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Sometimes life teaches us to improve ourselves, fix ourselves, or become someone else. But healing rarely begins with striving. It begins with noticing. I've been reminded so often that we are human BEings, not human DOings. Yet so much of our lives is spent believing we have to earn our worth through constant effort. This practice is an invitation to step out of that cycle, even for a few moments, and simply be present with yourself. By gently bringing your attention to your

i wonder what it actually means to become a safe person... not someone who always has the right answer... not someone who fixes everything... not someone who agrees with every choice another person makes... just... safe. because i keep noticing something... we often abandon people at the very moment they need someone willing to wonder with them. someone is hurting in ways we don't understand... and instead of becoming curious... we evaluate. i wonder why that is. is it becaus

some wounds are easy to recognize... they come with familiar shapes... the kind you can point to without hesitation: grief. loss. fear. heartbreak. the ones you can name... the ones you know how to find when they surface. it's the quieter wounds that make me wonder... the ones that disguise themselves as a hundred different stories. for a long time, i thought every painful experience was asking a different question... a different lesson... a different reason... lately, i've s

some symbols outgrow the hands that created them. rust remembers. the forest keeps growing. the circles keep widening. perhaps this is how Grace works... old strands, new knots. and somehow, the quiet certainty... that we have been held all along.

started thinking about my worth... and somehow ended up here: healing isn't becoming someone else... it's remembering what was never actually lost. i wonder how much of our lives are spent trying to become worthy... worthy of love... worthy of rest... worthy of belonging... worthy of God. as if worth is something that can be earned... or lost... or negotiated... but if worth could be increased... it could also be decreased... and that doesn't sound like something God would cr

I've spent a lot of time thinking about trust lately... And realized, I've spent years learning how to distrust myself. That realization didn't arrive all at once. It arrived through hundreds of tiny moments where I felt something, knew something, sensed something, and then immediately began explaining it away. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe I'm being too sensitive. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I need more information. Maybe I should be more compassionate. Maybe I should try h

i am learning that wonder is not escapism. it is remembrance. for so long, i believed strength meant vigilance. to survive, to recover, to care for others, to lead, to hold space, i learned how to stay useful, attentive, responsible. and those things mattered. they saved me in many ways. but lately, something softer has been calling me back. the trees. water on skin. silence that does not need to be filled. the strange holiness of being witnessed without performance. moments

i have been unraveling quietly… thread by thread… wondering if becoming holy always feels this much like breaking. some nights i sit inside myself like an abandoned chapel… asking my Creator who survives surrender? what remains when the masks fall away? and then this hymn found me. "Love divine, all Loves excelling…" not demanding… not shaming… just descending… “Breathe, O breathe thy loving Spirit into every troubled breast” and God… i have been troubled. grieving… yearning…

sometimes the body asks for what the soul has been denied for too long. quiet. warmth. stillness. less noise. the sacred ones understood this. the Buddha sat beneath the tree. Jesus walked away into the wilderness. Mohammed disappeared into the cave before revelation arrived. not to escape life. to hear it clearly again. some things have to be released before healing can enter. the constant rushing. the endless input. the need to respond immediately. the belief that exhaustio

six years ago we were told not to gather not in our homes not in our churches not even freely outside six feet apart faces covered connection reduced to something fragile we called it protection but it also became a kind of quiet breaking six years later we can gather again we can be close again but have we actually reconnected or did we just learn how to live without each other i was five years sober when the world shut down i thought i had been doing the work i didn’t reali

there is a quiet invitation woven through scripture that we often turn outward, but rarely inward: “do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” Hebrews 13:2 we hear this and think about how we welcome others: how we open the door, how we make space... but what if the stranger is also you? what if the one waiting to be received with tenderness, is our own soul Gautama Buddha spoke of meeting

for most of my life my mind has not been a safe place to land it has been loud... relentless... a constant stream of not enough... too much... fix this... hide that... you are almost… but never quite... even now 80 pounds gone and still the voice does not celebrate it scans. it critiques. it catastrophizes. it turns a moment into something to survive... instead of something to live... this is the part people do not see... how hard it is to stay in the present... when your own

"what we give doesn't always return, but what we give is always what we are." -unknown lately, life has been inviting me inward. into the tender places. into the spaces where old reflexes still reach before loving awareness fully arrives. if i’m honest, i would change those first reactions. the quick tightening. the stories fear tries to tell in the in-between. but i would never change the loving. i would never trade the part of me that stays, that witnesses, that gently hold

i almost didn’t share this. it wasn’t the picture i would have chosen, but maybe that’s the point. Grace rarely arrives dressed in perfection. here i am. softened. worn in the holy ways that Life carves us open. made new again. forty nine times around the sun, each orbit a quiet becoming, through loss, through healing, through the slow sacred work of learning how to stay. it hasn’t been easy. but it has been true. and somehow, in ways I cannot fully name, hope still rises in

lately i’ve been feeling the shift in the air, in the light, in myself this season always seems to whisper the same thing begin again not perfectly, not all at once just a little more present, a little more open, a little more willing i’m holding onto gratitude for these gentle resets for the energy of renewal that seems to move through everything for the reminder that hope returns in cycles, just like the Earth connection can be rebuilt we can realign with what feels true we

“In Your light we see light.” — Psalm 36:9 Winter has a way of shrinking our world. The cold keeps us inside. The sky is often gray. We move from house to car to building without ever really being anywhere. Creation can begin to feel distant, and with it our sense of connection to the earth, to our bodies, and to something larger than ourselves. But the natural world is still speaking. And the light is still returning. Lately, I have been practicing something simple. Ten min

in seasons of uncertainty, i'm reminded that prayer isn’t always asking for answers. sometimes it’s simply sitting in God’s presence and letting my nervous system soften. when the heart feels heavy and the way forward isn’t clear, i’m learning that I don’t have to force clarity. i can place one hand on my chest, take a slow breath, and trust that God meets me right where I am. here's my prayer if things are tender and uncertain for you as well today: hand on chest. deep breat

my prayers and love to the following: - you stayed when you wanted to run - you prayed when you wanted to isolate - you reached out instead of staying silent - you cried instead of keeping it in - you sat with it instead of ignoring or numbing it you are seen. you are doing good things. you are Loved. and the pain is still real. and... I am grateful for you. keep looking up. there is more than these temporary moments of pain, suffering, confusion, and unbelief. there is beaut