Why This Feels Different: a renewed hope after the waiting

 Why This Matters So Much to Me

After my post last Saturday, (read it here: He Supplies What We Need) about my excitement for meeting a speech pathologist, I wanted to take a step back and explain why I’m so excited about the things I’ve heard and seen.

It’s not because this is new to me.

It’s not because I’m unfamiliar with speech therapy.

In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

I’ve logged many, many hours with speech therapists over the years. This is something I’ve lived, worked through, and invested in deeply.

So when I say I’m excited now—it comes from a place of understanding what this journey has already required.

And now… a little more of the background.

Speech Therapy: More Than Just Talking

When people hear “speech therapy,” they often think it only involves learning how to talk clearly.

But it’s so much more than that.

A speech pathologist doesn’t just deal with speech—they work with the tongue, swallowing, the neck, the throat… all of it is connected.

Over time, we worked on things most people never even think about.

The Work Behind the Scenes

There were exercises designed just to strengthen and stretch my tongue.

One that always stands out to me is when they would put peanut butter just below my nose, and I had to try to reach it with my tongue. It sounds simple—but it was intentional. It was building strength, control, and range of motion, attempting to stretch that part.

Tongue exercises at home, 2010

There were also different types of stimulation therapies.

I had electric stimulation electrodes placed on my neck in various locations to help activate those muscles. At one point, I was even encouraged to get a machine to use at home so I could continue that work outside of therapy sessions.

And then there were swallow studies.

These involved watching an X-ray in real time as I attempted to swallow, so they could see exactly what was happening internally—what was working, what wasn’t, and where things were breaking down.

I’ve also had throat, jaw, and even ear-area massages to try to help loosen and support the muscles involved.

All of this was part of the process.

All of this was effort.

Additional Medical Interventions

In addition to therapy and the various exercises and studies, I also underwent other medical procedures as part of trying to improve swallowing function.

This included Botox injections into the sphincter muscle (at the top of my esophagus), as well as other outpatient procedures, like throat stretching (using [various diameters] gauges on the esophagus itself), intended to reduce tension and improve function in that area.

Despite these efforts, they were ultimately unsuccessful in producing lasting improvement.

What I Was Told

After all of that time in speech therapy, there came a point where something significant was said to me.

I was told there was no medical reason that I shouldn’t be able to eat at some point.

That mattered.

But alongside that, I was also told something else.

That I already knew everything they could teach me.

Because I had been in therapy so consistently, so thoroughly, there wasn’t really anything new left to try. I had learned the techniques. I understood the positioning.

For example, I was taught that when practicing swallowing, I could turn my head or tuck my chin to help with posture and improve the chances of success.

By the end of it all, they told me something that stuck with me:

That I would likely know before anyone else when something changed.

That there wasn’t more they could add to my routine that would make anything occur any sooner. That was approximately 2014.

Encouragement shared with me, I wanted to pay it forward.

Left to Continue on My Own

And so, in many ways, I was left to continue on my own.

Not because they didn’t care—but because we had reached the point where everything that could be taught… had been.

The rest would be up to time, persistence, and something more.

The Part That Was Hard to Say Out Loud

Of course, I had been discouraged.

But over time, I think I had also started to accept that this might just be the way life was going to be—that maybe this was as good as it would get, and I was going to be okay with that.

And accepting that didn’t mean I quit trying.

It didn’t mean I stopped caring.

It just meant… I didn’t know what else I could do to make things better any faster.

The Questions I Couldn’t Answer

People will ask me often, with good intentions:

“Any changes?”
“Is the swallowing any better?”
“Have you seen progress?”

And so many times, my answer was the same: “No… nothing new. It’s about the same.”

I would say it with a smile. I would try to stay upbeat. And then I would move the conversation along.

But internally… it was harder than I let on.

The Weight I Carried Quietly

Because in those moments, I didn’t just feel stuck.

I felt like I was letting people down. A disappointment. A failure.

Like maybe I hadn’t tried hard enough.
Like maybe I was doing something wrong.
Like maybe—somehow—I didn’t have enough faith.

Romans 8:1 “There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus…”

And that was a heavy place to sit in.

It made it difficult to even talk about, because I didn’t want anyone to think that I wasn’t trying.

Because I was.

I wanted this. I worked for this.

I just didn’t know what else I could do to make it happen.

What I Knew About God

And at the same time, deep down, I held onto something else.

I believed that God sees.
That He knows.
That He remembers.

Scripture says in Psalm 139:1–2 “O Lord, thou hast searched me, and known me. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising…”

And I believed that He is not a halfway God.

Numbers 23:19 “God is not a man, that he should lie… hath he said, and shall he not do it?”

He completes things.

He doesn’t leave something undone.

Those truths didn’t change—even when nothing else seemed to.

Living Between Faith and Guarded Expectations

But if I’m being honest, there was also a tension in me.

I was trying not to expect too much.

Not because I didn’t believe God could do something—but because I didn’t want to set myself up for disappointment.

So I lived somewhere in between:

Holding onto what I believed about God…
While also trying to guard my heart from hoping too specifically.

Proverbs 3:5 “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding…”

Why This Moment Feels Different

So all of that is why I couldn’t help but get excited when the pieces started to come together and led me to this moment with a new-to-me speech pathologist.

I don’t really know how to fully explain it.

I don’t know why it feels different.

I just know that it does.

There’s this sense of hope—of something stirring again inside me—that I can’t quite put into words.

And it doesn’t come from ignoring everything that came before. It comes because of everything that came before.

Seeing Possibility Again

Recently, I saw before-and-after photos of tongues that had gone through therapy and strengthening work.

And something about that stayed with me.

Because in my own mind, I often feel like mine is… not where it should be. Weak in ways I can feel but not always describe. In need of help, strengthening, and re-centering.

And I recently learned something I hadn’t fully understood before—that even the resting position of the tongue matters, and mine hasn’t been where it’s supposed to be.

That was eye-opening for me.

Not discouraging—but eye-opening.

I was reminded Mark 9:23 says “If thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth.”

When Something Inside You Responds

There are also new tools I’ve been introduced to, things I had never used before.

And as I learn about them, something in me just responds.

I can’t fully explain it.

It’s not just information. It’s not just technique.

It feels like possibility.

Like maybe there are still layers to this I haven’t reached yet.

Hebrews 11:1 “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

And after everything I’ve walked through, I’ve learned not to dismiss that feeling too quickly.

Even if I can’t fully define it yet… I’m paying attention to it.

Not a Delay, Not a Failure

I don’t know why it’s taken this long.

The Bible declares in Ecclesiastes 3:11 “He hath made every thing beautiful in his time…” and in Habakkuk 2:3 “For the vision is yet for an appointed time… though it tarry, wait for it…”

There are moments where part of me tries to turn inward and say it must be my fault—that if things have taken this long, then I must have done something wrong or not done enough.

But I’m learning to recognize that thought for what it is.

That voice is not truth.

It’s discouragement speaking, not reality.

A Different Way of Seeing the Wait

I’ve come to believe there’s a reason this has unfolded the way it has, even if I don’t understand all of it.

Maybe there are lives that have been impacted along the way—people who have been encouraged, strengthened, or even just reminded that they’re not alone through things I’ve shared or endured.

Not because I am anything special.

But because God can use anything.

Even the long, slow, unseen parts of a story.

The Story That Comes to Mind

I’m often reminded of Joseph in the Old Testament.

He was sold into slavery by his own brothers, and yet he remained faithful to God through every part of his journey.

And it took years—about thirteen of them—before he stepped into the palace and saw the promise begin to unfold.

Genesis 50:20 “But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good…”

But what stands out to me most is that he didn’t quit in the waiting.

He didn’t stop being faithful just because the timeline didn’t make sense.

Standing in That Same Kind of Faith

And I am certainly not a quitter.

Even in the parts where I didn’t understand what was happening, or why it wasn’t changing faster, I’ve kept going.

I’ve kept showing up.

I’ve kept trying.

Scripture reminds us in Galatians 6:9 “And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” and in 1 Corinthians 15:58 “…be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord…”

And I’ve kept believing that God is still working, even when I couldn’t see it clearly.

Moving Forward With Intention

I know the saying—you grab the bull by the horns—and that’s exactly how I feel I’m approaching this next step.

I’m stepping into this new speech therapy opportunity with intention, with hope, and with a willingness to do my part fully.

A New Season to Participate In

It truly feels like a blessing to be able to participate in this.

Not just to observe it, or hope for change, but to actively be part of it again—to show up, to engage, and to do the work alongside it.

Whatever happens from here, I believe it’s going to be meaningful. I believe it’s going to matter.

Choosing to Show Up Fully

And I’m committing myself to it.

To doing everything I’m able to do.

James 2:17 “Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone.”

Expectation With Peace

I’m learning that hope doesn’t have to be loud or forced.

It can be steady.

It can be peaceful.

And it can still be strong.

So I’m walking into this next chapter with that kind of expectation—not anxious, but present. Not rushing ahead, but ready to engage fully in whatever unfolds.

Psalm 37:5 “Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.”

Be encouraged. 🧡

                                   Listen to this song, try Jesus, Friend: 🎵 Truth Be Told

He Supplies What We Need

Seventeen years.

That is how long I have been on this recovery journey. Seventeen years of learning, adjusting, and rebuilding—physically, mentally, and spiritually. Over that time, I have continued work in areas like physical and occupational therapy, both in structured sessions and mainly in daily life, doing what I can to move forward, little by little.

But there has been one area that has felt… less clear.

Speech therapy.

The things most people don’t think about—tongue movement, swallowing, coordination within the mouth—those quiet, intricate functions that are easy to overlook unless you’ve had to relearn them.

I’ve often wondered:

What more can I do here?

How do I move forward in this area?

But before I even get to where I am now… I need to tell you how God brought me here.

Because none of this happened by accident.

A Step of Faith

After I received my license back, I set a goal for myself.

I wanted to take a road trip.

It may not sound like much to some, but for me, it was significant. It represented independence, confidence, and progress.

So about eight or nine months after getting my license, I made a plan.

I reached out to some family friends who live about three and a half hours away and told them I would be coming to stay with them for a week during my spring break at the end of March 2024.

And I went.

A Door Opens

While I was there, their daughter invited me to go to the gym with her.

We did a variety of exercises—things that, at one time, I wouldn’t have imagined myself doing again.

And I realized something that surprised me: I can do this.

I didn’t just survive it.

I enjoyed it.

When I came back home, that realization stayed with me. So I started looking into gyms in my area and eventually decided that the YMCA would be the best fit.

I joined.

And I showed up.

Week after week.

Consistency Over Time

For about a year and a half, I attended regularly. Nothing flashy. Nothing dramatic. Just consistent effort.

Then I decided to take another step and joined one of their classes.

That class has been incredibly beneficial—helping me work on skills I still need to develop, strengthening areas that require attention, and continuing the process of rebuilding.

At the same time, something else was growing.

The Writing That Became a Book

In September 2024, I started writing a blog.

At first, it was just that—writing. Processing. Reflecting. Sharing.

But by November 2025, I felt led to do something more with it.

I decided to compile that writing into a book.

And I worked toward that goal.

By the end of February—or the beginning of March 2026—that book was published.

A testimony in written form.

And then something I didn’t expect happened.

God Makes Room

The YMCA—this place that had become part of my physical growth—also became a place where my story could be shared.

They allowed me to host not one, but two book signings.

I was able to: sell copies, meet people, have conversations, sign books for those who chose to read my story.

It was meaningful in ways that are hard to fully put into words.

But what happened next… I could not have orchestrated if I tried.

A Gift Meant for Me

One of the ladies in my class bought my book.

She read it.

And then one day, she told me she had something for me.

An excerpt from my book, Every Breath, On Purpose.

She shared that in my book, I had described feeling like Wonder Woman—in the sense of enduring and withstanding so much.

She makes tote bags.

Years ago—about six, to be exact—she had created a Wonder Woman bag for a friend. She couldn’t find a pattern, so she designed it herself. She made two, but kept one because she didn’t want to give away the only one she had.

That second bag had been sitting… waiting.

And after reading my story, she said she knew exactly who it belonged to.

Me.

When she gave it to me, I was overwhelmed.

Emotional. Grateful. Humbled.

But God wasn’t finished.

The Detail Only God Could Write

Because this woman…

Is a speech pathologist.

When the Missing Piece Appears

I had to pause when she told me, knowing that even before she mentioned my gift bag.

A speech pathologist.

After all these years—after wondering what I could do, after not having clear direction in this area of my recovery—here stood someone with years of experience, placed right in my path in the most unexpected way.

Not in a clinic I searched for.

Not through a referral I chased down.

But in a gym class… after a book… after a conversation… after a bag.

Only God could write something like that.

A Glimpse of What’s Possible

We didn’t waste time.

After class, we sat in front of a mirror and had a brief conversation. She had me focus on something as simple as where my tongue was resting—something I had never been asked to think about so intentionally before. She introduced me to a few tools I had never used before, and even mentioned things I had never heard before—terms, techniques, small adjustments that opened my eyes to how much there is to this area of healing.

It wasn’t long.

It wasn’t formal.

But it was enough.

Enough to show me that progress is possible.

Enough to give direction where there had been uncertainty for so long.

And now, we have a plan.

We’re going to meet after class on Wednesdays and Fridays and begin working through this—intentionally, consistently, and with purpose.

In Awe of the Timing

For so long, this area felt like a closed door—something I knew needed attention but had no clear way to approach. And now, without me even searching for it, that door has been opened. As I’ve stepped back and looked at everything that led to this moment, I can’t help but stand in awe.

The road trip.

The gym.

The consistency.

The blog.

The book.

The book signing.

The conversation.

The gift.

Every piece—one by one—falling into place.

Not rushed.

Not forced.

But perfectly timed.

It reminds me of what Scripture says in Romans 8:28:

“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”

Not some things.

All things.

Even the things that, at the time, just feel like small steps… or even unrelated moments.

God is working through all of it.

Details Only God Could Arrange

As if that connection wasn’t enough, there was one more detail that stopped me in my tracks.

She gave me her business card, which included her website. When I went to look it up, I noticed a line that read:

“Speech Therapy since 1981.”

1981.  

That is the year I was born.

And I just sat there for a moment, taking that in.

This woman—this speech pathologist with years of experience—has been learning, growing, and developing in the very area I need… since the year I entered this world.

That is not something I can brush off as coincidence.

That is intentional.

A Seed Planted Long Before

It immediately brought to mind the account of Zacchaeus.

In Luke 19:4, it says: “And he ran before, and climbed up into a sycomore tree to see him: for he was to pass that way.”

Zacchaeus was small in stature, and in that moment, he needed something to help him see Jesus.

But that tree didn’t appear overnight.

That tree had to be planted as a seed long before Zacchaeus ever needed it. It had to grow over time—years of unseen development—before it became strong enough to support him when the moment came.

Nothing Is Overlooked

And that is what this reminded me of.

God had already been preparing something—someone—long before I even knew I would need it.

Long before I understood this part of my journey.
Long before I had direction.
Long before I ever stepped into that gym.

He was already at work.

Because that is the kind of God He is.

A God who sees ahead.
A God who prepares in advance.
A God who does not overlook a single detail.

Psalm 37:23 says: “The steps of a good man are ordered by the LORD: and he delighteth in his way.”

Even the steps we don’t understand…
Even the delays…
Even the years where it feels like nothing is happening…

He is ordering them all.

Right on Time

So when I look at this now, I don’t just see timing.

I see preparation.

I see a God who planted seeds long before I ever knew I would need the harvest.

And when the time was right…
He brought it all together.

Right on time.

Hope With Open Hands

I’ll be honest—I’m excited.

There is a part of me that wants to run ahead, to imagine all the possibilities, to anticipate what could come from this.

But I’m also trying to hold that excitement with wisdom.

To not get ahead of myself.

To simply do what I am able to do, one step at a time.

Because this—right here—already feels like an answered prayer I didn’t even fully know how to pray.

For so long, I didn’t have direction in this area. I didn’t know what to do to move forward with speech, with swallowing, with the coordination of things most people never think twice about.

And now… I do. Now it’s my responsibility to show up, to be consistent, and to steward what God has placed in front of me.

That alone is something to be thankful for.

God Is Able

I do not doubt that God is able.

Able to heal.

Able to restore.

Able to strengthen what feels weak.

Whether He chooses full healing or continued improvement, I know this:

He is the One who brought me to this point.

And He is the One who will carry it forward.

Jesus said in John 15:5: “for without me ye can do nothing.”

And I see that more clearly now than ever before.

There Is Still Hope

This moment has reminded me of something I want to leave with you:

While you have breath… you have hope.

Job 14:7 says: “For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again…”

Even when something seems stalled…

Even when you don’t know what the next step is…

Even when progress feels slow or unclear…

God is still working.

He is not limited by time.

He is not hindered by delay.

And He is never without a plan.

Do You See His Hand?

So I ask you:

Do you see God’s hand in your life or have you overlooked what He’s been carefully putting together all along?

In the connections…

In the timing…

In the doors that opened when you weren’t even looking for them…

What has He brought you through?

What has He already done that you may have overlooked?

Because sometimes, what feels like a small moment…is actually the beginning of something much greater.

Moving Forward—One Step at a Time

I don’t know exactly what this next part of the journey will look like.

But I know this:

I have direction now.

I have opportunity now.

And I have hope—renewed in a very specific and personal way.

As long as you have breath, God is still working. And as long as He is working… there is still hope.

And that, in itself, is something I will never take for granted.

 Be encouraged. 🧡

                                       

PS - Check out my next post- Why This Feels Different: a renewed hope after the waiting, for more understanding

When Black & White Feels Different

I’ve recently been gathering my medical records from my initial hospitalization in 2009, preparing for some upcoming appointments I hope to secure. I’ve always known the list of my injuries. I’ve told the story. I’ve lived the recovery.

But reading it… in black and white… is different.

There is something about seeing clinical words, typed plainly on a page, that removes emotion—and yet somehow makes it all feel heavier.

This time, I didn’t just read it.

I studied it.

Because much of it was written in medical terminology I didn’t fully understand, I found myself looking things up—term by term—trying to grasp what was actually happening to my body in those moments.

And what I found… was sobering.

What the Words Actually Meant

One line read: Glasgow Coma Scale: 3–4.

I had to look that up.

The Glasgow Coma Scale is used to assess a person’s level of consciousness after a traumatic brain injury. It ranges from 3 to 15.

A score of 3… is the lowest possible score.

It means no eye opening.

No verbal response.

No motor response.

In simple terms—it means a person is fully unconscious. Comatose. Unresponsive.

That was me.

Another description noted that my pupils were “fixed and dilated.”

Again, I had to look it up.

That means my pupils were not responding to light—a sign often associated with severe brain injury and critical neurological distress.

There were notes describing my breathing as agonal respirations—irregular, labored, not sustaining life on its own. Terms that pointed to a body in distress, not functioning as it should.

There were records of internal bleeding. Swelling. Trauma.

My spine… described in ways that are hard to fully process. Vertebrae fused. Damage so severe that one was likely shattered and removed.

And my liver—injured to the point that part of it was essentially destroyed, leaking fluid into my body that had to be drained.

Line after line.

Detail after detail.

Clinical. Factual. Unemotional.

And yet, the weight of it pressed in on me.

When the Reality Settles In

I’ve always known how serious it was.

But reading it like this made me stop.

I remember pausing… just sitting there for a moment.

Because while I was never declared dead by man’s definition…

reading it now…

It feels close enough for me.

And then—another line.

A line I already knew to be true, but had never quite read this way before.

That my husband died at the scene.

I know that. I’ve lived with that reality.

But reading it, in the middle of all those clinical notes, alongside descriptions of my condition… it hit differently.

There were mixed emotions in that moment.

Grief.

Soberness.

Gratitude.

A deep, quiet awareness of just how fragile life truly is.

A small glimpse into the clinical words that documented my condition, 2009.

What Do You Do With Something Like This?

When you come face to face with how close you came…

When you see, in plain terms, how broken your body was…

You have to decide what you’re going to do with that knowledge.

For me, I cannot ignore it.

And I cannot explain it away.

Yes, I am thankful for medical care, for doctors, for knowledge and skill. But above all of that, I recognize something deeper:

It was the mercy of God.

Lamentations 3:22–23 says: “It is of the LORD’S mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.”

I read those records… and I see exactly that.

I should have been consumed by the severity of my injuries.

But I wasn’t.

Not Chance. Not Coincidence. God

There is a temptation in this world to reduce things down—to explain them in ways that remove God from the center.

But I cannot do that. I will not do that.

Because without Him, there is no life.

Acts 17:28 a “For in him we live, and move, and have our being;”

Without Him, there is no mercy.

Without Him, there is no love.

Jesus said in John 15:5: “for without me ye can do nothing.”

That includes breathe.

That includes healing.

That includes survival.

Psalm 118:17 says: “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.”

When I read my records, I don’t just see trauma.

I see a testimony.

Holding Truth with Tenderness

At the same time, I want to say this carefully.

Because I know not every story ends this way.

I know what it is to read the words: died at the scene.

I know what it is to carry loss alongside survival.

The Bible tells us in Hebrews 9:27: “And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment:”

We all have an appointed day.

And this is not written to diminish grief, or to overlook the pain of those who have lost someone they love.

That pain is real.

And it matters.

But my story—this part of it—is a testimony of mercy.

Do You Recognize His Hand?

So I ask you this, gently but honestly:

Do you recognize God’s hand in your life?

Not just in the big, dramatic moments… but in the things He has brought you through… The things you didn’t think you could survive… The strength you didn’t think you had…

The healing—physical, emotional, or spiritual—you didn’t think was possible…

Do you see Him there?

James 1:17 says: “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights…”

Not some things.

Every good thing.

Living Proof

I don’t share this to elevate myself.

And I don’t share it to minimize anyone else’s story.

I share it because I cannot deny what God has done.

I have read the records.

I have seen the words.

I understand, now more than ever, just how serious it was.

And still—I am here.

By His mercy.

By His grace.

For His purpose.

And that is something I will never allow to be explained away.

A Small Piece of a Much Larger Story

What I’ve shared here is only a very small portion of what’s actually documented.

The section I focused on is just a brief snapshot taken from a much larger collection—3,946 pages of medical records from my time at Shepherd Center in Georgia, spanning from August 2009 to February 2010.

Nearly four thousand pages.

Pages filled with daily notes from nurses. Observations. Measurements. Medications. Progress reports. Setbacks. Small victories that may have seemed routine to those writing them—but represent moments I lived through, often without memory of them.

There are detailed records from each therapy session—physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy—documenting what I could and could not do at the time. Movements that had to be relearned. Functions that had to be restored. Progress that came slowly, and at times, no doubt felt uncertain.

Line after line.
Day after day.
Moment after moment.

All of it recorded.

And yet, even across thousands of pages filled with clinical observations and medical terminology, there is something those records cannot fully capture.

They cannot capture the prayers that were prayed.
They cannot capture the moments of quiet endurance.
They cannot capture the unseen work of God.

Because while those pages document what was happening physically… they do not tell the full story of what was happening spiritually.

They record the condition of my body.

But they do not record the sustaining power of the One who carried me through it.

Be encouraged. 🧡 

                                            👂Listen to these lyrics 🎵Preach

 

Marked Atrophy, Yet Noticeable Progress

Today I sat in a neurology appointment going over the results of a recent brain MRI.

An MRI I haven’t had—at least not that I’m aware of—since 2009.

No comparison images.
No timeline to look back on.
Just… a present-day picture, trying to tell a story all on its own.

Words I Wasn’t Ready to Hear

“Marked cerebellar atrophy.”
“Brainstem involvement.”
“Possibly genetic.”

And I nodded like I understood.

Because what else do you do in a moment like that?

You don’t fall apart in the office chair.
You don’t interrupt the explanation.
You don’t say, “Wait—are you telling me my brain is still shrinking?”

You just sit there… and decide: “I’ll wait until I get home to cry my eyes out.”

Crying at Home

And I did.

I got home… and I cried.

Not a quiet, single tear kind of cry.
But the kind where everything you held together in public finally lets go.

My chest tight.
My stomach hollow.
My hands trembling.

Because I think I wasn’t just hearing information in that room—I was feeling the weight of what it might mean.

The Images

And the truth is, even in the middle of all that emotion… I was thinking.

Because something in me didn’t fully agree with what I was hearing.

Not in a rebellious way.
Not in a “the doctor is wrong” way.

Just… in a quiet, unsettled way.

For 17 years now, my life has not told the story of decline. It has told the story of rebuilding.

Psalm 27:13  “I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”

What I Saw (Not What They Said)

I looked at the images.

I am not a doctor. I don’t read scans. I don’t know what all the shades and shapes are supposed to mean.

But I know what I saw—or maybe what I didn’t see.

I didn’t see something that looked broken.
I didn’t see something that looked damaged or harsh or jagged.

It didn’t look… bad.
Parts just looked… smaller.

Atrophy.
Shrinkage.

Even that word feels heavier than what I saw.

Because what I saw didn’t look like something being destroyed.
It looked like something that had… changed.

Body vs Mind vs Soul

And yet, I live in a body that reminds me daily something is different.

Balance isn’t what it should be.
Coordination takes effort.
Speech doesn’t always come out the way I intend.

Swallowing—suddenly became louder in that room when I heard the brainstem controls it.

So now I’m left holding all of this at once:

A scan that says “atrophy.”
A doctor who says “possibly genetic.”
A body that still carries limitations.
A mind trying to reconcile the past and present.
A soul whispering, “This is not the end.”

Questions That Won’t Leave

Because here’s what doesn’t add up to me—

If something has been “shrinking”… why have I been growing?

If this is progressive… why have I regained things I once lost?

If this is my future… why does my past tell a completely different story?

The Part I Can’t Shake

And maybe this is what threw me off the most—

I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was having trouble finding the words.

Not in a careless way.

Not in a dismissive way.

But almost like… what she was seeing didn’t fit neatly into an explanation.

Like she was trying to describe something that didn’t quite make sense in the usual way.

And I sat there listening, trying to follow, trying to understand—

But also feeling this quiet awareness that maybe… she didn’t fully know how to explain it either.

Maybe that’s what unsettled me.

Not just what was said—

But what wasn’t said clearly.

The pauses.

The wording.

The sense that something about it didn’t fit a clean, expected pattern.

And I walked out of there not just with information—But with a feeling I couldn’t quite put into words.

2 Corinthians 12:9  “And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness…”

Symmetry and Mystery

And then there’s this word: symmetrical.

It keeps echoing.

Trauma usually shows unevenly, not balanced like what was seen.

Was this always there?

Was it genetic?

Was it just… waiting?

Looking at the scan and hearing the doctor’s words, I was reminded of something I’ve known all along: nothing in my recovery has been normal or as expected.

It’s always been odd, out of place, or somehow exceeded expectations and timeframes.

It seemed as though the doctor was at a loss for words, that there was no explanation for what she saw.

A normal trauma doesn’t show up symmetrical like that.

And maybe… that is exactly what happens when the brain is healing itself.

When it rebuilds, reroutes, and adapts in ways that don’t match the textbooks.

Learning and Hope

But I also went looking.

Not frantically. Not to force an answer.

Just… searching.

And I learned something that stopped me in my tracks—

That the brain can adapt.
That it can reroute.
That it can build new pathways.

Healing doesn’t always mean “back to what it was,” sometimes it becomes “learning a new way to be.”

Sometimes the mystery—the symmetry, the unexpected progress, the way the timeline never matched the books—is the evidence itself.

The proof that recovery can be its own form of intelligence.

That adaptation can create patterns that even doctors can’t fully explain.

Standing in Tension

So now I’m sitting in this tension.

Between what a scan shows…
and what a life has lived.

Between what sounds clinical…
and what feels deeply personal.

Between what might be…
and what has already been.

Proverbs 3:5  “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”

Improvement I Can’t Ignore

I cannot deny this:

I have improved.

Not perfectly.
Not completely.
But undeniably.

Step by step.
Year by year.

In ways no image could fully capture.

A Whisper of Healing

And in the middle of all of this thinking, questioning, and processing…

There is something else.

Something quieter.

Not loud.
Not forceful.
Just… steady.

A whisper that doesn’t argue, doesn’t panic, doesn’t rush.

“I am healing you.”

Philippians 1:6  “Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ:”

What It Turned Into

At first, this whole situation rattled me.

It unsettled me.

But the more I thought about it…the more something began to shift.

Because when I look back over my entire recovery—so much of it has never fit neatly into explanations.

There were moments no one could fully explain.

Progress that didn’t match timelines.

Healing that didn’t follow the expected path.

And yet… it happened.

So maybe this—right here—isn’t as out of place as it first felt.

Maybe it actually lines up with everything I’ve already lived through.

Maybe this isn’t confusion…maybe it’s consistency.

And maybe it was a reminder.

A quiet one.

That God still sees me.

That He has not forgotten who I am.

That He is still the one orchestrating every piece—even the ones that don’t make sense to anyone else.

Even the ones that don’t have clear explanations.

Even the ones that leave doctors searching for words.

Because my story has never been built on what made sense.

It’s been built on what God has done.

 Not Everything Can Be Measured

I don’t know how this fits into medical terms.
I don’t know how this translates onto an MRI.
I don’t know how to prove it in a way the world would accept.

But I know this: Not everything real can be measured on a scan.

Here I Am

So here I am.

Not with answers.
Not with conclusions.

Just honesty.

Processing words that felt heavy.
Holding questions without neat endings.
Standing in the space between what I’ve been told… and what I’ve lived.

And maybe that’s where faith actually grows.

Not in certainty.

But right here—In the middle of the unknown.

Where I can say:

I don’t fully understand this.
But I know what God has already brought me through.

And I’m still here.
Still walking.
Still speaking.
Still becoming.
And maybe… still healing.

Be encouraged. 🧡

It's time! You can Buy the Book!

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Give this a listen🎵A Living, Breathing, Walking Testimony

Faith in Every Page: My Upcoming Book

For years, people have gently suggested that I should write a book. Some said it casually. Others said it with conviction, as if they could already see something I hadn’t yet allowed myself to imagine. Each time, I brushed the thought aside. I didn’t argue with them, but I didn’t give the idea much weight either. Writing a book felt distant—unnecessary, maybe even presumptuous. I was already writing. I was already sharing. Surely that was enough.

Or so I thought.

The Seed That Wouldn’t Stay Buried

The suggestion surfaced again recently—this time during my long road trip through Tennessee. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, but it was the first time I truly paused to consider it. Something about that trip created space—space to think, to reflect, and to notice patterns I had previously ignored.

As the miles passed and conversations unfolded, I realized how often the same themes were being repeated back to me: encouragement, testimony, perseverance, faith through suffering, and the reminder not to take the seemingly small things for granted. These weren’t just blog topics anymore; they were lived experiences that resonated deeply with people in very different walks of life.

A Quiet Realization on the Road

Somewhere between destinations and speaking engagements, a quiet realization settled in my heart: not everyone is on the internet. Not everyone scrolls social media. Not everyone reads blogs. And yet, the stories—the testimony, the lessons, the reminders of God’s faithfulness—still matter.

I began to understand that while blogging has been a faithful and fruitful outlet for me, it also has limits. There are people who will never stumble across a post online, but who might hold a book in their hands. There are individuals who may never search for encouragement digitally, but who might read a printed page passed to them by a friend, a family member, or a ministry.

That thought stayed with me.

From Scattered Posts to a Unified Story

As I reflected, I realized that much of what I have shared already forms a larger narrative. These posts were never random. They were written in seasons—some joyful, some painful, some full of unanswered questions. Together, they tell a story of endurance, faith, growth, and learning to trust God in the everyday.

A blog allows space for moments. A book allows space for a journey.

Compiling these reflections into book form began to feel less like a personal project and more like stewardship—gathering what God has already allowed me to write and offering it in a way that might reach further than I ever expected.

Why a Book, and Why Now?

Timing matters. I don’t believe this realization came by accident, nor do I believe it came too early or too late. It came when I was finally willing to listen without dismissing the possibility outright.

This season has been one of both reflection and stretching—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Writing a book is not a small undertaking, but neither is the responsibility of sharing a testimony when God continues to open doors for it to be heard.

Perhaps the book isn’t just about telling my story. Perhaps it’s about reminding others that their stories matter too—that faith is often built in unseen moments, and that perseverance is rarely loud or glamorous.

What This Book Is—and What It Is Not

As I’ve moved from contemplation into action, I’ve spent a great deal of time researching what it actually looks like to turn blogging into a book. I’ve learned quickly that it isn’t as simple as copying and pasting posts into chapters. Writing for a book means writing for a different audience, with a different purpose, and often with a different depth and flow than a blog allows.

Through that research, I’ve also come to see the value of multiple formats. My desire is to release a print version, and an eBook too. Each format reaches people differently. Some prefer the feel of a physical book in their hands. Others rely on digital data. If my story is going to reach those who need to hear it, it needs to be available where they are.

At first, I wrestled with the idea. Much of the content may feel familiar to those who read my blog regularly, and I questioned whether a book would be redundant. I found myself asking, Why write a book if it says many of the same core things? But the more I reflected, the clearer the distinction became. A book allows space for connection, continuity, and intentional storytelling in a way a blog cannot always provide.

This book is not about repeating words for the sake of repetition. It is about reshaping testimony for broader reach and deeper impact. It is about trusting that God can use familiar truths in new ways, and believing that offering this story in different formats may help and encourage someone I may never meet.

It is honest. It is reflective. And it is written with the hope that someone, somewhere, will find encouragement in its pages.

Looking Ahead

As I move forward with this book endeavor, I do so prayerfully and thoughtfully. Scripture has been a steady guide throughout this process, reminding me that what God plants and purposes will come to fruition in His time—not mine.

“Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.” Philippians 1:6

It is my hope that through its various formats, this book might reach a wide range of people—those from an older generation who prefer the familiarity of a printed book, and those who are homebound may rely on digital access. Each format serves a purpose, and each reader matters.

“So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it. Isaiah 55:11

This step requires faith—faith to believe that expanding into new formats is not unnecessary duplication, but an opportunity for broader reach and deeper impact. I am praying for the ability to expand my vision, to see beyond what feels familiar, and to trust God with the outcome.

“The heart of man deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.” Proverbs 16:9

Please feel free to share this information with others, we don’t know what God’s plan for the future entails.

This blog has always been the place where the story unfolds first. And as that story takes on a new form, I remain grateful to walk this road one step—and one page—at a time.

Be encouraged. 🧡

                                                                🎵I Want My Life to Preach

No Accidents, Only Plans

I have been thinking about what to share with you next, and this time, instead of trying to force clarity before writing, I decided to simply begin with what has been sitting in my heart. Sometimes the most honest place to start is not with a polished idea, but with reflection — with the thoughts that surface when life slows you down just enough to notice them.

Recently, I experienced a fall at home. It wasn’t dramatic, and it wasn’t caused by anything external. I was simply carrying too much at once. I lost my balance, and I couldn’t recover it in time. The result was pain in my left hip and pelvic area, and the strong suspicion that I had irritated or possibly torn something — perhaps a labral tear. What followed was not only physical discomfort, but an emotional response that surprised me with its weight.

When the Setback Feels Self-Inflicted

One of the hardest parts of this experience was not the pain itself, but the realization that I felt responsible for it. I wasn’t pushed. I didn’t trip over something unexpected. I made a decision to carry more than I should have, and I paid the price for it.

That made this setback feel different.

There is something uniquely discouraging about suffering that feels self-inflicted. It carries an added layer of frustration — the quiet accusation of “You should have known better.” I found myself replaying the moment in my mind, wishing I had slowed down, taken two trips instead of one, or asked for help.

And so, in addition to physical healing, I had to work through the emotional weight of blame.

The Bible tells us,

Psalm 37:23 “The steps of a good man are ordered by the LORD: and he delighteth in his way.”

But in moments like this, it can be hard to reconcile that truth with what feels like our own misstep.

Learning to Pause and Listen Again

Because of the pain, I stopped doing certain exercises. I didn’t stop moving altogether, but I became more careful, more intentional, and more aware of my body. Over time, the pain did begin to ease. I am not 100% healed yet, but I am a lot better than I was (and fully resumed my activities).

That season of slowing down forced me to listen — not just to my body, but to what God might be teaching me in the pause. Awareness is not always comfortable, but it is often necessary. I had to admit that pushing through everything is not always wisdom, and that rest, restraint, and adaptation are sometimes acts of obedience rather than weakness.

Discovering What I Didn’t Know I Needed

During this time, being more conscious of my physical limitations and my need for stability, I became aware of a class at my local gym that I hadn’t known about before. I visited one day, observed it, and after some thought, decided to join.

The class includes movements and exercises I would not normally choose for myself — balance work, stability training, and intentional strengthening of muscles that support confidence in movement. In many ways, it felt less like a typical workout and more like therapy to me.

It challenged me in ways that were unfamiliar but necessary.

Looking back, I can see that had I not fallen, had I not been forced to reassess my physical condition, I might never have noticed this class at all.

A Face From the Past

One of the most unexpected moments came when I realized who the instructor of the class was.

When I was in high school, I was part of the archery team. We practiced for competitions, and one of the instructors was this same woman. She knew me then — when I was about eighteen years old — long before life, injury, and time had reshaped my body and my story.

Now, here we were again, twenty-five years later, crossing paths in a completely different season of life.

It was humbling. A little amusing. And quietly meaningful.

God has a way of reconnecting us with people from our past, not to return us to who we were, but to show us how far we have come — and how He has been present in every chapter.

Wrestling With Responsibility

Despite all of this, I still wrestled with the fact that the fall had been my fault. That internal dialogue didn’t disappear overnight. I felt upset that I had created another obstacle for myself, another hurdle in a life already marked by recovery and limitation.

Then, during a sermon, the preacher said something that stopped me in my tracks.

He spoke about moments when we ask God, “Why did this happen? Why am I dealing with this?” And then he shared a simple but profound truth:

God said, “I don’t have accidents. I have plans.”

That sentence settled into my spirit.

Seeing Through a Different Lens

What I saw as a self-inflicted setback, God saw through a different lens entirely. I may not know all that His plan includes, but I am learning that even when our choices contribute to difficulty, God is not limited by our mistakes.

Scripture reminds us,

Romans 8:28 “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”

“All things” does not exclude our misjudgments. It does not exclude our missteps. It does not exclude moments when we wish we had done things differently.

Faithfulness Without Immediate Results

I have only been attending this class for a couple of months. I cannot point to dramatic changes or grand results. But the instructor has mentioned noticing improvement in my balance, and that encouragement matters more than I might have expected.

I plan to continue attending — not because I can already see the full benefit, but because I trust the process. I believe it cannot hurt. It can only help.

Faith often looks like continuing to show up before we see the outcome.

Trusting the Plan I Cannot Yet See

I didn’t plan the fall.

I didn’t plan the pain.

I didn’t plan the class.

I didn’t plan the reunion.

But God did not waste any of it.

Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.”

When “Little” Still Produces Fruit

As I have been attending this class and paying closer attention to my body, I have been reminded of something the apostle Paul wrote — a passage I have read many times before, but one that feels newly personal in this season.

1 Timothy 4:8  “For bodily exercise profiteth little: but godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.”

Paul does not say that bodily exercise profits nothing. He says it profits little. And that distinction matters.

Anyone who has ever exercised consistently knows that movement produces results. Muscles respond. Balance improves. Strength increases. Confidence grows. Even when progress feels slow, persistence always leaves evidence behind. You can feel it. You can measure it. You can tell when something is changing.

And yet, Paul tells us that even those tangible, visible gains — the kind we can see and feel — are small when compared to the profit of godliness.

That stopped me.

Because if something as “little” as physical exercise still produces noticeable progress when done faithfully, how much more would consistent, diligent time in God’s Word produce lasting fruit?

If showing up regularly to strengthen muscles yields improvement, what might happen if we applied that same discipline to Scripture? If we approached the Bible not casually or sporadically, but with intention, patience, and persistence?

Paul reminds us that godliness carries promise not only for this life, but for eternity. The gains may not always be immediately visible, but they are far greater. They shape the heart. They steady the mind. They strengthen faith in ways no physical exercise ever could.

This realization convicted and encouraged me at the same time. It reminded me that growth — whether physical or spiritual — does not come from intensity alone, but from consistency. And while my body may show improvement over time through exercise, it is my soul that requires even greater care, attention, and discipline.

If I am willing to trust the process with my body, I must also be willing to trust the process with my faith.

What felt like an interruption may have been an invitation. What felt like a setback may have been direction. And what I once labeled an accident, I am learning to trust as part of a plan — one still unfolding, still healing, and still held in His hands.

 Be encouraged. 🧡

                                             🎵 Your Sunday's Coming