I’ve lived a life of various addictions, but for eighteen years, it’s proven true that nothing has had me in a chokehold quite like the stronghold of weed—my silent sin. Like an out-of-town relative or old friend that comes in and out of my life when its timing feels fit, I’ve willingly allowed consistent visitation rights with extended stays.

Scripture couldn’t be more clear about being sober-minded. Yet, as a society, we are hell-bent on justifying marijuana because “God doesn’t specifically say, ‘Don’t smoke.’” The irony is that even when I reeked of sin, I still corrected other smokers: “Even if it was permissible, would it be beneficial?” (1 Cor. 6:12)

The answer was, is, and always will be no.

I think heavily of an evening in 2022 when I was a youth leader at church for middle school girls. I was very much a lukewarm Christian, and very much not practicing what I preached. One evening, I went into the bathroom before we broke out into small groups to pop a 200mg THC gummy, thinking it would kick in at just the right time before heading home. That’s not what happened. Due to an empty stomach, within twenty minutes I became numb. And as I sat in a circle surrounded by seventh graders that looked up to me, I was asked what the Proverbs verse tattooed on my wrist was. I was a deer in headlights. For the life of me, I could not remember the very words I branded myself with years prior that I convinced myself would draw me closer to God because my heart felt an absence of presence—by my fault, not His. I stared at them blankly, embarrassed beyond belief. I looked at my co-leader and asked her what it was, and she told me I should know. You’re probably thinking, “Hypocrite!” and you’re correct. I was so disappointed with myself that I didn’t even share that story with my own husband until a few nights ago.

I wasn’t sober-minded, and I certainly had no business trying to disciple young women at the time.

“Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” - 1 Peter 5:8

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When you aren’t in a sober headspace, your mind will quickly become Satan’s playground of dangerous influence and intrusive thoughts. It leaves you weak and slow to relay the Word of God at any given moment, as we are called to (1 Peter 3:15). But, I want to make one thing clear here: although the enemy has strongly presented himself in my life as an influence of an old self I have refused to always put away, make no mistake, the devil isn’t the one to blame for my constant struggle of addiction—my flesh is. And I kept choosing it time after time.

When I began preparing myself for this article, I began reading “Cannabis and the Christian” by Todd Miles, a book I bought years ago and let sit on my shelf. I thought, “Hey, I’ve become sober before, I could do it again if I actually needed/wanted to.” I didn’t want to read the truth or be faced with the reality that I wasn’t allowing the Holy Spirit to have full access to me. I was blind to how it took me away from my family and responsibilities because I refused to look in the mirror.

I was still clinging to an earthly desire I had convinced myself made me smarter; more social, more “understanding” of Scripture, more forgiving and patient, capable of sleeping better, and relieved of acute pain rather than just masking it, all while causing irritability the following morning. Lies from the pits of hell that were truly a perversion. As if I needed a psychoactive drug to “unlock wonders” within me, while not letting the Lord encourage those things in my heart—not letting Him renew me to where I may produce real fruit. (Gal. 5:22-25)

And when I began to look for an image to add to my post, I came across dozens of images of Jesus smoking weed. I was disgusted with the disrespect. Utterly disgusted. Yet, I wasn’t disgusted with my sin? Of course not—how could I be? What was smoking weed in comparison to the more “serious” sins like pornography, fornication, murder, and pride? (Gal. 5:19-22). I realized I recognized Him as holy, but separated myself from the call to walk in holiness with Him. If Jesus wouldn’t sit in a room with me and agree with my choices, it’s best to avoid the act.

I’m newly sober again.

Even though I was delivered from alcohol and other substances years ago, I couldn’t exactly say that because it wouldn’t have always been honest.

Now it is.

I’m sober.

The number of days isn’t relevant. The space between relapses isn’t either. But what is relevant is why: the Holy Spirit said so.

As I ignored conviction night after night, it started to settle in as I grew even closer to the Lord. This is the area I needed to let go of. Regardless if I’d sung the same song before, I could choose to flee or I could choose to spit at the foot of the cross.

I sat there, high with my friend (who is not a believer, and to whom I was not being a good witness to) thinking, “This is my last night, but let me take one more hit.” That’s when my chest started to sink. I chalked it up to paranoia, “What if the Lord came for His people right this second, what would I say to Him?” The thought that it was just the enemy trying to scare me came to mind. I tried to shrug it off and convince myself I was being silly—just because I thought it, didn’t mean He’d come down just to show me up. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal as I strongly defended it in my heart, being yoked to something where the burden wasn’t light.

In bold font, I visualized the word ‘repent.’ Trying to distract myself, I went on Instagram and the first video to pop up was about repentance. In that moment I knew this was a warning I couldn’t take lightly. The Lord had forgiven me so many times prior, and if I wasn’t going to be sick to my stomach for taking advantage of His grace, my heart was in real danger.

I started to remember what the word says without trying to make it work around my choices.

I started to silently weep inside at the thought of the Lord’s sorrow.

What was I doing?

I wanted to fall at His feet and beg for forgiveness.

It didn’t matter if the world didn’t think weed was that big of a deal. I’m not meant to be in the world or look like the world.

I didn’t want to hurt my Father anymore. I didn’t want to hinder my relationship with Him. I didn’t want to make a mockery of His mercy. If I were to think, ‘One more hit, He’ll forgive me…’ and then go through with it, I was just another kiss on His cheek and nail in His wrist.

So I fled. (2 Timothy 2:22, James 4:7)

I chose repentance. (Isaiah 55:6–7, Ezekiel 18:21–23, Matthew 4:17, 2 Peter 3:9)

And not like those other times where I told myself it was wrong and the Lord was not pleased.

No. This time I meant it with every fiber of my being—obedience to my loving Father was what I truly desired. Not for self-righteous kudos, but because He is worthy and good.

I’m aware that bringing this to light may cause judgment; eye rolls from family members and other believers, comments of being a bad wife, a neglectful mother, and a lukewarm Christian. But, to be frank, I don’t care—because I am none of those things—I am simply a sinner in need of a Savior, grateful that conviction reached me before anything else did. If my story brings one person to repentance, then I’m more than comfortable with a dozen others feeling offended. In a season of being ashamed to be open; seeking to be numb to a suffering that is promised, I crave to bring the Lord glory—confessing in obedience is part of that. (James 5:16)

To say I don’t miss it at times would be a lie. To say I didn’t love it would also be a lie. But the truth is, I love the Lord a whole lot more.

I choose Him.

If you have fallen short and don’t know what to do or where to go, fall back on what you do know:

There is no condemnation in Christ. (Romans 8:1)

There is grace (Romans 3:23-24), and Praise the Lord it is not based on our own merit! (Ephesians 2:8-9, Romans 11:6, Titus 3:5, Galatians 2:16, 2 Timothy 1:9)

To the believer who is not convinced, ask yourself these questions and see where your heart wrestles with them:

Can this be a stumbling block to other believers around you? (Romans 14:13, 15, 20-21)

Does it promote righteousness? (Romans 14:17, 19a)

Does it edify others, especially those who call you “mom,” or “dad?” (Romans 14:19b)

Is it profitable? (1 Cor. 6:12a)

Does it enslave you? (1 Cor. 6:12b)

Does this bring God glory? (1 Cor. 10:31, Romans 12:1)

Is the Holy Spirit guiding you to do drugs with full approval? (Gal. 5:16-18, Romans 8)

Meditate and respond wisely to these. (James 1:5, Psalm 19:14)

Take up your cross and die to yourself. (Luke 9:23)

Whatever is not done in faith is sin. (Romans 14:23)

You cannot simultaneously be high and sober, friend.

I promise that sober looks good on you just as I know it does on me—and I know my family and those I minister to, get the best, most holy version of me when I am completely present in His spirit and face down before Him.

“And He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” - 1 Cor. 12:9

“I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth. My soul makes its boast in the Lord; Let the humble hear and be glad. Oh, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together!” - Psalm 34:1-3

In Christ,

A | K

As once a common teenage girl and a lost woman in her early twenties, who didn’t know Jesus, it’s no shocker that I was boy-crazy.

Starting at a young age, I enjoyed innocent crushes that drew initials with hearts on my binder, the longing of holding hands on the way to science class, and song dedications on MySpace.

I loved ‘love,’ and I wrote poems about it my whole life. Poems written from tears of heartbreak, alone and sixteen hours from home. Poems that poured out at 4am in an anguish that didn’t make sense, when the ending of a relationship felt like the end of the world.

I found one of those old poems that I pieced together on my vintage typewriter, in an old box at my mom’s house. I read through years of expression and art, of a young heart seeking something—anything. I mourned for the girl I was twelve years ago, still smelling the sorrow she felt being rejected for the umpteenth time. I wept for her—lost and oblivious to a Savior who could give her a love bigger than she could’ve dreamed. The following poem placed me back to the scene of 19-year-old Ana, writing about the perfect guy who would fill every void within her:

But you came along and picked up the shattered pieces I always seemed to cut myself on. Effortlessly, willingly, you sewed together my ripped seams, started mending my old wounds, washed off the ruined makeup clumped on my cheeks from dried-up tears. You taped back up my ripped pages, aligned the spine of every book I’ve been writing in for years, all influenced by my tragedies.
You took the gentle parts of me in the palms of your hands, and for once they didn't tremble; they didn’t shake in hesitation. You cupped them softly and melted the snow from my longest winter. The vision I had, once blurred—you cleared every path of darkness with your light.

If you’re a follower of Jesus, I’m sure you immediately thought “Only Jesus can do that.” And you’re right.

I desired a love nobody, but One, could give. My body internally sought out its Creator for a remedy that is unmatched here on Earth, and all I could chalk it up to was “why does nobody love me like I deserve?” This whole time I’d been seeking a security only God could provide, and placing my identity in flesh that is always changing, unlike Him.

In the midst of empathizing with my younger self, I chuckled over the irony that the perfect man did in fact exist and He actually wrote me letters, poems, and psalms to remind me how much He loves me. The Lord watches over me and remains faithful to me.1 He never lies to me.2 He never leaves me lonely.3 He always has my heart’s best interest. 4 He listens.5 He binds my wounds,6 and the best part is none of it is because of me. None of it is based on my output. His nature simply is.

I would’ve loved to go back and give that girl the godly wisdom she needed. To lift her chin and caution her—that she could search the whole world, riddled with mistakes, bruises and scars, but at the end of it all she’d find that her heart really belongs to the Triune God her old stained-glass church never really taught her about.

I’d tell her that a promise ring gifted out of guilt to make up for the yelling was nothing compared to the real gift and promise given to us on the cross—I’d tell her there’s an empty tomb, scarred hands, and ears that never get sick of prayers.

So, younger Ana wasn’t completely wrong—she got it right that there was a perfect man out there—she just didn’t understand the magnitude.

The Lord’s humor is comforting. Through those years of being desperate for something tangible—idolizing relationships that didn’t establish my worth like the enemy had me believing—God was in the room, graciously holding me despite my sin, showing me that the real isn’t always seen.

His love was, is, and will always be the override.

Praise God for answered poems.

In Christ,

A | K

A couple of weeks ago my husband took a selfie with my son and me. When I got my phone back, my first thought was, “I hate it. Look at my crow’s feet…” My husband told me I looked incredible, as he always does, and that one day I’ll thank him for capturing the moment—he was right.

As I looked through my photos the other day, I came across the same picture and all I could think was “Wow, look at my precious little family.”

I didn’t see any “crow’s feet,” but what I did see were crinkled eyes from a smile that overtook my entire face. I saw joy that overshadowed any blemish I would’ve noticed on a different day.

Fast forward to the other day when I had to get a new license at the DMV, and they did what I dreaded: she told me I needed an updated photo. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t brush my hair that well, I didn’t wear a shirt to better complement my skin tone, nor did I wear my staple: pearl earrings. I gave my husband a pouty face, sat down, smiled naturally, and, “click!” She asked me if I wanted to see my picture, and I reluctantly nodded yes.

“Do you like it?”

I paused and took a swift look.

“I mean…. that’s what I look like!”

I didn’t love it, guys. But guess what? I didn’t hate it either.

Because that’s my face. The one God gave me. The one my husband calls beautiful every morning whether I choose to believe him or not. The one my son smushes with sticky hands and cuteness aggression, then calls pretty. It’s the smile people compliment even when I hate my teeth. It’s the not-so-fine lines that prove I get to laugh a lot in life.

The truth is we all look at old photos and compare. We wish we could look now how we did five years ago. Five years ago we would’ve loved to look like the version of ourselves from five years before that… and there are so many people out here in life quite literally killing themselves to chase twenty-one-year-old skin.

You don’t need that botox.

You don’t need the lip filler.

You don’t need to weep at every gray hair.

You don’t need the plastic surgery that will barely hold up for a decade.

You don’t need to burn your scalp every month for a fresh gloss.

You don’t need seven pairs of the same shoes.

You don’t need to wear tighter shorts.

You don’t need to pose in those angles.

You don’t need more dresses.

You don’t need any of these things to be beautiful.

And I want to be clear, I am not shaming you if you fit into these categories—because there is nothing wrong with wanting to feel beautiful, even if I disagree with the methods or not—the Lord created beauty, and we witness that all around us: over the horizon, in flower beds, on the soft skin of a child, within the sounds of laughter, in silver hoop earrings, or a new outfit for date night—I am simply reminding you that you do not need these “upkeeps” to be beautiful. And if I’m being honest with you… if you feel offended, I encourage you to look within and possibly claim it as conviction—especially if these are things that stem from the exhausting evil that is comparison.

You can come back at me about toning your skin, and staying in shape, etc. YES. PLEASE. Lather your skin in castor oil, use the homemade hair mask, and run to the gym (run faster to those weights the older you are—your joints will thank you later). By all means, be preventative. Be caring toward your body, but girl… don’t be in denial.

Don’t be in denial that wrinkles, creases, loose skin, and blemishes won’t come your way no matter how clean you are on the inside and out.

Don’t be in denial and think we can outrun what it means to age—so do it gracefully.

When we try to beat the clock and idolize how we look and what our image is, we miss out on what actually matters: how we live our lives for Jesus, and what makes us beautiful to Him.

Because guess what? Jesus will think you’re beautiful no matter what if your heart posture is right. He doesn’t care if your shirt is “out of season” or that your roots are showing. He doesn’t care if your nails are perfect, or that your skin is glowing from that moisturizer you got with an influencer’s discount.

He cares about your fruit, because there are no “crow’s feet” in Heaven.

If you are a believer, you should know your body is not your own, and we should act as such.

Take care of yourself.

Whether you’re holistic or not, don’t trade internal damage for external gratification.

Eat well.

Exercise.

Pray.

Focus on the beauty of your heart and of your faith.

Let His shining light be your bronzer, too.

This world’s idea of beauty is fleeting, and I promise you that you look a whole lot more attractive wearing the full armor of God.

Vanity, vanity—it’s all just vanity, my friends! Our worth is far above rubies. Reread Proverbs 31 over and over again—we all shout it with joy claiming it’s the woman we want to be, right? So dive into it more and listen to what is truly considered a woman of God. A woman who yearns for Jesus and His good works.

If you’ve stuck around for this word vomit, I’m grateful, and I want to remind you:

You are beautiful with or without your hair done, friend.

You are beautiful with or without the blush.

You are beautiful with or without the baby weight.

You are beautiful above all because of Him who dwells within you.

Nothing else matters. Nothing.

We are aging, and we need to get over it.

I leave you with a final quote that I fit into my marriage vows and still echoes in my mind on the days I even consider caring what society thinks about my looks:

In Christ,

A | K

Some call it a habit, some call it a sin
Some call it a pattern, I don’t know where this ends
They call me a daughter, but I don’t believe them
Baptized in the water, don’t feel any different
All I know, it’s a sign, and so I lift up my hands
Worshipping Jesus, but I’m drunk again

Tell myself I’m a little too hard to save
Tired of waking up in my own grave
Bottles and Bibles next to my bed
Chasing the demons out of my head…

I’m looking for my Hallelujah

- Drunk Again by Song House & Mariarose

When I stopped drinking in February of 2018, I went through all of my photos deleting any trace of me holding, drinking, or supporting alcohol. I didn’t want the reminder of who I used to be. I didn’t want to relive the pain I felt behind a seemingly perfect smile. For a long time, I was glad to have rid of those memories—until recently. I now wanted to see that broken girl that hid behind a flimsy paper mask. Was I really fooling anyone? I wanted to relive the hangovers that I soothed with more whiskey. I wanted to remember the hand tremors that struggled to turn pages in a Bible on Sunday morning, hungover and drenched in sin. I wanted to smell the wine that seeped out of my pores and taste the reckless ‘freedom’ I relentlessly chased after, trying to run from everything I had been dealing with. Because I wanted to see yet again how good my Father is and has always been. Between those bitter memories were endless Pinterest photos depicting a perfect family life and beautiful wedding ideas, because my heart still yearned for God’s natural design—it desired a life much prettier than mine. I still longed for a life that was bigger than a constant state of incoherency.

I gave alcohol permission to be a thief of joy for too many years and I selfishly ignored how it affected those around me. You would’ve called me a Pharisee if you knew me in those times—even then some. I was more undeserving of the Lord’s mercy and grace than I am now, and as we enter the holiday season, I know to prepare my heart for a chaos I would’ve smoked and drank away any other year. Thanksgiving doesn’t reek of marijuana anymore, nor fly me to the moon deep into a mushroom trip. Christmas doesn’t taste like a ‘61 Bordeaux that calls for mascara stains on my pillowcase, weeping from a lonely come-down. New Year’s doesn’t feel like the burning of Colombian Aguardiente dripping down my throat in efforts to cope with awkwardness and the detachment of social settings. What it does taste of is pain, difficult memories, and hard situations as the people around me don’t always share my same convictions. What looks to me like evil, is tradition at a dinner table for others. What circulates in the glass of others as they bond over a shared palette of earthy tones is really just Satan’s malicious grin staring back at me, trying to entice me once again by the false promise that things will feel better—that being well-liked and present among others will be easier—that I might be able to breathe better.

Scripture describes it best for me:

Do not look on the wine when it is red,
When it sparkles in the cup,
When it swirls around smoothly;
At the last it bites like a serpent,
And stings like a viper.
Your eyes will see strange things,
And your heart will utter perverse things.
Yes, you will be like one who lies down in the midst of the sea,
Or like one who lies at the top of the mast, saying:
“They have struck me, but I was not hurt;
They have beaten me, but I did not feel it.
When shall I awake, that I may seek another drink?”

Proverbs 23:31-35

Every year anxiety sets in around this time, audibly rehearsing “one day at a time,” knowing it’s really “one hour at a time.” Do I figure out how to just deal? Do I instantly flee from the enemy and not go to events knowing some may criticize my weakness as I sulk in FOMO wishing they’d just be supportive? Do I just go to the opposite corner of a room and partake in a silence amongst myself, reaching out for a hint of JOMO? Finding middle ground is difficult when alcohol is almost inevitable to be around in particular seasons. The sight of a bottle or the sound of a cork popping paralyzes my body, sending me into fight or flight. Seeing just one glass reminds me of everything I cried out to the Lord to get away from, and everything I wish would just die out. I try to stuff down the temptation of a first sip that I know would turn into four glasses, with eyes glossed over, with limbs dragging me just far enough to slump over a couch, murmuring things that would never bring glory to the Lord.

Sobriety isn’t for the weak.

Recently I met a woman at my new church that the Lord really put on my heart to reach out to. I had no idea why at the time, didn’t even her name, but after we met up I realized we shared very similar testimonies when it came to addictions. It was freeing to know someone could sit with me in the redemption I struggle to be honest about—someone who once felt the same shame, anger, and desperation. I don’t meet many people who feel the same—that drinking alcohol is useless if your intention isn’t to get drunk. That a sip may be permissible, but nothing about it is actually beneficial. For this I have been grateful—for another heart that is on fire for the Lord, lit up only by His grace, and can resonate with me.

It’s easier to stay sober when you have boundaries, but it’s not so easy when you feel you’re always in the trenches of debilitating mental health episodes that feel like endless suffering combined with the constant overstimulation of being a stay-at-home mom who feels like she’s barely hanging on sometimes.

It’s easier when I remind myself of what happens when I mix medication and other substances, knowing it would guarantee a third hospitalization and time away from the family I treasure—but it’s not easy when the tears don’t stop coming and self-sabotage wants to take the front seat, driving me to anything that can temporarily numb the pent-up stress accumulating in my body.

Drunkard. Pothead. User.

Words the Lord does not call me. Names He does not give me. Things I refuse to be ever again—lies He rebukes in His mighty name as I stand on His firm foundation while the season of celebrating Him moves in closer.

The spirit of addiction has no place in my heart; no place in our home; no place in my family’s life.

The Holy Spirit dwells here, and no matter how hard it can be in certain seasons or circumstances, I hold fast to the truth that the Lord is my fulfilling portion. That my suffering is not in vain. That my obedience is pleasing to His heart, and purifies mine. The verses that follow in the passage of 1 Peter 5 have been etched in my heart and cannot be shaken clean:

So where do I go from here?

I focus on Him.

I focus on how much He has brought me out of, and how much He will continue to take me out of. I know it’s easier said than done. I know.

If you struggle with sobriety, friend, I plead with you to fix your eyes upon His holiness, and set your heart on the things above.

An audible “GET BEHIND ME, SATAN” curses the ears of all things that are not of the Lord. His mighty name casts out those demons to where they belong.

Let out the screams, let out the cries. Do anything but of that which the Lord has brought you out of—the very deliverance you bruised your knees praying for.

With a humble heart, I beg of you to pray hard for me. I beg of you to pray for those who ignore their convictions; for genuine communities that offer sincere accountability; for hearts to be softened to accepting accountability; for all of us who are grasping for a lifetime of recovery; for this world to fix its eyes on Jesus, as the enemy walks around, ready to loosen our grip if we dare look away—and friend, if you are struggling, tell me so that I can pray for you.

The spirit of addiction has no place here.

I leave you with a final piece of encouragement that Jesus declared best:

“If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in Me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.

Woe to the world because of the things that cause people to stumble! Such things must come, but woe to the person through whom they come!

If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed or crippled than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire.

And if your eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into the fire of hell.”

Matthew 18:6-9

In Christ,

A | K

The other day I came across the book ‘23 Minutes in Hell’ by Bill Wiese, who shares a gripping story of waking up in Hell, experiencing torment for twenty-three minutes, before the Lord wakes him up and changes his life.

A lot of people are skeptical of Weise’s account, deeming it a bad dream or assuming he was on drugs furthering an exaggerated tale— and whether you believe that the Lord gave Bill a glimpse of Hell or not, it turned his life around and he know serves a different Kingdom. Reading through the vivid imagery brought me the impulse to share a similar story of Jesus giving me that glimpse of the afterlife.

You could chalk it up to being high and call it drug-induced psychosis— which is valid considering my lifestyle at the time— but I’d say the Lord has made Himself plenty evident to me in the moments I am not fully coherent.

2013:

I was living in a humble apartment with roommates who did harder drugs than I had been used to at this point, and to their joy, I was searching for anything and stopping at nothing. I was there to fit in, to laugh without loyalty, and feel numb.

I remember the first time I took those pills. They were an OTC cold medication that would end up giving me some of the best highs of my life, all for $5 a box. The magic recipe for beginners was eight pills even though the label said no more than four pills within 24 hours.

So of course I started with ten. Within the hour I was so sick I thought I was dying. I couldn’t breathe, I just wanted to throw up, crawl in a hole and die. For what felt like an eternity of body sweats and severe nausea, it all ended with… bliss.

It was unlike anything I had ever had. It was euphoric. I felt like the stars were beneath me and the universe was within me. I felt outside of my own body, but completely in control of it at the same time. The dissociation was surreal as minutes felt like hours. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat, and I could barely form syllables.

But like a moth to a flame I went back after the hours-high wore off. Daily I put my liver and kidneys on the back-burner, popping pill after pill, chasing that high where I felt the whole world was mine even if the body chills made my teeth shatter.

I did this for weeks, and when the high would plateau, I upped the dosage— I eventually worked my way up to twenty-four pills causing temporary psychosis. I witnessed my roomate go into severe psychosis the same evening while she thought we were being followed, and almost scratched her skin off from the anxiety.

I remember the evening like it was yesterday. My friend and I had been drinking since 9:00AM and had chased shots with eighteen pills just to start off. I remember this high coming on differently. As we sat in the car to drive home, the pressure of a thousand suns weighed on my eyes and my chest as I felt superglued to the seat. Labored breathing intensified. I felt suffocated. Leaning the seat back, I felt a sense of desperation creeping in— nothing felt ok. My hands were sweating and my eyes were rolling. I just had to make it two more blocks then I could lie in bed and die there, but not here.

We parked and I peeled myself out of the car trying to put one foot in front of the other. Our apartment building seemed darker, as if twenty years of wear-and-tear painted over the walls in one afternoon. I knew something bad was waiting for me. When I walked in, the air was stuffier than usual and stairs seemed like they were morphing into each other.

I looked down to see the red stains left on my hands from today’s pill coatings, trying to wipe them away on my jeans, then I started walking down our hallway.

This was it, guys. This is where the world began to flip upside down.

The hallway was longer. Not a few feet longer, I mean an additional ten apartment doors longer.

It was eerie. The lights were dim and a few were flickering. My roommate was a few steps ahead of me reaching her hand for the door. I choked on my tears as my strides weakened.

There I was, in the hallway to Hell, waiting to meet the devil himself in physical form, and I was merely escorting myself.

The closer we got to our apartment door, the feelings of dread washed over me. This was it— I was about to walk into a room and see Satan sitting on my bed, eagerly awaiting to sink his teeth into me. I wasn’t meeting the devil that hides in the finer things, “harmless gossip,”or the enticing hallucinations. I wasn’t meeting temptation disguised as something superficial, or shiny. I wasn’t about to reel in all the promises sin had tried, and succeeded, to romance me with. No, friends. I was meeting the horns that reveal themselves when the smoke clears. I was meeting the taker who doesn’t give freely, the thief with no remorse, the embodiment of pride who knows no love— the one who feeds you lies. I was meeting the reality that I would continue to be a slave to my flesh as I have been on Earth already, but now I wouldn’t have access to the Redeemer and the salvation He selflessly offered— now I would collapse under the the weight of my sin, shattering every bone in my body. As high as I was, I felt more than sober. I was overtaken by a type of “gloom” I didn’t know existed, and a fear I wouldn’t wish upon the worst person.

I didn’t understand who Jesus was at the time, but in that very moment as I walked to my death thinking Hell was about to swallow me whole because I had lived my life apart from God, I knew that I was about to forever be separated from ‘God.’ That there was no cry, nor plea, that could save me anymore. I would hear the echoes of my own screams in my head, with no way to open my mouth, all with the deafening groans of other hollow souls around me. Mercy and forgiveness were no longer accessible to me. I messed up. I messed it all up and now I will never know what peace truly is. Now I will suffer the unfathomable torture of bearing my own sins, my own cross, because I never honored the Lord for how He laid it all down to bear them for me. Every tear the Lord ever wiped away with His relentless affection, would come flooding back for my weak body to survive it on its own. Permanent sorrow coated my skin as the sins that carved into my body were about to bleed through. Terror and defeat were bringing out the shackles, ready to chain down my wrists and ankles.

This is just the beginning.

To preface: Everyone has their different opinions on what Hell will really be like, but the experience that follows doesn’t come as an absolute— this is just my story. I encourage you to remember, however, of the supernatural powers the Lord holds in the palm of His hands. He is a God that boldly tells us how mighty He is, who has shown us miracles and deliverance we couldn’t even dream of. I encourage you, especially my dear believers, to refrain from putting Jesus in a box soaked in a watered-down gospel.

Our God is good and He is kind. He is an unwavering, never-changing Father that has won every battle— He can do anything He wants to, and He does.

I walked in and my eyes couldn’t believe it— the apartment was empty.

Satan wasn’t there in a corner ready to take me to where I belonged.

The sigh of relief brought me to my knees just before I started to get sick. With my face on the floor, feeling as if someone was taking a knife to my abdomen and a drill to my head, tears made their way and fell from shut eyelids as I drifted.

I saw the most vivid images in ways I didn’t think my eyes could see. I saw a soft red background darken to blood red. I saw that blood red turn into a vortex that mixed with firey, orange hues and a shade of black that felt blinding.

I recall the heat my body started to feel even with a freezing floor beneath me, while I was drenched in sudden sweat.

You could chalk it up to being high and call it drug-induced psychosis— maybe, but the Lord has tugged on my heart the hardest in these desperate moments of incoherency.

I’d black out every moment, except the ones where I yelled out for Him.

I couldn’t feel my legs after a while as I continued seeing images of the same colors. I started to feel like I didn’t even have a body anymore other than my head, eyes, and the arms that were failing to get me up.

A ringing in my ears intensified as distant cries grew closer. I felt my mind being sucked in, and that gloom started to fall over me once again. The feeling was coming back— the agony that this was about to be it— that the enemy tricked me into thinking I was fine, but all along he was hiding within me, awaiting the perfect shocking “gotcha!” moment.

God, I don’t know you, but I think you know me… please help me.

This was the plea in my mind— did He hear me?

My legs and knees started waking up as the pressure of my head softened. I felt my skin cool down, my hair soft as butter laying across my face. My feet began to feel grounded to the Earth although I was curled up in a fetal position.

That’s when the war in my mind changed its tune, and I was seeing that bright light they always speak about. The brightest white I had ever seen had me clenching my already closed eyelids even tighter. A soft sky blue shade draped over each corner of the white, framing it with what looked like joy. If I could describe it in one word: indescribable.

Birds chirped above me and I felt myself smile. There was no concern in my mind, I knew no pain.

For those few seconds that felt like an eternity, I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of comfort. The feeling was surreal.

My body continue to soften.

My eyes fluttered open.

I felt my limbs come alive.

I looked to my roomate, “You wouldn’t believe what I just experienced… We need to go to church. I need to know God.”

Did we go? No— I continued a life of sin, dancing with the devil and making haunting choices. I reluctantly entered a relationship that quickly grew abusive, burying away my desire to seek any type of faith.

I didn’t start going to church until two years later.

For a while I wondered what my life would’ve been like if I would’ve gone; Would the transformation have been instant? Could it have saved me sooner? Was my heart even available to hear something bigger than what I was used to? Would I have suffered less? But, when you swim in an ocean of questions for too long, it gives room for the enemy to drown you— it takes your eyes off the trust we have in a sovereign God. When you focus on the past, the why’s, and the shame, you can’t hear the Lord clearly— you can’t see Him working; pruning, molding. You wouldn’t be walking in the blessings He has for you, with the joy and peace He has for us for every season.

You can’t ignore the Authority that calls us to respect and reverence.

This is my story and transparently, I forget about it a lot because I’ve told it less than five times. The world tends to doubt a BIG God that does BIG things.

We don’t know the full extent of what Hell is like and I pray you nor I ever find out, but ask yourself: if you arrive at the gates of Heaven, will it be by the skin of your teeth, or because you ran to them, eager to serve a mighty God?

I find myself to this day, in disbelief at times, that I’m still alive.

I shouldn’t be here.

Against all odds and the things I placed my body through— the Lord had/has a purpose, and He made it part of mine: to tell the world about His sacrifice; His grace, and His mercy from everything I’ve seen Him do for me and through me.

So maybe my illustration about Heaven and Hell during a drug trip could be slightly overwhelming as a first conversation for someone who doesn’t know Jesus— that’s valid— but I’m here to tell you, whether you follow Him or not, that the Lord does ‘crazy’ things in crazy circumstances. This testimony isn’t just mine, but His first. All of our testimonies are.

When I look back at that hot Summer, I feel the heat and peace all over again just for a minute. I thank the Lord I’m still here serving a purpose— through mental health woes; physical, emotional and spiritual trauma, loss, addiction, relapses, homosexuality, and pride, He was in the corner waiting to embrace me. Even though it took me some time to go to Him, and even though He knew I’d still spend years turning my face from Him as I cherry picked His love letters to me, He showed me the fire and carried me into the light to make His name known in my life— and He did.

All along, He pursued me.

All my life I will pursue Him back.

"For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life." - John 3:16

“Who gave Himself for our sins, that He might deliver us from this present evil age, according to the will of our God and Father, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.” - Galatians 1:4-5

“You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” - Romans 5:6-8

A | K

Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more hard to bear. The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say “My tooth is aching” than to say “My heart is broken.”

- C.S Lewis, “The Problem of Pain”

The context:

After my first hospitalization in 2016 at a Behavioral Health Center where I spent five days, my dad showed up where I worked and brought me a beautiful bouquet of fresh, white florals. I was moved and surprised all at the same time. My father and I were still trying to grow in our wavering-relationship back then, and mental health wasn’t a conversation most minority households had— there was never a comfortable platform for me to stand on when speaking about its’ reality to my parents— I was taken aback by this sweet gesture as I’d never had it before. I kept the encouraging note attached, and put the memory in a safe pocket of the way my dad showed up for my mental health that day.

I had never felt more seen by him than at that moment.

After that, I would buy myself fresh flowers when a storm would rage in my mind— until I met my husband— and funny enough, he never saw the title to this post, but the morning I began typing it, I came home to two new bouquets on the kitchen counter— life is funny this way.

People don’t always get it.

The best people do.

M is for mama mania:

A couple of months ago a family member of my husband’s passed. It came out of nowhere and it knocked us off our feet as we were all very close, and spoke frequently enough that the sudden silence was deafening.

I hadn’t known loss for years, and as I was greeted by it once more, I quickly remembered how impaling grief truly was.

This, unbeknownst to me, would drive me to have a hypomanic episode, later turning into full mania, like the kind I haven’t had in years. I never know how long my episodes will visit for, but I know when mania struts in, I have to tiptoe through the hallways hoping not to agitate it—praying it doesn’t overstay its’ welcome.

Being Having Bipolar is more than dramatic mood changes. It’s more than just “snapping” over certain situations— it’s wanting to be honest with others while worried they will use your pain against you in judgement. It’s people not trusting my decision-making, or analyzing my every word and action while they smother me in an ignorance disguised as a hug. It’s family and friends who peer out from a window of self-righteousness, watching my every move all just to feel sorry for me. It’s people not being understanding when my brain is what’s sick that day and I can’t make it to a gathering.

Mania for me is days with no sleep because my brain won’t shut off. It’s an exhaustion that flirts its’ way out of rest as it paces a hundred steps ahead me. It’s 3am binging and fixation, reading articles on the subject I was most fascinated by that week. (Currently inhaling research on shark attacks/behavior).

Mania for me is bursts of creativity, and the desire to extend myself for social interaction. It’s a million words a minute of excitement and interest for others, then a crash where every normal, difficult emotion exists, just placed under a microscope.

Mania is loving others more significantly than usual while also feeling like I’m unloved by them. It’s feeling on top of the world to only feel as you’re being crushed under it an hour later. It’s a road of appreciation for stability that also meets at the intersection of loneliness and doubt. It’s feeling bigger than the whole sky when the evening meets the horizon, and not knowing which morning will have me frozen, curled up on the floor needing my husband to peel me off of it.

Mania for me is never feeling good enough for my spouse knowing it cannot be easy to love a bleeding heart, all while reminding myself I am worthy of the unconditional.

Mania is sometimes hearing: “you don’t seem bipolar,” and taking it as a backhanded compliment— even worse, hearing: “that makes a lot of sense.”

If it seems like I’m rambling, you’re starting to get the point… but wait! there’s more!

Mania is a beautiful carousel that halts at a roar just when I’ve started to enjoy the ride with its’ colorful scenery. The fair-themed music screeches just as I’ve learned the tune.

Mania is my body not always showing up for me. One moment I could be leg-pressing double my body weight, and the next I’m gripping at door frames trying not to sink under the weight of my own heart— it’s noticing that as I get older my body becomes physically crippled and stuck when certain triggers occur— this is where I take note that fight or flight isn’t all I know.

Mania is feeling great about the two chapters I just wrote in my memoir in one sitting, then putting myself down for days telling myself I’ll never publish… jokes on me!

Mania is me lifting the Lord higher in my life because it’s when I see/feel Him the most—when I rely on Him the most— only to be told by others than the thorn in my flesh is really just a “demon” in my mind. (Because apparently David could wipe out the masses and still be used for God’s purpose, but my mental health struggles “separates” me from Him.)

Mania is everything feeling really good, then having panic attacks from sensory overload.

Mania is wanting to be honest in my hardships, just to fear judgment for being brave.

Mania is more often than not, having an intense desire for community, finally getting back to those 50 unread text messages now that I’m level-headed, only to lose the dedication to those conversations a day after.

Mania makes days feel like years, and brings back years of PTSD flashbacks all in one day, almost tearing me apart in real-time.

Mania drags me down to the bottom of an ocean floor as I was just breaking free from a rip current, silently screaming so no hand can reach out for help risking being buried alive in the sand with me.

Mania intensifies my energy for outside time with my son, then at dusk makes my arms so weak that I can barely pick him up without feeling defeated in my soul— cue the mom guilt ten-fold.

Mania tells me I want to spend an evening with people I love knowing full-well I’m not capable of giving them an ounce of my true self— knowing full-well I won’t enjoy a single second of it.

Mania tries to tell me sobriety isn’t good enough, knowing that relapse would break me in the end.

Mania is an elated joy that can quickly sour into an explosive anger.

Mania is ultimately passion in any emotion— good or bad.

Mania is sleeplessness from the over excitement of the day that follows, all for it to wake me up in the morning so distraught my husband has to stay home to take care of me and our son.

Mania is a hype-man and a liar.

Mania is more than I can explain or put into words. It’s so many things all at once, and also feeling nothing at all for an hour as I stare at a ceiling— it’s wishing I could reel back in half the things I say or do, wishing I could hold on tighter to self-control— it’s also me being proud of the confidence I walked around in, being more than comfortable in my own skin, and even stricter in my well-placed boundaries in life.

One of best ways I’ve ever heard my experience be explained was by Kay Redfield Jamison in the book “An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness,” that I read when I was first diagnosed:

“There is a particular kind of pain, elation, loneliness, and terror involved in this kind of madness. When you’re high it’s tremendous. The ideas and feelings are fast and frequent like shooting stars, and you follow them until you find better and brighter ones. Shyness goes, the right words and gestures are suddenly there, the power to captivate others a felt certainty. There are interests found in uninteresting people. Sensuality is pervasive and the desire to seduce and be seduced irresistible. Feelings of ease, intensity, power, well-being, financial omnipotence, and euphoria pervade one’s marrow. But, somewhere, this changes. The fast ideas are far too fast, and there are far too many; overwhelming confusion replaces clarity. Memory goes. Humor and absorption on friends’ faces are replaced by fear and concern. Everything previously moving with the grain is now against— you are irritable, angry, frightened, uncontrollable, and enmeshed totally in the blackest caves of the mind. You never knew those caves were there.”

So you see, then, why I would want flowers. Why I would want someone to show up with the uncommon, but sweet-scented bunch of baby’s-breath, or six of the finest yellow tulips Publix has to offer. Why I would love to open my door to high-stock sunflowers or lilac carnations, with the peeping face of someone I love right behind them. Even in the silence, showing up is all I could ask for— someone saying “Hey, I’m here in the ways you need me to be, to the extent I am able to be.”

I know people don’t always know what to say.

I know majority of people won’t and don’t understand.

But I also know that my story and journey brings God glory.

I know Jesus is sitting next to me in every depressive, hypomanic, and manic stage. He cleans my wounds, and heals my scrapes. He wipes my tears, and He rocks me back to sleep when the novelty of a 48 hour high has worn off.

And, I know that if I have to tread these choppy waves in order for someone to witness the boat Jesus saves me on, then so be it—bring it on.

Having a mental-illness is a large part of me, but it does not define me, only God does.

A | K

Children are pure and loved. They are innocent and curious. They are brave and forgiving. They are humbling and passionate. They are the type of ‘playful’ we should all still desire to be.

The list would run for miles if I wrote down all the beautiful characteristics I see in my soon-to-be two year old. I swoon over how incredible his zest for life is. I could quite literally sit back for the rest of my life with an iced matcha latte in hand, watching the gears in his head wind up when something has piqued his interest— as he discovers something new that showers him with joy, or finds something amusing. I could listen to his laugh forever, and never stop wishing a gap-tooth smile upon his face for me to stare at.

I can picture myself successfully bringing down an entire legion if one were to come his way, and effortlessly fight any “monster” that could hide in his closet. No war or army could be big enough for this mama.

There is close-to-nothing I would not do for my son— no mountain I wouldn’t climb, and no prayer I wouldn’t belt out. My love for him has no bounds, no borders, no limits, no conditions, and no strings attached. My mama-heart is his forever.

In these thoughts, it always hits me:

Jesus loves him more than I do.

Jesus loves me like this.

And, as my son sees all he knows in the light of my face, and loves me more than anything in this world: Jesus’ love looks at me with wider eyes.

How is that even possible?

How could we possibly wrap our minds around a heart being bigger than one of a parent’s?

God, in His ever-Trinitarian being, with a capacity for tenderness we will never comprehend, plays His love aloud for us as we witness our children grow.

A few weeks ago my son tripped outside and got an ‘ouchie.’ I got down to his level, immediately scooped him into a sitting position, and acknowledged his emotions.

“I know that must’ve been scary and it probably hurts, bubs. I’m so sorry. Mama is here.”

I wiped the tears from his eyes, held him, and let him know it would feel better after we clean it and give it a kiss.

Naturally there is no hurt like parent-hurt so seeing him fall was scary for me. But I knew he ultimately was okay, and that he would continue to be okay in the many future situations of falls, playground scrapes, and bruises.

In that moment, all my son saw was dirt on his hands from where he braced himself, blood on his knee, and throbbing that wouldn’t let up. He didn’t think it was okay right then, and it wasn’t my place to tell him it was if for him it wasn’t— I’m not in the business of telling me child how or what he’s allowed to feel— but I was hopeful he understood the trust he could have in me as I told him it would be okay eventually.

That’s what God does. He weeps with us.

Even though He knows nothing will hurt us— even though He knows the pain will subside, and that it will bring Him all the glory. He gets down on our level, bringing safety to the circle of adult temper-tantrums. Scripture is vivid and firm about trusting the Lord, and I think if we looked at our children and realize the same unconditional love we hold for them is just a pebble in comparison to the unconditional love God holds for us overall.

If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him! - Matthew 7:11

I remember vividly the day I realized God truly loved me. The moment I felt Him touch me and tell me I was loved. I was just getting acquainted with Christianity and was curious, reading all the books I could except the most important one. But God still reached me. He held me all of my life, but in this moment, He was going to reveal to my heart something clear as day, “Daughter, who cares who you have been, I love you and that’s all you need in this life.”

I was wearing a brown and black cardigan, sitting crisscrossed in a green chair, reading a book from a pastor I no longer support, but that gave me the biggest nudge of my life. The chapter spoke about the woman at the well and then everything around me faded. I put the book down, looked up with tears streaming from my eyes.

“Oh my gosh… God… You actually love me.”

I think about this evening so much. I think about it when I smile at my son. When I am so proud of his new block creations that my heart could just about burst. I think about the moments his big emotions can be difficult to understand, but I sit there with a bigger desire to help him figure out what this “life” thing really is.

God smiles over me.

God is proud of me.

God sits with me in my big emotions, and desires to be my comfort.

I love my son so much, but Jesus loves him more.

My son never has to worry about his parents not showing up, and I never have to worry about God not showing up. Becoming a mom has proved that to me more than ever.

How could there be any room for doubt of God’s unwavering, extraordinary love for us as His children after having your own? When we are speaking the same love over our children as His word speaks over us, He is holding a giant mirror to my face. The unbelievable feeling of a love that stretches beyond seas for my son is the same kind that holds me.

Motherhood shows me Jesus.

It shows me God’s patience when I lose mine.

It shows me His grace.

It shows me His love.

It shows me His sacrifice.

It shows me how He loves and adores His children.

I see my Father as I mother.

A | K

I’ve been breastfeeding for 22 months as of next week, and the journey has been an emotional battle mostly won?

When I gave birth to my son, his first latch was perfect, and even though nursing was initially painful, and challenging for the both of us, I wanted to do this because I loved doing it. I was determined to conquer this learning curve as a team. I sustained a life, and I wanted to continue providing life in the breath-takingly beautiful way God designed my body to.

I told myself I would nurse for at least nine months, and as seven months approached, I changed my mind— I wanted to do a year instead. When a year inched closer, I decided I didn’t have an end goal anymore. I wanted to nourish my child for as long as my body would allow me— but, no less than two years.

Now, here I am two months shy of his second birthday, and it’s starting to sink in that I’ll only be able to do this for a couple of months following that.

Here I am, a few months from getting my body “fully” back. Do I even really want it back? I need it back.

Here I am, a thousand-or-so feedings away from my mental health improving. I’m fine. No, it’s honorable how I love my son, but I have to also hold myself even when it feels unnatural.

Here I am, having been brave on both sides of the coin, understanding that there is a space waiting for me, to hold both the grief and relief of this part of my motherhood ending. A chapter that I’ve held so dearly is coming to a close.

I am already mourning the morning I wake up and he isn’t nursing anymore.

The morning I imagine I wake up a little more well-rested from a quieter evening that firmly held it’s final night-cap of milk.

Even though a lot of the journey has been tough, it has been intimate, heart-warming, secure, and fulfilling—as natural as I have ever felt.

There have been times when I’ve felt just about done— fed up with being climbed all over, and exhausted from having to latch all night. So. Darn. Tired of how mentally-spent, and physically-drained I’d be by the end of the day.

Times when I felt like my head was going to explode from feeling severely touched-out, and the only thing that would calm our crying child at that exact moment was me nursing him to sleep— I just had to ‘mom-up,’ right?

But, friends, the moments that stick out the most—the emotions that shine the brightest— are the ones that hold joy, and crack a smile on my face.

It’s in the gaze— the wide-eyed gaze into my eyes like they’re the only pair to exist.

It’s in the sweet face that the feeling of comfort washes over.

It’s in the small hands that hold onto me, tracing my skin.

It’s in the stolen smiles as I hum soft hymns.

It’s in the innocence of seeking a connection only a mother can give.

It’s in the knowing: there is immense pressure and far-too-many expectations placed upon mothers, yet there is a child who thinks I’m the perfect mom as is.

So, you see, it’s easy then. To say I’ll miss a hard thing.

As I sit here sipping on the frothy lactation tea latte I just poured, my almost-two year old is running around outside enjoying being a toddler as though he wasn’t just learning how to sit up on his own yesterday— I can’t believe it’s almost over, these stages go too quick.

In a couple of months he’ll be a little taller, a more experienced swimmer, speaking more words in both languages, jumping off higher objects, and breastfeeding for the final time.

As I pray that my production remains healthy as long as I need it, I also pray I can remain present in the moments I breastfeed right now— soaking in the moments of eye gazes and soft smiles. The few minutes of total silence where quality time meets prayer in the rocking chair or playground bench.

Mama’s who are weaning, plan to wean soon, recently just weaned successfully, or if you weaned a while ago but this post filled a spot in your heart:

It’s hard.

Hard nursing, and hard not nursing.

It’s okay.

Okay to mourn the mornings of shaken routines.

Okay to mourn the evenings you unknowingly say goodnight to one version of your child.

Okay to also find comfort in the midst of the ache, to seek a new form of intimacy with your child, and get to know a new version of them that is even more beautiful than the last.

So, you see, it’s easy then. To say I’ll miss a hard thing.

It’s the hardest thing I love.

A | K

February 12th, 2018:

At this point in my life, my drinking was the worst of me.

I had at this point gone three weeks without touching a glass of anything, which was a massive accomplishment for me— prior to that I had spent six years abusing alcohol. For four of those years it was every night—maybe I’d take a night off here and there.

It started out socially at parties. Big deal, right? Don’t most young people drink at parties? Sure. But most young people eventually put their solo cup down.

That wasn’t me. There was no solo cup, there was only a bottle of whatever rum we could afford that weekend, and I drank it straight.

There also wasn’t stopping because I was already drunk— there was only “stopping” when there was nothing left to drink.

I didn’t think I had a problem because every recent high school graduate did the same thing.

I didn’t go to college for long. Maybe two semesters, until partying and boys became more important to me. I began to fall behind so I stopped going to my classes all together, and saw no reason to go back. This isn’t something I really regret to be honest, as I was never the studious type— I was never good at ‘text book education.’

I was around the wrong crowd to say the very least. I continued to party and black out.

Party and black out.

Party more, black out some more.

In this time I met my ex-boyfriend who ended up being abusive. Alcohol was the initial foundation in which this relationship started, as well as the many shallow, hollow, and empty friendships with people who wouldn’t even show up for me when I needed them the most.

My drinking became a day-time habit. If I didn’t have at least two bottles of wine in the fridge or a bottle of whiskey on the counter, I felt a sense of panic.

What would get me through the day? What would I do if it wasn’t accessible? What would take the edge off?

How would I possibly survive if I couldn’t have pinot noir and scrambled eggs for breakfast?

Yuck. I know.

Shift to 2015 when I finally moved back to my hometown. One party scene to the next, just different kinds of people, and different kinds of parties.

It got old quick.

Not the drinking. Just the people.

I started drinking at home— alone. I woke up with a glass in my hands and I relied on being drunk to help me fall asleep at night.

This was my day-in-day-out.

It didn’t help how harshly and chaotically it interfered with my medication, and that I was having frequent manic episodes that would last months, wreaking havoc in my life.

When I finally held down a good job, I was more than excited to be able to fund my addiction better. My first paycheck I bought two 3L jugs of wine. Every paycheck after that dwindled down as I went to the same cigar bar beachside, where they eventually refused to sell me more than four drinks per evening, and “shopping sprees” at local wine vendors that began to know me by name.

I was so proud of this “wino aesthetic” I had branded myself with.

To keep a very long, drunken story short: wine didn’t love me like I loved it.

The very thing I found appealing— smelling like comfort, and tasting intimate at the touch of my tongue, didn’t reciprocate the feelings of finding me beautiful.

Alcohol was a bondage I didn’t recognize was holding me down, sinking me deeper into a grave I wouldn’t be able to dig myself out of.

I felt self-conscious buying wine around others. I would hide bottles from my parents. Everyone thought I had a problem, when I really didn’t.

I would wake up with pounding headaches and hands that trembled so bad I could barely type at work.

As much as I’d like to say I was always fun, sweet, and a joyful drunk, there was also a dark side that would turn on like a light switch.

Anger was a ten-fold. I wasn’t very kind. I was a mess of a human. I had many evenings that were absolutely embarrassing, and I don’t know how the people close to me put up with me— I wouldn’t have to put up with me.

I would go to church reeking of a hangover, impatient to get home so I could drink some more, all while on my knees begging the Lord to break me out of this hell I frequented— out of this death sentence.

I would sit at a bar preaching the gospel to anyone who would listen to me, and I would cry out to God from my bedroom floor through my intoxication.

My heart was seeking.

If you’re still here, this is where it gets interesting.

I could honestly go on forever about the stories that came with years of daily alcoholism, but the most important one to tell is the night it all ended.

February 12th, 2018:

I went out.

Drinking at home wasn’t in the cards that night, and once I immersed myself in a social atmosphere, I took off.

I took shot after shot after shot. I don’t remember too much of that evening other than making new “friends” who listened and laughed at my playful conversation, and getting pulled over after I decided to drive home— drunk.

This wasn’t the first time I had done so, but it was absolutely the most severe of the times.

I was five minutes from home when I saw the police lights flashing in my rearview mirror and thought to myself: This is it. I’m going to jail. I’m losing my license. I’m losing my job. I’m going to break my parents’ hearts. I’m going to disappoint my younger sisters— and the worst part is, this won’t be surprising anyone, no one at all.

The cops came to both sides of my car asking me for my information and I instantly sobered up. One officer told me they had been following me for a few blocks, and that I had been swerving a lot. He asked me if I had had anything to drink that evening.

No sir, maybe a drink a few hours ago.

Why were you swerving?

I was texting, I’m so sorry.

It felt like an eternity as they went back to their car. My heart was beating outside of my chest and I was petrified. Me. The person who selfishly drove fifteen minutes through a dark town, severely under the influence. Me. The immature person who could’ve harmed or even killed somebody, and multiple lives would’ve been ruined that night because I couldn’t just call an uber — I could’ve harmed or killed myself that night as well.

But, God.

A sigh of relief practically fell out of my body when they came back to issue me a ticket for texting. I’ll take it, I thought. No breathalyzer after admitting I consumed alcohol? Praise God. I drove home, jumped in bed, and just thanked God for keeping people safe, for keeping me safe, and for giving me a second chance— for His mercy when I absolutely did not deserve it.

I know a lot of people would scoff at this saying I should’ve been arrested. Saying I didn’t deserve to get off because what I did was irresponsible— it was— but I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I wasn’t grateful.

After that evening I didn’t touch alcohol again.

Not once.

I would look at it, smell it, and all of sudden I wanted to throw up.

After six years of addiction, God delivered me. There was no question about it.

Addiction isn’t merciful.

Addiction doesn’t abandon you over night after stripping away your identity for years on end.

Addiction doesn’t care about your well-being— it is a thief that does not hide.

Addiction sneaks in calmly, then prowls and roars loudly, chasing you if you ever try to escape it.

My God roars louder.

I tend to make the joke that He rearranged my tastebuds. Because how could this make sense? How could I just go one day to the next without craving a sip of my downfall?

Almost getting a DUI is scary, but it isn’t scary to addiction.

I got off easy that evening, but I also saw God in a different light, and I got baptized shortly after.

I won’t say it didn’t get hard after some time. After about a year into sobriety, I missed it. It was difficult to be around. I stopped going to certain places and stopped talking to certain people.

I ran from everything and everyone that could possibly remind me of the empty person alcohol had molded me into for far too much of my youth.

Here I am, seven years later.

There’s been a few times where I’ve almost caved out of anger or despair. When I’ve had an hypomanic episode and think to myself: you know what would make this more fun? A green tea shot, or a chilled glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. But I look at how far I’ve come, all the blessings I have received because of my sobriety, the progress and growth I’ve made, and the people around me who truly love me.

I know a lot of the redemption in my story lies in the endless prayers of others around me.

I can’t go back.

I won’t go back.

Not even one sip. Not one drink.

Because that’s not who I am. I’m not the person who can have just one drink— I’m the person who doesn’t understand how people can have just one drink— I’m the person who thinks alcohol is pointless unless your intentions are to get wasted.

There’s a reality.

I know this isn’t true for everybody. I know people have different convictions, and people who embody self-control when it comes to alcohol— but that isn’t me. There’s no “just one drink,” for me, and I’m grateful to know this. I’m grateful to know my weaknesses, and know Who is my strength.

When I broke free from the enemy, there was a song that played heavily around me everywhere I went with the lyrics:

I just let go

And I feel exposed

But it's so beautiful

'Cause this is who I am

I've been such a mess

But now I can't care less

I could bleed to death

O Lord, I'm ready now

All the walls are down

Time is running out

And I wanna make this count

I ran away from You

And I did what I wanted to

But I don't wanna let You down

O Lord, I'm ready now

Lord, I'm ready now.

He delivered me from a pit not many crawl out of. If I ever doubted Him before, He outdid himself that evening in showing me His supernatural-powers, and His kind, tender nature.

February 12th, 2018

It’s been seven years.

I haven’t had a single sip.

I am no longer ashamed to share the mess I was.

This testimony is His.

A | K

If you or anyone you know is struggling with substance abuse call the free SAMHSA Hotline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357) or text your 5-digit ZIP Code to 435748

If you haven’t read my recent post, the story of surviving my domestic abuser, now’s a good time to!

My caption is raw, explicit, and I meant it every time.

It’s not cute, it’s not tidy, and it’s a reality.

Some days I wish I would’ve killed him.

These are the exact words I’ve uttered so many times when I would think back to the specific night my ex-boyfriend tried to kill me after being in an on-and-off relationship of almost two years.

What we had started off like a dream. He started off like a dream— and that’s what it was… a dream that would turn into a nightmare. A nightmare that breathed violence and anger. One that ridiculed, degraded, and humiliated me day after day.

There were things I ignored, and bright signs I glossed over— mostly because I didn’t know monsters existed in real life, and if they did, how would I know this is what they looked like?

In the season of life where I lived with my ex, once we moved into the final apartment we would share, life was just grey and bleak.

I look back and see a girl who sulked in the image of a tortured poet. I was the girl who sought out the volatile moments because at that point they just made her feel something. When it wasn’t tumultuous, was it really even love?

I was the girl lying on the floor in a dim-lit living room, with Moonlight Sonata playing from the record player, writing spoken-word poems about a God she didn’t even believe in yet— drinking Chilean wine, without the glass, and chasing it with bourbon.

I was the girl sitting outside on a cold evening, wishing the skies would stay the same, and still look different, as she puffed too many cigarettes.

I was also the girl that didn’t know Jesus was sitting right next to her.

I described in my other post how I escaped from my ex-boyfriend, and succeeded in getting out of our apartment. Some details were left out due to being too blurry or too difficult, maybe one can say, too pointless.

But one thing I didn’t mention is that I had opportunity.

Some days I wish I would’ve killed him.

Because I could have.

And sometimes I think I should have.

Because I was right there in that kitchen.

I was right next to that knife. The one he was getting frantic about me inching closer to. Just do it. It’s all I could hear in my head. He’ll never be able to hurt you again.

It’s self-defense, Ana. Afterall, I was fighting for my life.

Spoiler alert: he’s alive.

And for so many years I was angry about that. For so many years, even after coming to the Lord, I was so angry with myself for not ending the life of a man who almost ended mine. Of ridding the earth of such an emotionless, cruel human-being. Why didn’t I just do it? I missed my opportunity.

I spent so many nights in my room just wishing him dead. Wishing something would happen to him so I could feel peace.

Remember when I told you no one believe me? One week after this all happened, a new girlfriend moved in— one who didn’t believe me. It wasn’t long before her arms were covered in bruises, and her eyes faded to black. I could’ve saved her the pain. I should’ve killed him.

He had other girlfriends after that. He made good money. He got his degree. He got his weapons back. He kept his friends. His family rallied around him. He was happy. Why didn’t he suffer like me? Why did he get to walk around and breathe a life he didn’t, and doesn’t deserve?— according to me.

Bad guys seem to win in some stories— this story haunted me.

I asked God to just kill him.

To ger rid of this fear, and to avenge what this “man” had done to me and others. I begged that I could just go back in time and rage against all the pain that had been inflicted upon me.

Every tear, every drop of blood, every bruise, and every disgusting word carved into my skin that I wouldn’t dare repeat… I needed to make it worth it, and I needed him to pay for it.

But then what? What would I have gotten out it but more than just my own blood on my hands?

To this day there are moments when I get triggered and flashbacks fly through blue skies. Where my PTSD pulls the blankets off my cozy life, leaving me bare and facing the truth that pain still resides in my body. I still struggle with the thought: I wish he was dead. I wish I would’ve killed him. Because that would be easier.

When I first got saved I prayed for him through a tight jaw, and clenched fists. I prayed the Lord would save him—make him a better person, help me forgive him. I don’t even know if I meant it, I just knew I needed to release some of the anger I had within me.

I never prayed for him again. The words could never come out no matter how hard I tried. The thoughts couldn’t even sort themselves out.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in Heaven; for He makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.”

- Matthew 5:34-45

Tears blur my vision just reading this verse.

But how God? How could I possibly pray for him? Do You not see the scars he left? Do You not see that I lost so much all while he ultimately lost nothing?

Ten years later sits a God-fearing woman who loves the Lord, and desires to always remain rooted in His truth.

Ten years later also sits the same woman who wrestles with forgiveness.

I think of my son. How he could do the worst thing imaginable in this world, and my heart would still bleed for him— it would still go the ends of the earth for him. I would still ask God everyday to grab ahold of his heart and bring him to salvation. I would be grateful that my son would always live to see another day in hopes of finding the Lord.

There’s another mother who deserves that for her son.

The mother of the son I won’t pray for.

The mother of the son I can’t seem to forgive.

“Then Peter came to Him and said, "Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Up to seven times?" Jesus said to him, "I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven.” - Matthew 18:21-22

“Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” - Colossians 3:13

I guess it could all just start with a deep sigh as I ask God to give me the words. Ask Him to give me the strength—some might even say the humility— to walk towards the room in my heart that holds grace for others.

Some days I wish I would’ve killed him.

Then I wouldn’t have to wrestle, and fight with cut-up knuckles to find an ounce of forgivness. Then I wouldn’t have a war in my mind that I’m so sick of trying to hide behind a curtain— that’s gone on for years with no sense of ceasing.

It’s easy to hang onto this anger, but I want to forgive.

I need to forgive.

Lord, how do I forgive?

As I venture back onto the journey of trying to heal from the most ruthless times of my life, I try to remember Whose I am, and that in my healing, there are still others in my story that are also His children who deserve the same grace I’ve always been grateful to have received myself.

Last week I had forgiven him.

This week, I don’t see the horizon.

Both weeks God understood.

In the midst of anger, justified or not, God weeps with me.

Last week, I wish I would’ve killed him.

This week, I know it’s best I didn’t.

Both weeks I knew I wouldn’t be where I am today, waltzing happily in the blessings God built out for me if I had done so.

Maybe this month my walls will crumble, and I’ll figure out how to pray away these shackles.

Maybe two months from now I’ll still be seeking just how to do that.

And, maybe at this moment I don’t really mean this, but it’s worth stating what is ultimately true.

I am not healed, but I am healing.

Some days I wish I would’ve killed him—

I’m glad I didn’t.

A | K

P.S. Stay tuned: Monday 03/10 I will be guest starring on the ‘Make It Uncomfortable Podcast’ to share my story with abuse, and how the Lord has gifted me a holy marriage after all I have experienced. I will share the link once it’s uploaded!

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence or the threat of domestic violence, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline for help at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233), or go to www.thehotline.org for anonymous, confidential online chats.

“Church girl.”

“Jesus freak.”

Words I’ve heard a lot of non-believers call me, and called other Christians, that carry negative connotations in their eyes— as if it’s an insult. HAH!

I wear these titles like a shiny emblem, permanently stitched to every article of clothing.

Turn the coin over.

I’m not churchy enough?

It’s a weird topic I don’t hear women talk about often: The judgement of not fitting the mold of what the average church girl is in 2025.

Not being a walking Hillsong playlist.

Not being a Sadie Robertson-Huff with perfect lowlights, and an instantly-welcoming warmth.

At thirty-one years old, I still run into this.

My Bible is well-loved, but I don’t have the floral divider-tabs, and I don’t highlight with multiple colored pens, so I must not read scripture like a church girl should.

I don’t wear chunky white sneakers with shorter, flowy dresses. I don’t have holes, and rips at the knees of my denim, nor are the cuffs of my jeans Wisconsin-wide. Not like a real church girl does.

Calling all millennials: anyone still wear skinny jeans like it’s no one’s business? This gal does.

I don’t fill my social media feeds with morning aesthetics of highlighted Psalm verses next to a latte with intricate foam art, so I must’ve not started my day with Jesus.

I don’t mumble “mmm, yes Lord" every second during prayer circles— have every word I utter sound pretty— nor do my vocal chords only know softened tones, so I must not be meek enough to be a real church girl.

So I wear skinny jeans sometimes with a casual top half tucked in. Out of style, right?

So I wear ankle-length sundresses with a denim jacket because I like being a modest mouse— What about those arms full of tattoos? We can gladly talk legalism, and Leviticus.

So I can’t rock platform boots under my skirt that has a sweater tucked in like other women can. I would just look like a frump.

I’m terrible at curling my hair so sometimes my frizz is bigger than a Sunday group photo.

I don’t have an Instagram account that shows a polished lifestyle documenting every Bible study that transpires. Every outing with my “Wednesday night friend group.”

And most of the time when I pray aloud with others, I stumble over my own words because social anxiety likes to sit in the backseat— sometimes it’s not pretty, and prayer is just a simple “God, can you just help me? I pray this in Your name… Amen.”

I’m passionate. I’m upfront. I’m daring, and I’m strict with my boundaries— sometimes it seems too forward. Sometimes people assume I don’t think before I speak— sometimes they’re right because I’m human, but most of the time it’s because God made me bold— He made me strong.

I got tired of wishing my personality away because I wasn’t like the average church girl that was reserved and subtle.

I got tired of wishing I was different so that I would seem naturally-inviting to absolutely anyone and everyone.

I got tired of worrying that maybe I wasn’t a good enough church girl if the first words that described me weren’t “She loves the Lord,’ as if the only way to measure my love for Him was with how many parts of Scripture I could throw out in one conversation with a gentle, steady manner.

I got tired of feeling like I couldn’t just spit out a “YAASSSS JESUS,” because loudness isn’t very becoming of a wife and mother.

Maybe I’m rambling, or maybe someone feels the same.

Maybe someone else is like me throwing their hands up in full surrender to every worship song that moves them.

Maybe someone else fights tears during songs when they feel so moved by the Holy Spirit because others around might think they’re being dramatic or unauthentic in their praise.

And maybe someone else is like me and doesn’t care what others think in these scenarios.

If I had it my way I’d be dancing around the entire row or at the altar all of service, bowing down at the cross like I’m just begging to kiss Jesus’ feet—which I am— letting the rest of the congregation fade away from behind me… I’m not the softest.

There’s no perfect way to be a Christian. There’s no right way to dress, or right way to pray. There’s no perfect tone to carry, and no proper way to worship.

Wear the ripped jeans or wear the skinny ones.

Wear the bouncy curls, or roll out of bed and barely make it to church.

Just love Jesus.

Just be with Jesus.

Who you are in Him matters more than the box some people expect you to sit in.

Your relationship with Him matters more than the culture or up-to-date fashion surrounding you.

I may not be the Pinterest-perfect church girl with spotless hands that grew up in a Christian home her whole life—that didn’t make a world of bad choices before figuring it out only to still make a world of bad choices after “figuring it out,” but:

I am a church woman.

I am a Jesus follower.

I am enough in the hands that matter.

A | K

When I looked up an image for this post, I naturally used the key word ‘homemaker.’ To my “surprise,” most of the images that came up were of women dressed like they teleported from the 50’s with a baby on their hip, and the telephone glued to their ear all while canning dried meat for the end-times. Some were of women dressed for present-times; a spotless apron hugging their bodies, kneading dough or hunched over a mixing bowl with a child sitting on the countertop next to them. I might look like that snapshot every few days— maybe every other week— but I definitely don’t prance around like a picture-perfect housewife every day of my life.

We are living in a world where there is an endless space for women, moms and homemakers alike, to share their nitty-gritty truths of motherhood in solidarity. A world where there is no longer a societal censorship of how we choose to sit in the reality of our motherly woes, and demand to be bold.

I am grateful for this.

To preface: I’m what people would call a “crunchy mom” (hence my blog name); meaning I’m holistic, and live a more natural lifestyle where it heavily represents, and impacts my parenting style:

I co-sleep, partially. Raise your hand if you have a kiddo that only sleeps in their own bed half the night. Hi!

I still breastfeed 21 months in with no plans of stopping— this is not as common as you’d think in most communities.

OTC medicines don’t exist in our household. Everything is tinctures and herbs for healing— they’ve never failed us.

Screen time for our son? In your wildest dream.

I make homemade bug spray, and every other cleaner in our home. There are zero toxic chemicals.

I use beef tallow for absolutely everything— go ahead, you name it!

Over my dead body would I ever let my kid eat frozen chicken nuggets that are saturated in seed oils and preservatives— ultra processed food is not allowed over here, y’all.

Organic veggies/fruits alongside pasture raised meats, and eggs ONLY.

Raw milk is the only way to go.

Food dyes and corn syrups? No way, Jose. Do the research.

Synthetic materials? Yeah. Right.

And, although I’m no sourdough-Sally, all of our bread and baked goods are healthy and homemade. (These are just a few of the more natural routes we choose— this lifestyle isn’t for everyone, so I will always take my own advice and mind my own motherhood).

Funny thing is, I used to believe these things made me a “good-enough mom.” That my worth held weight in how successful I was at feeding, and keeping my starter alive.

I used to think I’d never say no so much to my son— Heck, sometimes I think I don’t say no enough— That I would never be visibly upset towards him because then I wouldn’t be the perfect mom— because then he would see a side of me that wasn’t put together, nor exhibiting/promising of the most gentle-parenting possible. And, that me admitting these normal things would ruin the image of who I was as a mom that I held for myself.

But then I wouldn’t be an honest mom.

Then I wouldn’t need Jesus.

But alas, the rise of honest homemakers that walk alongside of me are marching louder.

The rise of moms who are done being placed in a corner where they aren’t allowed to be heard in their woes. Where temper-tantrums can and do coexist with the joy of feeling their child letting the entire weight of their little bodies mold into theirs after an exhausting release of every emotion they’ve ever felt in the span of five minutes.

Where they’re tired not being upfront that their firmness in parenting isn’t always met with understanding from a little one who is impossible of co-regulating— If my son could form extended sentences he would sound a little like this: “Mama, why can’t I drink the bubble soap? It’s just not fair.” Well, I’m so sorry for not wanting your tummy to ache, sweet boy…

I once had an older woman tell me, when I was three months postpartum, that the moms of today “wear their tiredness on their chest like it’s a badge of honor.”

Someone must’ve told her once before “you chose to be a mother.” Basically screaming in her face, and stripping validation from her grasp. Dishonoring her because, how dare you express your fatigue, you’re a mom, get it together. Maybe you should just delight in your child 24/7. You’re meant to keep pushing, no one needs to hear about it— I don’t want to hear about it.

No more.

No more are moms of today just sulking, and drowning in their hardships with no outlet.

No more are moms putting up a front that their life is always picked-up toys, dinner times with no mess, consistent ‘yes ma’am’s, and 7-10 hours of rest every night— if this is you, bless you and send some of that my way!

Some days I get so much done around the house after making my kiddo his favorite pancakes. He cleans up one woven basket of toys before taking another one out. We go on sweet walks and collect acorns. We both nap cuddled up together, we read books about Noah’s Ark, trace our ABC’s, and he doesn’t try to jump in the oven when I go to roast the spaghetti squash so that dinner’s ready on the table for when my husband gets home.

And then… some days, we get nothing done—there are only demands from a barely two year old, and frustration seeping from my pores because it’s easier for him to get his way today— sometimes our mental health is more important than the desire to be firm over not-so-serious things— after all no one is watching, loosen the grip. Pick your battles. Dishes pile up, two rounds of laundry go unfolded, for days, nap time is only 45 minutes instead of the usual 2-3 hours, I don’t make the black-bean protein brownies, I don’t get to read the Bible aloud, and dinner is most-certainly my husband’s task that evening. Bless his heart that at least one of us actually enjoys cooking.

In all of those days where I hate cooking, but rejoice in baking; where I can’t keep my cool in the morning but get it together in the afternoon, I am a good-enough mom. I’m an amazing mom. I am the best mom for my child, and no one can convince me otherwise at the end of the day, but:

More than anything, I am an honest mom.

I wish I would’ve been more honest earlier on. I wish I would’ve been more honest in the newborn stage. Not worried about what people thought of me if I said it was tougher than it was ‘glowing.’ Not worried about the truth that more tears came from being depleted, than smiles came from counting fingers and toes. I still did both, don’t worry.

But, here I am, choosing to be honest. Because there are moms out there who are feeling what I’m feeling, unable to put it into words, or petrified of what everyone else will think if they aren’t the Proverbs 31 woman from dawn to dusk, Monday to Sunday, feeding to feeding.

I was made to be a mom and in no way am I the mom who stirs in silence claiming that it’s all sunshine, and perfectly-stacked blocks that won’t get thrown around by a small, blue-eyed Godzilla.

God made me bold.

There is a rise in honest homemakers.

There is a rise in being accepted for our imperfections, and the reality that it’s no easy task. It never has been.

In a world where social media has it’s pros and cons, relax and come to the table unafraid— there are more of us resting here, resting in the pros of it, in the community that we can call safe. Sit with us if you can’t handle the loud silence in your heart anymore. Let your honesty unravel itself by the campfire. Don’t let being scared separate you from the ability to express the lack of balance in your life when it comes to loving the calling of motherhood, while simultaneously and DESPERATELY wishing your cup remained full.

Your hardships don’t mean you don’t love your child.

I am proud of this generation of homemakers.

Honesty is on the rise, and we were made for such a time as this.

A | K

I may be in the minority when I say I really don’t think it’s that difficult to make friends as an adult. I just don’t.

Difficult to nourish with longevity in the midst of busy lives? Sure.

I love people and friendships, however, I’m not the most extroverted person, nor do I outwardly extend myself very much in social settings unless I’m comfortable with the people around.

If anything I think I’m more reserved and anxious until I can get a feel on someone else— until I can gauge if the person can “match” my personality or humor.

Let’s be real. We’re all a little awkward, some just handle it better than others.

I’m also a one-on-one type of person. Crowds can overwhelm me, and I find it more endearing, and easier for me to be intentional with just one person sitting across from me.

I don’t want to get lost. I just want to know someone—and quite frankly, as many feel, I want someone to want to know me.

Here’s where it gets tricky:

I realized I have expectations. I’ve always had them I suppose.

Last summer I had a very serious, traumatic situation happen in my life. It was the worst time of my life to put it bluntly. I quickly began to understand moreso than ever what type of people I needed in my time of recuperating.

As months have passed, I’ve begun to unravel and process it at a distance rather than in the thick of it.

I had friends and family who showed up. Some who didn’t. Some who did…just not how I needed and/or wanted. In their defense, they showed up in the only ways they knew how…I think…and I often have to remind myself to show them grace.

I appreciated the help my family received; the outpouring of prayers, and checking-in with my husband to see how we were all doing. Words can’t express how thankful I am for the kindness that was shown. The comfort also helped cover the cold, empty spaces of the friends and family who backed away causing more pain.

I’m not understanding.

My words to my husband.

Well, what about the friends who showed up but never asked questions afterwards? They probably didn’t know how to approach you.

But why didn’t they try some time down the road when things had settled? Did they not care how I was feeling? They probably still felt it wasn’t the right time.

Why did they show up at first then pull away when I still needed them? It might’ve been too much for them, and they had other things going on in their life.

Why does everyone act like it never happened? It’s probably easier for them.

Well, what about me? What if it’s not easier for me? What if I needed those friends to exchange more than just laughs with me, thinking jokes would hold a bigger weight than the massive, wounded elephant in the room? … I’m not sure.

The expectations:

I wanted people to ask.

I wanted people to be uncomfortable and offer me a blanket.

Can’t they see I’m shivering?

I didn’t want to laugh anymore. I wanted to be seen.

I expressed this all to my husband, telling him how I wish it was—his response?

“Maybe they can’t be that type of friend for you, maybe they’re not going to be type of friends you were expecting them to be… maybe they’re just going to be the types of friends you grab coffee with; watch movies with.”

You mean surface-level friendships.

You mean friends who act like nothing happened—who never take off their rose-colored glasses or care to see what’s behind the frosted window.

You mean to tell me that the friendships I thought I had with these people were all in my head.

You mean they aren’t able to be the friend to me that I love being to them.

I don’t want that— I don’t have time for that.

How’s that?

In the honesty of this reflection, after losing so many friends in my life who were that type of friend for a season, I just felt hurt. I felt disappointed. I felt sad. I felt forgotten.

So what if I didn’t want to make space anymore for simple-minded conversations? So what if I wanted someone who laugh with me, but also be vulnerable with me?

Was that too much to ask?

I look around and I see those kind of friendships everywhere.

I see them in the groups I’m around. I always allow insecurity to sleep at my bedside as I witness two or three of those friends getting along, and connecting better with each other than with me. Ouch. What’s wrong with me?

This doesn’t mean I don’t have some great friends. This just means that it’s easy to get hung up on the best friend.

This means that after Jesus, and my husband, I’ve always been searching for the type of friend I clearly dreamt up in mind—I know I’m not alone in this.

I had to sit in these questions and thoughts.

The reality:

They aren’t a bad friend just because they couldn’t cater what I wanted from them.

They aren’t a bad friend just because their emotional capacity wasn’t to my “standards.”

I’m also not a bad person for wanting more—for thinking there was more.

And I’m not a bad person for wanting deeper friendships.

All of these things can be true all at once…

That’s it, guys.

That’s the post.

There’s no shiny, red bow to wrap this up with. There are just my feelings, my reflections, and my honesty, because I know I’m not the only one who went through something difficult, and felt as if people locked it in a box and vowed to never open it up.

We cannot force others to process life with us, and we cannot put people on a pedestal, hoping for a comfort Jesus wants you to know He can only give.

But we can check our expectations at the door, and we can still love people as Christ calls us to even when they aren’t the friends we wanted them to be.

Be the friend you want to be.

A | K

It got me thinking how accurate this statement was, having me reflect on that post.

Parenting is hard.

Being a SAHM mom is hard.

But today I wanted to once again highlight and praise my child for just some of the many joys he has brought me the past couple of weeks.

I’ve been under the weather this week, so my husband has stayed home from work to help out, letting me get some rest. The mornings have looked like waking up a kiddo bursting in the room yelling “Hi, mama!” then proceeding to smush my face, and eat my nose. Although I could barely open my eyes, I could see that precious smile.

We shared a protein cookie sitting in a ‘big people’ chair.

He’s been saying his own name like he owns it or something.

Pumpkin seeds, mango melts, and goji berries are his weakness.

He recorded my friends and I for three minutes the other day in selfie-mode, unbeknownst to me, and got the funniest conversations.

Everyday we go outside to play his version of corn-hole.

He loves babies. He sees one and immediately wants to extend a sweet smile, and a gentle touch.

Language development has been through the roof with new Spanish words flying out of his mouth… with the syllables he’s able to pronounce of course.

Spicy bone broth for mama? Forget it. He drinks it down before I can grab it. The boy loves peppercorn.

Then there are those stolen sips of my homemade matcha latte. The first time he had it, his face basically said “what is this earthy thing I’m drinking?” No longer is that the case.

One of the best things is him saying “ah, no!” when things fall down or get silly.

My sweet boy squeals “Hey, Keeety!” anytime he sees our cat, someone else’s cat, or just a cat in a book.

He’s always on my phone talking to who-knows-who, and man, do they chat it up.

Sadly, he grew out of a pair of shoes. We ordered new ones, and wow did he express gratitude. The enthusiasm he had as he half way put them on by himself had. me. melting.

It took a year and a half but, he officially likes Christian rap. Praise Jesus.

The insisting of wearing dad’s hats backwards is real.

He was eager to watch me knead dough… then he got bored watching me knead dough… then he ate just about all of the dough I kneaded.

Before each meal, he holds both dada and I’s hands for prayer. I’ll take a peek at him, and he’s grinning, looking at all of our hands intertwined like it’s the funniest thing in the world to him. When I say that the cutest “amen” follows out of his mouth, I’m not exaggerating.

The past twenty months (every month before two is so different so yes, I will use exact months to describe his age until then; also, they label baby clothes by months so it is what it is) hold endless amounts of these simple, rewarding moments.

Through the chaos; mental heaviness; sleepless nights; can I just get through one bible study…; waking up at 5am, because to him, 8am doesn’t sound like fun that week; short-lived crying sessions when things don’t go as wanted (both him and I); not being able to actually get anything done around the house; oh my gosh these things are baby proof, but they aren’t MY baby, baby-proof; ripped pages in children’s books I wish could be preserved; meals not eaten because I didn’t add coconut aminos to it (kids don’t understand little kidneys need low-sodium intake); spilled water every few minutes; and any other moment we as parents struggle to co-regulate— there are a million little sparkles in the eyes of this 23lb munchkin-popper that God graced me with.

Parenthood is hard.

Loving them is easy.

A | K

You read that statistic right— Five to seven times is the average amount of attempts it takes for someone to leave an abusive relationship for good. It took me a full seven from what I can remember clearly . There are so many reasons why it’s difficult to get away. The number of women who are killed by an abusive partner skyrocket when the woman actually leaves. This is the most dangerous time. For me it was fear. Not just of being hurt further, but of being alone.

I don’t talk about this often because it’s hard… then one day God introduces you to someone who knows just what you’ve been through and sees you— someone who believes you and inspires you to come out in boldness. I don’t think I’ll ever fully share the pain I endured- my jaw clenches too tight at just the thought- but I know in my suffering, the Lord delivered me. I wouldn’t call myself healed, but I am healing, and the praise belongs to Him.

“I never expected peace and quiet to feel so unsettling. After years of constant phone calls, back-to-back crises, and walking on eggshells, the silence was deafening. The stillness felt more disruptive than the chaos I had lived through. No one prepares you for this. The quiet can make you feel more alone than ever, and it’s in these moments that you're most at risk of going back to your abuser or jumping into another toxic relationship just to fill the void.”

- Alissa Gray, Survivor and CEO of Absolute Gray Media

I wish I could’ve been the woman who left right away. I wish I could’ve saved myself so much heartache and long, lasting trauma that would go on and seep in to more aspects of my life than I ever would have imagined. But I wasn’t. Every time I tried leaving I felt as if I couldn’t survive in the silence, and every time I went back, I just tried harder to be the person he wanted me to be at the cost of my very dignity.

People always say “if they ever laid a hand on me…” but, it doesn’t just happen like that. Abuse doesn’t just show up at the doorstep one day without warning. It creeps it’s way in with “love bombing;” with a sense of security. It builds you up for months, telling you how incredible and deserving you are— it shows you the type of affection you’ve been craving your whole life. It gives you the world then slowly starts inching the rug out from beneath your feet. It turns in to emotional abuse, breaking down every part of yourself making you believe that pleasing this person is what can fix all that is wrong. That you are the wrong. It becomes tear-soaked pillow cases; broken mirrors; blood-stained carpets; a newly destructive version of yourself, and drowning out the ache with endless bottles of wine, and more pills than you can count. In my case, it also morphed in to sexual abuse where I became a shattered shadow of myself.

The first time I was abused, the sickness of manipulation had me asking how I hurt this person. It didn’t feel real. What did I do? Why did I push him so hard that he snapped? How can I be better? What can I do to make him happy? Surely I couldn’t tell anyone. How embarrassing would that be? A relationship that seemed so happy was really just a nightmare that was nowhere near over. A relationship I gushed over and moved for, was spitting in my face. My confidence was out of reach, and some of our friends didn’t even believe me when I tried being honest. Some friends even suggested that I provoked it, and that in defending myself at times only made me just as guilty. Maybe I was?

I wondered if it would become more real to them when they saw it happen. When they witnessed my head being bashed in to a door frame. When I fell to the floor only to open my eyes and see blood pooled in my glasses and dripping on to the floor. Oh my gosh the carpet is stained, he’s going to be even more upset. When I could barely get up because my whole face was on fire, and the amount of blood made me think he broke my nose. Oh, but thank God he only busted my chin open, then it wouldn’t be a huge tale-tell mark I couldn’t explain away. Or when he walked away and all of our friends sat there staring at me in disbelief only to leave shortly after and keep the silence. Maybe it didn’t happen, or maybe it really was my fault?

I remember waking up the next morning hoping to be consoled. Instead I was met with anger for causing a scene. Instead I was walking away with a raised scar on my face that still serves as a reminder of the lowest points of my life. I wish that was the last time. I really do. But where would I go? Back home? Back to the people who never had any faith in this relationship? I had to prove them wrong. I couldn’t show the world I was capable of being unloved- of being exactly who this man would tell me day after day that I was— stupid and worthless.

When you’ve stayed for so long no one feels sorry for you.

January 5th, 2015.

The night he finally tried to kill me.

I’ve never hit a floor so hard— never seen my knees so bruised. Although I had felt his hands around my neck countless times before, the pressure wasn’t letting up this time. I could feel the weight of his anger become something even darker. I remember every hateful word that was said. I remember the smell of burning marinara sauce on the stove, and what noise was coming from the tv. I remember the pain of boiling pasta water peeling my skin off, and I remember the way God saved me even though I had spent years at this point denying who He even was, living an unholy life. By His grace a window of escape came.

I almost didn’t make it out of that apartment, being blocked from a fist-dented door. My phone being thrown in to the wall and the sight of a massive AR-15 sitting right behind this man that I no longer recognized. I thought this was it.

There was some swift shuffling and I made it outside. I am no longer fearful, but his words haunted me for far too long: “Years down the road when you think you’re safe in life, I will be there to end it just when you least expect it…” I ran as fast as I could as he slammed the door behind me. I hid behind bushes as I knocked on every door around me hoping someone would let me in to call 911. My stuff was thrown outside as I waited for the police and ambulance.

I couldn’t believe I was so unwanted. I couldn’t believe I was so hard to love.

Imagine that thought process. Imagine the abuse, name-calling, battering, and isolation it had to have taken to get there.

When I went back to live with my mom afterwards, I felt like I didn’t know who I was outside of a toxic relationship. I didn’t understand how to sleep in a bed that wasn’t riddled in painful chaos. The nights felt emptier, and the days longer. I spent time at bars alone, and hiding behind a joyful facade. I loved meeting strangers because at least they wouldn’t know how weak I was.

I had family members who didn’t bat an eye when I told them. Family members who said “Well, just don’t go back there.” Friends who called me the crazy one, and said “He’s a fun guy, he would never do that.” There was no support.

He went to jail for one night. He owed legal fees and got his weapons temporarily taken away.

It took me years to stop flinching at sudden hand movements from people close to me. It took me years to stop drinking, and doing drugs to forget what I had been through. After the traumatic birth of my son, every bit of being spoken down to, demoralized, and thrown around came rushing back hitting me like a freight train.

I am not healed, but I am healing.

I know a God who calls me worthy. A God that took me out of the lowest valleys and is using me to help others.

Shame visits me sometimes when I think about that season of my life but, guess what? God answers the door.

I am not healed, but I am healing.

This is my story, and I’m taking it back.

A | K

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence or the threat of domestic violence, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline for help at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233), or go to www.thehotline.org for anonymous, confidential online chats.

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.” - Galatians 5:22-23

Yet another children’s song my child loves to dance and be silly to that holds Spiritual lingo and scripture. Although at a swift listen just perceived as fun, when we open our ears, it’s a simple form of the Gospel- the depth of God’s Word calling on us in a jingle.

The past few weeks going in to the new year, the fruits of the Spirit have been something the Lord has made evident will be a theme for 2025. A theme He wants me to be rooted in, and have live through me. He has been taking me through readings pertaining to each one, placing the verse on my heart daily, and having it show up in the lives of others right before me.

We could dissect each one and go on it for miles as every characteristic of God has lived and still lives in millions of moments in millions of lives.

Think about the last time you have experienced God’s never-ending, perfect love; His joy in seeing us delight in the life He blesses us with; His warm peace which He brings through His presence; His longsuffering (patience) every time we stumble; His utter kindness in our sinful nature; His active goodness; His faithfulness in every valley; His gentleness in how He softly corrects us; and His self-control which we see at the cross, and in the fact that He does not change- not in any season.

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.” - Hebrews 13:8

How beautiful are these characteristics? How can we not desire to show this same affection to the ones around us as God does for us?

I think it’s also important to look at what’s not fruitful. The things that plague our flesh, and the characteristics we can often times identify ourselves with or let our hearts be engulfed in:

Anxiety is not a fruit of the Spirit.

Self-righteousness is not a fruit of the Spirit.

Envy is not a fruit of the Spirit.

Bitterness is not a fruit of the Spirit.

Shame is not a fruit of the Spirit.

Selfishness is not a fruit of the Spirt.

Impulsivity is not a fruit of the Spirit.

Competitiveness is not a fruit of the Spirit.

Arrogance is not a fruit of the Spirit.

And finally, watermelon is not a fruit of the Spirit.

My prayer over myself and for all of you today is that you may meditate on this verse and seek to represent these qualities onto Christ. That you live life surrendered with a constant desire and eagerness for an active goodness in your hearts, and that you may bear these fruits while remaining deeply rooted in who God says He is.

A | K

“Marriage is not a human invention; it is a divine revelation. Its design never was our own made-up arrangement of infinite malleability. It was given to us, at the beginning of all things, as a brightly shining fixity of eternal significance. We might not always live up to its true grandeur. None of us does so perfectly. But we have no right to redefine it, and we have every reason to revere it.” - Marriage and The Meaning of The Gospel x Ray Ortlund

Holidays are an awkward time for us. The magic of Christmas and celebrating our Savior brings joy and comfort, but we wrestle with how to cling on to that when we’re house-hopping all Christmas day trying to soak up what little time we can with family. My husband and I come from a lot of divorce, which means Christmas isn’t wrapped up tight with a big red bow in one single living room. Out reality is that it’s hard. Nonetheless, we always strive to balance the rushed stress, and the warmth of having so many individuals to love.

In the midst of driving back and forth, back and forth, car rides are filled with tighter hand-holding. It makes for longer hugs and sweeter kisses before we walk in to the next household. The quick time frames of decompression bring a healthy space for silence together, and simple yet meaningful check-ins. It can bring tension, but also reassurance.

“How are you feeling?”

“That was a lot.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Coming to the end of the year now, we reflect a lot on our marriage in the past year. The flaws that tried to swallow us- the ones that succeeded in doing so. The merciless reveal of the pride, and selfishness we as humans can entangle ourselves in… It takes me back to the Garden of Eden where both shame and glory began. How God called everything good but, one thing: Adam’s lack of companionship. (Gen. 2:18-24) How Adam needed Eve and God made them one. How both Adam and Eve sinned against God, took something perfect, and created our very own imperfections. We are deeply rooted in these events to this day.

This years’ reflection:

Kids change your marriage. Period. As a woman, bringing a child in to this world makes you lose pieces of yourself, and gain new ones as well. Some things are easier to move on from than others, but some we mourn for a time as we try to adjust to this new person we have become, to this new responsibility God has entrusted us with. My mental health suffered heavily postpartum, and in turn that affected our marriage even more than the already carousel ride of first-time parenthood. It rocked us to say the least. Not in detrimental ways, but in areas where we saw even more sides of ourselves we didn’t know existed. It’s as if we opened up a new jar of flaws and it shattered on the ground. So how do we begin to mend this?

I like to remind myself in moments where I struggle with my own impatience, that I am married to a man, and a child of God. Is how I’m treating my spouse, even in my deepest strain, honoring to God? Is the heart of His child, my husband, safe in my hands… in my heart? Are my vows still ringing true three and a half years later? If I have to take too long of a breath, I know my answer, and I know I need to rest my feelings aside and walk in humility. I know I need to run to the Lord with my transgressions if I want my heart to crack open to redemption.

What about the times we have to tell each other we don’t like this side of the other person. You know, “call them out.” Or as I like to simply say “to speak in truth and love,” because “calling someone out” can sound/seem a little aggressive and confrontational- a childish term or action even- are we going to be calm and understanding? Are we going to look in the mirror our spouse is holding up for us? If so, we can then cultivate the capacity to reflect the Glory of God instead of being defensive of who we are wrongly choosing to be in that situation.

With all this to say, the revelations have been large. They have been sanctifying and good. This year has been tough. The kind of year where some people result to the phrase “marriage is hard.” Although we have never been these people to be honest. We see life circumstances as hard, but not our actual marriage. Not the covenant God has ordained. There has only been one time when I have had the question, “Is this hard?” Rather quickly I was shown that it was me who was the hard. It was me getting in my own way of being the selfless spouse I needed to be. It was me forgetting that trials are short in comparison to every other long-lasting sewing of holiness our marriage has provided.

My husband is kind and he is patient. He is forgiving and he is sacrificial. Meditating more over the holidays on the beautiful facets we hold, and what we have been through together only solidified that we chose well when we chose each other. That even when we stumble, we both still want to end our day together wanting to bring glory to God in His ever-Trinitarian being. We have helped heal wounds within each other we never thought would stop bleeding by stitching and weaving them shut. Are the wounds still there? Yes. But they don’t ache nor do they cause anguish or groaning.

There’s an excitement and strong desire that came from this holiday stress, to become closer than we already feel we are. There’s a relief in knowing God has given us each other to be wonderfully bound to. I am so thankful God allowed two beautiful sinners to become one. I am praying over all marriages today as we decompress, and also as we bottle up the praise worthy moments experienced this past week. That we may seek discernment in how to go about a new year with new opportunities to be pruned to His likeness.

May the Lord bless you and keep you- may He bless and keep your unity, may He convict, sanctify, and edify you in all His graciousness.

A | K

“Praise the Lord! Blessed is the man who fears the Lord, who delights greatly in His commandments.” – Psalms‬ ‭112‬:‭1‬

“Most men will proclaim each his own goodness, but who can find a faithful man? The righteous man walks in his integrity; his children are blessed after him.” – Proverbs‬ ‭20‬:‭6‬-‭7‬

Flesh of my flesh,

I cannot imagine the weight of providing for a family, but I see you carrying it with broad, sturdy shoulders that grunt all the way up many mountains all while making it look so easy.

I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to miss pivotal moments in our child’s life, sitting in a meeting, losing count of the many phone calls taken, wishing you were home to cheer on every milestone- yet, you still manage to bring back praise and applause in your coat pocket at the end of every long day.

I cannot imagine what the night must sound like to you. Seeking rest in all of the prayers of protection you whisper over us, trusting the Lord will be the loudest voice in our halls.

I cannot imagine what it’s like to live in a world that thinks women hold a foundation that men are absolutely crucial in.

I cannot imagine how unseen you must feel when they say “good job mama,” and you’ve been the one holding BOTH of us afloat some days.

I cannot imagine the constant sweat dripping from your brow knowing the responsibility you have as a man to disciple a younger version of you- praying you just get it right the only time around.

I cannot imagine the exhaustion you push through as you take on silent battles you don’t want to ‘burden’ us with because “men must be men.”

Husband, I cannot imagine the spiritual warfare you fight off with the already-negative expectations held for you in a society that assumes every father is like the oblivious “failed” Facebook-reel-kind.

But, I see you. I honor you. I celebrate you.

I see your strength; I see your humility, I see your leadership, and how you only seek Godly guidance. I see you cleaning bottles in the middle of the night. I see you always putting us first, and I see you bear good fruit.

I cannot imagine a world without you as my husband; without you being the father to our child, without you as the leader of our home, and by the grace of God, I don’t have to!

Happy Wednesday.

We love you.

A | K

Shift the focus on verse 10 alone now understanding some of the context, “For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.”

The Greek word for ‘workmanship’ is poiema, which is where the word poem comes from, meaning “something made, ” in context something made by God Himself. I really don’t think we see how special, and held we are. It’s so easy to feel flawed and discouraged when we fail. To feel ashamed of failing God, thinking we’ve ruined His plan for us. To pick apart scripture of the times God didn’t seem so merciful that we ignore His gift to us, Jesus. The Gift of grace, of forgiveness, of redemption, of love. God loves us beyond the cracks because only He can mold it back. He loves us beyond poor, self-written paragraphs in the chapters we try to create for ourselves because He is the true Author.

We can also take a look at Jeremiah 18:2-6 as it says, “Arise and go down to the potter’s house, and there I will cause you to hear My words.” Then I went down to the potter’s house, and there he was, making something at the wheel. And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter; so He made it again into another vessel, as it seemed good to the potter to make. Then the word of the LORD came to me, saying: “O house of Israel, can I not do with you as this potter?” says the LORD. “Look, as the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are you in My hand, O house of Israel!”

In every artistic thing God is the Creator, always reminding us to paint straighter lines, and allow ourselves to be the slab of clay that He so effortlessly wraps His hands around to form a masterpiece only He can. The canvas and the clay. We are broken, yet beautiful in His eyes.

Charles Spurgeon says it this way – “You have seen a painter with his palette on his finger and he has ugly little daubs of paint on the palette. What can he do with those spots? Go in and see the picture. What splendid painting! In an even wiser way does Jesus act toward us. He takes us, poor smudges of paint, and He makes the blessed pictures of His grace out of us. It is neither the brush nor the paint He uses, but it is the skill of His own hand which does it all.” 

Allow yourself to embrace being His workmanship, and let Him continue to mold you, for you were wonderfully, and fearfully made.

We are His poeima.

A | K

Good grief, I really am… This will be my most vulnerable post yet. Probably one not many will relate to- possibly one many will judge me for- that’s ok, because I’m here for the one. I’m here writing this, knowing I don’t have much time to make it pretty, because maybe just one other mom out there is feeling the same exact way, scared to voice her sufferings, lost in her emotions unsure what to make of them— unsure how to make space for them. This will be the organic, the raw, and the unfiltered my short, little bio comments on me offering to you, my wonderful, curious readers.

I don’t use the word “grief” loosely. I feel used loosely by grief though. Grieving a multitude of things starting with the many parts of motherhood that come with difficulty, but are missed when they’re gone. You know them, mama. The newborn phase where they could cry all night. I still remember what over-sized pajamas and what color nursing bra I wore that one 2:00am where I walked around with heavy eyelids, and a sore body for three hours so my baby could just. get .some. rest. I knew one day (today) I’d look back and say “I’d go back to not sleeping that night.” Every day my little boy becomes more of his own person, and it sits painfully in my heart knowing this is the last chance I get of these stages.

“I cannot do this again.” These are the words I told my husband just a week after having our son. My feelings never wavered. Whoa. Yes, reader, I know.

This is where I’m repeating that this is for the one mama.

I’m grieving the hard, yet thought-out decision that biologically we will not be having more children— as you’ve read in earlier blog posts, I have Bipolar Disorder, and I’m sure you can only imagine the intensity of what Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Anxiety, and/or Postpartum Rage (they don’t tell you much about these extra PP’s), looks like when coupled up with another severe disorder such as BP, but those were just the cherries on top of an awful pregnancy, and a traumatic birth story I’m still trying to rewrite— still trying to give to the Lord. Pregnancy and labor were traumatizing enough for me to say I’m done. Traumatizing enough for me to question how moms just walk around like they didn’t do the wildest thing ever- that is a blog post of its own for another time.

I get weary when people ask about my story, when they ask about motherhood, especially lately because since my child is over three months old, every single human being wants to know: when am I having another one? And I wish so badly I could just say “HAHA who knows!” I wish so badly it didn’t halt a carousel inside of my mind or poke holes in my confidence. I wish so badly the case wasn’t that I dealt with all of the postpartums for well OVER eighteen months. I wish so badly I didn’t have tears streaming down my face right now telling you there are moments with my son I will never fully remember because my anxiety had me deaf, and my depression had me blind.

Guys, I’m grieving.

I’m grieving that I won’t hold another pregnant belly between my arms. I’m grieving that I’ll never again get to surprise my husband with two lines on a plastic stick. I’m grieving that I won’t get to be giddy and stalk my own Babylist registry again. I’m grieving through every pregnancy announcement, every gender reveal, every baby shower, every mama that is “TWO UNDER TWOOO!!!” My heart aches like I cannot explain. It scurries and hides from pondering questions, because if honesty has its way I run into the judgment of “it could be worse,” and “that happens to a lot of women, you’ll be fine” or “it’s all worth it in the end.” As if my mind hasn’t had its own war with these sentiments. As if I haven’t scolded myself for not being “brave enough” to bring this world more blessings. As if just one isn’t enough.

Y’all, this is the unfiltered. Even though I am held, grief knocks at my door every chance it gets, and I know someone else out there is grieving too or God wouldn’t have pulled my hands to the keyboard to belt out my ugliest feelings- to be honest enough with you that it isn’t always sunshine and homemade sweets.

Reader, you are seen, you are loved, and whether it’s exactly like what I’m feeling or not, I pray your experience feels validated. I pray your heart chooses boldness like Esther. Place your scarred grief in His scarred hands. May your story bring Him Glory just like mine.

“But may the God of all grace, who called us to His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after you have suffered a while, perfect, establish, strengthen, and settle you. To Him be the glory and the dominion forever and ever. Amen.” - 1 Peter‬ ‭5‬:‭10‬-‭11

A | K