A New Goal, A New Journey

There’s been a part of me that didn’t want to seem like I was neglecting my blog during this season. I’ve been focusing on my personal speech work, mouth and tongue exercises, and also recording my new podcast. In the middle of all of that, I realized something important: sometimes it is good to have something written down—something visual that can be read over more than once.

Writing allows a thought to settle. It slows everything down in a way speaking sometimes doesn’t.

As you may have heard from my podcast, this is a new section in my journey. A new path has been revealed in my life. And when I look back honestly, I would say the hardest thing I’ve done up to this point was putting in the work and meeting the requirements to obtain my driver’s license again after it had been medically canceled for 14 years.

That process was not easy. It stretched me in ways I didn’t expect. But now I can see it clearly—it was a stepping stone. It was preparing me for this next part of my story, which may end up being even more challenging than what came before.

The Goal That Changed Everything

Philippians 4:13  “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”

At one point, I remember praying that I would rather be able to drive than eat. That goal became so important to me. And by the grace of God, I was able to accomplish it in six months, or even a little less. That was a monumental achievement in my life.

But after that season ended, I found myself feeling somewhat unsettled. Not necessarily stagnant, because I was still moving forward and doing things—but I didn’t have a clear direction in front of me. I didn’t have a defined goal to aim toward.

Then, recently, things began to fall into place. I’ve already written about some of this in a previous blog post (He Supplies What We Need). But as it all came together, it felt like a moment of realization—almost like a red flag and an “aha” moment at the same time.

It felt like the Lord was making something clear: this is the next step. This is the next goal. This is where I am leading you now.

Learning to Hope Again

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

My current focus has shifted into something very intentional. While I still have physical goals related to strength, grace in my movements, and walking, there is now a deeper emphasis on my tongue—its position, its strength, and how it affects both swallowing and speech.

Right now, I am in two speech therapy sessions each week. On top of that, I am doing roughly 10 to 11 exercises daily, usually aiming for two or three rounds throughout the day. It has become a consistent rhythm, something I am actively building my life around.

And I want to be very transparent about my emotional experience in this season, even if some of it is difficult to admit.

I don’t think I have ever been this hopeful about this part of my recovery before. I find myself actually anticipating possible outcomes that, for a long time, felt distant or almost unreachable. The ultimate goal would be full management of my own saliva—no longer needing to rely on a cup, being able to swallow naturally again, and eventually moving toward eating by mouth. Of course, that would not happen all at once. It would be in small, careful steps. Baby steps.

Even with that hope, I can feel the tension within myself.

I am excited and committed, and I want to demonstrate how serious I am about this process. At the same time, there is a part of me that struggles. It has been such a long time living in this reality that I think I wrestle with how to hold hope without setting myself up for disappointment.

I don’t want to reach a point where I feel devastated if things don’t move as quickly or as fully as I desire.

But I am also someone who believes that you do what you think you can. If you believe you cannot, you likely won’t even try. And at the same time, you don’t truly know what is possible unless you attempt it.

I tend to be an all-or-nothing kind of person. When I commit, I commit fully. I want this next section of my life to become another testimony—not just of endurance, but of healing and change.

Still, I think one of the biggest obstacles I face right now is not physical—it is mental. It is learning how to quiet the thoughts of doubt, fear, or negativity that try to attach themselves to this process.

Renewing My Mind

Romans 12:2  “And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind…”

In about two weeks, I will be having another swallowing study. During this test, I will attempt to swallow things like yogurt, ice chips, or applesauce mixed with barium. The barium allows the process to be seen on X-ray as it moves from the mouth, through the esophagus, and hopefully into the stomach.

I have not had a swallowing study since 2014 or even before that, so there is a mix of anticipation and uncertainty as I wait for what this will reveal.

And I think, more than anything, I am realizing that I need to shift my mindset. I need to bring myself into full alignment with this process—not just physically participating in it, but mentally engaging with it in a steady, grounded way.

Grateful for Small Progress

Zechariah 4:10 “For who hath despised the day of small things…”

This part of my story is not unlike the others that have come before it. My journey has never been instant or overnight. It has always been slow and methodical, unfolding step by step. I expect this season to follow the same pattern.

Very little in my life has changed all at once. Instead, it has been gradual improvement—day by day, sometimes so small it is almost unnoticeable unless I stop and look back. There have been a few moments where things felt immediately restored or significantly improved, but most of what I have experienced has been steady progress over time.

Because of that, I find myself increasingly grateful for every small piece of movement forward that God allows in my body. It may seem insignificant to someone else, but it is not insignificant to me.

For example, there are things I can do now that I could not do before. If I could not make a clicking sound with my tongue in the past, and now I can, that matters. If I could not place my tongue against the roof of my mouth before, and now I can—even in a limited way—that matters. And even though it may feel small, I am actively practicing so that “a little bit” becomes more over time.

I am learning to take things as they are given, without rushing ahead or dismissing the progress that is already present. These visible signs of change are encouragements to keep going. They are reminders that I am not stagnant, even when progress feels slow.

A Journey Without Limits Spoken Over Me

Ephesians 3:20 “Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us.”

There is another piece of my journey that, when I look back on it now, feels unusual—and yet, I cannot help but see the Lord’s hand in it. I have not had a neurologist since 2009. At first glance, that might seem concerning, or even like something that should have held me back. But as I reflect, I see something different.

Because I did not have regular appointments, I was not given a list of things I would likely never do. I was not told where my limits should be set. I was not cautioned in a way that might have caused me to quietly step away from goals before I ever attempted them.

Instead, my progress unfolded slowly—day by day, piece by piece—without those boundaries being spoken over me.

That does not mean wisdom or guidance is not important. But in my personal journey, I can see how God allowed this path so that my expectations would be shaped more by His ability than by human prediction.

And when I consider what I have been able to regain, what I am still working toward, and the things I once might have believed impossible… I cannot help but be grateful that my story was not defined too early.

Trusting God With the Outcome

Psalm 121:1–2 “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.”

And I know, without hesitation, that my strength and my help have come from God. Time and time again, He has shown Himself faithful in my life, sometimes in ways I only fully understand in hindsight. I have seen Him bring me through things I never thought I would come through, and I believe He will do it again.

Right now, I am holding on to that truth. I am waiting for His help—not passively, but expectantly—asking Him to give me the courage and endurance to keep going, even when the process feels long or uncertain.

This is not just about physical recovery. It is about trust. And I am learning, once again, to trust Him in the middle of it.

Be encouraged. 🧡

                             

PS - 👂Listen to my new podcast, Every Breath On Purpose Conversations, Episode 4: Through it All: Faith, Obedience & Growing Trust 

When It’s Not All Sunshine: Faithful in the Small Things

As you might already be aware, my recovery journey is taking a new turn—this time focusing on my speech and swallowing. I want to share some very real and personal emotions about it, not just updates, but what’s actually going on inside my heart and mind.

Because the truth is… I don’t want every post to sound like butterflies and sunshine, because there are other emotions too.

I know sometimes it may come across that way. I tend to look for the good. I’m a glass-half-full kind of thinker—that’s just how I’m wired. And I do believe there is always something to be thankful for, even in the middle of hard things.

1 Thessalonians 5:18  “In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.”

But I’m also human.

And I have real feelings—some of the same ones you might have if you were walking through something like this.

When Progress Feels Slow

Out of everything I’ve faced in my recovery, my speech and swallowing have been some of the hardest for me. I’ve tried to figure out why that is. I’m not completely sure, but I think part of it is because I haven’t seen results as quickly as I have in other areas and some of these gains aren’t visibly seen.

And that can be discouraging.

There’s something especially difficult about working at something over and over again—practicing, trying, hoping—and still not being able to do what you’re aiming for. When it’s something so basic, something most people don’t even have to think about, it can feel even heavier.

You practice and practice, holding onto hope that one day it will click.

James 1:4  “But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”

And even though I’ve shared that this new round of tests and challenges feels different… even hopeful… I would be lying if I said that’s all I feel.

There are a lot of thoughts I’m having to combat right now:
Thoughts of discouragement.
Thoughts of frustration.
Thoughts that ask, “What if this doesn’t improve?”

And those thoughts are real.

But they are also not where I choose to stay.

2 Corinthians 10:5  “Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God…”

Faithfulness in the Small Things

So yes… I’ve only had a handful of official therapy sessions so far.

But my at-home exercises? They’re already stacking up.

Different exercises to strengthen my tongue—which is significantly weak (and I’ve known that). Simple movements. Things you might remember doing as a kid with your tongue, your face, your mouth. Holding certain positions, making certain sounds… things that don’t seem like much on the surface.

But when you’re asked to do them several times a day, every day, in hopes of building strength and seeing progress… it can start to feel like a lot. Practice makes perfect, right?

And honestly, it can feel discouraging.

Not because the exercises are hard in themselves (although, for me, some are)—but because of the thoughts that try to attach themselves to them.

That quiet voice that whispers:
“Why does this even matter now?”
“What is this really going to change?”
“Is this even worth it?”

And I know where those thoughts are coming from. Our enemy.

I also know I shouldn’t entertain them.

Because the truth is—I am not the healer. I don’t have the final say. I cannot control the outcome.

Ecclesiastes 3:1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

But I can do what I know to do.

Even when it feels small.
Even when it feels repetitive.
Even when it feels like it might not make a difference.

Because doing something in faith is never pointless.

1 Corinthians 4:2  “Moreover it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful.”

Finding Strength in Obedience

I want to share something I recently heard in a sermon that deeply encouraged me, because I believe it might encourage you too.

When I made my initial post, I felt confident and joyful about the upcoming possibilities. But almost immediately after, I was bombarded with thoughts of doubt and discouragement—those heavy mental battles that try to steal peace.

1 Peter 5:8  “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil… seeketh whom he may devour.”

In the sermon, the speaker referenced the book of Acts, where Peter and John go up to the temple at the gate called Beautiful. There, they encounter a man who had been lame from birth.

One small detail stood out to me in a way it never had before:

Peter says to him, “Look on us.”

And I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment—what if he had not looked? What if he had refused to turn his attention toward them?

He was asked to do something simple, but essential: to respond, to focus, to obey.

And that spoke directly to me.

Because in my own life right now, I feel like I am being reminded of the same thing:

Be obedient to what has been asked of me.

That is what I can do.
That is what I am responsible for.
Not the outcome. Not the timing. Just obedience.

And I want to be able to say with confidence that I did what I was asked to do, even when I didn’t fully understand what would come from it.

Because that obedience matters.

1 Samuel 15:22  “To obey is better than sacrifice…”

How bad do you want it?

Another part of the sermon that stayed with me was the question:

“How bad do you want it?”

That question resonated deeply.

It reminded me that God has already provided what is needed. The answer is already there. The provision is already prepared. But stepping into it sometimes requires movement, determination, and faith.

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

Just like the woman with the issue of blood. She was surrounded by a crowd—pressure, obstacles, people, noise. She could have easily looked at the situation and thought, “Not today. It’s too much. It’s too hard.”

But she didn’t.

She pushed forward anyway.
She made her way through what was in front of her.
She was determined that if she could just touch the hem of Jesus’ garment, everything could change.

And I don’t want to let what I see around me stop me from doing what I know I need to do.

I don’t want to be held back by the noise of circumstances or the weight of doubt. I want to keep moving forward anyway—faithful in the small steps, obedient in the daily work, even when it feels slow or uncertain.

Because I’ve found encouragement in that truth, and I am grateful for it.

Choosing to Keep Going

And as I continue forward, yes—there are many things involved in this journey, and practical needs matter too. But above all of that, my desire is to remain faithful.

To do what I have been asked to do.

Even when I don’t see everything clearly yet.

Because I can do what I know to do.

And I choose to keep doing it.

To not give up.
To not quit.
To keep showing up in the small things.

Galatians 6:9  “Let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.”

Because even when it feels like things are getting harder before they get better… I believe there is purpose in the pressing, and meaning in the process.

And I am choosing to trust that.

A Perspective I Don’t Want to Miss

As I’ve sat with all of this a little longer, there’s something else the Lord has placed on my heart—something I don’t want to overlook or rush past.

I find myself genuinely thankful… not just for progress, but for the thoughts themselves. The encouragement. The perspective. The reminders that rise up right when I need them most. I know those aren’t coincidence—they come from Him.

James 1:17  “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above…”

And one thought in particular has stayed with me:

The Lord must believe I am capable of walking through this.

That alone humbles me.

Not because I feel strong—but because He sees something in me that I don’t always see in myself.

There are still things I cannot do. Certain movements, certain exercises with my tongue and lips that feel completely out of reach right now. And if I focus only on that, it can feel discouraging.

But then I’m reminded…

There were things I couldn’t do before either.

Things that once felt just as impossible… that somehow, over time, became possible. Not because I suddenly figured it all out—but because the Lord made a way. He allowed opportunities to practice, to grow, to strengthen—sometimes without me even realizing what He was doing in the moment.

And little by little, what once felt unattainable… wasn’t anymore.

He has not failed me.

Not then. Not now.

Hebrews 13:8  “Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever.”

He has provided what I needed—every single time—even when I couldn’t see how it would come together.

And I don’t want to forget that.

When Praise Reaches Beyond You

Another truth He brought to mind is the account of Paul the Apostle and Silas.

In Acts of the Apostles 16, they were in prison—beaten, bound, and placed in a position most of us would never choose. And yet… they praised the Lord.

Acts 16:25  “And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God: and the prisoners heard them.”

Not quietly. Not conditionally. But openly.

And yes, we often focus on what happened next—the earthquake, the chains loosed, the doors opened.

But something stood out to me in a fresh way:

It wasn’t just their doors that opened. It was everyone’s.

Their praise didn’t just affect their own situation—it created an opportunity for others to witness the power of God.

And that hit me deeply.

Because it made me realize—if I choose not to praise Him in this season… if I hold back because it’s hard, or uncomfortable, or not what I would have chosen…

Someone else might miss seeing what God can do.

Not because He isn’t able—but because I didn’t respond.

And I don’t want that.

I don’t want my silence, my hesitation, or my discouragement to become a reason someone else doesn’t see His goodness.

A Question to Carry With You

If my obedience—if my praise, even when it’s difficult—can open the door for someone else to witness His power…

Then it’s worth it.

Matthew 5:16  “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”

What if the very thing you’re walking through… is not only about what God is doing in you—but also what He desires to reveal through you?

 Be encouraged. 🧡                                                                🎵Praise You Anywhere

P.S. I’ve recently started a podcast, Every Breath on Purpose Conversations, where I share these reflections in a more personal, spoken way.

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. 🧡