Author Archives: Unpolished Truth

One of my biggest struggles through everything I have experienced has been not allowing my anger and fear to turn into hatred. I haven’t always done this well. In many ways, it is still a battle I fight today.

Romans 12:14 says:

“Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.”

If I’m honest, this has been one of the hardest commands in Scripture for me to obey.

Today, I am mostly on the other side of the persecution my husband and I experienced—persecution I never could have imagined. Before all of this happened, I had spent my life trying to be someone others could trust and respect. At least I thought I had.

And if I’m being completely honest, that mattered to me.

I wanted to be known as a good wife, a good mother, and someone who treated people with kindness. I’ve never been overly extroverted. In fact, I’m pretty shy, and it takes me a while to really get to know people. I’ve never wanted to be the center of attention or well known. I actually prefer the opposite. But I hoped that those who did know me would see someone who was compassionate, genuine, and cared deeply for others.

So when the first article was published about my husband and me—filled with things that were so far from the truth—it was gut-wrenching.

Then it went viral.

The story spread across the country and even around the world. Local news stations picked it up. Tabloid reporters waited outside our home hoping to get pictures or a statement. Our small town’s Facebook page exploded with hatred, assumptions, and judgment toward our family—especially my husband and me. I received threatening text messages from people I had never met. I no longer felt safe in my own home or even in my own community.

It felt like I was living in a movie. I couldn’t believe this was actually my life. Everywhere I looked, it seemed there was darkness, and I couldn’t see any light at the end of it.

How could this be happening?

It all began because one woman manipulated the truth to serve her own agenda. She preyed on our son when he was vulnerable, twisting reality until he believed she cared more about him than the people who had loved him his entire life.

But she wasn’t rescuing him.

She was pulling him further away from the people who loved him most.

In the process, she wasn’t only trying to destroy us—she was destroying our son too.

So how do you bless someone like that?

I have never felt hatred toward another person the way I did during that season. Looking back, that realization still grieves me.

And yet, almost every day, I prayed.

I prayed that God would soften my heart.

I prayed that I could forgive her.

I prayed that somehow she would recognize the damage she had caused—not only to us, but to our son.

Then there were the people who knew us. Or at least, I thought they did.

Some turned against us. Others fueled the fire, adding their voices to the accusations, eager for their own moment in the spotlight. Very few of them were actually interested in helping our son. They believed the lies, but when his life began to spiral because of the very lack of boundaries they encouraged, they quietly disappeared.

None of them stayed.

None of them walked through the hardest days with him.

None of them were there when the cameras left and the headlines faded.

So how do I bless them?

The truth is, I don’t have a perfect answer.

I wish I could tell you I have completely forgiven everyone involved and that none of this hurts anymore. But that wouldn’t be true.

Forgiveness is still something I am walking through.

So, I am still a work in progress. I am still learning what forgiveness looks like. I pray for those who have hurt me, and I ask God daily to soften my heart so I can love them the way He calls me to. Some days I do that better than others.

But I refuse to let hatred have the final say.

My heart sank, my body felt weak, and all I could do was listen and pray.

It was Super Bowl Sunday. Government offices were closed. There was nobody to call for help or more information on a Sunday afternoon. If what my son was saying was true, I couldn’t even contact the director of the program for answers. I felt helpless, not knowing what was happening or who to turn to.

Sadly, because of everything we had already been through with our son—the lies that had been told over the years about us and others—I didn’t know what to believe. Was he telling the truth?

As a parent, all you want to do is protect your children, believe them, and keep them safe. That was all we had ever wanted for T. We were doing everything we possibly could to protect him from himself and the path he was on—a path of self-destruction and self-harm.

And if I am completely honest, we also had to protect our family and our other children.

He was on a mission to destroy us, no matter what it took. The hatred and anger inside him had taken over, and he would stop at nothing to get what he thought he wanted: to be placed in foster care and no longer be part of our family.

That day, I was dying inside at the thought of him being hurt by the very people we trusted to help and care for him.

He could not live in our home. No program or facility within the United States would take him because of his escalating and erratic behavior. We had exhausted every resource available to us, and the court system would not help us—unless he actually tried to kill someone.

We were not willing to take that risk.

We had children to protect. We had to protect ourselves. Yet we loved our son deeply and desperately wanted him to get help, holding on to the hope that one day he would be able to come home.

All of these thoughts raced through my mind.

What now?

First and foremost, we had to somehow get to the bottom of what was happening and find the truth.

In the days that followed, that became harder than I could have imagined.

Just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, it did.

The next eight months became a battle.

A battle to protect our son.

A battle to protect our children.

A battle to protect our rights as parents.

A battle to keep our sanity.

When I think back to that Super Bowl Sunday, I had no idea what was about to unfold in my life or in the life of my family.

The story is long. It is complicated. At times, it feels almost impossible to tell.

But if you’ll stay with me, I will do my best to share it.

I will share the details in a way that is appropriate. In a way that protects my son and honors his story. In a way that helps explain how my life was spun completely out of control and how it ultimately led me to where I am today.

The truth is, I could start at the beginning, but somehow that feels even harder.

So this story may come out in pieces.

It may be sporadic.

It may not always be in chronological order.

But I will share what is on my heart when I feel led to share it.

One thing you should know before I share this story: it isn’t over.

We are still walking through parts of it. Some chapters have closed, but others are still being written. There are still wounds healing, questions without answers, and days when faith is still required moment by moment.

I don’t know how every part of this story will end, but I know God has been faithful through every page so far.

My greatest hope is that through every part of this story, you will see that I was never alone.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my Lord and Savior was walking beside me through every brutal day and every heartbreaking moment.

He never left my side.

I know this because, on paper, there is no reason I should have been able to keep getting up every morning.

My marriage should not have survived.

My children should not have been able to continue living their lives under the scrutiny of our community and the weight of everything that happened.

Yet somehow, we did.

And I can give you only one explanation:

Jesus.

He has been my Fourth Man in the fire time and time again.

“It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; He will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.” — Deuteronomy 31:8

There are days when I find myself asking, Why, God, why?

I don’t know how much more pain and heartbreak I can take. I’m desperately trying to hold on, one day at a time, but some days I wonder how much more I can carry.

The truth is, I feel everything deeply. I carry the weight of my family—the burdens of my husband, my children, and the struggles they face. Sometimes it all feels overwhelming.

I hear people say all the time, “God will never give you more than you can handle.”

If I’m honest, I question that daily.

Because there have been many moments in my life when what I was carrying felt far beyond what I could handle on my own.

Yet I also know this: we live in a broken world. Pain, suffering, disappointment, and heartbreak were never God’s desire for us. But He has promised that He will work all things together for good.

I believe that.

And when I look back on the seasons when I thought, I can’t do this anymore, somehow, some way, I did.

Not because I was strong enough, but because God was.

Through every trial, there has been growth. Through every heartbreak, there has been something He was teaching me. I am stronger than I think I am, or I wouldn’t still be standing today.

But if I’m being honest, I’m tired.

And growth has growing pains.

Sometimes I wonder, How much more can I be stretched?

I have to believe I’m not the only one who feels this way. In fact, I know I’m not.

So if that’s where you are today, let me give you permission to feel what you’re feeling.

Question.

Doubt.

Cry.

Be angry.

Be disappointed.

Be exhausted.

God is not afraid of your emotions.

He hears every cry. He sees every tear. He knows every burden you’re carrying.

And He is with you in all of it.

You are not too much for Him.

Your questions are not too much.

Your pain is not too much.

And your weariness is not too much.

So rest for a moment in that truth.

You don’t have to have it all together.

You don’t have to be strong enough on your own.

Because even when you feel like you’ve reached the end of yourself, God has not reached the end of His strength.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
Matthew 11:28

One of the hardest parts of everything we’ve gone through has been the heartbreak and disappointment my children have experienced along the way.

When I look back over the last five years, I see so many moments my husband and I missed—sometimes because we weren’t physically present, and sometimes because we simply weren’t emotionally present. We were surviving. We were putting out fires. We were carrying burdens that felt impossible to set down.

The chaos, drama, and pain I was experiencing inevitably spilled over into the lives of my children, who were simply trying to be kids, teenagers, and young adults. They were navigating their own emotions and challenges while living in the shadow of ours.

My son’s struggles became my full-time job. If I wasn’t somewhere trying to get him help, I was at home researching ways to get him help. And when I wasn’t doing either of those things, I was mentally and emotionally exhausted from the weight of it all.

I can’t help but feel that I wasn’t the best version of myself for my children during those years.

The truth is, I know I wasn’t.

I’ve spent countless hours beating myself up over what they experienced and what they will eventually have to work through because of it. I hate that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fully protect them from the reality of what was happening in our home.

There is no way any of them could walk away from those years untouched.

None of them really talk about it, even when I try to open the door for conversation. That’s heartbreaking in its own way because I know there is pain there. Pain from what each of them experienced individually, and pain from what we experienced as a family.

I am still working through my own grief—the grief of losing my son and the life I had imagined with him. I still carry PTSD from the trauma of those years, something I feel the effects of almost every day.

I have no doubt my children carry grief too.

They lost their brother.

They lost the life they knew before everything fell apart.

And they will continue to feel the ripple effects of this chapter in ways I may never fully understand.

As a parent, that’s the last thing you want for your children.

All I can do is pray for healing for each of them. I can continue to create space for conversation, continue to remind them that they don’t have to carry their burdens alone, and continue to respect where they are in their own journeys.

That’s all I can do.

But there is one thing I know.

My children are resilient.

They have endured more than most people realize, and somehow they continue to move forward. They’ve learned to cope, to adapt, and to keep going even when life has been unfair.

My hope is that even though I wasn’t perfect through any of this—and I’m still not—I have shown them what it looks like to keep moving forward when life hurts.

To get up each day and begin again.

To search for gratitude, even when you have to dig deep to find it.

To trust that hard seasons don’t last forever.

We live in a broken world, and suffering touches every life in one way or another. But we never walk through it alone.

Even in the darkest valleys, God remains present.

And sometimes simply taking the next step forward is an act of faith.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
— Psalm 23:4

There are mornings when worship hits differently.
This morning was one of them.

I could not stop the tears from filling my eyes. Every song seemed to reach straight into the deepest parts of my heart. Not in a painful way, but in the kind of way your soul desperately needs. The kind of reminder that I was never meant to carry this life alone.

Moments like this remind me just how good God has been to me and how much He has carried me through.

I can honestly say the only reason I am still standing today is because of my faith.

In some ways, it feels like yesterday. In other ways, it feels like a lifetime ago when I truly believed I could not keep going.

I can still remember that moment vividly.

I usually try not to revisit it because it is painful, but to understand where I am now, you need to understand part of how I got here.

That night, I left my house to bring dinner to my son, who was staying temporarily in a hotel while we waited for a judge to decide what would happen next. There is more to that story, and maybe one day I will share it fully.

As I drove there, I already knew I would likely be met with anger. The woman who helped create this entire circus was waiting there too, ready to record me, hoping I would react in a way that supported the false accusations being spread about me. It was heartbreaking to watch the influence she had over my son.

As I drove down the road, the anxiety and fear became overwhelming. The emotions were so intense I cannot fully put them into words. I had experienced difficult things before in my life, but nothing compared to this.

I felt weak. I could barely breathe.

And in that moment, I was ready to drive off the road and end all of the pain.

The pain.
The fear.
The betrayal.
The shame.
The humiliation.
The persecution.

It all felt too heavy.

But there is no doubt in my mind that I was not alone in that moment.

God met me there.

Jesus, the Holy Spirit, my guardian angels—He took hold of me when I could not hold myself together. He quieted the chaos in my mind, steadied my racing heart, and put breath back into my lungs.

I wish I could say everything instantly became clear and peaceful, or that I immediately remembered who I truly was beneath all the lies being blasted across social media and the news.

But honestly, it was simpler than that.

For just a few seconds, the noise stopped.

And all I could think about was my family at home.

My husband.
My three children.

I knew I could not leave them in the middle of this pain. I could not add more heartbreak to what they were already carrying.

What felt like forever was probably only a matter of seconds.

I took a deep breath. Then another. And I prayed for the strength and endurance to keep going. To face the world. To face the attacks. To face the enemy. And to keep moving forward one step at a time.

Now, almost two years later, I can look back and see God’s hand in every moment.

He gave me strength when I had none left.
He gave me endurance when I wanted to quit.
He gave me the mental and emotional strength to wake up each day and face whatever came next.

God is good through all of it.

Not just in the easy moments.
Not just after the breakthrough.
But right in the middle of the darkness too.

He has been my rock, my refuge, and the source of every ounce of strength I have had.

“But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.” — Isaiah 40:31

May 26, 2026

This week, I have been battling two very different emotions at the same time—gratitude and joy for my son who graduated high school, and deep grief and sadness for the son who should have graduated right alongside his brother.

I have tried to stay present in the celebration while also carrying the ache in my heart.

This was never the future I imagined for him. Never the life I pictured. He had so much potential—a future full of success, happiness, and the opportunity to become everything he dreamed of being.

As the names were called during commencement, my heart dropped at the moment his name should have been called. I could picture him walking across the stage right after his brother, wearing that big, beautiful smile I love so much.

I imagined the two of them sitting together, laughing and smiling as they prepared to walk out of those school doors one final time together, celebrating with friends and stepping into the next chapter of life side by side.

Instead, I sat there replaying the last five years in my mind, trying to understand how we ended up here. How did this happen?

I cannot rewrite the past. And deep down, I know that despite the mistakes that were made, we did everything we could. I remind myself of that daily.

Not a day goes by that I do not worry about where he is. The constant Google searches to find him…never knowing what I might discover.

So yes, my grief is real. I have to accept that.

During this season of celebration, I am also holding space for sadness. It is possible to carry both at the same time. It is not easy, but it is possible.

Every day, I rely on the Lord to keep me grounded in light and to hold me up when I begin to slip into the darkness.

This moment will pass. Graduation celebrations will end, and life will move forward. But I know there will be more moments when the grief resurfaces. And when it does, I will once again lean on the Lord to hold me up and give me the strength to keep going.

“My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.”
— Psalm 73:26

May 22, 2026

Today is the day—our second-born is graduating high school.

I know I sound like all the older moms used to sound when my children were little, but they were right when they said, “Enjoy every second because it goes by fast.” Back then, I smiled politely and thought surely it couldn’t go that fast. But now here I am, saying the exact same thing to young moms myself.

I used to tell myself, If we can just get through this stage, life will get easier.
The sleepless nights, the toddler tantrums, the busy schedules, the teenage years—I thought once we made it through those seasons, parenting would somehow feel lighter.

But the truth is, now I find myself longing for some of those stages that felt so hard at the time.

What nobody really talks about is how difficult it can be to parent adult children.

In many ways, it feels harder than parenting toddlers or even teenagers. Finding the balance between letting go while still being a parent is not easy. It’s our first time parenting adult children, and it’s their first time being adults. We’re all learning together.

They have their own opinions, their own pressures, their own way of doing things, yet they still rely on us in so many ways. We don’t always get it right—honestly, most of the time we probably don’t. And this is where I have to remind myself to give grace not only to them, but also to myself.

The perfectionist in me wants to do everything right.
I want to be the best mother possible. I want to protect my children from hurt and disappointment. I want them to always feel loved, respected, and supported.

But what I’m learning is that carrying all of that pressure isn’t healthy for me—or for them.

Sometimes my need for control creates unnecessary stress for everyone. Allowing my children to make mistakes, learn from them, and move forward—while knowing I will always be here when they need me—is one of the greatest gifts I can give them.

So as we step into this next season, with my son preparing to leave for college, my prayer is simple:

I pray he always knows he is deeply loved and fully supported.
I pray he knows he will always have a safe place to land.
I pray he understands he won’t get everything right—and that’s okay.

But most importantly, I pray he never forgets who he is and where his identity comes from.

He is a child of God.
A son of the Highest King.

And my greatest prayer is that no matter where life takes him, he will hold tightly to his faith and remember whose he is.

“But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.” — John 1:12

Talk about being unpolished…today, while looking back through old journal entries, I realized I got the year wrong in my very first post. The year my life became a public circus was 2024, not 2023.

I could beat myself up over the mistake and tell myself I’m not cut out for blogging, or I can admit that I’m human and move forward.

So here I am—admitting my mistake and showing just how imperfect I really am.

The truth is, the last five years have been so chaotic, challenging, and emotionally exhausting that I’m lucky to know what day it is sometimes. Fall of 2023 was really the beginning of the worst of it all.

I’m going to share this journal entry with you because it’s what made me realize I had the year wrong in my first post. And honestly…this is opening me up a little more than I expected this early on.

But I don’t believe it was an accident that I found these words on my phone this morning.

Even back then, in the middle of the pain and confusion, I was still holding onto the belief that God would use my story—my family’s story—for good. And today, I’m still holding onto that same truth.

My heart is racing as I share this.

October 30, 2023

Today has been hard. CPS closed the case, and when I opened the email, I immediately started sobbing. The emotions I’ve carried over the past several months have been overwhelming—anger, sadness, anxiety, worry, even relief. The list could go on. I’ve been so tired lately, and I honestly think the mental exhaustion has started manifesting as physical exhaustion.

I feel like I can’t let go of the low-level anxiety that constantly lingers beneath the surface. I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering if something with T will happen again and send our world into another spiral. 

As much as I say I trust God and His plan, I still find myself worrying about what tomorrow will bring. But deep down, I know I don’t want to live chained to fear anymore. I want peace. I want joy. I want freedom from the weight I’ve allowed this situation to place on me.

I want to dream again. I want goals again. I want to feel passion and purpose again. I want the Lord to open the next door and give me the courage to walk through it. I need to feel alive again.

So, Lord, what is it? I know You have more for me than this.

I know I am a better wife and mother when I am growing, creating, and working toward something meaningful. But more than anything, I want Your plan—not my own. Even when I can’t see what’s ahead, I want to trust that You are still writing a beautiful story from all of this pain.

James 1:2-3

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance”

Do you ever feel like you were meant for so much more, but your insecurities, doubts, lack of confidence, and past failures leave you paralyzed?

If so, I’m right there with you. In fact, that’s exactly where I am right now.

There was a time in my life when I had confidence in myself. Failure didn’t scare me—it never even occurred to me that failure was an option. For a long time, I thought that was a good thing. But lately, I’ve started to wonder if it was actually a survival instinct.

Failure couldn’t be an option in my past. I had to make things work because I had to take care of myself. I didn’t have a safety net to fall back on.

The day I turned 18 and graduated high school, I was on my own. Every decision I made after that was about survival—doing whatever needed to be done to keep moving forward. I always believed I was simply driven, motivated, and willing to work hard. And maybe that’s true. But I also think much of it came from a scarcity mindset rather than one of abundance.

Now, I’m in my fifties, and my life no longer reflects scarcity. My husband and I have built a full life together. I don’t have to worry about how to pay the bills, put food on the table, or where I’m going to live. God has blessed us, and I am deeply grateful.

And yet, I still live with this underlying fear that everything could disappear in an instant. That scarcity mindset still lingers.

Right now, I’m preparing to close a chapter of my life by stepping away from a business I’ve been responsible for over the past ten years. I’m more than ready to let it go. It was never truly my passion, but it was my responsibility.

I have looked forward to this season for a long time—the opportunity to pursue the passions and dreams that have been sitting quietly inside me for years. And yet, here I am, feeling completely paralyzed. Unable to dream. Unable to picture what comes next. It feels as though the driven, motivated, go-getter side of me has disappeared.

But maybe, as uncomfortable as it feels, God is doing a deeper work in me.

Maybe before He opens the next door, He wants to rewire my heart and mind to trust Him more fully—to truly believe that He is in control, that He will never leave me, and that He will always provide.

Maybe if I can fully surrender my life to Him, let go of my scarcity mindset, and embrace a mindset of abundance, I can finally become who He created me to be.

This time, the goals and dreams won’t be driven by survival. They’ll be driven by purpose. By faith. By His glory instead of my fear.

His words are my truth. I do not have to live in fear. I can live in peace, knowing His promises are true.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” — Jeremiah 29:11

I know this post is coming several weeks after Mother’s Day. I wrote it back then, but hesitated to share it because it felt so raw and vulnerable. So it sat in the notes app on my phone for weeks.

But after rereading it, I reminded myself that this is exactly what this blog is about—being open, honest, and vulnerable, even when it feels uncomfortable or scary.

So here it is. A little late, but maybe shared at the right time after all…

May 11, 2026

Yesterday was Mother’s Day—a day filled with so many different emotions.

It hits differently when one of your children is no longer around and you don’t know where they are or what they’re doing. A child who has chosen not to be part of your family. A child you fought for who is no longer yours to hold close. A child you wish you could fix—fix the hurt, the pain, the suffering.

On a day like Mother’s Day, I want to celebrate being a mother to the children still beside me, while also grieving the one I’ve lost.

Being a mother is the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced. It is also the most challenging.

For years, I have battled my worthiness as a mother. I have never felt good enough. Every mistake feels magnified, and I replay them in my mind, convincing myself my children deserve better.

I have apologized to my children more times than I can count—admitting when I was wrong and asking for forgiveness.

I have cried myself to sleep many nights, regretting the moments I lost my temper or mishandled a situation. Praying for grace. Praying for wisdom. Asking God to help me become the mother I want to be.

And having one child who feels so much anger toward me only makes those insecurities louder.

No, I am not perfect. I never will be.

But I hope my children know how deeply I love them. I hope they know I will always be here for them. They are my greatest gift.

Even the one who is lost—I still pray he will be found again.

Lately, I’ve had to remind myself of this truth: I am not their mother by accident.

God chose me.

He knew my weaknesses, and He chose me anyway. He knew the challenges I would face, and He chose me anyway. He knew the heartbreak I would carry, and He chose me anyway.

There have been so many days I’ve felt too weak for this calling, believing the lie that I am not capable. And honestly, on my own, I’m not.

I cannot do this without Him.

But God loves my children even more than I do, and because of that, I trust He will continue to grow me, stretch me, and help me become the mother He created me to be—even through the mess, the failures, and the heartbreak.

Maybe motherhood was never meant to be about perfection.

Maybe it’s about showing up in love again and again, even when your heart aches.

Proverbs 31:25
“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.”