Brave with Abandon

Posted on by fearlessatheart

Abandon.

Not the kind that leaves you empty—but the kind that flings you forward.
This is the word I chose for my year, and somehow it already feels prophetic. We’re barely two months in, and it’s been a whirlwind of surrender, fear, faith, and boldness.

It started with panic. The clinical program I thought I had secured fell through, and suddenly everything felt uncertain. I scrambled, prayed, and questioned—until, at the very last minute, it worked out. God has a sense of humor. I think He saw me getting a little too comfortable and decided to remind me who’s actually in control. (Spoiler: it’s not me.)

Now, I’m in a clinical program that stretches me daily. It pushes me beyond hesitation, beyond comfort, beyond the safety of staying small. And in that stretching, I’m learning what it means to chase my calling with abandon.

So far, this year has already taught me a few things—lessons I didn’t ask for, but desperately needed.

First, bravery isn’t the absence of fear—it’s obedience in the middle of it.
There is so much to be afraid of, and motherhood multiplies that fear. If I could, Atlas would live in a bubble where nothing could touch him. Anxiety is my constant companion, and I work hard to keep it from shaping him. He is fearless, wild, curious—and I don’t want my fears to become his limits. Some days I succeed. Some days I fight my own heart just to let him be brave.

Second, nursing is not just a job—it is a privilege.
Yes, it’s exhausting. Yes, it’s often thankless. But it is sacred. Being invited into people’s most vulnerable moments is an honor. There are days filled with heartbreak and injustice, when bad things happen to good people. Nursing isn’t glamorous, and when you forget your “why,” burnout isn’t far behind. Remembering that this is a calling—this is a privilege—keeps my heart anchored.

And finally, balance is not optional—it is survival.
Work-life balance gets tossed around like a trendy phrase, but for me, it is the difference between being present and being depleted. Without it, I’m miserable—internally and externally. Date nights are a must, even when they’re simple. Sometimes it’s a quiet moment after a long day. Sometimes it’s takeout on the couch. The point is connection. I need time with my favorite people to be the best version of myself. I’m choosing to love them—and myself—with abandon.

We’re only at the beginning of this year, and already God is teaching me what it means to live wide open—to trust, to leap, to love without holding back.

So buckle up.
It’s going to be a wild year.

Ordinary Places, Extraordinary Grace

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Ordinary.
That word makes me flinch.

For 32 years, I’ve tried not to be ordinary—because ordinary feels too close to boring, forgettable, unimportant. And don’t lie and tell me you’ve never linked those words together in your mind.

I just finished reading Shannan Martin’s The Ministry of Ordinary Places tor the second or third time.. I originally picked it up because I love her heart and writing, but I was also curious. In my mind, ministry and ordinary don’t naturally go together.

Then I started reading.

From the introduction, she had me hooked:

“I always thought being called by God was a rare and special thing that happened to only a slim percentage of unlucky people… Whenever (‘the call’) popped up, I kindly reminded God that I’m not that kind of woman. I’m indoorsy, with a sensitive gag reflex and a mortal phobia of outhouses.”

I laughed—and sympathized—but I realized I’m the opposite. I feel the call to go. To leave. To serve overseas. But circumstances have kept me here. And honestly, I’m more comfortable on the mission field than I am in suburban America.

This tension—going versus staying—has followed me for years. Lately, I’ve felt peace about being right here, right now, in Mansfield. But Shannan Martin’s words drove the question deeper into my heart:

“God got busy shrinking the world as I knew it down to a pinhole… Rather than feeling stuck in a problem-sodden world I would never be able to fix, God was caring for my soul by pointing me toward my corner of it and asking me to believe it was enough.”

That challenged me.
Was it enough? Could it be enough?
If I stayed in America—in Mansfield, Ohio—for the rest of my life, would that be enough?

I was thinking about the weekend I was at a junior high retreat. I led a small group of sixth-grade girls. It was exhausting and life-giving all at once—middle schoolers have endless energy, and I drank an alarming amount of coffee.

But that question kept echoing in my mind:
If you stayed here forever, would it be enough?

Would listening, loving, and pointing these girls toward Jesus be enough?
It’s not as extraordinary as helping starving orphans in Mexico or serving in Africa. It doesn’t feel heroic.

Would sacrificing sleep to love a girl who doesn’t know what safe love looks like be enough?
Would a hug, a smile, a compliment be enough for a girl who never feels like she’s good enough?

I say I’m content with staying, but I wasn’t sure I believed it—until one girl wrapped her arms around me and held on like I was her lifeline. I saw the weight she was carrying, and it broke me.

Middle school is confusing and heavy and lonely. Holding her, wishing I could carry some of that weight for her, I felt something shift in me.

I started to believe this might be enough.

This “ordinary” life.
This quiet, unseen ministry.
This corner of the world.

Shannan Martin writes:

“In a world that pushes us toward bigger, better, more costly and refined, seeing the humble as radiant is an act of holy resistance.”

That line won’t leave me. Faithfulness in the small, the quiet, the overlooked—it’s holy resistance.

This is my corner of the world.
MCS. Rehab. These girls. My Bible study. Mansfield.

My heart is still scattered across Ukraine and so many places around the globe. But this—right now—this is where God has placed me.

Sitting on the sidewalk with that girl, holding her, I started to believe that this is enough.

So if you need me, you’ll find me circled around a bonfire, loving the people in my corner of the world—finally believing that ordinary is enough.

Nine Years Later: Choosing to Live With Abandon

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Nine years.

It has been nine years since that awful night when life as I knew it was ripped out from under me. Nine years since everything shifted—since the trajectory of my world suddenly bent in a direction I never expected.

Nine years.
It somehow feels like forever ago and yet also like just yesterday.

Even now, I still feel the ripple effects of that night. Driving in the snow this week stirred up old fear I wish wasn’t still tucked so close to the surface. I found myself waiting for the other shoe to drop—a tension I’ve lived with ever since.

And that’s the strange thing: life is going well. Genuinely, beautifully well. But it was going well before the accident, too. I had finally become a nurse. I was living on my own. I had my first big girl job at Akron General. My life felt steady, hopeful, full of promise and momentum.

Then it all changed.

There are moments that become dividing lines in our lives—the kind where time splits into before and after. Where a single night becomes the landmark everything else measures itself against.

For me, the accident is that line.
It changed the trajectory of my life in ways I am still living, still learning, still navigating.

And yet…
I am still here.

I am still breathing.
Still loving.
Still healing.
Still living a life I almost didn’t get to keep.

Every year, I choose one word to anchor my heart—something to shape how I move through the months ahead. For 2026, my word is ABANDON.

Not reckless abandon.
Not careless abandon.

But the noun form:
A complete lack of inhibition or restraint.

This year, I want to live my life with abandon—the life I’ve been given back. I want to love my husband and my child with abandon. I want to chase my dreams with abandon. I want to pursue Jesus with abandon. I want to lean fully into the life right here in front of me, instead of living in hesitation, fear, or waiting for something to go wrong.

I already know this about myself: I love hard. I feel deeply. I show up with everything I have. And while that sometimes feels vulnerable and messy, I do not regret loving that way. Not for a second.

So this year, I’m making choices that help me live presently and intentionally.
I want to be with my people—not just near them.
I want to show up in the holy moments and the hard ones.
I want to embrace the messy glory of being alive.

Nine years later, I am still here.

And this year, I choose to live—fully, openly, and wholeheartedly—with abandon.

What You Don’t See On My Good Days

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Life Is Hard… and I’m Still Here

I’m tired.
Tired of life feeling like so much work.
Tired of the fact that “doing anything” takes more energy than most people will ever know.
Tired of living with chronic pain.

But at least I’m alive.
And I know that’s probably the last thing anyone expects me to say.

Most days, I put on a brave face. I move through life with a smile, a joke, a “I’m fine!” — but the truth is, I haven’t had a single pain-free day in the last nine years. Not one.

I’m not sharing this for pity. I don’t want that.
I’m sharing it because I promised myself I’d be authentic this year.

Nothing I’ve accomplished has been handed to me. I’ve worked for all of it — as a mom, a wife, a student, a professional, a daughter, a sister, and a friend. People often say they don’t know how I manage it all. Honestly? Some days I don’t know either. I just… do it. Because I don’t have another choice.

But I want people to understand something: life is not easy for most of us, especially those of us walking through it with chronic illness.

And don’t misunderstand me — I love my life. I am grateful for it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish more days were less pain-filled, less exhausting, less “push through and hope I don’t break.”

I have more good days than bad ones now, but the bad days feel heavier — maybe because everyone expects me to be “normal” again. Maybe because I expect it of myself.

The last decade looks nothing like the future I imagined when I graduated college. But life has taught me more than I ever asked for, and God has used my story in ways I can see… and in ways I haven’t even discovered yet.

Life is rough.
God is good.
Both can be true.

From Fearful Thoughts to Fierce Truths

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I have this very bad habit of lying to myself.

I get caught up in my head, letting negative thoughts about my abilities, my worth, and even my appearance weave their way into my life.
“You’re not good enough or pretty enough.”
“You can’t do that.”
“They only hung out with you because you kept bothering them.”
“See? You don’t know as much as you thought.”
“They probably don’t even want to be around you.”
“Don’t even try—you’ll fail.”

These lies feed my insecurities and sideswipe my desire to be brave. They make me second-guess myself and drag me into a downward spiral I know too well. Being an overthinker doesn’t help; I read too deeply into my actions and the actions of others. Those toxic thoughts hold me back from boldness, fill me with fear, and convince me that failure is inevitable.

These past few weeks have been a constant battle as the lies whisper that I don’t belong, that I’m not capable, that I am not enough. I hate failing—or even risking failure—so hiding behind these thoughts has felt safer than stepping out and trying to build new friendships, navigate adulthood, or learn the ropes at my job.

In the quiet moments, instead of finding rest, I let the lies settle in. The quiet became lonely. Heavy.
And honestly? I failed.
I failed at living audaciously because I let fear convince me to stay nestled in my comfort zone.
I failed—the very thing I was trying to avoid.

Recently, I was challenged to play a simple game. I immediately refused.
Why? Because I knew I’d lose. 

But in my hesitation, someone asked me to step out of my comfort zone. I blurted out, “I do that all the time!” Yet as the words left my mouth, I realized how untrue they really were. I haven’t been stepping out nearly as much as I thought. I’ve been clinging to what’s safe. To the familiar. To the old routines and old relationships, instead of bravely building new ones.

News flash: I will most likely fail at something—or maybe at many things.
But staying still, staying small, staying safe, won’t protect me. It will just keep me from growth.

The thoughts that hold me captive—the ones that say I’m not enough—are lies that need to be rebuked and replaced.
Instead, I should be speaking life over myself:

“You can do this.”
“You are enough.”
“You are beautiful.”
“You may fail, but you’ll learn.”
“You are loved.”

These are the words I need to weave into my soul until they settle into my heart as truth.

The funny thing is, it’s always been easier to speak truth and encouragement over other women than it is to speak it over myself. But that changes now. My challenge during this season of transition is to remind myself—daily—that I am brave, confident, and capable. Fear does not get to tell my story.

And you, reader, are brave.
You are confident.
You are enough.
You were created with purpose.
Yes, you might fail. But don’t let the fear of failure keep you from stepping out into the world.
You are deeply, undeniably loved.

The Story I Never Wanted—and the Life I Now Love

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December 17th.

It was the worst day of my life—the day I almost died. In all tangible facts, I shouldn’t have survived. I was broken, and life as I knew it would never be the same.

This anniversary is a big one—nine years. One of the ones that stands out. Because just when I think I’ve “overcome” the incident, something brings it back: a comment, a memory, or a TBI headache. It never feels far from reality.

But over these nine years, I’ve learned something that I want you to really hear:
The trauma you go through—whatever it is—is a part of your story, not your whole story.

When you’re in the thick of it, it feels like life will only ever be a shadow of what it once was. I’ve never been happier to be wrong. Nine years ago, I thought my life was over. I wondered who I would be if I wasn’t a nurse, if I wasn’t a “whole” person anymore. I thanked God for saving me, but if I’m honest, I also wondered why He did if I could no longer do everything I had planned.

Those early years were full of wrestling. But life slowly settled. I worked my butt off to get back to nursing—to get my life back. It took sleepless nights, encouragement, and a whole lot of stubbornness to reach anything that resembled “normal.”

And actually, I’ve come to dislike that word—normal. What even is that? My life now is far from what most would consider normal for a 31-year-old. I live with constant pain. There are days I can’t get out of bed because of a migraine or some other lingering affliction.

Do I hate that part? Absolutely.
Do I love what life has still given me—my empathy, my husband, my son? Without question.
And honestly, I’ve reached a place where I don’t wish the accident never happened.

These past nine years have taken me places I never would have gone—into deep valleys and onto unexpected mountaintops.

A few things I’ve learned along the way:

God can use even the hardest moments if we let Him.

I’m still blown away that He can take the worst moment of my life and somehow bring Himself glory. He shows up in ways I don’t understand, weaving my story into moments I never see coming. It may be my story, but ultimately, it’s His.

Here is worth living—the hard and the holy.

 Being present, right now, is the beauty of the present. Life is what you make it. And there is nothing like being recognized years later in your hometown for something good you did, or having people say they watched you walk through the shadows and come out the other side. People can be the greatest blessing.

God shows up-in the little and big things.

The simple fact that he allowed my life to be spared is a big thing. Now I don’t know what you all believe about God, so hear me with a grain of salt. Throughout my life but especially in the last 9 years. It never ceases to amaze me that God cares about the little things and provides glimmers of light on the hardest days. Glimmers of light such as a cool breeze on a hot day, a coffee from a friend, and a smile from a stranger. Life can get pretty hard sometimes, but God allows these glimmers to remind us of hope. 

December 17th will always mark the day everything changed.
But it’s also the day I began the slow climb toward a life that is hard—and somehow, one I love even more than the one I lost.

Holding space for heavy moments

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Sometimes something happens to us and we don’t think we are enough. We don’t think that we are worthy of the good things in our life. When those dark clouds come, it is vitally important that you have people in your life that remind you that you are worth it-you are worth the extra baggage that you have because of some traumatic experience that you did not choose. You didn’t choose this life of chronic pain, of questioning everything, and of wondering if you aren’t good enough.

Let me tell you this. I’ve been there. I know the depths.The moments that you don’t want to be here-or you think that you’d be okay if you weren’t. Those dark clouds can be pretty heavy at times-I know that, you know that. Or maybe you don’t know that-I am really glad you don’t-but try to understand why someone would feel that way.Please try.

Yesterday was World Kindness Day. 

Kindness is free. Kindness costs you nothing, but it could mean the world to someone.

Be kind.

That’s the bottom line. You have no idea what people are going through , but your smile, and your kind words could be the life line someone needs.

Depression doesn’t play favorites. It can affect those of us who have traumatic experiences or those of us who have picturesque childhoods. It doesn’t play favorites and we shouldn’t expect it to. We should be checking in on all our friends-even the “happy” ones. 

I can tell you for a fact that I was severely depressed about my situation 8 years ago, but I’m pretty positive that others couldn’t tell because I knew all the right things to say. I knew how to pretend to be ok, when inside my world was falling apart. I was nowhere near where I wanted to be-but I had come so far since the accident. I lost hope.

Things must be really dire when one loses hope. But I am very lucky that I have people in my corner that notice things like that. One such person in my life called me out-he noticed that I wasn’t putting in the effort that I did before. He called me out on the fact that I seemed to have lost my will to fight. 

That got me thinking-who am I to let the dark cloud win-even subtly. What if I couldn’t do everything that my heart had planned-plans change. That challenge saved my future because I didn’t want to let the trauma win. I don’t know where the future leads but I do know that I’m just here along for the ride.

Now I do not know what your story is, but I do know that you are not reading my thoughts by accident. I’ve been to the depths, so if you need to talk about it, I’m here. I will never think less of anyone for the dark clouds, but I’ll continue to look for the glimmers-in your life and mine. I’ve been there. I survived. And you don’t have to walk it alone.

The Unseen Gifts of Rest: Lessons Learned from a Broken Foot

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It has been over two months since I broke my foot. This season has been so hard but also refreshing at times. Honestly, before the incident, I was going through the motions of life-feeling overdrawn from life. Don’t hear what I’m not saying. I love everything that I’m doing and it will pay off in the end but my soul was kind of exhausted.

Now, I’m not recommending that you break your foot to avoid burnout, but God met me here and refreshed my soul. This season reminded me that I am important. As a person in a caregiving profession, I can make that a part of my identity. Caregiving is a natural part of who I am as an eldest daughter. This season has been challenging to say the least because I’m not used to being the one dependent on others. Not that it’s all been bad, but I don’t like being dependent. I’ve gotten to spend more time with my husband and son. I’ve been able to give myself the rest I need to be able to be my best.

I think that’s one of the things that I’ve learned from this season. In order to do my best-do my best-I need to love myself. I need to care for myself the same way that I would care for my patients. This has been hard. I’ve found myself going into a dark place more and more often because it does not seem like life will ever go back to normal. Then, I remind myself about the good things about this season. I have been able to pour a lot into my internship and my education.

Honestly, it’s really hard to look at the positives of this season as I woke up and my leg was hurting a lot more than it did yesterday. Life appears to be moving on without me. I find myself being jealous of people that appear to have more than I do in this season. But that’s wrong of me.

I was  reminded in my devotions of the need to trust God. Being discontent undermines my trust in the Lord. I say I trust him, but I think he could have done his job better. I was challenges this morning about changing my attitude on focusing on what I can do rather than on focusing on what I can’t. I get to stay home with Atlas playing dinosaurs. I get to take rest breaks without judgement because I need to heal. I get to slow down and see-like really see-people in my life and spend quality time with them.

Overall, this season has taught me the skill of slowing down (I thought I had learned this) and the value of slow living. It also taught me (more so) the value of being selective with my energy. This allows me to be wholly present and give people my full attention and energy. It allows me to love better and care more.

When God is not afraid of emotions but people are

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When things aren’t going well, people like to pretend they are. Honestly, most people ask you how you are doing, but do not want to hear the honest answer, “Life stinks. Honestly, I’m depressed.” It shatters the illusion that everything is good. Or at least it seems that way, when they are taken aback by your honesty. 

Social media plays into this mentality by showing us the perfect aspects of life-the perfect moments frozen in time before life happens again.

There are good things in the chaos, but it’s okay to admit that this situation stinks and God is good. Both things can be true and both feelings can be valid.

A wise woman told me that it is okay to feel, but then we need to pull up our big girl panties and move forward. I keep learning this lesson.

I’ve been around this block before. And while I’m grateful for a lot of things, this season of a broken foot is really hard. I just want to be authentic-2 months of this is really hard. I hate being the center of attention but I’m pretty hard to miss with my boot AND my scooter. I hate relying on other people for basic needs. I can list several things about this season that stink and that’s okay. I’m not afraid of the dark clouds and the hardness of life. Life is hard. A broken foot is hard. It’s hard seeing others do the things that you can’t do. It’s okay to admit that. 

I think sometimes people want to fix what is broken or what they assume is broken, but really what people need is to be heard. The best friends are the ones that let you acknowledge the darkness, feel it, and then help you move on.

Life is hard. God is good. 

God isn’t afraid of emotion. He is not afraid of depression. The Psalms are filled with laments and praises. When Elijah was depressed, God didn’t yell at him, but rather sent comfort in the form of shelter, rest and nutrition.

He meets us where we are, but He doesn’t want us to stay there.

I’ll admit that this week has been hard. It’s been two months since I broke my foot and a month since surgery. I’m almost there, wherever there is, but it feels like it has been forever. I miss the sand between my toes, and the sun on my feet.

I also do not want to get my hopes up too much. Every appointment could be the one where my weight limit is changed, but on the other hand, it could be extended. I’m living in this limbo and that is super frustrating for a planner like me.

Every day is a good exercise of giving God control moment by moment. I guess that is the beauty of this season. Very few aspects of life right now require dependence on God. The bills are paid. The electricity is on. The water runs. We have food. We have shelter. Atlas and Sean are healthy. I am healthy besides my broken foot. I am really comfortable being self-sufficient, but God likes it when we are a little dependent on him. It’s not because He thinks we aren’t capable, but rather because He loves us. In a small way, I do things for Atlas. It doesn’t mean that I think he is incompetent, but rather because I love him and want the best for him.

In the same way, God wants the best for us and also, unlike me with Atlas, can do much more with us than we are able to do for ourselves.

In conclusion, I want you to know that it is okay for depression and gratitude to walk hand in hand. Honestly, gratitude helps the dark cloud to not get so big, but it is okay if life sucks but God is good. Also, I would encourage you to be honest with people when they ask you how you are doing. It’s actually refreshing not to have to spend that energy pretending everything is okay when it is not. At the same time, there is a time and a place for the full story. Maybe they don’t need the whole story of your depression, but it is okay to admit that you are not okay.

Hair washing and Other Simple Things

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It’s almost been a month since my surgery and almost two since I broke my foot. 

This season is hard-is hard-but God has taught me so much during this bump in the road. Here’s a few things that I’ve learned and am still learning.

  • There is healing in simple things like washed hair and clean clothes. The simple things matter. They make a person feel better and more human. They also make a person feel seen and heard.
  • There is humility in being able to accept help. I chose nursing because I wanted to help others. I’m used to being on the side that helps, not the side that needs help. After my accident, I fought really hard to be the best that I could be. Now, I feel like I’m back where I came from. I know it’s not the same-I was a lot more broken. I had a phenomenal support system then and I do now. I know that no one thinks anything about the help they offer and I’m learning to accept it joyfully because I would do the same. It’s a two sided coin.
  • It’s okay-often vital- to slow down. Slowing down doesn’t mean you stop doing what you love doing. It just means that you are more picky with your day to day time. God knows better than we do.

These are simply a few things that I’ve learned in the past couple of months.