in to criticize and sow seeds of doubt no matter when you start. Your brain will belittle the small beginnings. Your brain will provide all of the reasoning as to why you can’t start that thing now.

But if I’m never going to feel ready, I may as well start now anyway and work on my thoughts instead.

Some thoughts that have been lifelong companions but that have been popping up more often recently:

• If only I’d learned this sooner.
• It’s too late to start something new.
• Learning new things is too hard and I’m too tired.
• Everyone else is so far ahead.
• I don’t have enough time.
• My ideas are not valuable.

These thoughts squash creativity, motivation, faith, and hope. I’m learning to dream again, and not in some mystical “I hope I’ll wake up in a fairy tale land with a mansion where everything will be perfect” but in a realistic way: my thoughts direct my feelings which direct my actions which direct the patterns and trajectory of my life. I’m liberated to dream about what I can create when I believe the best.

Some new thoughts I’m trying on:

• I’m so grateful to be able to learn this now.
• Now is the perfect time to learn this because I’m ready now.
• I can learn new things.
• I didn’t need to learn everything and have my whole life figured out by 18. Life is a process of learning, and I’m learning just what I need right now.
• I have everything I need to learn and grow.
• It’s okay to take small steps.
• I can enjoy the process of learning and changing.
• I can learn new things and rest when I need to.
• It’s not a race. It’s not a competition.
• I don’t have to push myself with unrealistic and impossible expectations.
• I don’t have to compare myself with anyone else. I can let them run their race and give myself permission to run my own.
• The ideas I have are valuable because God gave me a creative mind and He wants me to partner with Him to create good and beautiful things.
• An idea doesn’t have to earn money or be part of a business to be valuable.
• God has given me many ideas so that I can delight in His goodness and all of the beauty He has made in so many different areas. 

Trying on new thoughts feels a little bit like trying on swimsuits or jeans. Perhaps we head to the store because we have an upcoming vacation and we will want to go to the beach; or maybe all of our jeans have holes and need replaced. Sometimes, we try on new clothes because we have to. Trying on new thoughts feels a little bit the same way: like nothing else has worked and I’m pretty desperate, otherwise I wouldn’t be here at all because this is really uncomfortable and HARD. However, unlike trying on swimsuits or jeans, trying on new thoughts becomes more natural over time, and if we can push past the uncomfortableness of the process, we might discover that these new thoughts feel GOOD. They’re a little like breathing a new type of air and you wonder where they have been all your life. (Kind of like when you finally find a brand and style of jean that fits so perfectly that you write a review and tell all your friends. Still, the company will probably discontinue those jeans one day, and you’ll cry actual tears about having to start over on the jean hunt. The good news is that these new thoughts never have to be discontinued, and you can add more and more new thoughts to your wheelhouse without breaking the bank!).

Feature Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/brown-scrabble-boards-with-letters-278887/

The topic of healing is a big one in the Church, and why should it not be? Scripture shows us countless instances in which people who were sick were healed. When people we love face injuries or diagnoses, we ask for prayer from the community, we ask for healing from God—even if we don’t talk to Him on a regular basis otherwise. Prayer for those who need healing is an idea most any of us can get behind. As creations of God marred by a broken world, we all naturally long to be whole, to experience life in its fullness.

But I think praying for a miracle is the easy part. And, even if we aren’t willing to utter the words aloud or are afraid to believe that miracles still happen, I think at some point or another we all deeply feel the desire for a miracle in our lives. Life has a way of throwing at us things we never saw coming, things we never asked for, and in the hardest hours, we want those things to go away. We want our marriage to be better; we want our child to be healed; we want the financial troubles to be eased; we want the family tension to dissipate. We want a prayer and an answer, life to be easier. And God is God, so why shouldn’t we believe that one prayer could change everything?

It could. We see in Scripture many times over how one prayer or one encounter with Jesus changed everything for a person. I believe in a God of miracles, a God of healing. But sometimes I think that our desire for a miracle is wrongly placed—we build our hope on receiving the outcome we desire, not on the miracle-working God Himself. (Maybe that’s just me?) I think too often we also count on the miracle, hope for the miracle, because we don’t want hard work. We don’t want to be uncomfortable. We don’t want to face what might be challenging to us, to our belief systems, to our lifestyle.

This is a human problem. I mean, it’s quite natural for us to not want things to be hard or challenging. We seek the easy road, the most efficient method, the least-painful process. I get it. That’s very normal. But in doing so, perhaps we miss out on many of the miracles God wants to do in our lives because we sit in the chair at church or stand in our kitchen or hide in our closet asking God for a miracle though we are simultaneously unwilling to do any work on our end to walk that miracle out in real time. And when we don’t see anything happen, we question God and blame Him for not showing up.

Of course, there are situations in our lives, in the world, that are fully out of our control. Situations that, no matter what we do or say, nothing is going to change as a result of our actions. I fully acknowledge that. Seeing a miracle isn’t always about us doing something or anything at all.

But when it comes to us—and our own desires for healing and wholeness —sometimes we are sitting around waiting for God to do something while He is waiting for us to get up and join Him in the process, no matter how difficult, painful, or uncomfortable that will be.

I don’t know where you sit today, but I know for myself that I have asked God for a myriad of healing throughout my life. The outcome I hoped for was an instant one. But if I am being honest, I was hopeful that healing meant the process would be quick, painless, and very easy. Then I’d emerge as a totally new person, free from the baggage and frustrations of being human. Struggle would be gone, and I’d love life. I’d shout from the mountaintops about how good God was and what a miracle He had done. I prayed and prayed for healing—mental, emotional, and physical. And I grew more and more weary with each passing year that I found myself still here, still me, still the same.

Last year, the inner turmoil of years and years began to show up in a debilitating physical way. Desperation set in. I think physical pain has a way of getting our attention—often, we can only ignore it so long before we can no longer practically function in life. I have found it far to easy to ignore my thoughts or emotions but it is impossible to ignore migraines, especially when they hit you every three days and you can’t even catch your breath before the next one begins.

Those migraines were a wake up call. I could keep praying for the God of Miracles to show up and make the pain go away. Or I could get out of the chair, make a phone call, and take some steps toward alleviating this pain. A few weeks into 2023, I began seeing a chiropractor. And I never would have thought that seeing her would change the trajectory of my life. My first visit with her set me on a path of healing I didn’t ask for, I didn’t want, and I didn’t think was possible. I needed a lot more than a neck adjustment.

Sometimes healing is instant and praise God for those miracles that sweep us off our feet and blow us away in an instant. Those are real and true and good. But too often, I think healing is actually hard work. When an athlete suffers a major injury, they don’t sleep for a few days and return to the gym in full force. No—the process of healing is long. It is grueling, mentally and physically. Often it takes months or years, with two steps forward and ten steps back, to return to the pre-injury state. The process takes persistence and courage, sweat and tears.

Sometimes, healing takes time. Healing is hard. I wish it were one and done. I wish it were easy. I wish it felt more exciting, more energizing. I have found the process exhausting and confusing. Hopeful, yes—but challenging. I want to quit. Sometimes I find myself looking back at “Egypt,” to bondage, believing that back there I “sat by pots of meat and ate all the bread [I] wanted” (Exodus 16.3). And although “I know the place I was wasn’t perfect . . . I had found a way to live” (Groves). I’ve been living in survival mode for so long, that kind of started to feel comfortable. In the moment, maybe not . . . but now, it seems like that was a lot more comfortable that getting out of it. Really, there are many days when living in bondage to anxiety and depression and overwhelm and perfectionism and control feels a LOT easier than walking into the wilderness, where God makes water flow from a rock and bread to rain from heaven. That’s really not the miracle I asked for anyway.

I was okay with You setting me free, God—if it came all shiny and exciting, fun and fast—definitely fast. I was okay with the miracle, as long as it was quick and painless, and maybe a bit romantic, like a movie. But an uncomfortable process? That requires me to choose to show up each morning? That requires me to do work? Hard work? To listen to You? To deal with my pain?

Far too often, I think we miss out on the healing we desire because we aren’t willing to do the hard work of healing. The commitment is daunting. The time it takes might require that we give up other things, even if just for a season but maybe altogether. Facing the problem, whether that be mental or physical, is painful. It feels easier just to keep going on with what we are doing and praying for that miracle instead of facing what’s really going on. Often, we think if we just ignore the problem, it will go away on its own, or at the very least, it really won’t cause that much damage. Often, it’s easier just to numb the pain with whatever coping mechanisms we have developed. All of this certainly feels good to an extent but doesn’t deal with the root of the issue. It creates a false sense of peace which ultimately leaves us continually grasping for a miracle that we will probably never see.

The process of healing is not for the faint of heart. Honestly, though? I am faint of heart. Most days, I am too tired to care. I’d rather just stay in bed, figuratively. I’d rather just cope. Rather just survive. But when I take God’s outstretched hand and let Him lead me on this journey, He gives me courage to keep going. He opens my eyes to daily glimmers of hope and promise. He reminds me where the path ultimately leads—which is an eternity where He wipes away every tear from my eyes. So I keep showing up for this work of healing, even though it doesn’t look at all like I thought it would.

Sources:

Groves, Sara. “Painting Pictures of Egypt.” Conversations, INO Records, 2001.

The Bible. Holman Christian Standard Bible, Holman Christian Bible Publishers, 2004.

Feature Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/coffee-latte-beside-spring-notebook-531770/

The other night, I stood outside under a star-studded sky with several hundred children and their families. We surveyed a field ablaze with 20,000 plastic Easter eggs, each one equipped with a blinking LED light. I have never seen anything quite like it-and whether or not you agree with the idea of plastic eggs stuffed with corn-syrup and dye-filled candy, the beauty of the scene was truly undeniable.

As one of the people who helped install 2,000 of those blinking lights, I felt a certain sense of reward, of course. The 15 hours I spent with my hot glue gun became immensely worth it. But then, a voice sounded in the back of my mind, one that I am not very used to hearing. The shock of it caught me off guard.

“This is so fun.”

Somewhere about the time I experienced the loss of a dear friend and I woke up to the reality of hurt, confusion, and pain, I gave up on the idea of fun.

I was eleven years old.

Which is to say that for the better part of the last twenty plus years, I have struggled to have fun. My life hasn’t been miserable, and I can certainly recall fun times (some of the ridiculous games we used to play in youth group or the time I ran through the rain with friends in Romania or one of the many trips I have taken with my husband or the time we sat around the campfire with his family and I laughed until I cried over a story his aunt told). But, overall, I have tucked that part of life into a dark corner of my existence because fun is frivolous and completely unnecessary. And most definitely not safe.

Who has time for fun when you have to spend all of your time protecting yourself from further potential loss? Who has time for fun when you have to spend all of your time proving your worth to yourself, to God, and to everyone around you?

Besides, when a better portion of everything you do is clouded by anxiety and confusing dark thoughts that you don’t know what to do with, even fun things stop being fun.

Maybe what I am realizing is that I have built up a form of emotional armor—it felt easier, and definitely safer, to avoid fun, and to surround myself with discipline and responsibility, a cold edge of never being too invested or too excited about anything. I think having fun feels unsafe because opening myself up to fun and enjoyment means risking disappointment. If I open myself up the possibility that something could be fun, that I could actually enjoy something, I risk the possibility of being disappointed. It is far easier to go into everything preparing for a letdown (preparing for the worst, actually?) because then with disappointment happens, I won’t be surprised—or hurt.

So when something is fun, or I find myself blinking back tears because of how beautiful a field of glowing eggs is, I am genuinely shocked.

Shocked that God is so good to me that He makes it possible for me to have fun here on earth.

Recently, I have been praying and asking God to show me what He means by “life more abundantly.” I think I’ve got the “life” part down at least a little, but the “more abundantly?” I don’t understand that. That sounds really really too good to be true. Does He mean that it’s possible to live a life that isn’t just survival mode? That isn’t just “get through this and die”?

One of my goals for this month is to ask God for more – which before has felt so selfish and wrong, and honestly, very very dangerous.

But if we can’t ask Him for more, what else do we have? (And no, I’m not talking about being rich or asking for a bigger house or a fancier car because I know we all like to talk about how we shouldn’t ask God for material blessings and that following Jesus isn’t about health and wealth. I get that, but we’re off on a tangent now.)

I’m talking a much bigger picture . . . more knowing of Him, more knowing of His presence, more knowing of His voice, more knowing of His care, more knowing of the ways He hears me, more knowing of His goodness, more knowing of His love. More joy. And yes, even more fun.

Life more abundantly. I think the other night, I caught a small glimpse of what this could mean. Maybe that seems utterly frivolous, but somehow, that field glowing with 20,000 eggs felt fun . . . and so so abundant. Like HE IS SO GOOD, and I have a reason to celebrate being alive abundant.

I want more of THAT in my life.

Feature Photo by Min An: https://www.pexels.com/photo/full-moon-illustration-713664/

Although it was nearly seventeen years ago, I can still remember the repeated questioning of family, friends, and strangers alike during my senior year of high school. Some people phrased this with more gentleness and genuine curiosity. “What do you want to be?” Others were more direct. “What are you going to do with your life?”

In such questioning, I think that we—by which I mean I—have a tendency to want to make ‘purpose’ into this single, controlling concept—this one thing that I do, this one thing that I am inherently gifted at, this thing that becomes the passion and fire of my soul so that I don’t do anything else. And the problem with this viewpoint is that I discount anything which doesn’t fit into that ‘purpose.’ (Now, that’s a whole other discussion because purpose and I are regularly, still, having arguments. Wrestling with what purpose is continues to be an ongoing area of growth in my life.)

Last year, I began working with a life coach, which is also another discussion for another time—that could fill up a dozen posts by itself—and this year, because of my conversations with her, I dipped my toes into the world of dreaming again. One of the questions I have been working through is “How could my current—or past—circumstances be the biggest gift in the future?”

This is not a question I appreciate. Because I want to compartmentalize the idea of purpose, and say that everything I have done or am doing means nothing. (I don’t know why I seem to enjoy sabotaging myself in this way, but I do, and we are working on that.) This question left me wrestling, in many ways, with my vocation in the education industry. Really, I never saw myself as a writing teacher or a curriculum developer. While I home educate my children and have enjoyed teaching in a variety of settings in my life, growing a business in this field is not something I am passionate about and not something I ever set out to do. Which, for some people, that might not matter one iota, but I am one of those people who needs to feel inspired by her work (creative brains, anyone?). I have struggled with this year after year because although I love words and I am very good at writing, grammar, etc., I just don’t really have a deep love of teaching MLA format or academic paper formatting.

But as I have been thinking through this question, I have been able to discover so many ways in which my current vocation—which is not to say my ‘purpose,’ just my current paying job—has the potential to shape my future as a writer. As a business owner and as one who owns the type of company that I do, I have learned some incredibly valuable skills, of which I will only cover a few for now, over the last sixteen years.

• First, I have learned how to show up even when I don’t feel like it or am discouraged: I have watched so many people over the years start a business and be really excited about running their own thing, then quit within a year or two because the work is too hard or no longer exciting. I would normally fall into that category, but there is something to be said about the need to pay bills and put food on the table. I went full time with this business because we had a baby on the way and a very quickly diminishing bank account. When you just need to pay rent, quitting when you don’t feel like doing the work isn’t an option any more. Quitting when the process is discouraging is really out of the question. You get up and you work every single day, whether you feel like it or not and even if you don’t see the results. For a creative person like me, this lesson has been the most valuable of any because my habit has been to quit the minute inspiration leaves the room. For the first several years of running this business, though, quitting was not an option no matter how uninspired I felt. We had a mortgage to pay. We had children to feed and clothe. So I kept working, and as much as this is a job I never envisioned myself having, to look back and know that I have stuck with something for sixteen years and created something meaningful makes me so grateful and so proud. And it helps me to see that I can stick to things and be faithful and press through even when my emotions don’t line up.

• I have learned how to write anything I put my mind to. If there is one thing that I believe that I am good at, it is writing. But, for a long time, I really didn’t think I could write content that was meaningful. Sure, I could write about sledding with my friends or what my family did on vacation, but could I write content that made sense to people? That could educate? That could inform? That could help someone? But then I sat down to write my first class, and somehow, I was able to put into words nine lessons about the parts of an essay and how to put those parts together every single time to write something that made sense. That class sold and has become our most popular class, though revised and rewritten probably a dozen times over since 2008, but that was the fuel for me to keep writing. I have genuinely surprised myself year after year at what I have been able to write about. Every time I dream up a new class or new concept, I feel that doubt and hesitation. Where do I begin? I can’t do this. But then I sit down with a cup of coffee and a blank page, my mind kicks into gear, and off we head to the races. And before I know it, I have 80 pages of material about ancient literature or how to write persuasive compositions or what the United States was like in 1824. I’m not afraid of writing anymore.

• Inevitably, though, there is that companion known as writer’s block. This job has taught me how to push through writer’s block. I just sit down and write. I have heard authors give advice about writing: they write every day, even if just a little something, even if they erase all of it. They get something on to the page. They write to a certain word count or set a timer and write until the timer rings. No matter what, they write. For a long time, I chose to believe, instead, that I would only write when I was inspired. Turns out, inspiration doesn’t always feel like it’s there. But, ironically, the thoughts are there and the inspiration flows when I just keep writing. Every single day, or every little itty bitty moment of spare time, which is more like it for me in this season, I write, I write, I write. Sometimes the content makes sense. Sometimes, I go back and rewrite it and rewrite it again. Sometimes, I delete it altogether. But those authors were correct—to be a writer is to write, block or no block.

• I have learned how to write effectively. When I began my company, I don’t think I really knew what made writing effective. I was pretty good at writing papers, but I hadn’t really thought about the components of effective writing until I began trying to teach them to other people. Writing lesson material about writing has helped me to see and understand what makes good writing good and what makes writing engaging. The process has also helped me to learn how to organize concepts in a way that is beneficial and informative for other people which is important if you are going to write a book.

• I have learned how to create something that doesn’t fit the mold. Interestingly, the reason I started my company is that I had applied to several other companies offering similar services and was turned down because I did not have a college degree in English. This frustrated me. They wouldn’t even let me show them what I knew about writing or grammar. No degree, no conversation. So I started my own company. And now, I am exploring the world of being a writer who doesn’t fit the mold. I don’t have a massive social media following, and I am not sure I want to be published by any mainstream company in the industry. Still, the world of being a writer today has so many opportunities for those who don’t want to follow the normal path, and I have learned enough about doing that—and grown confident enough in all of the not-very-normal paths I have chosen in my life—to realize that I can be a successful writer even if I don’t fit the mold.

• Finally for today, I have learned the importance of pushing through imposter syndrome. About that college degree—when I started my company, and for many years after, I was terrified that parents would find out I didn’t have higher education, pull their kids from classes, and blast my deficiencies all over the web for everyone to see. Still, there’s a bit of that fear niggling in the back of my mind even to this day. But, it has been sixteen years since I began this journey—sixteen years of teaching writing—and I have enough experience now after having worked with thousands of families and students to know that I and my company have something to offer. Imposter syndrome, though—it’s real. I don’t always advocate for this mindset, but in many places, I think “fake it until you make it” is as true as it gets. When you start something, you will be new at it. Duh? You will feel totally unqualified, completely out of your element. You will be Googling late at night things like “how to write a proper privacy policy for your website” and “how do I know if my website has cookies”? You will call people with questions about tax forms; read stacks of books about writing essays—written by other people, just to make sure that what you are teaching isn’t totally off-center from what all the other children in the world are being taught; and learn from all manner of mistakes and challenges. You will be, as my children love to call it, a newb. But, isn’t that reality? We all have to start somewhere. Even the most talented and successful people in the world were once new at this thing. So, although I feel very much like an imposter in the writing industry, and how dare I think I have something of value to say to the world, I at least know how to recognize imposter syndrome and push through it.

So, maybe this is something you could think about in your own life. Rather than discount your present or past circumstances, how have those things already become a gift to you, or how might they be a gift in your future?

Feature Photo by Jessica Lewis 🦋 thepaintedsquare: https://www.pexels.com/photo/ball-point-pen-on-opened-notebook-606541/

A few weeks ago, a friend looked me in the eye and asked, “When are you going to write a book?”

It was such a genuinely nonchalant question, but I wasn’t sure what to say, actually, because I’d just gotten finished arguing with God about the whole writing thing just a few days before. I tried to answer with a lot of excuses as to why I wasn’t going to write a book—or anything for that matter, but the conversation has bothered me since.

You see, words and me, we go way back.

I got my first journal when I was about seven years old. It was pink and shiny with a little locking clasp, and I was so proud to own something that I could lock and hide the key for—something that was strictly mine that no one else would have access to. That bright clean first page spread before me, and I wrote about going sledding with my friends. I can still remember that absolutely childish delight of putting into words the fun I’d had, to store that memory in ink forever.

To say that I have been writing ever since would be a mild understatement. I was that girl who wrote stories for friends and family as gifts; that girl who genuinely loved the process of writing essays and research papers in school (don’t hate me); and that girl who has filled with words dozens of journals, notebooks, planners, and loose pieces of paper—not to mention who knows how many computer documents—over the last two and a half decades.

I am a terrible verbal communicator. I overthink everything I say, my throat goes dry, and—if you know me well, you know that I have a hard time communicating anything of importance (which really could just be the weekend’s plans or booking a hotel for vacation) without either panicking or crying. (I am sorry.)

But writing? It’s breathing. I feel the same way when I touch the piano keys or when I step foot on an ice rink. When I write, I feel free. Give me a blank page and a pen (or a keyboard) and the words come spilling out. I can write 1,000 words in 20 minutes without even blinking an eye.

Despite the fact that writing has always been an integral part of my life, I swore it off several years ago, both publicly and privately. Publicly, because I did not want to add more noise to an already noisy culture. I did not want to write things and sound like I had it all together because I mostly definitely do not. I also needed to navigate the pathways of learning how to be a wife and mother without exposing that to the world. And, to be fully honest, I had grown weary of the comments by family and friends (though well-meaning, I am sure) about the raw thoughts I was leaving on the page. I did not want to come across as if I were looking for attention. I was afraid of saying something that could get thrown back in my face. I was afraid of being hypocritical. Also, I was disenchanted with the publishing industry and felt that my chance at being a writer was basically non-existent since I had neither a strong social media following nor any desire to promote my work in visible settings. In reality, I have needed time to learn; time to question every single thing I believed; time to mature (an ongoing process, y’all).

In a shocking move, though, I also gave up writing privately. For years, I did not write anything in a journal or on my laptop. I had become overwhelmed by my own voice; I was tired of the thoughts I kept revisiting and had no healthy ways to manage them. I hated the fact that when I sat down to write, I cried. I hated the words—and the tears—spilling on to the page. I hated me. I hated life. At times, I hated God. I tore apart and shredded a number of journals because I never ever wanted to see those words again. I believed that by silencing the words, I could avoid the emotions and the turmoil that swirled within. I would be safer if I didn’t write.

That isn’t to say that I didn’t write anything at all. In fact, during this ‘silent’ period, I have grown a business that is (are you ready for this?) all about words. I have written hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of words of curriculum (that is not an exaggeration), teaching other people how to write and encouraging other people about the importance of words. Funny, yes? I was writing, and it felt safe (a little boring maybe, but safe), and I liked it that way. At least, I told myself I liked it.

But there was this nagging in my spirit, a nagging to press in deeper, a nagging for something more. And I had been asking God about it for years. What was it that I was supposed to do? What about all of these swirling thoughts in my head? Despite the fact that I had tried to silence them, they kept growing louder and louder. I became tired of my efforts to stay safe. And I thought, maybe, just maybe, writing would help me break out of the prison in which I found myself.

So last spring, after reading Joanna Gaines’ The Stories We Tell, I bought myself a journal. It is pink. And shiny. Though this time, there is no locking clasp and no key. Instead of being proud of this journal, I feel wildly unsafe with it. This time, instead of staring at the first blank page with glee, I looked at it with horror. I was supposed to put something on that page? When had writing begun to feel so suffocating? When had I become so terrified by my own thoughts?

I have spent much of the year exploring my thoughts and ideas in writing. The process has been painful. I have avoided it far more often than not. But, I have been surprised—shocked really—to find that the words are still very much there.

But, I would keep those words for myself, I said. I have nothing to say that anyone else wants or needs to read. I can’t walk down that road again, being transparent and honest in a public setting. Besides, blogs aren’t trendy anymore—everyone is doing videos and reels and Instagram stories, and that will never be me.

The words come just as easily to me as they did when I was seven years old, but now I mix them with doubt and self-criticism, with questions, with fear, with concern. I mix them with heartache and disappointment and reality. And so it seems, maybe it is better not to write. Maybe it is better just to stick with safe, just to write about thesis statements and MLA format. But that thing in my spirit? It persists. And I don’t know why. I do know that I am tired of ignoring it. I am tired of discounting this part of my life. I am tired of saying, “I’m not a writer,” merely because I don’t have a publishing contract or a book on a store shelf. I am tired of believing that I have to do the trendy things or do the things that other people like or want me to do. I am tired of believing that my voice doesn’t matter. I am tired of making decisions based on what other people might think. I am tired of letting fear rule my entire life.

Yes, you might think, “Oh, here she goes again . . . writing on her blog. Let’s see how long this lasts?” You might judge the thoughts I share. You might question my motives, my walk with God, my personality, and my character. And even if you don’t, I will. I will do all of those things to myself.

But I will write. Because I have things to say. And it is the words of other people put on paper that have pulled me out of the pit the last few years. So if other people can write, and God can speak through those people, then why can’t I write and have Him speak through me?

Am I writing a book? Well, I’m not sure. I’ve got 10,000 words—very messy words—gathering in a document on my computer. They are not the least bit coherent, but I’m exploring. For now, I will write here as I can. I have no schedule, no timetable, absolutely no agenda. And maybe I’ll just write about sledding with my friends, who knows? But if words are your thing—and even if they are not—I’d so deeply appreciate you joining me on this journey of discovering the writer I have always been and the one I am becoming every single day.

Feature Photo by Jess Bailey Designs: https://www.pexels.com/photo/closeup-photo-of-journal-book-and-pencils-1018133/