Dear Little Girl…You Can Trust Without Overworking

Dear Little Girl,

For a long time, you believed safety was something you had to earn.

If you worked hard enough.
Planned well enough.
Saved enough.
Prepared enough.

Then maybe you could finally relax.

But lately, God has been gently showing you a different way.

The truth is, fear has a sneaky way of disguising itself as responsibility.

It tells you to work a little harder.
Plan a little more.
Carry a little extra.

It whispers that if you let your guard down, everything might fall apart.

And if you're honest, there are still moments when you believe it.

Moments when you worry about the future.
About your family.
About your business.
About whether you'll be able to carry what tomorrow brings.

But fear doesn't get to lead anymore.

In Genesis 35, God called Jacob back to Bethel—the place where he first encountered Him while running for his life.

This time, however, God wasn't calling Jacob to run.

He was calling him to return.

To settle.

To trust.

Before he left, Jacob buried the idols he had been carrying and set out in obedience. He didn't have all the answers. He didn't have guarantees. He simply trusted the God who had been faithful before.

That part stops me every time.

God didn't need Jacob to be perfect.

He needed him to show up.

Maybe that's what God is asking of us too.

To bury the idols we've built out of control, striving, money, productivity, and self-reliance.

To stop believing that our safety depends on how much we can carry.

To trust that God's provision is bigger than our plans.

Because God's provision is not a paycheck.

It's His presence.

It's His promises.

It's His peace.

For years, I thought I had to prove my worth.

To earn love.
To earn rest.
To earn safety.

But that isn't the Gospel.

I am worthy because He says I am.

You are worthy because He says you are.

Not because of what you produce.
Not because of what you achieve.
Not because of how much you carry.

Just because you belong to Him.

So today, dear girl, you can loosen your grip.

You don't have to earn your safety.

You don't have to overwork to be protected.

You don't have to carry tomorrow before it arrives.

God is already there.

And He is with you here, too.

Love,

Amy

Dear Little Girl…You Don’t Have To Chase God

Dear Little Girl,

The busy season is ending.

The performances have happened.
The schedules are shifting.
The deadlines that felt so urgent are beginning to loosen their grip.

And yet...

You still find yourself carrying things.

The questions.
The worries.
The hopes you have for people you love.

You thought peace would arrive when life finally settled down.

But peace was never waiting on a clear calendar.

Peace has always been a Person.

You keep thinking you'll meet God in the next season.

After the trip.
After the decision.
After the answer arrives.
After everyone is okay.

But what if He wants to meet you here?

Not in the finished version of the story.

Not after you've figured it out.

Here.

In the ordinary summer morning.
In the quiet cup of coffee.
In the walk around the neighborhood.
In the empty chair waiting for you to sit down.

You don't have to create a spiritual breakthrough.

You don't have to chase a feeling.

You don't have to prove your faithfulness.

Simply show up.

The same God who met Jacob while he was running.
The same God who met Hagar in the wilderness.
The same God who met the disciples in their fear.

He still meets people right where they are.

And He will meet you too.

Not because you've earned it.

Not because you've finally gotten everything right.

But because He loves being with you.

So take a breath today.

Let the pressure leave your shoulders.

You do not have to force the next chapter.

You only have to take the next step.

God is already there.

Waiting.

Love,
God

Dear Little Girl…For the Baby I Never Held

Seventeen years.

Seventeen years since I said hello and goodbye in the same season.

Every year around this time, I find myself sitting in the strange collision of two sentences:

Happy Birthday.

And Happy Death Day.

What a strange place to visit year after year.

A place where love and grief sit side by side.

A place where I celebrate a life I never got to hold and mourn a child I never got to know.

It's also a place that can be hard to explain.

Unless you've walked this road, it's difficult to understand. There is a sacred sisterhood made up of women who carried babies they never got to raise. It is a club none of us wanted to join, yet somehow the women in it understand one another without many words.

We know what it means to love someone we barely met.

We know what it means to miss someone whose face we never saw.

And we know what it means to carry both grief and hope in the same heart.

I still don't know if you were a boy or a girl.

And if I'm being honest, I still wonder.

Would you have had blue eyes like your daddy?

Would you have loved sports like Graeme?

Would you have been creative like JP?

Would you have been driven like Will?

Would you have loved dance like me?

Would you have had my laugh? My stubborn streak? My tender heart?

Or would you have marched to the beat of your own drum and surprised all of us?

Sometimes I imagine a little girl in a tiny tutu twirling through heaven.

Other times I picture a little boy running through fields, laughing and exploring.

The truth is, I don't know.

But I love you all the same.

I think that's one of the hardest things for people to understand about losing a baby.

Love doesn't wait for a birth certificate.

It doesn't wait for first words or first steps.

Love began the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, that love remains.

I remember the day I found out you were gone.

Some memories fade with time.

That one never has.

I remember driving to the hospital.

I remember exiting Walnut Hill.

I remember riding the elevator.

I remember the ultrasound technician smiling.

And I remember watching that smile disappear.

"I am so sorry," she said. "There is no heartbeat."

Those words changed everything.

I remember tears streaming down my face.

I remember mascara streaked across my cheeks.

I remember walking through a world that suddenly looked exactly the same while feeling completely different.

I remember hoping they were wrong.

Praying they were wrong.

Believing a miracle might happen.

I didn't want to let you go.

I wanted one more chance.

One more heartbeat.

One more sonogram.

One more miracle.

But it never came.

And so I joined a club I never wanted to belong to.

The club of mothers whose babies live in heaven.

Years later, I learned my Grandma Foley belonged to that club too.

Nobody really talked about it.

I don't even know if all of my siblings know.

By the time I lost you, she was already gone, and I felt very alone.

Because here's what people don't always understand:

I knew you.

I carried you.

I heard your heartbeat.

You heard my voice.

You were real.

And you still are.

If you're reading this and you're part of that club too, I want you to hear me:

You are still a mother.

From conception to death, you are still a mother.

Even if you never held your baby.

Even if you never got pictures.

Even if nobody else remembers.

You are still a mother.

And I am still your mama.

One of my favorite memories happened after you were gone.

Your brother JP was sitting on the top bunk one night and decided you needed a name.

"Trece," he said.

Number three.

The third child.

I don't know if I would've chosen that name myself, but I loved the heart behind it.

I loved that your brother already loved you enough to name you.

And somehow that small moment has stayed with me for seventeen years.

Today, I still wonder about you.

I wonder if you've met my mom and dad.

I wonder if you've met Grandma Foley and the baby she never got to raise.

I wonder what your laugh sounds like.

I wonder what it would feel like to hold you.

I wonder what you smell like.

I wonder if you know how often I still think about you.

I wonder if you know that every June, I remember.

I remember the loss.

But I also remember the love.

And maybe that's what healing really is.

Not forgetting.

Not moving on.

Not pretending it didn't matter.

Maybe healing is learning how to carry both.

The grief.

And the gratitude.

The ache.

And the hope.

Because after all these years, that's what I feel most.

Hope.

Not the desperate hope that asks God to change the past.

But the quiet hope that trusts He is holding what I cannot.

The hope that believes heaven is real.

The hope that believes I will know you when I see you.

The hope that believes love does not end at death.

So today, Baby Berry, I want you to know something.

I never forgot you.

Not for one year.

Not for one day.

Not for one moment.

You are still part of our story.

You are still part of our family.

And you are still deeply loved.

I loved you the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, I love you still.

Wildly.

Always have.

Always will.

Love,

Your Mama on Earth

Dear Little Girl…He Trusts You With His Sheep

Dear Little Girl,

You’re going to make mistakes.

You’ll say yes when you should’ve said no.
You’ll lose patience.
You’ll look back and wish you slowed down.
You’ll second guess yourself and wonder if you’re really equipped for all of this.

Motherhood.
Marriage.
Leadership.
People trusting you with tender things.

But listen closely…

He knew all of that before He ever chose you.

And He still trusted you.

To raise those boys.
To love people well.
To teach.
To nurture.
To lead.
To shepherd hearts.

You were never chosen because you would do it perfectly.

You were chosen because you would keep showing up with love.

Yes, there will be hard conversations.
There will be seasons where your heart aches watching your babies grow faster than you’re ready for.
There will be tension, hormones, fear, unknowns, and late-night Google searches trying to make sense of it all.

But you are not doing this alone.

You sit with the Shepherd.

And He is guiding you as you guide them.

You do not need to have all the answers.
You do not need to carry every outcome.
You do not need to parent from fear.

You simply need to stay close enough to hear His voice.

Because women were never created to be small.

Women were trusted to carry life.
To nurture faith.
To show up first at the empty tomb.
To carry hope back into the world.

And you, Little Girl, are still being trusted too.

Even when your voice shakes.
Even when you’re uncertain.
Even when you wish you were doing better.

You are still the one He chose for this season.
For these people.
For this life.

So breathe.

Sit in the chair again.
Open your heart again.
Ask again.
Trust again.

He will speak.

He always does.

🩷

I Thought I Was Just Taking a Dance Class

This week I found myself subbing at DDF again after about a 9-month break.

And honestly?

It felt really good to be back.

The music.
The energy.
The women.
The joy of it all.

When class ended, my boss smiled and said, “It was nice to have you and your energy back in class, Hollywood.”

That’s what she always called me.

The old students talked about how much fun they had, and the new ones said they loved my energy. And standing there afterward, sweaty and smiling, something hit me…

Almost 11 years ago, I did something brave.

At 44 years old, I walked into a dance fitness class at the YMCA not realizing that one tiny decision would completely change the trajectory of my life.

At the time, I was just looking for movement.
For fun.
For something that felt like mine.

Graeme was little and loved the childcare there. I loved the instructor, Melissa. I remember feeling incredibly insecure back then. My body didn’t feel like my own. I was carrying weight physically and emotionally. My breasts had grown so large for my frame that I eventually pursued a breast reduction just so I could move more freely.

That may sound small to some people, but speaking up for myself back then was actually brave.

Especially in a marriage where I had slowly lost my voice.

And yet somehow…dance started giving it back to me.

When Melissa moved out of the country, I had to find somewhere else to dance, which led me to DDF. I still remember being nervous walking into that studio full of “mom dancers” and former real dancers.

Yes, I danced growing up, but not after high school. My dad used to say he “wasn’t raising a gypsy,” and if I’m honest, that comment still stings sometimes.

But maybe not becoming a professional dancer was never the point.

Maybe dance was simply waiting for me to come back to it when I truly needed saving.

Because the truth is, my life was heavy back then.

Trey was deep in addiction.
My mom’s health was declining.
We were helping care for my dad with dementia.
Will was busy with soccer.
JP was finding his way into the arts.
Graeme was still little.
And somewhere in the middle of taking care of everyone else…

I was disappearing.

But every time I walked into dance class and the music started, something happened.

Everything else got quiet.

I wrote in an old blog once:

“It is like whatever is going on around me just goes away like magic and it’s just me, the music, and the moves.”

And it was true.

Dance became my therapy.
My medicine.
My safe place.

It became the one place where my nervous system could finally exhale.

Without realizing it, I slowly began finding my voice again. And thank God I did, because not long after that came some of the hardest years of my life.

My mom died.
My marriage began to spiral.
Trey’s mental health collapsed.
I became a caregiver.
I watched my world crack wide open.
I wrestled with faith, grief, identity, fear, loneliness, and survival.

And through all of it…

Dance stayed.

There were days I truly understood how easy it would be to stop living while still technically being alive. I wrote this years ago:

“No, it is me waking up those days and saying I choose to live.”

That line hits differently now.

Because that’s exactly what dance helped me do.

Choose life.

Not perfectly.
Not all at once.
But one class at a time.

One song at a time.
One brave yes at a time.

And what absolutely blows my mind today is realizing that one tiny decision at 44 years old opened the door to the entire life I am living now.

Because of that one “yes,” I became a dance fitness instructor.

And because of THAT yes…

I now teach tiny dancers.
I work with special needs students.
I teach women how to reconnect to their bodies through MELT.
I help people feel safe in their bodies again.
I pour confidence into little girls.
I create.
I move.
I encourage.
I connect.
I heal.

And somehow in the second half of my life…
I became more myself than I have ever been.

That’s what hit me this week.

I thought I was just becoming a dance fitness instructor.

Little did I know…
I was becoming.

And maybe that’s what I want women to understand most.

Sometimes the thing tugging at your soul isn’t random.

Sometimes it’s God.

Sometimes it’s one tiny spark trying to lead you back to yourself.

You do not need a five-year plan.
You do not need a blueprint.
You do not need the whole map.

I certainly didn’t.

At one point I thought I was supposed to become an influencer or motivational coach or build some huge platform. But somewhere along the way, I stopped striving for the masses.

Now?
I just want to help one person feel seen.
One woman feel alive again.
One dancer feel confident.
One child feel worthy.
One hurting person feel safe.

That’s enough for me.

Actually…that’s more than enough.

So if there is something small tugging at you right now…
a class,
a dream,
a hobby,
a whisper,
an urge to create,
to move,
to try again…

listen to it.

Lean into it.

Go for it.

Because the truth is…

At 44 years old, I thought I was just taking a dance class.

Little did I know it would save my life.

Dear Little Girl…You Are Allowed to Receive

Dear Little Girl,

Maybe May swept you away too.

The schedules.
The people.
The performances.
The caregiving.
The constant doing.

Maybe you’ve been so busy surviving the season that you forgot you are allowed to be cared for too.

There is a lot on your shoulders right now.
Not in a way that is breaking you…
but in a way that feels heavy.

Your home has felt different lately.
The atmosphere has shifted.
There’s tension you can feel but not always name.

And yet…
you’re still showing up.

With compassion.
With strength.
With boundaries.

That matters more than you realize.

You are doing something you didn’t always know how to do.

You are loving…
Without losing yourself.

You are helping…
Without taking on what isn’t yours.

You are staying open…
Without abandoning your own safety.

That is growth.
That is healing.
That is Me in you.

But there is something deeper stirring in your heart today.
Something quieter…
But just as important.

You’re starting to notice it.

The way you struggle to receive.
The way you shrink back when attention turns toward you.
The way you brush off affirmation…
Even when part of you longs for it.

You wonder,
“Why is this so hard for me?”

Let Me gently show you something.

Receiving is not pride.
And minimizing yourself is not humility.

When you push away affirmation…
When you downplay who you are…
When you refuse to fully receive what is true about you…

You are not being humble.

You are struggling to believe what I already say is true.

You are My creation.
My art.
My intentional design.
Nothing about you was accidental.

Your compassion.
Your strength.
Your creativity.
Your loyalty.
Your fight.
Your softness.

It all came from Me.

So when someone celebrates you…
When someone sees you…
When someone speaks truth about who you are…

They are not inflating you.

They are recognizing something I placed inside you.

And when you deflect it…
When you minimize it…
When you immediately say, “Oh, it’s nothing…”

You dim something I created to shine.

You don’t have to become boastful.
You don’t have to become someone you’re not.
You don’t have to perform or prove anything.

You simply have to receive.

Receive the compliment.
Receive the help.
Receive the love that reaches toward you.
Receive the truth:

You are worthy.

Not because of what you’ve done.
Not because of how far you’ve come.
But because you are Mine.

Even in your hardest seasons…
Even in your mistakes…
Even in the moments you would rather forget…

You were still Mine.
You were still worthy.

So today…
Let this be the beginning.

Not of becoming someone new…
But of fully accepting who you already are.

You can be strong and soft, humble and seen, grounded and celebrated, all at the same time.

And one day…
You won’t shrink when the light finds you.

You’ll stand in it.

Peacefully.
Confidently.
Without apology.

Because you finally understand…

You are not the one being glorified.
I am.
Through you.

Love,
God

Dear Little Girl…Protect Your Peace

Dear Little Girl,

There will be moments when you look around and wonder if everyone else is ahead of you.

Someone else's marriage will look easier.
Someone else's family will seem more peaceful.
Someone else's success will feel louder.
Someone else's life will look more certain.

And before you realize it, your heart will start measuring.

Am I behind?
Did I miss something?
Why does their life seem easier than mine?

But comparison is a thief that quietly steals your peace.

God never asked you to carry someone else’s story.

You were never meant to live someone else's calling, marriage, timeline, or path.

You were created for your life.

The one with its twists.
Its healing.
Its slow growth.
Its unexpected beauty.

When you fix your eyes on what someone else has, you begin to lose sight of what God is doing in you.

Peace doesn’t grow in comparison.

Peace grows in trust.

Trust that God knows your story.
Trust that your timing is not a mistake.
Trust that the life you are living is the one He is shaping.

So when the noise of comparison gets loud…

Come back to stillness.
Come back to gratitude.
Come back to the quiet truth that God is writing a story in you that no one else could live.

And that story is enough.

Love,
Amy

Worthy Heart

A Monday Morning Reflection

Yesterday in church our pastor talked about the cost and the benefit of following Jesus.

At first, the cost looked like early mornings.

But somewhere along the way those early mornings became my favorite part of the day.

Those quiet moments with Jesus are where these Dear Little Girl letters are born.
And maybe, just maybe, they are reaching someone who needs them.

Sometimes I catch myself wishing it all moved faster.

More readers.
More responses.
Speaking opportunities.
The book written already.

But today I realized something.

I am actually at peace with where I am.

The last two weeks have been incredibly busy at the studio. My life is full of dance, MELT, kids, and family. Six years ago I never could have imagined this life.

Back then I thought my future looked completely different.

But God knew better.

When I look around, comparison still tries to sneak in.

I see marriages that look easier.
Couples sharing wine at dinner.
People traveling more.
New cars.
Beautiful homes.

And if I’m not careful, my heart starts measuring again.

But the truth is…

I don’t know the cost of someone else’s life.

And when I stop comparing and start counting my blessings, I see something entirely different.

Will is thriving and knows the Lord.
JP is finding his way in New York and just landed his first gig.
Graeme, even when he gives me a run for the money, has the sweetest heart.

And yesterday, as I watched the children in our show — some with special needs — I was reminded again how much we have to be grateful for.

My life may not look like what I once imagined.

But it is so good.

Or maybe the better word is and.

It is different and it is good.

Yesterday our pastor shared a quote by Dallas Willard that stuck with me:

"Discipleship to Jesus is the greatest opportunity we will ever have in life."

The truth is, following Jesus changes everything.

Getting to know Him slowly transforms the way you see your life, your struggles, your relationships, and even your dreams.

And those quiet mornings with Him?

They are like treasure hidden in a field.

They are like oil under the surface in Texas.

More valuable than anything else I own.

Because in those moments Jesus gives me something the world cannot give:

Peace in the middle of pain.
Joy in the middle of uncertainty.
Love even when I feel alone.

That is the real benefit of walking with Him.

And that is how we protect our peace.

Not by having a perfect life.

But by choosing to meet with Jesus every day and trusting that the story He is writing in us is exactly the one we are meant to live.

Prayer

Jesus,

Thank you for these quiet mornings.

Thank you for the mornings when I am grateful.
And the mornings when I am angry and you calm my heart.
The mornings when I am afraid and you help me breathe.
The mornings when I am so sad all I can do is cry and you simply sit with me.
And the mornings when my thoughts bounce everywhere like a ping-pong ball and you gently bring me back to peace.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for loving my family.

Thank you for the story you are writing in my life — even when I cannot see where it is going.

Help me keep my eyes on you and not on comparison.

Remind me that your timing is never a mistake.

And help every person reading this remember that you are writing a beautiful story in their life too.

Amen.