Tired to the Marrow, Still Standing: Why I Refuse to Give Up on Life, Love, and Jesus

 

There are days when "not giving up" doesn’t look heroic at all.

It doesn't look like climbing a mountain or shouting victory from the rooftops. Sometimes, it looks like sitting in the driveway for five extra minutes before walking inside. It looks like crying quietly in the shower so your girls don't hear the weight you are carrying. It looks like staring at the ceiling at 2:00 AM, wondering how one set of shoulders is supposed to hold up an entire world.

When you walk this road as a single momma, the temptation to simply shut down is real. Not because you don't love Jesus. Not because you aren't grateful for your blessings. But because you are tired down to the very marrow of your bones.

I have walked through storms I never saw coming. I have watched plans crumble, carried the ache of losing my daughter, and navigated the silent, exhausting reality of doing life without a partner to share the load. And if I am being completely honest—because I refuse to pretend I have it all together—there have been moments when giving up on trying felt a whole lot safer than keeping my heart open.

It is easy to build walls when everything familiar has fallen apart. It is easy to go numb.

Yet, somehow, something inside of me refuses to quit. Not because I am strong—Lord knows I am often afraid—but because Jesus has never once let go of my hand. Even in the darkest valleys, His faithfulness has looked like breath. It has looked like a tiny flicker of hope that simply refuses to go out. As 2 Corinthians 4:8–9 reminds us, we are "hard pressed on every side but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed."

Choosing Life When Survival Was All You Knew

For so many years, my life was built entirely around survival. Bills, crises, appointments, late-night tears, and doing whatever it took to keep my girls steady while my own heart was breaking. When you spend decades pouring out just to make it to tomorrow, you forget what it actually means to live.

Not giving up on life means believing that my story isn't over just because the map changed. It means stepping out of survival mode and daring to believe that God still has sacred adventures ahead—even in an emptying nest, even with scars, even when I don't know what the next chapter looks like. Jesus promised in John 10:10 that He came so we "may have life, and have it to the full." Joy isn't something that just happens to us; it is something we have to pursue on purpose, right alongside the grief, trusting that He is still leading us into open skies.

Choosing Love When Your Heart Knows the Cost

Let’s talk about the scary part: not giving up on love.

When you have experienced deep betrayal, broken dreams, and devastating loss, guarding your heart feels like common sense. You learn how to be both mother and father. You learn how to rely on yourself because you had no other choice. Letting anyone close—or even daring to hope for real, safe, restorative love again—feels terrifying. What if it hurts again? What if the worst happens again?

I don't have all the answers about what love looks like in this next season. What I do know is that I don't want fear to make me bitter. 1 John 4:18 tells us that "there is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear." I want to be a woman who still loves bravely. Whether that means pouring deep, fierce love into my daughters, showing up for friends walking through their own dark chapters, or keeping the door of my heart unlocked to whatever God might bring in His timing—I refuse to let past pain steal my softness.

Choosing a Deeper Faith in the Quiet

It is easy to trust God when the prayers are answered quickly and life makes sense. It is a whole different thing to pursue a deeper faith when you are standing in your "even if" moments and Heaven feels quiet.

There have been days I couldn't pray pretty prayers. All I had were tears and a whispered, "Jesus, I am tired, and You are going to have to carry this."

And you know what? He met me right there in the messy, uncertain middle. In Matthew 11:28, Jesus doesn't ask us to clean ourselves up or find our own strength first—He simply says, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

Pursuing a deeper faith doesn't mean having the right scripture taped to your mirror so you never feel afraid. It means showing up, knees shaking, and trusting that God is good even when life isn't. It means clinging to Isaiah 61:3, believing that He truly is giving us "a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair"—even before we can see the finished masterpiece.

To every single momma reading this who feels like she is running on fumes tonight: I see you.

Galatians 6:9 urges us, "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." You don't have to have the next five years figured out. You don't have to pretend you aren't weary. Just take a deep breath, place your hand over your beating heart, and remember that you are still here.

Not finished. Not forgotten. Still becoming.

Here's to showing up again tomorrow. Here's to the grit, the grace, and the hope that refuses to die.

Reinventing Yourself in the Ruins: Finding New Places in Your Heart.

 

There are seasons in life when everything familiar falls apart — not slowly, not gently, but all at once. The dreams you prayed for, the plans you built, the life you imagined… they slip through your fingers, and you’re left standing in the ruins wondering who you are now.

I know that place intimately.

I didn’t reinvent myself because I wanted to. I reinvented myself because life gave me no other choice.

I became a single mom in a storm I never saw coming.

There is no manual for rebuilding your life when the person you built it with disappears. There is no roadmap for holding your children’s hearts together while your own is breaking. There is no easy way to explain to the world how you’re still standing.

But somehow, I did.

Not because I was strong. But because Jesus was faithful.

Trusting Him came at a high price. I lost every dream I prayed for. Every plan I thought was secure. Every version of the future I imagined.

"All to Jesus I surrender" took on a whole different meaning for me....but it felt like my all was being required. I had to come face to face with what I truly believed and what I was going to walk out.

And then came the deepest loss — the kind that changes the shape of your soul. Losing my daughter was a grief that swallowed whole pieces of me. It was the kind of pain that makes you question everything, including whether hope is even real.

But even there — in the darkest valley — God did not leave me.

His faithfulness didn’t look like rescue. It looked like breath. It looked like endurance. It looked like a tiny flicker of hope that refused to die, even when I wanted to.

That flicker became my lifeline.

And slowly, painfully, beautifully… I began to find new pieces of my heart and soul. Pieces I never would have discovered without walking through loss. Pieces that were forged in fire — compassion, courage, tenderness, grit, and a hope that glows even in the dark.

Reinvention isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about discovering the parts of you that only suffering can reveal.

It’s about learning to trust Jesus not because life is good, but because He is. It’s about realizing that even when everything you prayed for is gone, God is still writing a story worth living. It’s about finding beauty in the mystery of what comes next — not because you understand it, but because you’re finally brave enough to walk into it.

Today, I look ahead to new adventures. Not with the naïve hope I once had, but with a deeper, steadier hope — the kind that has survived storms and learned how to rise again. The kind that teaches you how to love brave and hold tight to what matters.

I don’t know what this next season will bring. But I know who is walking me into it. And I know the woman I’ve become through the journey — a woman rebuilt by grit, grace, and a God who never let go.

Here’s to the mystery. Here’s to the becoming. Here’s to the hope that lives on.

The story I want my life to tell

I want my life to tell the story of a woman who kept showing up — even when the path twisted, even when the map changed, even when nothing looked the way she once imagined. A woman who chose joy not because life was easy, but because she believed joy was holy. A woman who walked by faith when certainty wasn’t available, who trusted God’s timing when her own plans fell apart, and who kept her heart open to beauty, mystery, and possibility.

I want my life to tell the story of someone who loved deeply, served generously, and lived with purpose. Someone who turned pain into wisdom, detours into direction, and ordinary days into quiet acts of courage. Someone who believed that every season — the breaking, the rebuilding, the becoming — was part of a sacred adventure.

I want my life to tell the story of a woman who lived awake, grateful, and brave. A woman who followed the call God placed in her spirit, even when it led her into unknown places. A woman whose faith shaped her steps, whose joy shaped her presence, and whose love shaped the world around her.

And I’m not there yet — not finished, not perfected, not fully arrived. But I’m growing. Every day offers me the gift of trying again, of learning, of becoming. I’m thankful for that gift — for the mercy of new mornings and the grace to keep going. I want to be wise with the time I’m given, to live awake and grateful, to run this race well for as long as God allows me to.

This is the story I’m still living — one of faith, growth, and quiet perseverance. Not finished, but faithful. Not perfect, but present. Still running, still becoming, still trusting that every mile matters.

I want my life to tell the story of someone who loved deeply, served generously, and lived with purpose. Someone who turned pain into wisdom, detours into direction, and ordinary days into quiet acts of courage. Someone who believed that every season — the breaking, the rebuilding, the becoming — was part of a sacred adventure.

And maybe that’s the beauty of it: the story isn’t complete, but it’s unfolding. I have to believe this.

When the Nest Grows Quiet: Hope for the Single Mom Growing Older

 There’s a strange kind of silence that settles in when the nest starts to empty.

It’s not the loud, aching silence of grief — though I’ve known that too. It’s a softer one. A quiet that feels both unfamiliar and holy, like God is gently inviting you to breathe for the first time in years.

For so long, my life was built around survival. Appointments. Crises. School meetings. Late‑night tears. Early‑morning prayers whispered over sleepy heads. I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders because there was no one else to carry it with me. And like so many single moms, I learned to keep going long after my heart felt like it had nothing left to give.

There’s a strange kind of silence that settles in when the nest starts to empty. It’s not the loud, aching silence of grief — though I’ve known that too. It’s a softer one. A quiet that feels both unfamiliar and holy, like God is gently inviting you to breathe for the first time in years.

For so long, my life was built around survival. Appointments. Crises. School meetings. Late‑night tears. Early‑morning prayers whispered over sleepy heads. I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders because there was no one else to carry it with me. And like so many single moms, I learned to keep going long after my heart felt like it had nothing left to give.

But now, in my late 40s, I’m watching my nest grow emptier and emptier. And with every child who steps into her own life, I feel something shifting inside me too — a quiet invitation to rediscover the woman I had to set aside to survive.

It’s a strange thing, finding yourself again after decades of pouring out. You look in the mirror and see a woman who has walked through fire and somehow still has softness left. You see grit and grace woven together in ways only God could have managed. You see a heart that has been broken, mended, stretched, and strengthened — not by your own power, but by the One who held you through every storm.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful part of this season: Realizing that hope didn’t leave you, even when everything else did.

Hope stayed. Hope carried you. Hope whispered, “Not yet. Keep going.” Hope held your hand when you cried alone in the kitchen. Hope steadied your voice when you had to be both mother and father. Hope reminded you that your story wasn’t over, even when you felt like you were.

And now, that same hope is calling you forward.

Into new dreams. New goals. New chapters you never thought you’d get to write.

Because Christ doesn’t just heal the broken places — He resurrects them. He breathes life into the parts of us we thought were gone forever. He restores joy where sorrow lived too long. He rebuilds identity where survival once ruled. He turns empty nests into open skies.

To every single mom walking this road — the ones who have cried alone, fought alone, prayed alone, and risen again and again when life tried to take you out:

You are not behind. You are not forgotten. You are not done.

You are stepping into a season where God is not asking you to survive — He is inviting you to live.

And you can trust Him with that. You can trust the hope He places in your hands. You can trust the future He is shaping, even if you can’t see it yet.

Because the God who carried you through the hardest years of your life is the same God who is now leading you into the most beautiful ones.

But now, in my late 40s, I’m watching my nest grow emptier and emptier. And with every child who steps into her own life, I feel something shifting inside me too — a quiet invitation to rediscover the woman I had to set aside to survive.

It’s a strange thing, finding yourself again after decades of pouring out. You look in the mirror and see a woman who has walked through fire and somehow still has softness left. You see grit and grace woven together in ways only God could have managed. You see a heart that has been broken, mended, stretched, and strengthened — not by your own power, but by the One who held you through every storm.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful part of this season: Realizing that hope didn’t leave you, even when everything else did.

Hope stayed. Hope carried you. Hope whispered, “Not yet. Keep going.” Hope held your hand when you cried alone in the kitchen. Hope steadied your voice when you had to be both mother and father. Hope reminded you that your story wasn’t over, even when you felt like you were.

And now, that same hope is calling you forward.

Into new dreams. New goals. New chapters you never thought you’d get to write.

Because Christ doesn’t just heal the broken places — He resurrects them. He breathes life into the parts of us we thought were gone forever. He restores joy where sorrow lived too long. He rebuilds identity where survival once ruled. He turns empty nests into open skies.

To every single mom walking this road — the ones who have cried alone, fought alone, prayed alone, and risen again and again when life tried to take you out:

You are not behind. You are not forgotten. You are not done.

You are stepping into a season where God is not asking you to survive — He is inviting you to live.

And you can trust Him with that. You can trust the hope He places in your hands. You can trust the future He is shaping, even if you can’t see it yet.

Because the God who carried you through the hardest years of your life is the same God who is now leading you into the most beautiful ones.

Grief Through the Holidays: Year Four

 

The holidays have a way of magnifying both joy and sorrow. For me, they carry the weight of absence—this is the fourth year without my daughter. My momma's heart aches with a heaviness that cannot find words to express the depth of it. So, it sits quietly inside my heart, and sometimes catches me off guard with its sting. The lights twinkle, the carols play, and yet there’s always a quiet ache beneath it all.

What matters most to me is remembering my daughter. She mattered. She changed my life in her 24 years, and her love continues to ripple through mine. Her journey was not always easy; in fact, many times it was brutally difficult and challenged me in so many ways. She taught me so much through those challenges, struggles, and hard-fought hallelujahs. 

Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. It doesn’t fade neatly with time. Tears still come, sometimes unexpectedly, even in the middle of laughter. And yet, I’ve learned that both can coexist. Joy and sorrow, hand in hand. 

What steadies me most is knowing that God holds us close in these moments. “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). When the ache feels unbearable, His presence is a gentle reminder that we are not alone. He gathers our tears, and somehow, He also makes room for laughter to return. The sound of joy doesn’t erase the pain, but it reminds me that love is still alive, even in loss.

So if you find yourself grieving this holiday season, know this: it’s okay to cry, it’s okay to laugh, and it’s okay to feel both at once. Grief is not a sign of weakness—it’s a sign of love. And in the midst of it, God’s love is steady, holding us close, whispering hope into the heartbreak. “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more” (Revelation 21:4).

This year, I choose to honor both the tears and the laughter. Because both are sacred. Both are part of the story. And both remind me that even in grief, life still holds beauty.

Ways to Honor Their Memory

• Light a candle at the holiday table, a quiet symbol of their presence.

• Share a favorite story about them with family, keeping their laughter alive in your home.

• Create a tradition in their honor—bake their favorite cookies, hang an ornament that reminds you of them, or play a song they loved. 

• Give in their name—donate to a cause they cared about or bless someone in need as a way of extending their legacy.

• Write a letter to them each year, reflecting on what you miss, what you cherish, and how their love still shapes your days.

These small acts draw them close to your heart, reminding you that love doesn’t end with loss. It continues, carried in memory, in tradition, and in the hope that one day, all things will be made new.

And so, this holiday season, I carry Kari with me. Her laughter, the lessons I learned, her kindness, her silliness, her 24 years of love and light are woven into the fabric of who I am. Though the ache of missing her will never leave, neither will the beauty of her life. Kari mattered—she still matters—and remembering her is how I honor both the tears and the joy. Until the day all things are made new, I will hold her close in my heart, trusting that God holds us both even closer.

Fearfully Brave

 

Fear.
It is something I have always wrestled with.
As a little girl, I remember waking up when I was very tiny and yelling for my dad because I was so afraid...of everything. I used to have dreams of cars and trucks driving by out of control, buses falling from the sky with children in them, airplanes falling into our pasture, tornadoes coming down the road in a terrible whirlwind of darkness, and families screaming and crying. I would be standing in the middle of the road...frozen in fear.
Fear use to keep me hiding in the bathroom during school or church, afraid to come out because of some unknown rejection or monster awaiting.
Fear has always been the demon that pulls at me the loudest.

Can you live bravely with fear?

I have learned through therapy that a lot of this comes from being so out of control of everything in my life. I have rarely gotten to make a choice for myself, and even when I could, the fear of what others would think or how it would affect others around me would immobilize me, and panic would set in.

I often have people tell me they see me as strong....which is fascinating to me because I am the least strong person of them all. On a daily basis, I have to surrender my fear to God. I have to trust that He is in control regardless of my situation and circumstances...or even how many times the "very worst" has actually come true. God has still been in control.

I have always wanted to be strong and brave. I have always wanted my daughters to see me as someone who doesn't give up and someone who lives bravely....but the reality is that I am often afraid. I have learned that life goes on regardless of my fear and that it robs me of adventures and moments I long to have.

I wish we talked more openly about our struggles. I often wonder why we don't...maybe that is our own fear inside of us. Maybe we all have this fear of being rejected or thought of as...less than. Maybe we hide it in different ways, some loud and obnoxious, others quiet and timid, but we all still have those moments of shaking in our souls that "the worst" could happen.

It can.

It does.

It will.

And yet....

God has this way of speaking to the deepest parts of me in those moments. It is in those moments that I can often hear God the clearest. There is calm deep in my spirit, that whispers to me to breathe...to keep moving...to cry if needed....but to trust that there is still beauty in the world around me. It is THAT part of me...that part that coexists with the wrestling of the fear, that opens my eyes to the music of kindness and beauty around me.

Life has been a crazy adventure for me. One that has rarely felt safe. And although I am not a brave person, I AM growing and learning to sit in the space of my heart pounding and the "what if's" echoing inside my head and remind myself that in every "even if" moment so far, God has been faithful. I know I hear people say "even if" I will still praise Him....but let me tell you that when you are faced with your worst "even if"....it is not as easy as saying the words.

So can you live bravely with fear?

In short....yes. Acknowledging the fear is there doesn't mean you have surrendered to it. It just means you don't ignore the elephant in the room and I often think we do this as Christians. We think we have to have it all together or at least enough together that the world will someone come to know Jesus because of us....and that is pride. The Holy Spirit draws the heart of the soul...not you. Not me. Maybe instead of pretending that we didn't struggle and wrestle with real life issues...we could just be real.

Or is that too scary?

I want to live a life that trusts God when I fall into sin, knowing the price has been paid and His arms are always open.

I want to live a life that believes that God means what He says when He promises to provide as Jehovah-Jireh.

I want to live a life that is humbled by the beauty of those around me who have faced impossible things and still are kind.

I want to live a life that stands firmly rooted on Scripture even when my knees shake and my voice trembles because another "even if" moment is here.

I want to learn to live in grace for myself...and know that the Word of God is true and steady even when I am a hot mess.

I want my daughters to see that I often have no idea what I am doing or how to do it....and sometimes get it so horribly wrong...but that God sees into our hearts and knows the depths of our marrow...and He loves and adores us even still.

I want to talk about real life with those around me. The hard messy parts that don't fit into the perfect packaged Sunday School answer.... the ones that have big feelings with unclear answers. I want to talk about how if you really read the Bible....you understand that it is woven together with stories of people who loved God with all their heart...and still sinned, worried about life, made poor choices, got themselves into the biggest messes, and still.... were chosen by God.

I want those around me to see....

Imperfect.

Messy.

Afraid

Often uncertain.

Ridiculous at times.

Beauty seeker

Learning.

Growing.

Seeker of truth

Lover of kindness

In need of grace every day.

Forgiven

And to know that acknowledging the human parts of us is a good and beautiful things to do. We don't have to be perfect. We don't have to always have the right Scripture that makes sense. We don't have to judge someone by the middle of their story. We can love those who believe different, and trust that the Holy Spirit does His work on the INSIDE...the parts that you may not see for a long time coming. We can say we are afraid but that doesn't mean we live in fear. We can say we are confused but that doesn't mean we don't trust God. We can say we don't know the answer....

Being a Christian is not what I thought it would be when I was six. My life has not gone even one way that I thought it might.

But I can honestly say that life is beautiful.

I see God woven throughout every detail.

I hear the song He sings over me even in the darkest shadows of the soul.

I know I still have so much to learn about the heart of God. I still have so much to learn about how the Holy Spirit works inside of someone....and honestly, I still have a lot to learn about living brave. But I will show up for it.

Every day.

I will show up and I will learn.... because there is something about this life that pulls at my soul to see the beauty in the messy learning parts. So here I am... showing up. Just as I am.

And you know what?

God is here.

Right in this messy learning space with me.

I love that about Him.

The Gift of Grief

 

Grief is a mysterious thing. It comes with a high price that requires everything you have inside of you.

 It feels like a great fog has come over you. 

It changes you. 

It rewires you. 

It grows you.

It gives to you...

The things my sadness has given me are...

1. Awareness of how joy and grief are mingled together in a beautiful tapestry of grace. I have walked through immense sadness and have felt the pain of bleeding in your soul. But it has heightened my awareness of beauty and joy around me. I tend to laugh more and find joy in even the most boring of days. Joy is something I pursue with great intention because grief will find all of us at some point in our lives, but joy...that must be pursued. So, I intentionally pursue joy in each day. 

2. A deep empathy for others walking through their own hard chapters. I tend to always see people around me through the lens of what life has required of them so far. The sadness that I have walked through has given me a deep longing to hear the stories of others and connect with them through sadness. I am not afraid of the silence that resides in those of us who have walked through great grief. I will sit in it with you. Silent. I know sometimes the heart speaks in a language human ear's do not hear...but only the Holy Spirit who groans on our behalf of the great grief that has touched us. And He draws close to us in that grief. Therefore, I will draw close to others who walk through great grief, unafraid of their pain or anger, knowing that God is close to us. 

3. Sadness has also given me this ability to see beauty all around me in some of the simplest things like the way the sun hits a dog's fur on a warm summer day, or the way a song can bring about a favorite memory. Beauty surrounds me through light and music, and I see it every day woven together through the sad eyes of the parents at the hospital, or the brokenness inside of a woman's cry. The way a teenager tries so hard to be brave when they are dying inside, and the way a man's eyes try to hide the heaviness he carries inside of his soul are all things I notice every day. When I walk by strangers, their sadness touches me and reminds that we are all human and trying our best in a broken world. We are all longing to be loved, seen and heard in a world that ignores the loudest and most silent of pains...our grief.

Sadness has given me a lot actually. And I am thankful for its gift. Without sadness, I would not be able to acknowledge fully grace, beauty and the strength that lies within me to keep moving forward. Reaching...at times crawling...toward that goal of seeing Jesus' face to face and hearing, "Well Done my good and faithful servant". 

Grief has made me braver and bolder in my love towards others. 

Grief has extended my knowledge of grace and my understanding of patience. 

Grief has expanded my reasoning of anger and the neuroscience behind understanding how grief affects the brain. 

I am thankful for what grief has and continues to teach me. 

I am thankful that even in the darkest grief...God is there. 

I am thankful that no matter how dark the night might become...light will break through. No matter how thick the fog of grieve may be...music and light will find their way into the grief-stricken soul and if one will sit with it long enough.... unafraid...the healing will come. Joy DOES come in the morning. The grief does not go away, but instead, it becomes interwoven with who we have become because of it. So dear friend.... if you find yourself fighting back the tears and heaviness of grief...I see you. 

Take a deep breath. Place your hand on your heart. Remember that your heart beats to the rhythm of purpose. Grief may have taken away your breath for a bit...I know it did mine...but our hearts still beat my friends. 

Open your eyes and look around. 

Listen close. 

Grief has given you a gift.

There is beauty still to be found. 

A glorious unfolding all around us!