The Courage to Be Read
It's one thing to write your story. It's another thing entirely to let someone else read it. As Living in the And makes its way into the world, I'm discovering the vulnerability of being known, the grace of being understood, and the courage it takes to share your truth without knowing how others will receive it. Sometimes the greatest act of faith is simply telling your story, leaving room for others to tell theirs, and allowing yourself to celebrate the beauty of what you've accomplished—even when so much of life remains unfinished.
A Little Light, a Leaf, and the And
Sometimes God has a way of getting our attention when we least expect it. For me, it came through a beautiful painting, a moving song, the memory of my mom, and a little heart-shaped leaf. What began as an evening of music and art became an unexpected reminder that grief and gratitude, heartache and hope, can exist together. As I prepare to release Living in the And, I was reminded that the truths I've spent months writing about are still truths I'm learning to live. There's a lot of heartache in this world, AND there's an abundance of joy. Sometimes we just need a little light to help us remember where to look.
The Cost of Being the Bigger Person
I'm getting really tired of being the bigger person. Tired of extending grace, giving people the benefit of the doubt, and being expected to rise above circumstances that have left me hurt and exhausted. When did being a good person start requiring us to sacrifice our own emotional well-being for everyone else's comfort? I'm learning that forgiveness doesn't mean abandoning ourselves, that boundaries aren't bitterness, and that sometimes being the bigger person isn't nearly as important as being a whole person.
Maybe This Is Thriving
What if thriving isn't somewhere on the other side of everything that's hard? Maybe resilience isn't always dramatic. Maybe it's ordinary—showing up, loving, praying, hoping, and trying again tomorrow. I've spent so much time waiting for the next big thing that I'm beginning to wonder if I've misunderstood which parts were the big things all along.
Maybe They Do
What started as a ridiculous “Why not?” turned into two months of voting, sharing, dreaming, and approximately 7,482 references to Jeff Goldblum. We didn’t win America’s Favorite Couple—but somewhere along the way, I realized the contest had stopped being about winning. It became about 28 years of choosing each other, growing through the wonderful and the ugly, and realizing that maybe I’ve been keeping the wrong score.