Tag Archives: growth


Sometimes you sit, and you stare at the reality that is your life, and you reflect.

Today I’ve been all caught up in my head space. I spend way too much time overanalyzing my own progress or regression. I am easily devastated by the opinions of anyone I trust, if a negative criticism is suggested.

Today someone suggested I had PTSD from prior relationships. That’ I run from potential. That I have a lot of unresolved issues.

They said this when I suggested that things were moving too fast – that it was important to slow down and build something rationally, explore possibilities without making assumptions.

I sat there, and I wondered – am I damaged?

I’ve been severely ill, abused, and abandoned. What are the ramifications of those three separate life events?

Are we a product of our circumstances, or of our choices, or of our self-awareness? All three? Does my obsessive self-reflection and desire to understand my own psyche help me progress, or do I need to learn to live in the moment? Abandon all learned behaviors and defenses in favor of possibility? What is truly wise, and what is fear-driven?

Sometimes I am so confident that I know myself, and others, I wonder if I’m blind to my own inconsistencies.

My soul is a war of traditional with free spirit – on a regular basis. Reserve and caution and respect for the culture I grew up in, at war with my constant desire to be free and open to the world, to walk around without boundaries, to rebel against the idea that I could be owned or possessed or controlled in any way by another human.

I’ve changed dynamically and exponentially this last few years. I’ve become a person that I NEVER expected to be – but someone I truly love. I never stop growing, changing, evolving, learning.

The more I know myself, the more I realize how much I have to learn.

The problem with realizing how much you evolve and open up and change is that you realize you’re boundless – your limits are unknown. Apart from your moral and ethical code, you have no idea where your journey and self-development may take you. You’re unaware of who you may be in 6 months, a year, 5 years. You can hardly ever say “I wouldn’t”… because you know the “wouldn’ts” you’ve already done.

The older I get, the more I learn myself, the more I realize that being candid with myself and others means admitting that I am a constantly growing, changing, burning, fiercely alive human being. I am passionately and intensely and humanly both consistent and inconsistent. I am reliable where it matters, and transient and changing where life ebbs and flows. Harsh lessons and beautiful connections empower and compel me to change and evolve.

Candor means admitting that sometimes, I do not know what I want. Sometimes, that is purely because I understand my own capacity for evolution – and not because I’m damaged, broken, or unresolved in any way.

I am simply human.

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a quick note.


When you have big decisions to make, God leads you. If you don’t know where to go right now, and you don’t have to make the decision RIGHT NOW, let it rest. There is no grace for tomorrow, for your “what ifs”. There is grace for today, and today’s decisions, and all will be made clear in time.

one of my favorite quotes:

“Waiting on God isn’t about the suspension of meaning and purpose. It’s part of the meaning and purpose that God has brought into my life. Waiting on God isn’t to be viewed as an obstruction in the way of the plan. Waiting is an essential part of the plan. For the child of God, waiting isn’t simply about what I’ll receive at the end of my wait. No, waiting is much more purposeful, efficient, and practical than that. Waiting is fundamentally about what I’ll become as I wait. God is using the wait to do in and through me exactly what He’s promised. Through the wait He’s changing me. By means of the wait He’s altering the fabric of my thoughts and desires. Through the wait He’s causing me to see and experience new things about Him and His kingdom. And all of this sharpens me, enabling me to be a more useful tool in His redemptive hands.” – paul tripp

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RAW pt. 2

Someone asked me recently why I blog about what I’m going through. I stopped to consider this.

Here are the main reasons I’m sharing this journey:

1. Writing helps me both face, understand, and accept things in my life.

2. Sharing as a person who has been through an abuse situation allows me to reach out and touch others, and hopefully to keep people from this, or worse. The pain it takes to own it publicly is less painful than my heavy and constant concern for the safety and wellbeing of others in similar situations.

3. Communicating raw emotion and processing things out loud humanizes my pain, and does not let me run from it.

These are the main reasons that I am publicizing this journey.


Today, I woke up late. I scrambled to pull on my slacks, a dress shirt, my rarely-used blazer.

No makeup.

Coffee, black.


Ice on my car.

Dad’s help.

Driving… empty.

8:32-11:23 is a haze…

I remember that I walked into the courthouse, I saw him.

Shaking, in a corner, in two seconds.

Fast as I could.

In a ball, everyone watching.


I stayed there.

The security guard motions me to a chair, kindly.

Shake my head.

People walking by, looking.

Him, upstairs, looking.



The girl with a similar case from the last court hearing walks through security.

I breathe again.

We link arms, and we go upstairs.

I find my attorney.

He gently reminds me:

You won’t win this.

(No evidence.

I left too soon.

Did I leave too soon?

I wasn’t waiting anymore.

Maybe I left too soon.)


See him. Relaxed. Like nothing is happening.

I’m shaking, violently.

Furthest corner, furthest bench. Edge of the seat.

She comes back and holds me, and I hold her when her him walks in.

Her case is open,



She’s safe, she breathes.

I’m a deer in the headlights.

Everyone sees me, I feel so small.

I try to be smaller.

Less visible.

Maybe they will all go away.

Case is moved to another court.

The attorney asks:

do you still want to do this?

I consider running.

I remember how many times I ran.

No more running.

I barely walk.



Maybe I can crawl.


The judge is my first judge. From last week.

I breathe.

It begins.

My memory stops..

I remember tears.


Looking for a trashcan to be sick.

I remember the judge, his pity.

I remember many, many words exchanged.




Not his.

So few words.

Protecting himself.

I know it’s over.

I knew it would be.

I thought I would be more afraid, when it was denied.

No evidence.

But no,

I feel courage.

I didn’t run.

I was small.

I was shaking.

I could hardly breathe.

But no running.

I stood.

I stood up.

I faced it.

For the first time in a long time,

i begin to feel

I will be okay.

I walk out.


Shaking still.


The guard catches my arm.

He says

“You will be okay”.

I nod. I smile.

I say “yes”.

And for the first time in many months,

I believe it.

“The Lord GOD is my strength, And He has made my feet like hinds’ feet, And makes me walk on my high places”

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Lessons I’m Learning #1


Not only is it okay, it is good.

Some women function regularly on emotional waves. Yours truly functions by shutting out emotion when things hurt. I avoid sadness and pain in my thoughts because of that weakness I hate so much.

Part of this is a coping mechanism for the tidal wave of emotion that comes with a severely painful situation, and part of this is a survival mechanism because I can’t afford to fall apart. I have a son and myself to provide for and responsibilities to meet.

Only teenagers can collapse in a puddle of mascara-smeared, powder puff tears on a bed of broken hopes and obliterated self-esteem, right? Nope.

I really do rarely cry, but I’m learning that tears or no, IT IS OKAY TO FEEL.

It is okay that when I caught a glimpse of his face when he FaceTimed our son, I had to rush to the living room with a sob caught in my throat, cover my face and weep: that is okay. 

The fact that I still love him, that I deeply miss him: that is okay.

It is okay to relive the pain in order to move forward, and it is also okay to relive much of the beauty and good. This type of nostalgia is not unhealthy; it is pure and unadulterated HUMANITY.

In the interest of humanity, let me be raw for a moment on this score:

I loved his passion for life. When we met he was as intense as I am in his curiosity, his balls-to-the-wall lifestyle and his deep and passionate love for and interest in me.

He was the first person to make me believe, by his very confidence, that I could be healthy again. He taught me to hope for healing.

He taught me to BS less and to say what I was thinking; to stop being a people pleaser.

I loved the laughter; SO MUCH LAUGHTER, it would break me into a million happy shining pieces in the best of ways.

I loved his deep awareness of God’s voice: he would hear from Him, make decisions, and every time things came to pass as he said they would, and he succeeded.

I loved his aggressive fearlessness. Where I was afraid to try new things, to travel, to live after years of sickness, he would hold me and remind me I was safe, but also that I had the power to do things, and possibly even to succeed at them.

He held me amidst significant physical pain and breathed through every contraction with me on our son’s birthday.

Wrestling and late night cuddles and the honeymoon effect of military lifestyle; I look back and love it and feel it all.

No one made me grin the way he did, and no one made me feel so like an 8 year old girl with her first crush.

I love what we had and what we were, and what he helped to make me be. I have a million things to thank him for.

I am human, I feel, I accept that feeling. I acknowledge the pain of rejection, anger, betrayal; of a beautiful thing turned upside down and backwards and inside out and broken at the hands of a fallen world.


This is how we know we are alive.




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