When people let us down, it’s easy to question our value. But even in the absence, there’s a way back to tenderness, truth, and the steady comfort of coming home to yourself.

There are moments that split your life in two—the kind you don’t see coming, and the kind you’ve seen coming for years. I’ve lived through both, and I’m still finding my way back.

This year, I learned how to live again—with a softer heart, a clearer voice, and a deeper reverence for what remains. From hospital rooms to birthday candles, the journey of 42 taught me that healing is both a battle and a blessing. These are the five lessons that changed me.

Love isn’t always a feeling. Sometimes it’s a choice. Sometimes it’s a lifeline.

In eight weeks, I’ll be backing out of an empty driveway most mornings. This entry holds space for the quiet ache of change, the miracle of healing, and the deep, braided truth that grief and gratitude often arrive hand in hand.

Ten months later, the road looks the same—but I am not. Healing hasn’t meant forgetting. It’s meant learning how to breathe again as I walk the same path with a softer heart.

Packing light isn’t just for suitcases — it’s a quiet, brave decision about what we carry in life and what we’re willing to let go. In this season of movement, I’m learning that the lighter we travel, the freer we become.

Emotional healing is slow, often quiet, and full of unexpected turns. But in the soft spaces where we learn to listen to our lives, we just might become both stronger and more tender than we ever imagined.

Nothing prepares you to look death in the face and keep moving — but I wasn’t alone. In the days following Luke’s accident, it was the faithful, steady presence of others that carried me so I could carry him.

I wore the same worn pair of glasses every night for the first eight weeks of Luke’s hospitalization, not just to see — but to stay ready, present, and near. Even now, when I reach for them, I’m reminded that our bodies hold memories our minds have long tried to release.

Ten days into the ICU, I was at the end of myself—scared, exhausted, and whispering prayers I wasn’t sure anyone could hear. Looking back now, I see how healing had already begun, even in the silence. What I didn’t know then was that light was already on its way.

When Luke opened his eyes for the first time since his coma, we didn’t know if he would ever come back to us. For 48 hours, we waited—frozen between fear and hope. And in the stillness, faith began to take root in a whole new way.

Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint, and sometimes the smallest steps make the biggest impact. Each small victory, whether it’s a blink, a word, or a step, adds up to something far greater than we could have imagined. It’s in these moments that we realize how progress is made, not all at once, but one step at a time.

Healing isn't just about survival — it's about letting go of who you were and learning to live in the skin of who you are now. If you've ever felt like a stranger to yourself, you're not alone.

A personal story about a rainy morning, a worried mama heart, and the slow, quiet practice of choosing light. Sometimes hope doesn’t rush in—but it still finds its way through.

Sometimes, the smallest acts of grace—offered by a stranger or a friend—can be the very thing that helps us keep walking through the dark. When the weight feels unbearable, even a single spark of kindness can remind us that we’re not alone.

Journaling became my refuge in my son’s ICU room—a place to pour out my fears and cling to hope. Now, through writing, I’m making meaning of this journey and sharing it with you. Join me as we find light in even the darkest seasons.