Tag: seasons

Here’s to Hoping This Season Isn’t Forever

Posted on by fearlessatheart

I’m coming up on four months of being non-weight bearing.

When this all started, I never imagined this season would last this long. If I’m honest, it’s probably been one of the most frustrating seasons of my life. There are days when I wonder if it will ever end.

I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. I’m following the plan. I’m resting. I’m being careful. My foot is healing…just slowly.

That’s one of the things I dislike most about healthcare: it rarely fits neatly into black-and-white boxes. Bodies don’t always follow timelines. Healing doesn’t always look the way we expect it to. Sometimes the only option is to pivot.

Life is funny that way.

As a nurse, I want things to be straightforward for my patients. I want clear answers and predictable outcomes. As a patient, I want the exact same thing. I wish healing happened faster. I wish hard work always produced immediate results.

But this season has taught me—or maybe reminded me—of a few things.

God is near to the brokenhearted.

There have been seasons in my life where I’ve been so overwhelmed that I didn’t even have the words to pray. If you’ve never been there, it’s hard to explain that kind of despair. And honestly, I hope you never have to experience it.

Yet somehow, it has been in those moments that I’ve understood God’s heart the most. It’s funny—even when I’ve been frustrated or angry with Him, He’s never been offended by my honesty. He has simply stayed near.

People can be the very best.

I don’t think I’ll ever take for granted the power of a smile, a text message, a meal, or a kind word again. I’ve been amazed by the kindness of strangers and the generosity of acquaintances who have offered rides, checked in, or simply sat with me when I needed someone to talk to. Those small acts of kindness have carried more weight than they’ll probably ever know.

Sometimes God slows our bodies to still our hearts.

If you know me, you know I’m a doer. I love a full calendar, a checklist, and a plan. Slowing down has never come naturally to me.

But maybe that’s exactly why I needed this season.

Atlas will only be this little once. These extra cuddles, slower mornings, and moments I never would have paused for before are gifts I might have missed if life had continued at its usual pace.

I still don’t like this season. I wouldn’t choose it. I still hope it ends sooner rather than later.

But even here, God has been faithful.

So here’s to hoping this season isn’t forever—and trusting that even if healing takes longer than I hoped, it won’t be wasted.

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

Posted on by fearlessatheart

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.

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.

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

Posted on by fearlessatheart

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.

Sitting with the Hard

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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.

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.

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.