Tag: God

Truth Louder Than Fear

Posted on by fearlessatheart

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

Posted on by fearlessatheart

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

Posted on by fearlessatheart

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.

Posted on by fearlessatheart

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

Posted on by fearlessatheart

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

Posted on by fearlessatheart

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.

The Hard and The Holy

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As I’ve been thinking about life—the hard and the holy, I’ve been doing a little reflecting. December 17, 2016 will always be a significant day. On one hand, it’s the day I survived. On the other, it’s the day my life changed forever.

Here are a few things life—and my brain injury—have taught me over the past nine years:

You only live—and die—once.
This moment, right here, right now, is the only one you’re guaranteed. Tomorrow isn’t promised. So kiss your spouse, spend time with your siblings and friends, put down your phone, and show your family you care.

You can do anything—within reason—that you put your mind to.
God was gracious in allowing me to recover the way I have—but it wasn’t without tears, frustration, and yes… some attitude. (Sorry to my family for all the tears—and thank you for loving me through the pity parties without letting me stay there.)

Nine years ago, I couldn’t imagine the life I’m living now. And I don’t say that for applause. I say it to show two things:

  1. How good God is, and
  2. What determination and hard work can do.

There was a time I almost gave up on the idea that my life could look anything like I had dreamed. My brother could list all the things I said I’d never be able to do again. At the top of that list? Working as an acute care nurse.

But I did it-and I’m a Rehab nurse at that. Life comes full circle.

And it was hard—honestly harder than nursing school. I had to relearn things I once knew, all while managing migraines, needing more rest, and dealing with hands that didn’t always do what my brain told them to do.

I didn’t know what I’d be capable of until I tried.

So—don’t give up.

There are many paths in life. Don’t compare yours to anyone else’s.
I have to relearn this lesson often. Maybe you’re 20 and living your dream. Maybe life took a turn and you’re still working toward it. Maybe you married young, or maybe you’re still waiting.

There is no “wrong path” when it comes to your story. You didn’t miss your chance. Your life isn’t ruined because it looks different than you expected.

Your story is your story.
And someone out there needs it.

Rest is necessary—and good.
I’m still not great at this. I tend to go, go, go… until I hit a wall and crash for 24 hours.

But I’m learning.

I’m learning the power of a well-placed “no.”
I’m learning that rest doesn’t always mean sleep.
Sometimes it’s a quiet night watching a movie with Sean.
Sometimes it’s a walk outside in nature.

I may not love that I need more rest now—but I’m learning to respect it.

Sometimes, you have to take life five minutes at a time.
Looking too far ahead can be overwhelming. It can freeze you in place.

I’ve learned to focus on the next five minutes… and then the next.

That’s how I get through hard days.
That’s how I keep moving forward.

Sometimes love doesn’t look the way you expected.
I’m a romantic—but not the “love at first sight” kind.

In my story, love looked like friendship first.

There was a time I couldn’t imagine letting someone into my world—because I didn’t even understand my own brain yet. I was still figuring out who I was… and if I even liked that person.

But there was someone who stayed.
Someone who chose friendship.
Someone who was willing to learn me—my brain, my struggles, my healing.

I still don’t fully understand how he does it—but he does.

And somehow, through friendship, I let him in.

These are just a few of the many things the past nine years have taught me.

“Nine Years Later: Living, Learning, and Parenting With a Brain Injury.”

Posted on by fearlessatheart

March is Brain Injury Awareness Month 🧠

I really didn’t think I would still be struggling with things nine years later. But here we are — nine years later — and migraines still knock me for a loop.

I’m just going to be honest here… my brain injury has complicated this season of life as a student and a parent. It has made my “normal” TBI symptoms — migraines, forgetfulness, and brain fog — worse at times. Migraines like that are fewer and farther between now, but when they hit, they knock me down because I’m not expecting them anymore.

It’s in moments like this that I wish so badly to just be normal. But then I remember something important: this injury didn’t take away who I am — in many ways, it added to it. I’m the person I am today because of it.

So during Brain Injury Awareness Month, here are a few things to keep in mind when interacting with people who may have experienced known or unknown head trauma.

Every injury is different.
You may know someone who had a brain injury, but that doesn’t mean you know this person’s story. I understand the desire to relate, but sometimes the best thing you can do is simply listen. Their story might surprise you.

Thinking differently doesn’t mean we are less intelligent.
Can I be vulnerable for a moment? This is one of my biggest fears. On bad brain days, when words get stuck and my thoughts feel tangled, I worry people will think I’m incompetent. I know I shouldn’t care so much about what people think — but I’ve worked incredibly hard to get where I am. Words might get caught sometimes, but that doesn’t mean the thoughts aren’t there. If anything, I know I’m just as smart — if not smarter — than I was before my accident. And honestly, I’m doing things now that I once thought would be impossible.

“Invisible” disabilities are still disabilities.
Just because you can’t see everything someone is dealing with doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Many people with brain injuries are fighting battles you’ll never notice from the outside.

These are just a few ways we can create a little more understanding and acceptance for people living with brain injuries.

Thanks for reading my thoughts. 💛

Sitting with the Hard

Posted on by fearlessatheart

They don’t tell you that even when you live together, being on opposite schedules—going to school, raising little ones, managing life—means you may not actually see much of your favorite person.

Adulting is a lot of work. Parenting is a lot of work. And sometimes you have to do the work even when you don’t feel like it.

Sean thinks so differently than I do. In many ways that’s a good thing because I’m grateful he hasn’t experienced the same trauma I have. But sometimes those differences can also be frustrating.

PTSD stinks. Truly.

You do the work. You learn how to stand on your own two feet again. You build a steady job and a healthy relationship. You think you’re finally okay… and then WHAM. PTSD hits you upside the head and knocks you down again. Suddenly everything feels hard all over.

Depression whispers lies that make you feel less than. It makes it hard to get out of bed. Hard to find motivation for even the simplest tasks.

And we’re all living in this strange post-pandemic world that changed the way we do everything.

Then there’s the guilt—feeling like you should be happy, like everything in your life looks good on paper, yet inside you’re still struggling.

It stinks.

But I haven’t been walking through it alone. I’ve been managing with the help of trusted people and a lot of faith in God. Recently, I realized I couldn’t process it all by myself anymore, so I started therapy again—with the same counselor who helped me through the darkest season before. She already knows my defense mechanisms.

Only two sessions in and it completely wrecked me.

In one session I finally put a name to something I hadn’t been able to explain: the deep sense of loss I was carrying after everything that happened. Even when life was going well, I was subconsciously preparing for it all to be ripped away again.

After that session, I had to do the hard and exhausting work of sitting with those emotions instead of running from them.

Now that I’ve sat with them, felt them fiercely, and given them space to breathe, I can begin the even harder work of changing my thoughts.

So here’s to not being okay—but being in a better place than I was yesterday.

Here’s to giving myself grace when my traumatized self hurts the people I love.

I may have broken pieces, but I’m doing the hard work of letting Jesus patch me back together in ways only He can.