Personal
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There are moments when I am standing in my kitchen, surrounded by dirty dishes and children arguing over something completely insignificant, and I realize I am doing two jobs at once. I am raising my children. And I am raising myself. The second one is quieter. Nobody sees it when I have to remind myself…
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Recovery from childhood abuse is a long, winding, badly paved road. There are stretches where you think, I’m finally getting somewhere. Then suddenly you hit a pothole you didn’t know existed. A memory surfaces. A feeling you buried twenty years ago walks into the room without knocking. And then comes the part nobody talks about…
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I used to think I knew what fulfillment felt like. That is almost funny now. I had experienced pleasure. Obsession. Attention. Novelty. Desire. The electric little religions of being admired, wanted, entertained, stimulated. I had mistaken intensity for depth so many times that I thought the two were synonymous. I thought I was full. I…
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There is a strange thing that can happen when you spend years trying to heal. You begin with, Why does this hurt? Then: Where did this come from? What are my triggers? What are my boundaries? What does my nervous system need? These are good questions. Necessary questions, sometimes. But eventually, your entire life can…
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There was a time when I thought God was supposed to make my life easier. I didn’t say it quite that plainly. I was more sophisticated than that. I dressed the idea up in spiritual language. I prayed for peace. I prayed for healing. I prayed for restoration. I prayed for the day when my…
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There is something almost offensively beautiful about the way children demand repetition. “Again.” Read the same book. Sing the same song. Push the swing. Build the tower. Knock it down. Again. And again. And again. We call it exhausting because we have forgotten how to be alive. Chesterton noticed something profound about children: their appetite…
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Why Am I Running? I have spent much of my life believing that if I simply tried harder, organized better, and moved faster, I could outrun suffering. I treated my days like a battlefield. One more appointment. One more treatment. One more book. One more load of laundry. One more attempt to heal myself, fix…
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Sometimes I wonder… If my heart still races, have I failed God? If I’m still exhausted, is my faith too weak? If I still carry symptoms from trauma, have I not surrendered enough? I think many Christians quietly ask these questions. Perhaps the answer is this: My body is still catching up to a truth…
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I’ve come through wilderness before. Addiction. Depression. Anxiety. Postpartum psychosis. Despair so deep I was convinced I’d never see the other side of it. And yet, here I am. What surprises me is that I find myself in another wilderness. Not the same one, but a quieter, stranger one. The leftovers of trauma. Chronic symptoms.…
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I’ve become suspicious of the word healing. Not because healing isn’t real. I’ve needed plenty of it. But because I’ve learned you can spend years “healing” while becoming exceptionally good at avoiding anything that might actually require you to change. I know because I’ve done it. I’ve analyzed my childhood. Studied my wounds. Learned the…