Category Archives: Uncategorized

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.”

Things are getting real—we’re officially under contract on a house. A home we’ve prayed for in every sense: the perfect size, the perfect location, just an eight-minute walk from some of our favorite people in the world. It’s quiet, peaceful, and the mountain views are nothing short of spectacular. Truly, we couldn’t have asked for more.

And yet… it’s a big change.

I joke with my husband all the time that we don’t do things halfway—we tend to make big life changes all at once. And this season is no exception.

In just a few weeks, our second child will graduate from high school. A few months after that, he’ll head off to college. And somewhere in between, we’ll be packing up our lives and moving across the country.

When I think back to the last time we made a move like this nearly eleven years ago, it feels just as big—maybe even bigger. My husband stepped away from a family business he had been part of for over 20 years. We moved across the country with two young children, all while in the middle of an international adoption that would soon grow our family by two more. Looking back, it almost sounds a little crazy.

Maybe it was. Maybe it still is.

But what feels different this time is the calm.

It’s hard to explain, but I feel a deep, steady peace in the middle of all of this. The kind of peace that doesn’t make sense on paper. When I look back over my life, I can see how every season—every challenge, every unknown—has prepared me for moments like this.

The only way I can describe it is this: I know God is with me.

I trust that He will provide, that He will lead us, and that He will walk with us every step of the way. And because of that, I’m not afraid.

In fact, I feel more at peace right now than I have in a long time.

There’s more to this story, and one day I’ll share why this big change is happening. But for now, just know this—there’s more to come.

“It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; He will not leave you or forsake you.”  

—Deuteronomy 31:18

Sitting on the plane, waiting to take off.  

It’s a beautiful, sunny day—blue skies, warmish temperatures. The drive to the airport was stunning, the water so calm and clear.  

And it’s days like this that make me question everything.  

This is honestly the most beautiful place I have ever lived. It was our dream for so many years, and today felt like a reminder of why.  

Even after a brutally cold, long, snowy winter… days like today make you forget the last several months of weather misery. “This is the reason we live here,” is what you’ll hear locals say. We’ve said it too.  

But lately, I’ve had to really pray and sit with a harder question—what actually matters most in life?  

Is it the weather? The lake views? The changing seasons?  

Or is it being surrounded by people who truly love you?  

The ones who encourage you, walk alongside you on your darkest days, and still challenge you—still hold you accountable.  

Do you stay somewhere you feel like an outcast, expected to fit into a perfect mold, just because you love the landscape?  

Or do you leave… and go back to where you’re accepted exactly as you are—where the messiness of life isn’t what defines you, but what connects you?  

I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I—my marriage, my children—we need that kind of support around us.  

Not the surface-level kind that only shows up when life looks “perfect.”  

Not the kind that stays as long as you’re wearing the mask.  

But the kind that stays when everything falls apart.  

The kind that sees you clearly—mask off—and doesn’t leave.  

We all need that.  

A place where we don’t have to pretend to have it all together just to be accepted.  

I’ve felt stagnant, lost, distant, and lonely for too long.  

And I don’t want to just survive anymore.  

It’s time to grow. To heal. To actually live—even if it’s hard.  

So now, the plane is taking off.  

Over two thousand miles away.  

A completely different landscape.  

The next step in this journey…  

the journey back to where we came from.  

A place I never imagined I would return to.  

Right now, my faith is the only thing holding me together.  

The only constant truth in my life.  

I trust You, Lord, with all my heart.  

I’m clinging to You.  

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.”  Proverbs 3:5–6

I walked out of the nail salon and just started crying. Not a dramatic, snot-running cry—just soft, gentle tears spilling over from eyes filled with emotion.

I felt sad thinking about the day we moved to this quaint, small lakeside town, full of dreams of what our life would be. We imagined raising our four children in a quiet place with no fear, no worries—just good old-fashioned Midwestern values. A slower pace of life, less stress, and more time together.

A place where we could put down roots. A place our children would call their “hometown.” A place where we would grow old together, surrounded by a community of friends who shared our values and beliefs.

That dream has been shattered, and this chapter is coming to an end. Even though I know we are making the right decision to leave, it’s still heartbreaking.

Deep in my soul, I believe God has a bigger story for us to tell. Stepping into the unknown again is not what I expected or wanted—but here we are, taking a leap of faith, trusting that the Lord is with us… with me… with our children.

So, with tears in my eyes as this chapter closes, I will trust in Him and hold onto His words:

Isaiah 41:10 — “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you.”

For a long time, I did what most of us do.
I smiled. I said I was fine. I kept things moving.

Attempting to make my life from outside look normal. Maybe even good. But underneath, there was this quiet pressure to keep everything looking okay — even when it wasn’t.

That all fell apart in the Fall of 2023. Not only did the people in my community see that our life was not so “perfect”, but so did the world. People across the globe got a glimpse of the chaotic life we were living. 

But what they saw and heard, was so far from the truth it seemed impossible to turn it around. Yes, my life was not perfect, but being wrongfully conceived in the public eye was maybe the best thing I could have ever experienced. 

As traumatic as it was, not being able to hide, I realized how exhausting the pretending and performing was. The careful editing of what we let the world see.

The truth is, life is beautiful and messy and hard and meaningful all at the same time. And yet so many of us walk around wearing masks, afraid that if we show what’s really going on, it will be too much. Well, it is too much for some people, those are not your people. 

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a simple question:

What would life look like if I stopped pretending?

Not dramatic honesty. Not oversharing everything. My life was wrongfully over shared in the public eye…But a quieter kind of truth — where I admit when things are hard, where I stop performing “fine,” where I let life be what it actually is.

This blog is my small experiment in that.

A place to write about the real parts of life.
The questions. The growth. The struggles. The trauma. The things we carry, that nobody sees.
The moments when we realize we’re not alone after all.

Maybe taking the mask off doesn’t mean having all the answers.

Maybe it just means telling the truth about where we are.