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. 🧡

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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

When the Vibrations Became a Reminder

A Memory That Returned Unexpectedly

Recently, a memory surfaced that I had not visited in years. It came quietly—uninvited but important. It carried me back to those early, foggy weeks after my motorcycle wreck, when I lay in the ICU, unaware of how fragile my life was and how deeply God was already working.

My memories from that time are scattered and dim, like fragments from a dream. But this one—this memory—came back sharp enough to feel again.

I remembered the vibrating hospital bed.

I remember how much I disliked that bed. It shook beneath me with a relentless hum that traveled straight into my bones. I could feel it rattle my teeth at times, and each vibration slowly pushed my body downward until the nurses had to come in, lift me, and reposition me. I hated the sensation. I hated the loss of control. I hated how helpless I felt.

But I also know now why they used it. It was meant to protect my lungs—lungs that had already suffered from a collapsed lung, the trauma of the ventilator, and my inability to swallow correctly. Pneumonia was a very real threat, and that vibrating bed was part of the fight to keep it away.

And it worked.
I never got pneumonia once—not in the ICU, not in therapy, not during my entire hospital stay.
Looking back, that is nothing short of mercy.

Psalm 34:6 “This poor man cried, and the LORD heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles.”

The Tenderness of Small Acts

As that memory opened, more pieces drifted back with it. Small things… but when you’re helpless, small things become enormous.

I remembered a nurse in the ICU who noticed that my eyebrows had been manicured before the wreck. She didn’t want that care to fade, so she would come in with tweezers and gently shape them, keeping stray hairs away. I couldn’t talk. I wasn’t coherent. I couldn’t tell her thank you. But she cared for me in a way that reached far deeper than grooming.

I remembered my mom leaving a CD of music that played constantly in my room, creating a peaceful atmosphere that helped settle my mind even when my thoughts were tangled and unclear. Sometimes they would turn the television to a hospital channel that showed nature scenes with relaxing music. At the time, I didn’t realize the purpose. Now I know—they were trying to create beauty around someone who could not create beauty for herself.

They were always finding ways—small, simple ways—to make my world better.

Those quiet kindnesses mattered.
Kindness always matters.

Ephesians 4:32 “And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted…”

The Fog Between Dreams and Reality

Much of what I “remember” from ICU feels like dream fragments. Some moments were so blurry that I questioned whether they happened at all. Medication, trauma, exhaustion, and fear blended everything together into a haze.

I recall visitors in the limited time they were allowed, and I remember being troubled—worried that some of them thought I was faking. I wasn’t, of course. But that fear lived somewhere deep inside the confusion.

Was it reality?
Was it a dream?
Was it my mind trying to make sense of something too big to understand?

Even now I’m not entirely sure.

But what I am sure of is this:
God was present in every foggy corner of that room. Even when I couldn’t think clearly. Even when I couldn’t pray out loud. Even when I wasn’t myself. He was there.

Psalm 61:2 “When my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”

A Journey Forward — Literally and Spiritually

Fast forward to just a few weeks ago. I went on an extended solo road trip where I spoke to three different groups and had multiple opportunities throughout the week to share pieces of my testimony—about the wreck, the recovery, the impossible things God brought me through, and the things He is still helping me overcome.

Before leaving, I worried.
What would I say?
Would I remember enough?
Would my nerves get in the way?
Would the right words come?

But God met me there.
He was faithful.
He brought things to my memory that I had forgotten.
He reminded me of details I didn’t even know had significance until I stood in front of those people.

He was with me—guiding, strengthening, steadying.

And as I spoke, I reflected on the woman I was back then, lying in that vibrating bed, unable to move, unable to speak, unsure of what was real and what wasn’t.

And then I looked at the woman standing there those nights—driving through the state alone, carrying a testimony, sharing hope, offering encouragement, and declaring the goodness of God.

The difference is stunning.
The journey is long.
And the grace is immeasurable.

Psalm 118:23 “This is the LORD's doing; it is marvellous in our eyes.”

Not 100%… but No Longer Who I Was

I’m not fully whole.
I still face limitations.
I still navigate frustrations, pains, and the ongoing results of that wreck.

But I am no longer the woman in that ICU bed.
Not physically. Not emotionally. Not spiritually.

God didn’t just heal parts of my body—He grew my faith, sharpened my gratitude, and expanded my purpose. He gave me words. He gave me strength. He gave me a testimony.

He gave me a new life.

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

What I Know Now

If the vibrating bed taught me anything, it’s this:

Sometimes what feels uncomfortable…
sometimes what rattles us…
sometimes what shakes us to the core…
is what keeps us alive.

Sometimes the things we hate become the very things that save us.

And sometimes the memories we try to forget become the testimony God uses to encourage others.

He wastes nothing—not suffering, not confusion, not fear, not tears, not time.

God was faithful to bring back to my mind things I hadn’t thought about in a long while. Even though I’m not physically at 100%, I’m definitely stronger than I used to be. And I’m trusting Him to keep writing my story. He’s not finished with me yet. There’s more ahead, and I’m looking forward with expectation, believing that to be true.

A Reflection for You

As you read this, I hope you’ll pause and think:

• What moments in your life felt painful or confusing, yet protected you in ways you didn’t realize at the time?
• What has God brought you through that you can now share to help someone else?
• How has He strengthened you in places you once felt weakest?

Your story matters.
Your scars matter.
Your survival matters.
And your testimony has the power to lift someone else from their own vibrating bed of fear, uncertainty, or pain.

Be encouraged. 🧡

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Finding Good Things in Hard Places

Life doesn’t always look the way we imagined. Sometimes the simplest joys—like a walk down the driveway or picking flowers—feel out of reach. But even in those hard places, God has a way of showing us hidden blessings. This is my journey of learning to see differently, to be honest about the struggle, and to keep finding the good things—even when life feels heavy.

Lately, I’ve been trying to find the good things. To be honest, it’s not always easy. Many times, I want to appear strong—unshaken, like I have the answers, like I know what everything means and where it’s all heading. But the truth is, I don’t always know.

More and more, I’ve caught myself thinking about all the things I see others doing—the things I can’t do. Such as active or adventurous hobbies, like biking, hiking, or playing games outside. Even simple things like walking outside down a path in the forest or a meadow without assistance to pick fresh flowers to bring inside and decorate the table. These small, everyday joys seem so effortless for others, yet for me they come with limits and barriers.

I can’t just take a leisurely walk down the driveway or down a trail. I need my walker or the assistance of someone else. Even then, my walking doesn’t look as graceful as I wish it would. That reality can feel heavy sometimes. And yes, it can feel lonely.

I hesitate to even admit that, because vulnerability often feels like an invitation for pity or sympathy—neither of which I’m asking for. What I do want, though, is to let someone else know: if you’ve ever had these thoughts and feelings, you’re not alone.

The Quiet Battle of Comparison

One of the hardest struggles for me lately has been comparison. It sneaks in quietly when I’m watching others live their lives with a freedom I don’t have. It whispers: Look at what they can do. Why can’t you?

Maybe you’ve felt that way too—not necessarily about walking or balance, but about something else. Maybe you’ve compared your family, your finances, your career, or your health. Maybe you’ve watched someone else receive the blessing you’ve been praying for. Comparison is a thief.

And yet, I remind myself that even when I cannot do certain things, there are still blessings in front of me. Even when my body doesn’t cooperate, I can still find reasons to praise the Lord.

The Bible tells us in 1 Thessalonians 5:18, “In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.” That’s not always easy, is it? Giving thanks when life feels heavy and when you’re reminded of what you’ve lost doesn’t come naturally. But it’s in those moments—those valleys of comparison and loneliness—that gratitude becomes the very thing that lifts us up.

Learning to See Differently

I’ve realized lately that sometimes the Lord calls us to see life differently. I may not be able to walk down a wooded path, but I can still enjoy the fresh breeze through an open window. I may not pick flowers from a meadow, but I can still place a vase on the table and let its colors brighten the room.

It doesn’t erase the ache of what I can’t do, but it helps me to notice what I can. Sometimes, the good things are not in the loud, obvious moments but in the small details—the gentle reminders that God’s creation is still around me, even if I engage with it differently than before.

Psalm 34:18 says, “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” What a comfort that is! God doesn’t stand far off when we are hurting. He draws near. When my spirit feels crushed, when loneliness creeps in, when my heart aches with comparison, the Lord is not distant—He is present.

Choosing Honesty Over Perfection

I think sometimes we feel pressure to appear strong, as if admitting our struggles is the same as admitting defeat. But it isn’t. Honesty is not weakness—it’s courage. It opens the door for someone else to say, Me too. I’ve felt that way as well.

If you are reading this and struggling with loneliness, comparison, or unmet longings, I want you to know you don’t have to hide it. God sees you. He understands what you haven’t even spoken out loud. And He cares deeply.

He tells us in Isaiah 41:10, “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”

When we feel like our own strength is gone, He promises to uphold us. When we feel unseen, He reminds us that He is near.

Loneliness Is Not the End of the Story

Loneliness has a way of making us feel forgotten. But I’ve been reminded that even when people don’t fully understand, God does. Even when I can’t explain my feelings, He already knows them.

King David knew loneliness. Many of the psalms are filled with his cries of feeling forsaken, surrounded by enemies, or cut off from comfort. And yet, David also sang of God’s faithfulness, declaring in Psalm 27:10, “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take me up.”

That means even if the closest people in our lives cannot walk with us through certain valleys, God will. He is faithful in every season.

Looking for the Good

So I return to where I started: I’m trying to find the good things. Not the big, extraordinary, once-in-a-lifetime moments—but the little daily graces. A smile from a friend. The sound of laughter. A verse of Scripture that meets me right where I am. A reminder that even in the midst of longing, God’s blessings are still present.

Gratitude doesn’t always erase pain, but it shifts the way we carry it. It doesn’t deny the hard realities, but it allows us to see beyond them.

So if you’ve been struggling—whether with health, with comparison, with loneliness, or simply with the weight of life—know this: you are not alone. Your story matters. Your feelings matter. And God has not forgotten you.

Maybe we can walk this road together, choosing to be honest, choosing to be thankful, and choosing to see the good things even in hard places.

Learning New Skills and Finding Joy

As I’ve prayed and reflected, I’ve also tried to lean into new things that bring joy and purpose in this season. Another thing I’ve been thinking about doing lately is grinding my own wheat berries to make fresh flour for baking. There’s something deeply satisfying about the thought of taking something so simple—wheat—and turning it into nourishment with my own hands. It takes effort and time, but the end result is worth it: bread that is fresh, wholesome, and made with care.

In a way, I think that’s a picture of life right now. Not everything comes quickly or easily. Some things require extra steps, patience, or different tools than I expected. But just as wheat can be ground into flour and then baked into something that blesses others, my life can still be shaped and used in meaningful ways.

Jesus said in John 6:35, “I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst.” That verse reminds me that while bread can fill the body, Christ Himself fills the soul. And in the same way, the process of baking reminds me that God is still working in me, even through the pressing and grinding seasons, to bring forth something good.

Along with this, I’ve also been spending time learning for my part-time office job. The technical aspects stretch me, but in good ways. I’m excited about what I’m learning and the chance to implement new systems that will help things run more smoothly and serve customers and colleagues better. It’s a blessing to know that even with my limitations, God still allows me to contribute in ways that matter.

Wrestling With Questions of Faith

Another area I often wrestle with is faith and healing. There are times when I wonder: if I just had more faith, could I handle my healing differently? Could I even be healed? And then, when I start down that path, I ask myself—Is my faith not big enough?

But then I step back and remember all that God has already done in my life. Physically, financially, emotionally, spiritually—He has proven Himself to me over and over again. In so many ways, I feel like my faith is enormous because I’ve seen His hand at work.

Yet still, I wrestle. I wonder if maybe the point isn’t about the size of my faith, but about what God is teaching me through the valleys. Maybe the afflictions we face are not meant to prove our weakness, but to shape our trust in Him. Maybe it’s not about my healing, or any one specific need, but about learning to glorify Him in all circumstances.

Paul spoke about this in 2 Corinthians 12:9–10, where he shared the Lord’s words: “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” And Paul’s response was, “Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me… for when I am weak, then am I strong.”

That truth humbles me. Healing is in God’s hands, not mine. Faith is not a measuring stick—it is trust, even when the outcome doesn’t look like what I wanted. And sometimes, the very thing I wish away might be the thing God is using to build my faith and draw me closer to Him.

So I continue to pray, to trust, and to rest in knowing that whether healing comes now, later, or in eternity, God’s grace is enough.

At the end of the day, I may still face limits and longings, but I’ve also discovered treasures I might have missed otherwise—quiet mercies, deeper faith, and the nearness of God in hard places. And that’s the good I’m holding onto. My prayer is that you, too, will find those hidden blessings right where you are.

 Be encouraged. 🧡

Without Valleys, There aren't Mountains

For many years now, I’ve relied on a transdermal scopolamine patch to help control my saliva production. It’s a small, round sticker that I typically wear on my neck, just behind my ear. Every three days, I change it for a new one. This routine has become part of my life, and while it may seem simple, it’s one of the little things that makes my daily life more manageable.

I’ve realized that this tiny patch represents more than medicine — it’s a reminder of how God can use small things to meet big needs. Sometimes we overlook His daily mercies because they come in ordinary forms. But when one of those little helps is missing, we suddenly see just how much we rely on His provision in every detail.

Lately, though, things have not gone so smoothly. The current brand my pharmacy has been giving me does not remain adhesive for the full three days. Sometimes it lasts 24 hours, sometimes 48, but rarely the full 72. Because of this, I’ve had to reapply patches sooner than I should. Normally, I receive 30 patches at a time—a 90-day supply—but since they fall off too soon, I ran out before my insurance would cover a refill. That left me with seven long days without a patch.

Trying to find a solution, I’ve had several frustrating phone call encounters with my doctor’s office as I’ve tried to remedy the situation. My personal physician is on maternity leave, and the covering doctor in the office preferred not to prescribe anything since she does not know me. When the nurse called back, I was told no one in the office would see me, and that I would need to wait for my regular doctor. But the earliest appointment I already had scheduled with her wasn’t until December—and it’s only a telehealth appointment, not in person.

So currently, I’m in that week-long waiting period with nothing to help me, and my saliva is overwhelming to say the least. I’ve already shed tears, and I expect there might be more along the way. I’m not sure what I can do to expedite or change these circumstances, and the helplessness feels heavy.

When Help Doesn’t Come

Needless to say, it’s been a real fiasco — no patches, no guidance, and absolutely no help or suggestions from my medical office. I’m beyond disappointed with that level of service. If you can’t care about your patients, I truly feel you’re in the wrong field.

It’s hard when you’re treated like a number instead of a person. I hung up the phone that day and just sat in silence for a while, wondering why compassion seems so scarce in a field meant for healing. But then, I remembered — even when people turn us away, God never does. His line is always open, His ear always listening.

So, I did the best I could. I started looking for an over-the-counter option and found a generic motion sickness pill that I could crush, thinking it might help. It wasn’t time-released, so I figured it would be safe. What I didn’t realize was that there are different kinds of motion sickness medications. The kind I picked said to take two pills for 24 hours, so that’s what I did.

But soon, I started feeling strange — drowsy, jelly-like, and just plain awful — with no improvement in my saliva at all. After half a day of feeling miserable, I reached out to a family member with medical experience and sent her a photo of the box. Thank goodness I did! It turned out the medication I had bought was similar to Benadryl — which explained everything I was feeling.

She sent me a photo of the correct version, the “Fast Act” type, which directs up to eight tablets for 24 hours. The boxes looked almost identical, right down to the color and design — only the tiny print underneath the “Motion Sickness” label was different. It’s a good reminder to double-check those details that are so easy to overlook when you’re just trying to find relief.

For now, that’s what I’ve been using until my insurance approves my prescription again. Hopefully, it won’t be much longer. In the meantime, I’m just thankful for the bit of wisdom and help that came through family — when professional help didn’t.

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

Even though my doctor didn’t help, God still provided the help I needed — through a family member who knew what to look for. He always finds a way to care for us, even when it’s not through the channels we expected.

When life brings these moments of frustration, of waiting, and of helplessness, it can be hard not to feel forgotten. My tears over something as small as a patch remind me that nothing is too small to bring before God. He sees even this struggle. The Bible says:

Psalm 56:8 “Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?”

Isn’t it amazing that God keeps track of every tear we cry? They are not wasted. They are not overlooked. To Him, they matter.

Right now, I don’t know what will happen with my prescription or how soon things will change. But I do know this: God is still faithful in the waiting. He is still present when the answers are delayed. He is still strong when my body feels weak.

Psalm 55:22 “Cast thy burden upon the LORD, and he shall sustain thee: he shall never suffer the righteous to be moved.”

I’ve tried to distract myself from the discomfort by telling myself I’m fine and keeping my mind occupied. Easier said than done.

These waiting days remind me of how much I depend on Him—more than any patch, more than any pill, more than any earthly fix. Medicine may fail, systems may be slow, and people may not always understand the urgency of what we face, but the Lord remains constant.

I think of Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 12:9: “And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”

This doesn’t mean the weakness disappears—it means God’s strength shows up right in the middle of it. If He can sustain me through seven days without my medicine, He can sustain you through whatever “waiting period” you may be walking through, too.

So today, I cast my burden on Him once more, knowing He will sustain me. My prayer is that even in my weakness, someone else will see His strength.

Waiting seasons can refine us in ways comfort never could. They teach patience, deepen prayer, and remind us that peace doesn’t come from perfect circumstances but from perfect trust. Every delay becomes an invitation to lean harder on the One who never fails.

What are you waiting on God for today? Whatever it is, may you be reminded that He sees your tears, knows your struggles, and is faithful to carry you through.

 Be encouraged. 🧡