The Hard and the Holy

Posted on by fearlessatheart

This summer has been nothing like I imagined.

I pictured running through Kingwood Gardens with my toddler, swimming in lakes, and finally enjoying being back on two feet again.

Jokes on me.

Let me be incredibly transparent.

Transparency and authenticity are not new things for me. Since my accident in 2016, I have realized what a gift authenticity can be. I’m not saying we should air all of our dirty laundry or share every hardship with everyone in every setting. But I do believe there is beauty in letting people see both the messy and the holy parts of our lives.

For years, I looked at other people and compared myself to the polished version of them I had created in my mind. Unsurprisingly, I always came up short. Social media doesn’t help because most of us naturally share the highlights, not the heartbreak. I was recently reminded how dangerous it is to assume everyone else has it all together when we only know the edited version of their story.

What if we were just a little more honest—with ourselves and with each other? What if we shared both the hard and the holy?

If I’m being honest, I’m tired of life being hard.

I know God uses difficult seasons to shape us and refine us. I believe that with my whole heart. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when my fears are louder than my faith, I quietly wish He would stop refining me for a while.

Don’t hear what I’m not saying. I’m not saying God caused my accident or my broken foot. We simply live in a broken world where painful things happen.

I joke that my broken foot makes me a better rehab nurse because I can better relate to my patients. Truthfully, though, my accident already taught me that lesson. So I’ve found myself asking, What am I supposed to learn this time?

Surprisingly, this season—and honestly, both of these seasons—hasn’t been about learning how to endure pain. It’s been about learning to be confident in who I am and in the skills God has given me while still being humble enough to admit I have so much left to learn. Growth requires both confidence and humility. If we stop learning, we stop growing.

So maybe that’s really the point of all of this.

Not that we have all the answers.
Not that we pretend everything is okay.
Not that we wait until our story is wrapped up neatly before we share it.

Maybe we’re simply meant to let people see the whole picture.

Because when we have the courage to share both the hard and the holy, we create space for someone else to say, “Me too.”

And I think we’d be surprised by how many people understand.

94 Days: The Hard and the Holy

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94 days.

That’s how long I’ve been non-weightbearing this time around.

I’m tired—like, really tired—but the break is finally healing, so hopefully I’ll be back on my feet soon.

Here are just a few things I’ve learned—and honestly, relearned—during this season.

Healing takes time, and it isn’t always linear.

I don’t know about you, but I want healing to happen instantaneously. That’s not how life works. Healing is a process. It ebbs and flows over time. Whether it’s physical healing or emotional healing, it takes time and patience.

The funny thing about patience is that when you ask God for it, He doesn’t simply hand it to you. He allows you to walk through situations that grow it.

It’s good—necessary, even—to let people help you.

This is a hard lesson for me to learn… and relearn.

I like to be in control, which usually means I like to do everything myself. It drives my loving husband crazy because I’ll ask him to do something and then go ahead and do it myself.

I’m learning that asking for help also means allowing people to actually help.

It’s important to have people in your corner.

I am incredibly blessed to have people who love me enough to drive me places, bring meals, check in, and encourage me.

The only problem? I have to get over myself and actually ask.

Sometimes they love me through something as simple as a handwritten card. Somehow, God always seems to deliver those cards on the days when chaos feels the loudest.

Atlas will only be little once.

This is Atlas’ childhood.

This is my motherhood.

I want to enjoy the time I get to spend with him instead of constantly rushing from one thing to the next. In a strange way, this season has been a gift because we’ve had so much uninterrupted time together simply because I can’t rush around.

There is beauty in living a slower life.

I’m not saying I’m going to quit my job or leave school. But I can’t sustain constantly running from one thing to another.

There has to be balance.

The month before I broke my foot again, I was trying to do everything. I loved everything I was doing, but I was exhausted, and if I’m honest, everyone around me felt it too.

I physically can’t live that way anymore.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

Not to stop doing the things I love, but to learn how to pace myself so I can actually enjoy them.

These are just a few of the things God has been teaching me in this season—the hard and the holy.

Hopefully, this chapter is coming to a close, and a new one—maybe a little less adventurous—is about to begin.

But if this season has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes the slowest seasons produce the deepest growth.

A glimpse of chapter one

Posted on by fearlessatheart

If you had met me before the accident, you would have known a different version of me. She was independent, ambitious, and convinced she had life figured out. Little did I know, life was about to take a wild, unexpected turn into the unknown.

Let me start at the beginning.

It was the summer of 2016. Life was finally falling into place—or so I thought. I had just graduated from nursing school and landed my first job as a brand-new nurse. After years of studying, sleepless nights, and wondering if I would ever make it, I finally had the career I had worked so hard for.

I had my own apartment, my own paycheck, and for the first time, complete independence. The future felt wide open. I was excited, optimistic, and ready to begin the life I had imagined for myself. I was figuring out my new city and discovering hole-in-the-wall places that I hoped would become my favorites over time.

Looking back now, I smile at how certain I was that I knew what the next chapter would hold.

I had no idea that in a matter of weeks, everything would change.

I had dreams that stretched far beyond the life I was building. I hoped to get married someday, and I longed to live overseas. For years, I had felt drawn to a life beyond the United States. Although I was learning to be content where I was, I never stopped believing that God was preparing me for something bigger.

At that point, I had finally made peace with being stateside—for now. The emphasis was on for now. I believed there was a reason God had me exactly where I was, even if I couldn’t yet see the full picture. Still, I was ambitious enough to think that within a year I might be packing my bags and beginning a new life abroad.

As it turned out, God had different plans for me. Before He would take me around the world, He would first teach me how to survive.

For months, I was figuring everything out. I was thriving as a new nurse-growing and learning the career that I had worked so hard to achieve.

Truth Louder Than Fear

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I have this very bad habit of lying to myself.

I get caught up in my head, allowing negative thoughts about my abilities, capabilities, and worth to weave themselves into my life.

“You are not good enough or pretty enough.”
“You cannot do that.”
“Well, they only decided to hang out with you because you kept bothering them.”
“See? You do not know as much as you think you do.”
“They probably do not even want to be around you.”
“Do not even try because you will fail.”

These lies feed my insecurities and slowly suffocate my desire to be brave. I begin second-guessing my abilities and spiraling deeper into believing the statements running through my head.

It does not help that I am an overthinker. I read too much into my own actions and the actions of others. These toxic thoughts hold me back from being bold in the face of new challenges because they fill me with fear—fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of not being enough.

The past couple of weeks have felt like a constant battle as those lies flooded my overwhelmed soul, trying to convince me that I have no idea what I am doing, that I will never fit in, and that I will never truly be enough.

I hate failing. I hate doing things that I know I might fail at. So instead of stepping out bravely and risking failure in friendships, adulthood, or even my new job, it became easier to hide behind my toxic thoughts.

In the quiet moments, I allowed those lies to keep weaving themselves into my mind, so instead of the quiet feeling refreshing, it became unbearably lonely.

Ashamed, I admit that I failed at living audaciously because I allowed fearful thoughts to trap me inside the safety of my comfort zone.

Ironically, I failed anyway—the exact thing I was trying so desperately to avoid.

Truthfully, I have always hated doing things I knew I would not immediately be good at. If I thought I might fail, I usually ran in the opposite direction and played it safe.

And during all this change, I did the same thing emotionally. I clung tightly to the people, routines, and places that felt familiar instead of allowing myself to branch out, build new friendships, and create new rhythms.

But here is the reality: I will probably fail at something. Maybe even a lot of things.

I cannot spend my life standing still simply because success is not guaranteed.

The thoughts that hold me captive in fear are lies, and they need to be rebuked and pushed aside.

Instead, I need to fight back with words that breathe life into my soul.

“You can do this.”
“You are enough.”
“You are beautiful.”
“You may fail, but you will learn and grow from it.”
“You are loved.”

These are the truths I need to weave into my heart until they become louder than the lies.

Somehow, it has always been easier for me to speak these truths over other women and other people than it has been to believe them about myself.

But my challenge in this season is this: to remind myself that I am brave, capable, confident, and fearless in the face of lies trying to steal my joy.

And maybe you need that reminder too.

You are brave.
You are enough.
You are loved.

God created you with purpose and intention. Yes, you will probably fail at something—but do not let the fear of failing keep you from fully stepping into the life you were meant to live.

Still Trying

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Mental health is health.

Since it’s Mental Health Awareness Month, I’ve been paying even closer attention to mine—and if I’m being honest, this year has been really hard.

I want to be real with you.

I went from firing on all cylinders… to barely doing anything… back to full speed… and then to a complete stop. It’s been a whirlwind, and right now, I’m struggling to just be still.

There’s so much I feel like I should be doing, but anxiety keeps creeping in—telling me that every step forward might make things worse. Sometimes my mind spirals into wondering if this is just my life now… if I’ll always feel limited like this.

And the hardest part?
I know these thoughts aren’t true.
But knowing that doesn’t make them quieter—it sometimes makes me harder on myself for having them at all.

Thoughts that I’m worthless.
That I’m letting people down.
That I’m just seeking attention.

And layered underneath those are the familiar ones:
I’m not enough. No one really loves me.

Add in too much time and not enough to fill it, and it becomes a heavy place to sit in.

I don’t even fully understand why I broke my leg the first time—let alone the second. But I do know this:

God isn’t afraid of my thoughts.
And these thoughts don’t get the final say.

A wise woman once told me:
You can’t stop a bird from flying over your head, but you can stop it from building a nest there.

So I’m practicing that.
I notice the thought… and I let it pass.

Some days that feels doable.

Some days, like lately, it feels really hard.

But I’m still trying.

And maybe that counts for something. 

God honors that. God meets me here. 

Between Breaking and Becoming

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31 was heavy.

Not in ways you could always see,
but in the quiet stretching,
the unseen becoming.

I grew—
as a woman,
a wife,
a daughter,
a nurse,
a mother.

I reached beyond what felt comfortable,
found new edges of myself…
and met my limits there too.

I broke my foot.
Twice.

The first time felt like a mistake.
The second felt like a story I wouldn’t have chosen—
but somehow still needed.

And even there—
especially there—
God met me.

Not after I had it all together,
not once I found the “right” words,
but right in the middle of it all.

Reminding me:
nothing I feel scares Him.
Not the doubt,
not the frustration,
not the quiet ache I don’t always name.

Abba stays.

Through the busy,
through the still,
through the chaos that feels too loud
and the silence that feels too long.

There were glimmers—
small, steady lights
tucked into ordinary days.

Love that showed up.
Prayers I didn’t have to carry alone.
Grace that met me before I asked for it.

And somewhere along the way,
I began to stand a little taller in who I am.

Still learning.
Still growing.
But rooted in something deeper than doubt.

I am capable.
I am called.
And I am not here by accident.

31 changed me.

So here’s to 32—
not perfect,
not easy,
but grounded.

Softer where I need to be,
stronger where it matters,
and steady enough to notice the light
when it finds me.

32 Years of Becoming

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32 🤍

It’s my birthday month. I decided to be like my 3 year old and celebrate all month long. Why not? Life is hard enough as is so why not look forward to something happy?

How am I going to be that old?

Sometimes I still feel like that awkward 12-year-old trying to find her place between cultures and continents. But somewhere along the way, I’ve grown into someone who is finally comfortable in who I am—and who God created me to be, quirks and all.

Here are a few things I’ve learned in almost 32 years:

• Be yourself. The people who matter don’t mind, and the people who mind don’t matter. (This one took me years.)
• My heart has space for multiple countries—every place leaves its mark.
• Sometimes you have to step away, put yourself first, and rediscover God in the wilderness.
• No matter how hard life gets, you are deeply loved by a Father who never lets go.
• A well-timed dance party can fix more than you think.
• God wastes nothing—He uses every part of your story for good.
• There is no such thing as coincidence—only God.
• You’ll regret the things you didn’t do more than the ones you did. Be brave.
• Make plans, but hold them loosely—life will surprise you.
• Every person in your life has a purpose, whether they stay or go.
• Comparison steals joy—don’t let it.
• Be present. These moments are fleeting.
• People matter. Always.
• Talk to strangers—you might just find connection where you least expect it.
• Do fewer things, but do them well.
• It’s okay—and healthy—to say no.
• Your job is not your identity.
• Self-care isn’t selfish.
• Life is about the journey, not just the destination.
• Who you were at 20 is not who you are now—and that’s a good thing.
• Never stop learning.
• Self-awareness is a superpower.
• Hold tightly to the people who bring out the most in you—they’re rare.
• You become like the people you surround yourself with. Choose wisely.
• Distance doesn’t diminish real friendship.

32 feels different. Not because everything is figured out—but because I’m finally okay with that.

And honestly… I wouldn’t go back.

You Don’t Wait for Recovery-You Choose It.

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If you want a glimpse into what goes on in my head—or in the minds of those living with a brain injury—read this book-I’ll Carry the Fork. 

Kara Swanson shares, in a lighthearted and honest way, the realities of life after a brain injury. Brain injuries are like snowflakes—no two are exactly the same—but there are threads that connect many of our experiences.

Here are a few truths I’ve learned along the way:

It’s hard—but necessary—to rely on others.
There is something incredibly humbling about needing help with things you once did independently. Admitting you need help is hard, but it’s also where connection and growth begin.

You choose when you’re recovered.
Recovery isn’t the absence of symptoms. It’s the moment you decide to move forward despite them.
“We are the only ones who can choose when we are recovered…when we stop waiting for our old lives to return on handsome white horses.”
At some point, we stop waiting—and start becoming.

Post-it notes are your friends.
When memory fails, sticky notes step in. Bright colors, little reminders—tiny lifelines. (Yellow is my favorite…a little bit of sunshine on hard days.)

Attitude is everything.
Those who say they can’t and those who say they can are both right. Belief shapes effort. Effort shapes outcomes.
In my case, my stubbornness finally had a purpose.

Forgive. Forgive. Forgive.
Forgive the people who are well. Forgive the life you didn’t choose. Forgive the injury itself.
Holding on to bitterness only weighs you down. Let it go—not because it’s easy, but because it’s freeing.

Thank the people who jumped in the hole with you.
I didn’t choose this. But the people who stayed? They did.
They chose to walk through the hard, to sit in the unknown, to love me through it all. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.

Nothing has power over you unless you give it that power.
A brain injury changes your life—but it doesn’t have to stop it. We still get to choose how we live within it.

Fill the holes in your life—before they fill themselves.
Fill them with people who lift you up. With kindness. With truth. With hope.
Find the ones who remind you who you were, who understand who you are, and who believe in who you’re becoming.

I’ve found those people. And I thank God for them.

Formed in the Hard, Held in Grace

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Dear Sara,

This is me writing to you nine years after that life-changing event. Life doesn’t look anything like I thought it would, and there has been so much to learn and grieve—but God is still good in the chaos.

Nothing is a coincidence. I think I always believed that, but I’ve truly felt it lately. It’s not a coincidence that on one of my hardest days, a friend texts me out of the blue or a letter shows up that encourages my soul. Those moments feel intentional—like reminders that I’m not alone.

We need people. We cannot do life or walk through hard things alone. Yes, we have to choose wisely who we surround ourselves with, but I can’t count the number of times I was this close to giving up, and certain people took me by the hand and walked with me. Their presence mattered more than anything they could have said.

Everyone goes through something, but it doesn’t have to define you. Sometimes struggles are visible, and sometimes they’re hidden. Over the past few years, I’ve learned that I am more than my accident or my brain injury. Yes, I live with chronic pain and migraines, but those things have shaped me into a more compassionate nurse—because I understand in a deeper way.

Life is not simply about my happiness or comfort. I knew that growing up, but there’s a difference between head knowledge and heart knowledge. Life is about glorifying God and participating in His desire to rescue humanity. If God can use my story to advance His kingdom, who am I to stand in His way?

There are also people I may have never met if my life had gone differently—my husband being the most significant. I met him shortly after everything changed, and he walked with me as I was still finding myself, before I felt like I had anything to offer. We are still growing and figuring things out, but he is my person. In a strange way, my accident placed us in the same circles sooner than we might have been otherwise.

It’s necessary to put down roots—to have a place or people to call home. With a nomadic childhood, I learned to root myself in people rather than places. I’ve always wrestled with the tension of staying versus going, and I’m learning how to live in both. There is excitement in exploring new places and experiencing new things, but there is also a quiet comfort in being known—by the barista at a local coffee shop or the familiar face at work. There is something deeply human about being seen.

Hard seasons can grow me into who I’m meant to be. Don’t hear what I’m not saying—I hate hard seasons. I don’t enjoy them, and I wouldn’t choose them. But I can’t deny what they’ve produced in me. These seasons have shaped me into a better, more confident, and more compassionate nurse and person. Even now, in this season of a broken foot—again—I can see that God is still working. He’s using this hard season to shape me and teach me. Right now, I’m learning the value of rest.

This isn’t a comprehensive list of everything I’ve learned or grieved, but as nine years passes, I’m realizing that I am a complex person. This experience is part of my story, but it is not the whole story. It has made life more complicated in some ways, but it has also made me a better nurse, daughter, friend, mother and wife.

And that matters.

Still Standing-Just Slower

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Today, I’m choosing transparency.

I hate slowing down. I’m not good at being still—and if I’m being honest, that probably played a role in what just happened.

I re-broke my foot.

Yep… back to the CAM boot, the flamingo stance, and the knee scooter.

I had just gotten back to “normal,” and then this. When the doctor told me, I cried right there in the office. For someone who prides herself on being put together, that wasn’t exactly my finest moment.

This wasn’t part of my plan the first time—let alone the second. But here we are.

And here’s what I’m (re)learning:

Rest is necessary.
Not optional. Not something I earn after everything is done. Necessary.
I tend to stay in motion—doing, pushing, going—and ignore the signals to slow down. That mindset has gotten me into trouble before… just never quite like this. Maybe this time, the lesson will stick.

Accepting help is not weakness.
I am fiercely independent. It’s served me well—but it also makes it hard to receive.
People show love through action—meals, groceries, showing up. Those things matter. And maybe accepting help isn’t about losing independence, but about letting people be part of the healing.

My thoughts aren’t always telling me the truth.
When I need help, there’s a voice that says I’m less capable, less put together.
But I know—deep down—that’s not true. Still, it’s hard when your head tries to convince your heart otherwise.

There are still glimmers of light. ✨
This isn’t ideal—especially with school picking up—but it’s giving me unexpected time. More time with my family. More time to focus. More space than I would’ve ever chosen for myself.

I’d love to say I’ve mastered these lessons… but clearly, I’m still learning.

And maybe that’s the point.