JOY unfiltered: the joys of motherhood.

Too often, mamas commiserate with each other about the challenges and difficulties of motherhood, from traumatic labor stories to breastfeeding woes to sleep deprivation. This information can leave any mom, but especially new moms, feeling overwhelmed and negative about motherhood.

I’d like to shift the narrative.

Let’s be frank: we all know this journey is hard. This post is simply about the pure joys of motherhood, written by a brand-new mama of an 8 week old.

JOY: Not being pregnant any more. Enough said.

JOY: Witnessing how resilient the female body is. I have no better word for the experience than ABSOLUTELY WILD. “Strong enough to bear your children/then get back to business” -Beyonce.

JOY: First laying eyes on this tiny human who miraculously was formed inside of your body. Knowing what an imperfect human you are, it is beyond humbling.

JOY: Being unbelievably in love with this baby, even if she is a carbon copy of her father. Life ain’t fair, ladies.

JOY: Unexpectedly knowing what to do and how to care for this tiny person…most of the time.

JOY: Watching your partner become a dad. Seeing your infant safely held in his strong arms, watching him fall in love with her and care for her. Realizing he may be more of a baby whisperer than you and DEFINITELY functions more optimally on limited sleep than you do.

JOY: The transition from two individuals to a couple to a family. You made a freaking HUMAN together. You are both in love with her. Your new family becomes the top priority for you both.

JOY: Watching your baby develop and grow, as she gazes into your eyes, giggles, coos and outgrows those tiny footie pajamas that fit her as a newborn. Subsequently crying that she’s getting bigger and wanting to slow time to a crawl so you can treasure every moment she’s this little.

JOY: The mom tribe. Mom friends are the best friends, at least right now. ALL friends are wonderfully appreciated, but there is something about the mom tribe that seems to have risen up out of nowhere to support you that is beyond comforting. They have experience. They have survived this mom thing longer than you, and all seem pretty functional and well-adjusted. They have useful information on everything from bodily changes to nutrition to newborn care. They will let you cry or rant any time, day or night, and remind you that we are all in this together. Thank goodness.

In conclusion, there are undeniable challenges in motherhood; but there is also immeasurable joy. Amidst each challenge, let’s find the joy, and hold onto it the same way we hold our precious babies.

Pregnancy Survival Kit

This past year, I navigated my first pregnancy with our daughter, Della. There were a handful of items that were absolutely essential to surviving pregnancy for me, and I’m sharing them here for any women thinking about conceiving, first time mamas, or seasoned pros.

Mamas, what would be in your pregnancy survival kit?

Blanqi Maternity Leggings

BLANQI Maternity Leggings. The best maternity leggings ever. Period. Incredibly soft and comfortable, able to dress up or down, viable for working out, and don’t make you feel like a beached whale. I stumbled upon these through an Instagram feed of another mama and purchased them during their Black Friday 50% off sale, but they are currently on sale for 30% off. Trust me: the quality is worth the price tag. I wore these almost daily throughout the second and third trimester and they are still in good enough shape I could pull them out if I was pregnant again.

Calm Calcium Magnesium Supplement. Two recommended nutrients while pregnant (or any time!); and effective for one of the most frustrating side effects of pregnancy: constipation. Gross, I know, but very real. This is a fizzy drink. It doesn’t taste great, but I found it much more effective than any over-the-counter stool softeners. If you’re pregnant, just buy it now on Amazon or at Target and thank me later. You’re welcome.

Tums Chewy Bites. Heartburn during pregnancy is a beast. Increased progesterone production during pregnancy relaxes the valve between the stomach and the esophagus, hence leading to heartburn and acid reflux. Crazy, right? THE MORE YOU KNOW. Not to mention the baby shifting your organs around. No big deal. Y’all, I am all for natural remedies for this sort of thing. I googled natural remedies for heartburn and tried a handful: apple cider vinegar, pineapple, peppermint tea, ginger, honey, sleeping on my left side, elevating my head, eliminating problematic foods and beverages…no go. Chewy Tums are the best and don’t taste like chalk. They even have a limited edition peppermint flavor if you are pregnant over the holidays. So festive.

Pick a heating pad, any heating pad. Weight gain concentrated in the front of your body leads to back pain. I experienced back pain that intensified throughout my third trimester, and by the last month or so, was almost constant within an hour or two of waking up until I went to bed. Make friends with your heating pad as it will help ease the pain when painkillers aren’t working. If you don’t have one, get one.

A good pregnancy pillow. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” was a question I was asked often during pregnancy. Hmm, I don’t know, I would think. Could it be the severe heartburn? The growing belly and limited sleep positions? The tiny human kickboxing my pelvic floor?

I bought a pregnancy pillow when sleep became uncomfortable as my belly grew during the second trimester, and it was absolutely invaluable. It also helped with postpartum sleep as maneuvering, even in bed, is difficult post-cesarean. Cost around 60 bucks at Bed Bath & Beyond and worth every penny.

Baby Building is Sacred Work

“I promise to love you in every form you take.”

I spoke the words aloud as I touched my smooth, muscular torso. I was 3 weeks pregnant.

My body slowly expanded. When I stood in the shower months later and couldn’t see my toes, I touched that swelling torso again. “I promise to love you in every form you take.”

Months passed. Internal organs rearranged themselves to make space for the life taking up more and more room inside of me. Heartburn kept me up for sleepless nights in a recliner, running to the bathroom with acid bubbling up my throat.

Pain crept in and intensified as Braxton Hicks and lower back pain were present almost daily throughout the third trimester. These bodily sensations were an unfamiliar and unwelcome guest.

I had promised to love the form of my body, not the function.

As the end of pregnancy drew near, my body became foreign to me in both form and function. It had journeyed miles away from the powerful, pain-free athletic vessel I was accustomed to living in. Pain and weakness had rarely been present in my physical body, so this body felt like someone else’s, as though a body swap had happened without my consent.

A light switched on one day as I thought,“You are doing sacred work.” I stepped mentally outside of my body and recognized it as being on a special mission, a not-so-secret assignment. I was simply a passenger along for the ride, and the changes in form and function, although extreme, were only temporary; needed for this assignment.

In the end, I kept that promise to my body, pledged days after seeing those two pink lines. Okay, I mostly kept it. I also learned a valuable truth:

My body is not who I am.

My body is not who I am. It is both part of me and separate from me. Through that truth, I could accept (not love or embrace wholeheartedly, but accept) the changes it was experiencing on its special mission of baby building.

Because baby building is weird, painful, lonely, beautiful, sacred work. And I am grateful to have been along for the ride.

The Golden Hour

Ah, the golden hour.

That magical hour after childbirth when your brand-new infant is placed on your naked chest for skin-to-skin bonding, the first breast feeding of liquid gold, and contented bliss for mama and child. Or at least according to hundreds of mommy blogs on Pinterest, which CAN’T BE WRONG.

Enter reality, stage left. Waking up hot, suffocatingly hot, and asking my partner if the baby was still inside of me. (Spoiler alert: she was not.) Cussing at the sweet nurse, Jessica, when she massaged my just-had-a-tiny-human-cut-out-of-it uterus, which felt rather like my uterus was bread dough and she was the baker. Blinking my eyes to see three of everything but my baby. BABY WAS NOT PRESENT.

What? No magical golden hour? No bonding immediately after she was pulled from my depleted, aching body? No breast feeding colustrum, the perfect first food? No precious child in sight? Nope, nada, no.

Eight hours later, I was wheeled into the newborn nursery to see that darling baby. She was absolutely perfect. She was also on oxygen, hooked up to an IV, and covered with sensors. I painfully pushed myself to standing, and gazed at her with tears running down my cheeks as I blabbered on about her nursery and her dogs and everyone who couldn’t wait to meet her. Mama cried. Daddy cried. Our hearts filled up with that overwhelming, instantaneous love you can’t explain until you experience it yourself.

These post birth hours and minutes looked nothing like what I imagined, read about or planned for. My experience was not like the pregnancy books or mommy blogs said it would be. But in the end, even with the unplanned surgery, the baby in the nursery, and the long wait: it could not have been a more golden hour.







Della Jo Birth Story

Hey y’all.

Saint Patrick’s Day 2020 my daughter entered the world. I’m gearing up to share all things pregnancy, postpartum and newborn related, and want to start here with her birth story.

March 16th, I was at home relaxing, watching Love is Blind and slowly riding our exercise bike for about 20 minutes. Early afternoon, I was in significant pain with my lower back and Braxton Hicks contractions. Tylenol didn’t help, so I did what I could on the exercise ball to alleviate the pain and  walked with painstaking effort up and down the driveway. Regular contractions 5-6 minutes apart began at 6 PM. I timed them while continuing to stretch and make dinner. Ruben and I ate together and the contractions continued throughout the evening. We headed to the hospital around 10:30 PM, where I was monitored for 2 hours before being declared in active labor and admitted.

Upon admission, I was moved into a labor and delivery room, where they continued to track my contractions and monitor vitals for myself and baby. Contractions were fairly long and grew more intense into the early morning hours. I asked for an epidural around 4:30 AM because I didn’t think I would be able to hold still while it was administered if I waited any longer. The anesthesiologist was kind and humorous, warning me that the needle would sting like Texas fire ants when it was inserted. Once the epidural was in, the nurses had me lay on my back at first, and then began position changes every half hour or so. My movement was limited due to the epidural, so they flipped me around to each side, on my side with a peanut ball between my knees, propped up, flat, and even on my hands and knees. Multiple nurses and doctors were in and out regularly to monitor progress. My OB throughout the third trimester since moving to Waco arrived around 8 AM for the remainder of my labor and delivery, which was an immense blessing.

Labor continued to progress somewhat slowly (I was dilated around 3 CM when I arrived the evening before) for the rest of the morning. My OB broke my water around mid-morning and discovered an infection in my amniotic fluid, meaning both myself and the baby would need antibiotics.

The epidural numbed the pain of the contractions, but I could still sense when transition arrived. I shook uncontrollably all over my body for what seemed like forever.

My OB came in with the nurse when it was time to push and they both gave me specific instructions on how to breathe and what muscles to engage in order to push. It is difficult to engage muscles that you can’t feel! This was highly frustrating to me as I expected to just know what to do and how to push, and wasn’t able to properly follow their instructions. We tried pushing a handful of times, and then the doctor and nurses left for a half hour. More doctors and nurses came in, and despite my exhaustion, I could sense something wasn’t right. My doctor explained that the baby would not move into the correct position to be delivered, and that they were unable to stabilize her vitals. She compassionately reminded me that she knew I didn’t want a cesarean, but that at this point it was what was best for the safety of the baby.  This was disappointing after making it this far into labor, and I cried, asking the nurse if I had done something wrong. She  encouraged me that I had done a great job with everything that had happened and explained that at times, baby just won’t cooperate. They promised that Ruben would be brought back to the operating room once I was ready, and wheeled me off to meet our baby.

The operating room was all white with bright lights that shone down as the doctors, anesthesiologist and nurse prepared me for surgery. I was moved onto a table with my arms outstretched and naked from the abdomen down. More numbing medicine was given, and the doctors began poking and prodding, asking what I felt. They began to operate when it seemed I was numb enough. Ruben still wasn’t in the room, and I felt strange and uncomfortable sensations multiplying where they were operating. I asked where he was and began yelling in discomfort and fear. A lady in a white mask held my hand and told me to breathe.

The next moment I recall, I woke up in a warm room with the nurse on one side of me and Ruben on the other, disoriented and unsure if the baby was still in me. I was seeing three of everything. Ruben held up a piece of paper that read “Della Jo- 12:10 PM- 7 lbs 2 oz -18.5 inches”, but my eyes couldn’t focus to read it. I stayed in recovery for 2 hours and was then moved to a room in the women and newborns wing.

The hospital required 8 hours of bed rest after surgery, so I stayed in my room, resting and waiting to meet my baby. Shortly after 8 PM, I was wheeled over to the nursery, where she was being given antibiotics via IV and oxygen due to the complications during labor. She was the only baby in the room, and I started to cry before I even saw her tiny face. In that moment, every month of growing discomfort throughout pregnancy and each minute of the labor and cesarean was worth it. Somehow this tiny, perfect creature had been inside me this whole time, just waiting to make her appearance.IMG_6186

Welcome, sweet baby girl. You are so loved.




Graduation Day (and how I got here)

“Strength does not come from physical power, but from an indomitable will.”- Osho

Today I walk across the stage to receive my college diploma at 28 years old. I’d like to share my story with you of why and how I got here. My hope is that in sharing this story, those who choose to read it will be blessed, encouraged, and inspired in their own journey.

I graduated from high school in 2007 and moved from North Carolina to Wyoming, to a small Christian college. My plan was to go into full-time Christian ministry. I spent quite a bit of time overseas in high school and wanted to pursue working with orphans like my older brother had done. During this time, I was privileged to travel  all over the US and to Italy twice with an acapella singing group. These are some of the happiest memories of my life.

After graduation from the three-year program, I was married to a man I met at bible college. We both wanted to go into Christian ministry together, and began youth ministry immediately. I was heavily involved with leading youth group, teaching Sunday school and playing with the worship team. I did my best at 21 years old to be a good Christian wife and fulfill everything I believed a wife should be. What wasn’t evident from the outside was that my church-going, youth-group leading, firefighter husband who appeared to be an upstanding Christian man was, in fact,an abuser; and, I came to believe later after careful research, a sociopath.

Every aspect of my life was in some way controlled by him: how I dressed, how I did my hair and makeup, who I spent my time with, my finances, etc. This abuse and control was all-prevailing. He would call me a slut and a whore when I wore a tank top or shorts above my knees. When I bought my first bikini ever, he tore it in half and threw it in the trash.  A belted dress was “to draw attention to my body”. The money I worked hard for months to save would disappear with no explanation. Small disagreements turned into him flying into a white-hot rage, threatening me with violence, belittling me verbally, grabbing me forcefully, yelling and screaming, or jumping into his car with half of his wardrobe and threatening not to come back. Sex hurt. Always. I never knew good sex when I was married. It was painful and humiliating. I was shamed for my body, for my beauty, for my sexuality. I learned to look at the ground when men talked to me, because he would accuse me of flirting or being unfaithful to him. Although we could barely pay our bills and our relationship was in shambles, he constantly pushed for children, and would joke about me being a “baby factory”. I was less of a woman in his eyes because I wasn’t ready to have children at 21 years old.

Nothing I did was good enough, even though I was solely responsible for all housework, yardwork, upkeep of rundown vehicles I was regularly stranded on the side of remote country roads with, and attempting to make sense of constantly disappearing finances.

Abuse is hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it, but the best way I can describe it is that it is like being trapped within four walls that are closing in on you every day…. And you’re trapped inside with a monster.

We had two dogs during our short marriage. The first one, Mahler, peed on the floor as a tiny puppy, and my ex-husband flew into a rage, yanking him out from under the kitchen table and throwing him so hard he bounced off the wood kitchen floor. Later, he shot Mahler after he was hit by  car, without telling me. Our second dog, Daisy, was so scared of him she would pee on the floor when he came home.

After two years, one day he came home and told me that he told all his friends that I was a great wife, but that it was a lie, and he hated coming home to me.That day, after cowering and crying in the corner as he belittled and yelled at me, I woke up. I made a list of what I needed to take with me and began preparing my getaway. On the day I left, he grew manic and ran out into our dingy living room with a handgun pointed first at me, then at himself, threatening to shoot himself if I left. All I remember is throwing the front door open in hopes that someone would hear us screaming and come before he shot himself or me. I was miraculously able to talk him down and convince him to allow me to take the bullets from the gun with me. I called his family and calmly alerted them that he was suicidal, and drove to a friend’s home who had seen something dangerous coming and offered me a safe haven should I need it.

The grace of God allowed me to procure a permanent restraining order with no resistance from the judge, who in a no-nonsense manner inquired why I  had stayed with a man like this for a total of four years (dating and marriage). I wept quietly onto my blush-pink vintage blouse when I saw that my former pastor was a character witness for my ex-husband in the court of law. My entire church and almost every Christian I knew disappeared from my life. At this time, it was very hard for me to explain the abuse because I was still accepting the reality of what had happened, and because I walked away from the marriage, I was left with the blame for our marriage dissolving. I also had an early-term miscarriage during this same time frame, and spent several weeks in and out of clinics and one day at the hospital.

At twenty-four years old, I experienced the loss of nearly everything I held dear in the matter of a few months. My faith, my church, many so-called friends, my marriage, and the hope of children. I was blessed to have a handful of true friends who supported me during this time, and my family also supported me once they came to realize the horror I had been living in. I got on my feet as fast as I could and began school that same fall. My ex-husband did not believe women should receive higher education, so this was a dream I never imagined would come true.

Since the fall of 2013, I have worked nights and weekends waiting tables and bartending while taking full credit hours, first at Aims Community College and then at the University of Northern Colorado. Through financial aid, scholarships and grants, I am graduating with my bachelor’s degree in Sports and Exercise Science 100% debt free at the age of 28 (29 at the end of this month). This has been a long, arduous road. I have felt so different from my peers, and spent years beating myself up for my past mistakes, but have never once doubted this was the path I was meant to take after my divorce. I am so immensely grateful for the wisdom I have gained from my experiences, although I would never choose to walk that dark and lonely road again. I have seen such incredible grace and healing over the past few years, and have learned the value of forgiving others, accepting difficulties, and opening myself up to healing. The absolute hardest part of my journey has been forgiving myself for unwittingly marrying an abuser at such a young age, but finding that forgiveness and freedom has been utterly and completely freeing.  I am now happier than I ever remember being.

Early in my divorce journey, someone who at the time was a dear friend told me to be careful, because one day I would look in the mirror and not recognize myself. She was right. Today I look in the mirror and am astonished at the confident, courageous, powerful, assertive, determined, kind woman I see looking back at me. I am amazed at her physical strength, her ability to show empathy, and her wisdom.  I am humbled that God has healed her heart to be open to love and trust again after the deep betrayals of the past. I am brought to my knees in tears at the Love that has never given up on my wayward, once-shattered heart and has made me truly whole again. I am beyond honored to have this message to share with the world: God is still good, God is always good, and God will never abandon me or you, no matter how dark, devastating and impossible the circumstances may seem. God is good, all the time, even when circumstances and man are evil. His love has never failed me, and I undoubtedly know He was with me in my darkest hours.

Today I walk across the stage to receive my diploma, surrounded by true friends and a loving, supportive family. I have a safe home, an adorable (crazy) dog, a nice vehicle, money in the bank, my health, a fantastic band, one exercise certification and another on the way, a job lined up, and did I mention NO COLLEGE DEBT??!!

Thanks be to God who has brought me out of the darkness into the glorious light.


Soli Deo Gloria (To God Alone be the Glory)

The Imposter

Can I get a hand raise if anyone has fears? It’s not just me? Oh, good.

I fear anything involving a ball, social situations where I don’t know anyone, losing love, and evangelical churches. Not in any particular order.

The church fear lingers years after I got a sour taste in my mouth for Christianity in general and suddenly discovered that there are certain sorts of Christians who only “love” you if your life is picture-perfect. It turns out some Christians only care about the rigid rules of religion rather than the expansive, welcoming heart of our beautiful Savior, and this ends up causing a lot of pain and disillusionment in the lives they touch. It’s been years since I made this discovery and felt my heart  push open a little door and walk out of my chest and away from these toxic people, but somehow I still have this uncomfortable, twisting knot in my feeling each time I go to church. Hence, I don’t go to church often. Usually, fear wins.

This Sunday, I went to church after some gentle prodding from one of my beautiful-hearted girlfriends. When the pastor walked on stage, I sat at attention. He was thirty-something, tatted all over, and had a pronounced speech impediment. KJ.

KJ began speaking about Christmas parties, and if Jesus threw a party what it would be like, and began unraveling a parable from the Gospels to explain this concept. The premise was basically that Jesus invited the lame, blind, poor and outcasts to hang out with him. That Jesus loves everyone, however broken we all are in our own ways. And then, pastor KJ said that he had to tell the church this. “You belong. You belong. You belong.” He repeated this about twenty times, until my eye makeup was smudged because I was sitting there ugly crying. Me? I belong?

Because if you knew… if you saw a glimpse into my past, any of it, you’d proclaim quickly and decidedly that I am not, indeed, the good church girl I look like. You’d throw me out the heavy, stained glass front doors and far away from the whitewashed steeple pointing up to heaven. But Jesus? Well, Jesus spent his time on earth with tax collectors, hypocritical Pharisees, and women who had more husbands than they could count. He  has a prostitute in his lineage. This is the Jesus who says, You belong, Abigail. You belong.

I went to meet KJ after the service to thank him. I told him for years, I’d felt like an imposter, and that if anyone knew my story, they’d throw me out the front doors. And he looked at me with tears in his eyes, and quietly replied, “Me, too.”

You belong. You belong.

The Big Heart

My mama says the wisest things, if I can quiet my tongue for a moment to listen.

“It’s rare, for someone to love so fully. I think people protect themselves. Most are afraid to love like that, with their whole heart. It’s a risk. But a few are willing to risk it for the payoff. ”

Oh, mama Julie. You’re so right.

God and I have had endless conversations on this topic. They usually went something like this: “Listen, God. This heart you gave me. Why? It’s too big. Did you not notice I’m a small person, God? Could I feel a little less, please?  Honestly, God, this heart you gave me just feels like a curse most days.” Some days these conversations were accompanied by hot tears of disappointment, the quiet ache of loneliness, or frustrated rants of me raising my voice at God.

The big heart didn’t bother me, once upon a time, before life lost its brand new, shiny luster, untarnished by the heartbreaks and disappointments and betrayals that adulthood inevitably brings. I loved the big heart God gave me, before life suddenly imploded without warning. Before what I thought was love turned into a living nightmare where my screams for help were silent and each day, I became smaller, more quiet, more docile, more fearful.  Before I walked away from a dark and dangerous marriage and somehow lost my entire social circle in three months. Before my best friend at the time told me to be careful because I was changing too fast, and one day I would look in the mirror and not recognize myself.

Those years, the dark years, they were a lot for the big heart to endure. And so, the big heart stopped feeling sometime in the midst of the dark years, because numbness is a survival mechanism.  Hearts are good at feeling, but they can also be excellent at playing pretend. I’ve never been one to do anything halfway, so I became the queen of pretend. I worked nonstop, partied and drank when I didn’t work, and kept everyone, especially men, at an arm’s length. I avoided anything that made me feel: church, music, and anything vaguely akin to love.

Honestly, I’m not sure exactly when I started feeling again. It was a slow thawing, a careful removing of layer after layer of bricks I had built around my soul. Music helped. Church helped, although it seemed every time I went, I cried. Slowly, tiny movement by tiny movement, healing happened. It turned out the big heart was still in there. And the big heart still loved just as big as before the dark years. Maybe bigger, actually.  Enter the conversations with God aforementioned.

It’s taken me all this time- twenty-eight and a half years, to be precise, but God and I have finally reached a peace on the big heart thing. As it turns out, the big heart is not a problem. It’s not a curse. It turns out, the big heart is actually a gift. And the dark years? Those years are a gift, too. Because my God, He doesn’t allow pain without purpose. His heart hurt big when He watched mine get crushed. His heart overflowed with joy when He watched each tiny step of healing. In fact, He was probably crying with me in the church pew. And now, He quietly speaks to me that every single piece of my once-shattered heart has been remade, and every chapter of my story can whisper love and hope to hurting hearts. (Although, I’m not always the best at whispering. So show me a little grace if I’m talking about love and hope too loud, or yelling at you about it. I’m not a halfway kind of girl, remember?)

So, the big heart. Mama Julie is right. It’s rare to love fully, but a few are willing to risk it.

Me, I’m willing again. Finally. A little older and a lot wiser from the shattering and remaking, and filled with love to flow out. To use the gift God gave me in His infinite wisdom to light the way for a few weary souls. To remind them that we’re all in this together, and that really, in the end, love wins.

Thanks for hanging with me through the mess, God. Now help me to use this heart to give out Your love- genuine and unconditional. Thank You for the big heart.

Born to

“Don’t forget- no one else sees the world the way you do, so no one else can tell the stories that you have to tell.” -Charles de Lint

I believe everyone was born to do something. My mother was born to touch others in the sweetest southern way, with bread and butter pickles and peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. The checker at the Harris Teeter and the mail clerk know her name. “Hey Julie, how you doin’ honey?” She was born for this warmth and ease with people.

My sister was born to be an artist. Walk into her home, and it’s resplendent with jewel tones, repurposed furniture, antiques, and art from around the world. It is all just-so, darling and homey at the same time.

And me? I was born to do two things: sing and write. I’ve always known both, since I was an itty bitty girl singing Someday My Prince Shall Come with great fervor to my parents and writing poetry about life’s meaning at age seven. (I’ve always been a little intense, I guess.) Music and writing have always been there, like a steady thrumming backbeat through the changes and seasons of my life.

Writing holds an element of fear for me. There’s this uncomfortable, squirmy feeling I’ve tried to shake off for most of my twenties that no one wants to hear my story, that others misunderstand the odd journey of my life or judge me for it, that my story isn’t worth writing. But I’m learning, slowly, that each person’s story is beautiful, worthy and worth telling. That each viewpoint is valuable and can lend hope to others who might be struggling to hold on. And that, really, others’ opinions don’t matter. And so, this blog. It will be a little bit of my story. A little bit of new-born faith, a little bit of feminism, a little bit of what it’s like finishing college at 28 with 18-22 year olds, a little bit of re-starting a new life in my mid-twenties, and a lot of love. A lot of grace, hope and peace.

Come along with me for this soul-filled, beautiful, messy journey of life.