What Started Heavy Ended Holy

I woke up braced…and went to be in peace.

I woke up in a terrible mood this past Tuesday.

Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just… heavy.

The night before had been full of uneasy dreams — safety dreams. Robbery dreams. Dogs getting hurt. That low-grade undercurrent of “stay alert.”

I woke up already braced.

Graeme was running late, which made me late.
Emails from teachers.
A schedule that felt packed.
Money things hovering in the background.
The world generally feeling like it’s on fire if you open social media for more than five minutes.

It felt like too much before 8:30am.

And I could feel the spiral starting.

The Undercurrent

It wasn’t just one thing.

It was:

• tension that hums quietly in the background

• worry about Graeme’s friendships

• finances and medical decisions

• political noise and cultural chaos

• the exhaustion of always being the steady one

Sometimes the heaviness isn’t a headline moment.

It’s just accumulation.

And I felt cranky. Short. Tired. On edge.

The Pivot

Instead of pushing through it, I did something different.

I turned on worship music.

Not because I felt holy.
Because I felt human.

At first, nothing changed.
Then slowly, something softened.

A song came on about how we all have mountains and valleys — and how maybe the answer isn’t fixing everything, but staying humble and kind. Saying please. Saying thank you. Looking people in the eyes. Opening doors.

Simple things.

And something about that simplicity steadied me.

Not because my problems disappeared.
But because my perspective shifted.

Movement Heals More Than We Think

Then I went to teach my favorite adult class at Cooper.

And I cannot explain it — maybe it was the cardio, maybe it was the humans, maybe it was both — but my joy bucket filled up.

When I teach, I feel alive.
Seen.
Encouraged.
Useful in the healthiest way.

Then Pilates.
Then counseling.
Then my babies and All Abilities.
Then sauna and bed.

What started heavy ended up being okay.
Actually… better than okay.

What I’m Learning

A bad morning does not have to become a bad day.

An undercurrent of fear does not mean danger is present.

My nervous system can start in protection mode and still end in peace.

And maybe most importantly:

Joy is not always found in the places we expect.
Sometimes it’s found in movement.
In community.
In serving.
In music.
In showing up.

And that doesn’t mean something is wrong with my life.
It means God scattered grace in more places than one.

The Real Miracle

Nothing dramatic changed yesterday.

My marriage is still complex.
Graeme is still navigating friendships.
The world is still noisy.

But I changed.

I chose:

• worship instead of scrolling

• movement instead of rumination

• gratitude instead of grievance

And by the end of the day, I could honestly say:

Everything will be okay.

Not because everything is perfect.

But because I don’t have to solve everything before the sun sets.

Two Chairs Reflection
What if the goal isn’t to avoid heavy mornings…
but to learn how to walk them through?

What tool helps your mood melt — music, movement, prayer, people?

Sometimes the holiest thing we do isn’t fixing our lives.
It’s staying humble and kind while we live them.

One truth I’m holding onto:
You don’t have to fix the whole world before bedtime.
You just have to stay with God in it.

Dear Little Girl...People Pleaser No More (Learning Self-Love One “No” at a Time)

People Pleaser Extraordinaire.

That was me.

In fact, if you had looked up people pleaser a few years ago, you might as well have seen my name next to the definition.

Always helpful.
Always available.
Always saying yes—even when my body, my heart, and my soul were quietly screaming no.

Google says a people pleaser is one of the nicest and most helpful people you know.

I call a little bullsh*t on that.

Because what it doesn’t say is this:
People pleasers are often exhausted.
Overextended.
Quietly resentful.
And terrified that if they stop giving, fixing, or accommodating… they’ll stop being loved.

That was me.

I didn’t know how to say no.
I thought being needed was the same thing as being valued.
I believed that love was something you earned by being useful.

And when you live that way long enough, something happens.

You lose yourself.
Your nervous system stays on high alert.
Your body keeps score.
Your joy gets smaller.
Your peace disappears.

I started this journey back in 2016—when a doctor looked me straight in the eye and said,
“Amy, you have got to start taking care of you.”

That moment woke me up.

And here’s the honest truth I want you to hear, especially heading into Valentine’s week:

I’m still learning this.

Years later.
Older.
Wiser.
More aware.

Still learning.

Because people pleasing doesn’t just disappear—it shows up in new forms.
In friendships.
In marriage.
In boundaries that feel uncomfortable to hold.
In moments where choosing myself still feels selfish… even when it isn’t.

But here’s what I do know now:

Saying no doesn’t make you unloving.
Resting doesn’t make you lazy.
Choosing yourself doesn’t make you difficult.

And being needed is not the same thing as being loved.

This Valentine’s Day, I want to offer you something different.

Not roses.
Not chocolate.
Not approval.

But permission.

Permission to stop proving your worth.
Permission to take up space.
Permission to love yourself the way you keep loving everyone else.

Because here’s the truth I’m still practicing—and inviting you into:

You matter.
Your needs matter.
Your energy matters.

And love that costs you yourself is not love—it’s survival.

If you’re tired…
If you’re stretched thin…
If you recognize yourself in this story…

You’re not broken.
You’re waking up.

And that’s where the Good Life actually begins.

With self-love.
With boundaries.
With the courage to believe you are already enough.

Happy Valentine’s Day, sweet girl.
Choose you this week. 💗

XO,

Worthy
(Amy)

Dear Little Girl...You Don't Have to Be Needed to Be Safe

Dear Little Girl,

You learned early that being useful made you lovable.

That if you were helping, fixing, teaching, managing, or holding everything together — you were safe. You were seen. You were wanted.

So of course stillness feels strange now.
So of course rest feels heavy.
So of course your body collapses when there is nothing on the schedule.

It’s not laziness.
It’s not lack of discipline.
It’s not weakness.

It’s a nervous system that spent years being responsible.

Somewhere along the way, you learned that love followed effort.
That belonging came from producing.
That safety meant staying needed.

And now God is gently teaching you something new:

That you are allowed to be still and still be loved.
That you are allowed to rest and still be safe.
That you are allowed to do nothing and still be worthy.

What if your body doesn’t shut down because you’re broken…
but because it’s finally not being asked to save anyone?

What if stillness feels unsafe not because it is —
but because it’s unfamiliar?

What if Eve didn’t rebel…
what if she was just exhausted from being responsible?

What if the deepest healing isn’t learning how to do more —
but learning how to stay when you’re no longer needed?

Not disappearing.
Not rescuing.
Not proving.

Just staying.

Staying with yourself.
Staying with God.
Staying in a body that is learning a new truth:

That love does not require performance.
That rest is not abandonment.
That you don’t have to earn your place here.

Little girl,
you don’t have to be useful to be safe anymore.

You already are.

Love,

Worthy
(Amy 🤍)

Dear Little Girl...The Quiet That Kept Me Alive

Dear Little Girl,

Last Saturday I did absolutely nothing. And maybe that’s exactly what my body needed.

I wrote about my feelings on quiet time, and Trey asked me why it bothered me so much. I don’t know if he can fully understand it, but the truth is — quiet time saved me in some of my loneliest, darkest seasons.

Seasons he was part of.

When my mom died, I turned to God because I was angry. Angry that He took her away from me. I didn’t understand death back then. All I knew was that we had a beautiful, loving relationship — and suddenly she was gone.

She was the one I called every day at three o’clock. Always there. Always listening. Never telling me what to do. She didn’t butt in. She just heard me.

God, I miss that.

Then Trey got sick. And I think quiet time gave me endurance. It gave me a clearer picture of Jesus — of what He endured, of what it means to keep showing up when things are hard. It helped me stay strong for my three boys. It helped me pray for guidance, for the right people to surround our family, because addiction and mental health are real — and they are terrifying.

Then it got worse.

My dad died.
And Trey got sicker.
Like, scary sick. Doing scary things.

And then he left.

Physically.
Emotionally.
Financially.

It was dark. A kind of dark I don’t have words for.

But I had a morning routine that had been slowly building since 2018. And by 2023, I was staring down the barrel of a divorce.

And while I never heard God audibly, what I felt was this:

Wait. Don’t talk.

So I didn’t.

I didn’t talk to Trey.
I didn’t talk to my attorneys — not until they forced me to.
I got quiet.

And in that quiet, I think God was working. I can’t explain it. I just know He was.

Because last Saturday, on a snowy morning, I sat typing this while Trey was across the room on the couch watching church.

We’re not divorced.

It feels like a miracle.

Is it rainbows and sunshine? Not even close.

Sometimes it’s still lonely.
Sometimes I wonder if I should have left.
Sometimes I feel angry that I stayed.
Other times I feel deeply grateful.

It’s a wild mix of emotions. Every day brings new joys and new problems. It’s not all smiles and kisses and laughter like Instagram suggests.

But one thing has stayed constant:

God.
And my time with Him.

Whether it’s five seconds of, “Hey God, I’m here but I don’t have time today,”
or hours at this keyboard — He’s there.

Always available.
Wherever I am.
Whenever I need.

And if I ignore Him, get lazy, get mad, or feel really close — He still meets me right where I am, with exactly as much of me as I’m willing to bring.

That’s what I’m thankful for.

That He doesn’t expect flowery words.
That He doesn’t require memorized verses.
That He doesn’t even demand I bring a Bible.

He just wants me.

My heart.
My fears.
My joy.
My dreams.
My pain.

All of me.

And slowly — without pressure — I find myself wanting to know more. Wanting to open Scripture. Wanting to understand who He is. The Father who created me for big things.

And my biggest prayer is simply this:

That I am walking in His will.
Living how He wants me to live.

Of course I still want things.

I want to be the best dance teacher.
I want my MELT business to thrive.
I want to speak. To write. To tell my story.

I want my marriage to feel like a fairy tale.
I want my boys to be healthy and whole and deeply loved.

I want Will to be wildly successful and a man of God who cherishes his family.
I want JP to live out every creative dream in his heart and find someone who loves him and loves God.
I want Graeme to make it through adolescence untouched by addiction, surrounded by good people, rooted in faith, and brave enough to lead.

I pray all of these blessings over my boys.

And Trey…

I leave him at God’s feet. Because I can’t carry him anymore.

But this is what quiet time does for me.

It doesn’t fix everything.
It doesn’t prevent pain.
It doesn’t give me control.

It plants seeds of hope.

And somehow — even on my darkest days — that has been enough to keep me here.

So thank you, God.

For meeting me in the quiet.
For staying when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
For loving me without performance, pressure, or prerequisites.

I love you.

— Worthy 🤍
(Amy)

Dear Little Girl: You Don't Have to Get God Right to Be With Him

Dear Little Girl,

You don’t have to get God right to be with Him.
You don’t need the candle.
You don’t need the journal.
You don’t need the perfect words.

You just need you.

Some days it’s a prayer.
Some days it’s a cry.
Some days it’s five minutes in the car.
Some days it’s yelling into the air.

That still counts.
That still matters.
That’s still relationship.

God isn’t grading your quiet time.
He’s just glad you showed up.

And if all you can say today is:
“Hey God… it’s me again.”
That’s more than enough.

From 2018 to 2023, I didn’t magically land on what worked.

I tried everything.

Books.
Journals.
Devotionals.
Bible studies.
Podcasts.
Silence.
Anger.
Doubt.
Avoidance.
Coming back.
Leaving again.

I even wrote my own journal during that time — and someone close to me once told me it was “lukewarm Christianity.”

But that was actually the whole point.

It was safe Christianity.

It was written for the woman I was:
The one who wasn’t sure God existed.
The one who didn’t know how to pray.
The one who felt awkward around faith.
The one who needed a doorway, not a doctrine.

Slowly — over years, not days — I built a relationship with God that worked for me.

Not because I followed a formula.
But because I kept showing up in whatever way I could.

Sometimes it was a book.
Sometimes it was a journal.
Sometimes it was a podcast.
Sometimes it was just me talking into the air, not even sure anyone was listening.

And here’s what I’ve learned:

Everyone’s relationship with God will look different.
Because everyone is wired differently.

It’s no different than human relationships.
We all connect differently.
We all communicate differently.
We all feel safe in different ways.

The miracle of God is this:

He meets every single one of us exactly where we are.

Not where we should be.
Not where we pretend to be.
Not where church culture says we belong.

But where we actually are.

Confused.
Curious.
Angry.
Hopeful.
Doubting.
Searching.
Tired.
Trying again.

That still counts.
That still works.
That is still relationship.

In 2018, a book by Nancy Guthrie helped me survive grief.
In 2023, Two Chairs met me in the middle of a near divorce and changed everything.

But between those years?
I wandered.
I questioned.
I experimented.
I built something personal.

And that’s the part people don’t talk about.

Faith isn’t built in one moment.
It’s built in a thousand tiny check-ins.

A seed of hope forms.
Not because life gets easy.
But because when life knocks you to the floor, you still know — somewhere deep down — that you are not alone.

I didn’t find God by doing it right.

I found Him by staying in the conversation long enough.

So if someone tells you quiet time needs to be rebranded…
Or canceled…
Or fixed…
Or perfected…

Take what’s helpful.
Leave what isn’t.

But don’t let anyone take this from you:

The power of simply showing up.

You don’t need a formula.
You don’t need a routine.
You don’t need to wake up at 5am.

You just need a moment where you say:

“Hey God… I’m here.”

Even if you’re not sure He is.

That’s where relationships begin.
With humans.
And with God.

Love,
Worthy

(Amy)

Below I have included links to the two books that met me in some of my hardest seasons: 2 Chairs and Hearing Jesus Speak Into Your Sorrow. The two books that literally changed my life….

Dear Little Girl, You Don't Need a Formula to Be Loved by God: Why real faith isn’t built on quiet time culture — it’s built on relationship.

Dear Little Girl,

Somewhere along the way, you started to wonder if you were doing it “right.”

Right way to pray.
Right way to believe.
Right way to meet with God.
Right way to grow spiritually.

You heard words like quiet time, discipline, consistency, structure — and instead of feeling invited, you felt a little evaluated.

Like there was a checklist.
Like God was keeping score.
Like intimacy with Him had a format.

But here’s the truth you’re allowed to remember:

God is not impressed by your methods.
He is moved by your presence.

Sometimes your time with Him looks like a Bible open and a warm cup of coffee before the house wakes up.

And sometimes it looks like:
“Hey God… it’s me again. I’m tired. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”

Both count.
Both matter.
Both are prayer.

You don’t need a perfect routine to be close to God.
You need a real relationship.

The kind where you show up messy.
The kind where you argue, doubt, cry, ramble, vent, thank Him, forget about Him, and then come back again.

Because that’s what love looks like.

Not a formula.
Not a performance.
Not a spiritual productivity plan.

Just presence.

Some days your connection will be deep and reflective.
Some days it will be five minutes in the car.
Some days it will be a song that cracks your heart open.
Some days it will be a journal entry that starts with:
“God, where are you?”

And none of those days disqualify you.

Spiritual growth isn’t built on intensity.
It’s built on honesty.

Not how early you wake up.
Not how many chapters you read.
Not how eloquent your prayers sound.

But how often you come back.

Again and again and again.

Even when you’re angry.
Even when you’re confused.
Even when you’re exhausted.
Even when you don’t feel anything at all.

Especially then.

So if you’ve ever felt like you were failing at faith because you couldn’t keep up with someone else’s version of it…

Let this be the reframe:

You are not behind.
You are not doing it wrong.
You are not disappointing God.

You are building a relationship the only way relationships are built:

By showing up as yourself.

And whispering,
“Hey God… it’s me again.”

That’s not weak faith.
That’s real faith.

And it’s more than enough.

Love,
The woman who learned God doesn’t want her perfection —
He wants her heart. 🤍

Dear Little Girl...Seeds Don't Need Pressure to Grow

Author’s Note:
I’ve been sitting with the idea of the underground season — the part of growth we don’t see yet.
If life feels quiet, slow, or unresolved right now, this letter is for you.
Not everything that matters grows in the spotlight. Some things are taking root.

There are places that remind your body how to breathe.
For me, it’s the dance studio.

The music.
The laughter.
The movement.

The way my shoulders drop the moment I walk in.

This week, after being away, I felt it instantly — not just joy, but relief.
My body remembered something my mind already knew: this is a place where I come alive.

And it reminded me of something else I’ve been holding quietly in my heart.

Some of the most important things in life don’t grow louder with pressure.
They grow steadier with time.

I’ve been thinking a lot about seeds lately — the kind you plant and the kind you never see break the surface right away.

In my Bible study, I was struck by a detail I’d never really let sink in before.
Jesus’ own brother, James, didn’t believe in Him during His ministry.

Gospel of John says it plainly:
“Even His own brothers did not believe in Him.”

And yet — after the resurrection — Jesus appeared to James personally.

That moment changed everything.

James went from skeptic to pillar.
From doubt to devotion.
From observer to leader.

And I can’t help but think how much hope there is in that.

For anyone loving a child who questions.
For anyone walking alongside someone who isn’t sure what they believe.
For anyone tempted to push, argue, convince, or panic.

What if belief doesn’t need force?
What if seeds don’t need pressure to grow — just time?

As a parent, this matters deeply to me.

I see how sensitive hearts absorb the weight of the world.
I see how pain, injustice, and suffering can make faith feel complicated.

And I’m learning that my role isn’t to demand certainty —
it’s to remain present.
To love without panic.
To trust what’s already been planted.
To believe that God is not limited by the timing I prefer.

The same is true in marriage.
And healing.
And becoming.

Some seasons are loud and active.
Others are quiet and underground.

But just because something isn’t visible doesn’t mean it isn’t alive.

Acts tells us,
“But the word of God continued to spread and flourish.”

Not because people controlled it —
but because God tended it.

I’m learning to do the same.

To show up where I’m called.
To breathe where I feel alive.
To rest when my nervous system asks me to.
To release what I cannot fix.

And to trust that what has been planted —
in my children, my marriage, my life —
is not forgotten.

Dear Little Girl,
You don’t have to rush growth.
You don’t have to force faith.
You don’t have to carry what isn’t yours to carry.

Seeds know what to do.
And so does God.

Twenty-Five Years: What the Tide Taught Me About Love

Author’s Note:
This reflection was written from a place of gratitude and growth—not crisis. It shares lessons from the past, not a moment of urgency in the present.

Twenty-Five Years.

That sentence still takes my breath away.

If I’m honest, it feels nothing short of a miracle. Trey and I have shared beautiful memories over the past twenty-five years — moments of laughter, deep love, and joy. We have also walked through seasons that were painful, heavy, and far more real than I ever imagined when we said I do.

Did we always like each other?
That answer is a hard no.

But I do believe we have always loved each other. At least, I know I have loved him — even in the ugliest seasons. And I think that may be the quiet truth of long marriages: you won’t always like each other, but if there is even a mustard seed of love, there is hope.

This year, we celebrated our anniversary in Punta Cana. When we landed, it was pouring rain — the kind that makes you pause and wonder if the universe is trying to tell you something. It brought me back to our honeymoon twenty-five years ago, when I realized one of the tiny diamonds in my wedding band was missing. I thought that was an omen too.

Now I see those moments differently.

Sometimes things go missing.
Sometimes it rains when you hoped for sunshine.
And still — the sun rises again.

What matters most is what we do in those moments.

Over the years, I’ve learned to turn not to the world for guidance, but to God. The world often means well, but when something isn’t His will, the rain seems to linger. When I turn to Him, eventually the clouds move.

And they did.

We woke up the next morning to sunshine — soft and warm.

Strength, Trust, and Learning Again

On this trip, we decided to start a new tradition together: lifting weights.

Anyone who knows me knows I hate weights. Trey knows this very well. But strength matters at this stage of life, so we showed up together — awkward at first, unsure, then slowly finding a rhythm.

It felt like a mirror of our marriage.

We didn’t start strong. We didn’t know what we were doing. And I had to learn — again — how to trust. When trust is broken, rebuilding it takes time. But slowly, steadily, we are.

We spent quiet days by the pool and long walks on the beach. We swam with sharks — terrifying and exhilarating — and I held a stingray, slimy and strange, thinking how familiar fear and courage can feel. At one point, we floated in the middle of the ocean on a platform, receiving massages with nothing but water and sky around us.

I remember thinking, How lucky am I?

And also feeling heavy.

Both were true.

What I’m Proud of After Twenty-Five Years

I am proud of myself for staying.

Not blindly.
Not silently.
But with boundaries.

When we married, we promised for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. And we have lived every one of those words.

I want to say this clearly: if there is physical abuse, you leave. Period. That is a line I will never blur.

What I learned is that boundaries are not punishment — they are protection. They are fences that keep the bad out so the good has a chance to survive inside. Without them, harm grows quietly. With them, even when life isn’t perfect, there can be safety.

Boundaries gave me my voice.
They gave me back me.
They gave me my worth.

I stayed because I finally had myself — not because I lost myself.

Trust Lives in the Body

For many years, I didn’t trust my inner voice. I explained discomfort away. I tried to make everything feel okay so tension would disappear.

It didn’t.

What I’m learning now is that trust lives in the body. When my body doesn’t feel safe, I’m allowed to get quiet — not to disappear, but to listen.

That quiet isn’t shutting down anymore.
It’s discernment.

Healing isn’t linear, and love doesn’t always feel light. Sometimes it feels sober. Sometimes it feels tender and unsure. And sometimes it feels like grief — grief for who I thought I was, who I thought we were, and what I imagined marriage would look like.

But there is also gratitude.

I don’t miss the mean.
I don’t miss the numb.
I don’t miss the version of myself without a voice.

What the Tide Taught Me

On our last morning, I stood at the edge of the ocean and noticed the boundary where water meets land. The tide rolled in and out — never the same, always moving.

That’s what our marriage feels like now.

It rises.
It falls.
It changes.

And the boundary — where water meets land — is beautiful. Necessary. Sacred.

I stopped asking for signs and started asking for trust. God is the truth, the way, and the light. Not every storm is a message. Sometimes it’s just weather passing through.

And it does.

Coming Home, Hope Intact

It rained again as we packed to leave. By the time we drove away, the sun was shining. Our flight home was easy. The flight attendants toasted us with champagne for twenty-five years. I left a gift behind for the woman who cleaned our room, hoping it might bless her.

We came home to a broken dishwasher.

I laughed.

Life, in all its irony.

Good and bad. Joy and frustration. Love and grief — all living together.

We are not promised sunshine and rainbows every day this side of heaven.

But we are promised presence.
We are promised growth.
And we are promised that love, when tended with truth and boundaries, can deepen instead of disappear.

After twenty-five years, I don’t have all the answers.

But I have my voice.
I have my faith.
And I have hope — steady, honest, and still standing.

And for now, that is more than enough.

Dear Little Girl...The Year Of The Whole

For the past two years, before the noise begins—before the plans, the striving, the fixing, the taking down of the decorations—I come back to this quiet practice.

I write a letter to God.

Not a polished one.
Not a pretty one.

A real one.

It’s full of gratitude and grief.
Faith and fear.
Hope and hurt.

I get naked in the truth.
I name the pain.
I confess the longing.
I say the parts out loud that I usually try to carry quietly.

And then I read it back slowly.

I look for the words that keep repeating—
the ones my soul keeps circling, even when my mind doesn’t know why.

From there, I open the dictionary.
I study the meaning.
I let other words rise up—synonyms, echoes, invitations.

Then I take it all to Scripture.
Because I don’t want a word that just sounds good.
I want a word God is already speaking.

This year, the word that kept rising was Whole.

Not perfect.
Not fixed.
Not untouched.

Whole.

Whole means nothing missing.
Nothing broken.
Nothing that has to be earned back.

It means spirit, soul, and body learning to live in harmony again.
It means being honest about the fractures without letting them define you.
It means choosing safety without shrinking.
Truth without hardness.
Boundaries without guilt.

It means trusting that God can put you back together—not into who you were, but into who you are becoming.

This is the verse that held me:

“May God himself, the God who makes everything holy and whole,
make you holy and whole, put you together—spirit, soul, and body—
and keep you fit for the coming of our Master, Jesus Christ.
The One who called you is completely dependable.
If he said it, he’ll do it.”
—1 Thessalonians 5:23–24 (The Message)

That verse mattered to me because it reminds me of this truth:
Wholeness is not something I manufacture. It is something God completes.

My job is not to force healing.
My job is to stay present, honest, and willing.

This year, Whole is not about pretending things are easy or healed or resolved.
It’s about trusting that even in the middle of uncertainty, I am not fragmented.

I am whole.

Being whole means I no longer abandon myself to keep the peace.
It means I listen to my body when it signals danger or rest or truth.
It means I set boundaries not as punishment, but as protection for what is sacred.

When I live from wholeness, I don’t have to beg for safety.
I can discern it.
I can choose it.
I can wait for trust to grow where respect consistently lives.

This is the mantra I’m carrying this year:

I am whole.
I choose safety.
I allow trust to grow where respect lives.

I place these words by my bed and in my phone—
not as pressure, but as a reminder.

And every year, I wear my word.

A bracelet I keep on my wrist as a quiet witness—
not to who I hope to become,
but to who God is already forming.

My friend Loren creates these bracelets with intention and prayer,
and I love that they are made to endure real life—
water, movement, work, tears.

(You can find her on instagram (@shoploreneveryday.)

This year, the word on my wrist is Whole.

Not because life is perfect.
Not because trust is automatic.
But because I believe God is faithful to finish what He starts.

Dear Little Girl,

You don’t have to earn wholeness.
You don’t have to prove it.
You don’t have to wait for anyone else to make you safe before you become yourself.

You are already held.
Already known.
Already being put together by the God of peace.

Walk gently this year.
Stay honest.
Stay rooted.

You are whole.

🩵

Dear Little Girl...The Gift Didn't Leave With the Wrapping Paper

Dear Little Girl…

You made it through the noise.

Through the expectations.
Through the lists and the plans and the pressure to make it all magical.

And here you are now…The house is quiet this morning.

And sitting here, this truth feels holy and clear:

I don’t want to scroll past my life.

One son has already left.
Another will leave soon.
And the miracle I prayed for — all of us together under one roof — came and went in less than two days.

I didn’t realize how much I missed us until we had it again.

Not the perfect version.
Not the Instagram version.
Just us — playing games, laughing, talking, being human together.
Forty hours. I’ll take it.

I tried so hard to be present.
I really did.
But even in the middle of the joy, I felt the pull — the phone, the to-do list, the future creeping in. And now, sitting here in the quiet, I realize how easy it is to miss a moment even while you’re living it.

This Christmas taught me something tender and uncomfortable at the same time:

I learned the real gift isn’t what we open —
it’s the present moment we’re finally willing to receive.

The way a room feels when everyone is home.
The sound of voices overlapping.
The calm that comes when we stop reaching for the next thing and stay with what’s already here.

God meets us here.
Not in the rush.
Not in the comparison.
But in the quiet yes to now.

I’m learning that presence is not passive.
It’s a practice.

When my mind races or my heart tightens, I put both feet on the floor.
I breathe.
I notice what’s right here:
what I can see, hear, touch, smell, taste.

And slowly, my body remembers it’s safe to be here.

Because the present moment keeps me out of a past I can’t change
and a future I can’t control.

Scripture says it plainly:

“Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.”
— 2 Corinthians 3:17

I’m beginning to understand that freedom doesn’t mean nothing hurts.
It means I don’t have to run from the moment I’m in.

Christmas didn’t end Thursday.
It’s still unfolding — in the quiet, in the ache, in the gratitude, in the breath I’m taking right now.

Maybe the invitation isn’t to recreate the magic.
Maybe it’s to receive it while it’s here.

So today, I’m putting my phone down a little sooner.
I’m listening a little longer.
I’m letting the gift stay unwrapped.

Because the real gift of Christmas isn’t what we open —
it’s the present moment we’re finally willing to receive.

Dear Little Girl...Let This Be Enough For Today

Dear Little Girl,

Christmas Eve has a way of holding everything at once.

Joy and ache.
Gratitude and longing.
Full rooms and the awareness that time is fleeting.

Today, tonight, you don’t need to resolve any of it.

There are moments when God gives us a gift that isn’t loud or permanent—
just present.

A table that gathers again.
Laughter that feels familiar.
A sense of calm that gently returns, even if only for a night.

Scripture reminds us that God doesn’t write His covenant on stone anymore—
He writes it on hearts (Hebrews 8).

Which means today isn’t about doing more, fixing more, or proving anything.

It’s about remembering.

Remembering how far you’ve come.
Remembering that provision has met you again and again.
Remembering that love still shows up—in imperfect, human ways.

Faith doesn’t always feel like certainty.
Sometimes it feels like lighting a candle in the dark
and trusting that the light is enough for now.

So if your heart feels full and tender right now,
you’re doing Christmas right.

Dear Little Girl,
Let joy be joy without asking it to last forever.
Let peace be peace without demanding it solve tomorrow.
And let this moment be enough for right now.

God is near.
And that is the miracle.

God, thank You for this moment.
For presence instead of answers.
For light instead of certainty.
Help me receive what is here,
and trust You with what comes next.
Amen.

PS…Happy Eve Birthday to Jesus!!!!!

Dear Little Girl...You Can Trust God With the Ones You Love

Dear Little Girl,

There are days when your heart feels stretched so thin, you wonder if it might break. Days when the people you love most seem just out of reach. Days when you show up with open arms and walk away with a heavy heart.

Today is one of those days.

But hear me: you are not alone.

As a parent, as a friend, as a human who loves deeply — there will be moments when you want to hold on tighter, fix it all, make it all feel right again. And yet, sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is open your hands and surrender.

Because love, real love, isn't about control.

It's about trust.

Not trust in people, who are as fragile and flawed as you are. But trust in the One who sees the whole story. The One who has loved them longer than you have. The One who has never left, even when hearts wandered far.

Today you prayed for peace. You prayed for connection. You prayed for soft landings and safe returns.

And here's the truth: God heard you.

Even when it feels like your prayers are carried away on the wind, they land in the very heart of God. Your tears are not unnoticed. Your hope is not wasted. Your love is never unseen.

It's okay to grieve what feels lost. It's okay to feel sad for what you wish could be different. It's okay to acknowledge the ache.

But don't let it close your heart. Don't let it steal your tenderness. Don't let it silence your prayers.

Keep loving. Keep trusting. Keep hoping.

Even when it feels messy. Especially when it feels messy.

Because God specializes in resurrection. In empty tombs. In stories that feel broken beyond repair.

You are doing better than you think. Your love matters more than you know. And one day, you will look back and see — He was holding it all the entire time.

A Question to Reflect On: Where in your life is God asking you to loosen your grip and trust Him more?

A Prayer for the Surrendered Heart

Dear God,
Today I lay down my need to control. I surrender the ones I love into Your capable hands. I trust that You see what I cannot, and You are working even when I cannot feel it.

Give me peace where there is fear.
Give me hope where there is sadness.
Give me faith where there is doubt.

Help me to love with open hands and open heart, just as You love me.

In Jesus' Name, Amen.

With hope,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl...You Are Not Required to Hustle to Be Safe

There is a lie so many women are living under, and it’s rarely spoken out loud.

The lie says:
If you slow down, something bad will happen.
If you rest, you’ll lose momentum.
If you cancel, you’ll be punished.
If you stop producing, you’ll stop being worthy.

I know this lie well—because I’ve lived by it.

I’ve hustled not because I love the grind, but because fear told me I had to.
Fear of not enough money.
Fear of being abandoned again.
Fear that if I don’t keep proving my value, everything I’ve built could disappear.

And the truth?
That fear has been quietly killing my nervous system.

When Hustle Becomes a Trauma Response

We don’t talk enough about how hustle can be rooted in trauma.

For many women, especially those who have lived through instability, betrayal, financial fear, or abandonment, pushing through becomes a form of control.

If I keep working, I’ll be okay.
If I keep showing up, I won’t be left.
If I keep producing, I won’t be forgotten.

But here’s what I’m learning the hard way:

What once protected me is now hurting me.

My body has started speaking louder than my mind.
My sleep has been disrupted.
My nervous system has been overloaded.
Even the data—my Oura ring—finally said what my soul already knew:

“Your body is under major stress.”

And still… I argued with myself.

“I could probably still do it.”
“It’s $125.”
“I don’t want to let anyone down.”
“What if my business suffers?”

But the deeper question whispered underneath all of that was this:

At what cost?

The Day I Canceled—and Didn’t Collapse

I canceled a session recently because I simply wasn’t up for it.

And instead of relief, guilt rushed in.

That guilt wasn’t about the client.
It was about an old belief that says rest is dangerous.

That if I pause, I’ll lose something.
That if I choose myself, I’ll be punished.
That if I don’t push through, I’ll pay for it later.

But here’s what didn’t happen:

My business didn’t fall apart.
God didn’t withdraw His provision.
The ground didn’t open up beneath me.

What did happen?

I listened to my body.
I honored my healing.
I showed up for myself.

And for the first time, I saw clearly:

Pushing through has been punishing me.

Hustle Is Not the Same as Faithfulness

Somewhere along the way, many of us confused exhaustion with obedience.

We thought:
Being tired meant we were doing enough.
Being depleted meant we were faithful.
Being constantly “on” meant we were responsible.

But rest is not rebellion.
Healing is not laziness.
Listening to your body is not a lack of discipline.

You are not more worthy when you are worn down.
You are not safer when you are exhausted.
And you are not more lovable when you ignore your limits.

God has never asked us to destroy ourselves to prove our trust.

Dear Little Girl…
You are allowed to rest without everything falling apart.

You are allowed to cancel without being punished.
You are allowed to heal without hustling.
You are allowed to trust that provision doesn’t disappear when you pause.

Money is not your protector.
Productivity is not your savior.
And fear is a terrible boss.

You were never meant to carry your life by yourself.

What is meant for you will not be taken because you chose rest.
What is built with God will not collapse because you listened to your body.
What is sustainable will still be there when you come back.

This season isn’t about doing less forever.
It’s about learning that you don’t have to suffer to be safe.

And maybe—just maybe—
when enough women stop hustling for worth,
our bodies will heal,
our homes will breathe again,
and our kiddos will learn a different way.

One where rest is holy.
Trust is practiced.
And love is not earned through exhaustion.

Dear Little Girl...Grace Grows in the Awkward

Dear Little Girl,
You think growth should feel confident by now.
Smooth. Natural. Impressive.

But instead, it still feels awkward.

You’re learning things you thought would come easily.
You’re standing in rooms where you’re not the expert.
You’re paying attention instead of performing.
And part of you wonders if that means you’re behind.

It doesn’t.

Some of the most sacred learning happens quietly —
in observation, in humility, in seasons where nothing is being showcased.

This fall taught you that grace doesn’t always arrive with applause.
Sometimes it shows up through watching.
Listening.
Asking questions.
Letting others lead while you take notes in your heart.

You’re learning that growth isn’t just choreography —
it’s awareness.
Timing.
Discernment.
Knowing when to step forward and when to step back.

And that lesson is spilling into everything.

Into motherhood — where waiting and watching feels heavier when outcomes aren’t clear.
Into marriage — where tenderness and hope are learning to coexist.
Into work — where small yeses are quietly opening doors you didn’t force.

The studio is closed now.
The calendar has softened.
And in the stillness, God is showing you this truth:

You don’t have to rush what is forming.

What feels awkward today is becoming wisdom.
What feels unfinished is still being held.
What feels uncertain is not unprotected.

God does some of His best work in the in-between —
when you’re no longer who you were,
but not yet who you’re becoming.

So rest, little girl.
Let grace catch up with you.
Let learning be holy.
Let growth be gentle.

You are not behind.
You are becoming.

Reflection

Where are you being invited to learn — not perform — in this season?

Scripture

“Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.”
— Philippians 1:6

Dear Little Girl, You Can Let the Old Voices Go

🌿 Dear Little Girl, You Can Let the Old Voices Go

When God uses dreams, healing work, and holy nudges to set your heart free.

Last night your mind replayed a story your body has carried for years—

a story of mixed messages,
of tenderness that flipped without warning,
of love and rejection woven together so tightly that your nervous system learned to brace for impact before joy ever had a chance to land.

Dreams like this don’t come to punish you.
They come to free you.

🌙 The Dream That Wasn’t a Warning — But a Release

You saw yourself dancing…
not as the little girl trying to earn approval,
but as the grown woman reclaiming what was always hers.

You were practicing your splits at 55 —
not to prove something,
but to whisper back into your own heart:

“Look, baby girl…
we made it.
We are still here.”

And then your dad appeared.

Not in disappointment.
Not in criticism.
Just… there. Coming toward you.
Present. Warm. Whole.

It felt like the blessing your soul always hoped for.

A moment of repair.
A moment of healing.
A moment where the wound and the longing finally met the truth.

That part of the dream was a gift.

⚡ Then Came the Whiplash

the phone call —
not from your dad,
not from anyone who ever loved you well,
but from the part of your past that held both comfort and chaos.
The voice that could bless in one breath
and bruise in the next.

That wasn’t God.
And it certainly wasn’t your dad.
It was your nervous system replaying an old pattern-

the emotional whiplash you once survived without having language for it-

So God finally brought it into the light to be released.
A voice that once felt familiar.
Where tenderness could turn sharp,
where warmth could freeze into accusation without warning.

But this time?

You woke up.

You recognized it.

And instead of absorbing it like you used to,
your spirit said:

“This isn’t God.
This isn’t truth.
This is old trauma leaving my body.”

What a miracle.

💛 The Healing Beneath the Surface

Your dream wasn’t chaos.
It was clarity.

It was your nervous system releasing what EMDR has stirred up —
the last fragments of fear, confusion, and mixed messages that your younger self once carried silently.

It was your body letting go of the belief that:

love is unstable,
safety is unpredictable,
and tenderness can turn to harm in an instant.

Those were lies you learned to survive.
They are not the truth you’re meant to live.

✨ The Truth Heaven Speaks Over You

Sweet girl…

You are not an animal.
You are not the cause of anyone’s chaos.
You are not the one who needed to be “better” to be safe or loved.

You are precious
—not conditionally,
not inconsistently,
not until someone changes their mind—
but because Heaven says so.

God has never raised His voice at you.
His love has no whiplash.
His affection never flips.
His tenderness is not earned.
His presence is steady and unwavering.

Your dream wasn’t a warning.
It was a washing.

A holy untangling.
A releasing of what your body no longer needs to hold.
A clearing of old fear to make room for peace.

God is showing you what is leaving
so He can fill those places with Himself.

🌱 You Are Becoming the Woman Who Is Free

You’re allowed to step into the woman who:

can dance again,
can take up space,
can feel safe in her own body,
can hold joy without flinching,
can live without waiting for the other shoe to drop,
can trust that healing is happening layer by layer.

You’re not going backward.
You’re healing.
You’re becoming whole.

🙏 A Prayer for the Healing Girl Inside Me

Jesus,
thank You for revealing what is ready to be released—
not to shame me,
but to set me free.

Thank You for showing me that I am not the voices that wounded me,
and I am not the trauma that shaped me.

Heal the places my mind remembers
and the places my body still holds.

Give me the courage to trust Your voice
above every voice that ever named me the wrong thing.

Fill me with Your peace,
Your truth,
and Your steady love.

Teach me to walk as the woman You created—
whole, worthy, precious, and free.

Amen.

💬 If You’re Curious About EMDR or Healing From Trauma…

EMDR has been one of the most powerful tools God is using in my healing.
If you’re wondering whether it might help you too, message me.
I’m happy to share what it is, how it works, and how it’s helping me finally let go of the old stories and live in freedom.

You don’t have to heal alone. 🤍

Want A Cup of Coffee? (A Re-Introduction)

If you’ve been here a while, you know my mornings start the same way—
☀️ A quiet house
☕ A cup of coffee
🪑🪑 And two chairs

Every morning in my stories you’ll usually see a snapshot of that moment—my mug, my Bible, sometimes my dogs, sometimes the ocean, sometimes tears, sometimes peace. But I realized many of you may not know where that practice began…or why I keep showing up there nearly every day of my life.

So here’s the truth:
Two years ago, when my marriage was breaking apart and my heart felt like it had shattered into a thousand pieces, I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t fix what was broken. I couldn’t predict the future. And I couldn’t make anything make sense.

But I could sit down.
I could breathe.
I could ask God to meet me.

And He did.

Not in lightning bolts. Not in a booming voice.
But in quiet, steady presence.

Back in January of 2023, my boss Donna handed me a book called 2 Chairs.
Simple. Almost silly, really.
But something in me was desperate enough to try anything.

The premise is this:
Set out two chairs.
One for you.
One for God.

Show up.
Talk.
Listen.
Let Him love you.

In that season, listening was the hardest part for me. Honestly, it still is. My instinct—even now—is to fill the silence with worry, with problem solving, with “what if’s,” with trying to hold every relationship in my life together with my bare hands.

But Two Chairs taught me something:
God speaks in stillness.
And stillness requires surrender.

Back then, I sat in those chairs because I was desperate.
Today, I sit in them because I’m devoted.

Back then, I needed rescue.
Today, I need grounding.

Back then, I didn’t know who I was without the life I thought I’d have.
Today, I’m discovering who I actually am—and who God has been shaping me into all along.

Is everything perfect?
No. We’ve come a long way, but we’re still doing the work. Some weeks feel steady. Some weeks feel shaky—like counseling this week, which knocked the wind out of me in ways I didn’t expect.

But do I face those moments alone anymore?
Absolutely not.

Because every morning, I pull up a chair…and so does God.

Two Chairs has become less of a practice and more of a lifeline. A conversation. A rhythm. A friendship. A place where I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to fix. Where I don’t have to earn love or keep the world from falling apart.

I show up.
He’s already there.

And I want that for you too.

If you’re in a season of grief, anxiety, uncertainty, rebuilding, shock, transition, or just plain exhaustion—try it. For one week. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Don’t overthink it.

Make space.
Make room.
Make time.

You might crumble the first day—I did.
You might ugly cry—I did. Still do at times.
You might sit in silence and feel nothing—I did and still do some days.

But you also might feel a peace you can’t explain.
A whisper of hope.
A nudge.
A breath.
A settling.
A sense that you are not alone.

Because you’re not.
And you never were.

So…
What do you say?

Want to pull up two chairs?
I’ll bring the coffee.

Until Next Time,
XO,
Amy
aka Worthy

My two charis….

Dear Little Girl...Let God's Kindness Flow Through You

Little girl…
Sometimes God hands you a moment so surprising, so undeserved, so humbling that the only thing you can do is whisper: “This is holy.”

This week, I won an award I never expected —
a community spotlight in special education.
An award for kindness.

Kindness.
The very thing Jesus teaches.
The very thing He keeps forming in me through the children who’ve become my greatest teachers —
children who show me vulnerability, joy, honesty, strength, and freedom without even trying.

And as I held the flowers and certificate, I could feel it —
God planting something deeper:
“Daughter, I’m stirring something in you. Just receive this for now.”

But right in the same breath of celebration…
life handed me something hard.
A friend struggling.
Others feeling the weight of her pain.
And a request:
“Can you step in and help?”

And my spirit whispered back:
This is the real award.
This is where kindness matters most.
Where compassion looks like presence.
Where love costs something.
Where Jesus asks you to show up like Him — steady, gentle, understanding, believing the best.

Little girl…
This is what spiritual maturity looks like:

Holding both the joy and the need.
Holding the award and the assignment.
Holding the celebration and the compassion.

Because you’ve walked through darkness.
Because you know the weight of mental battles.
Because you’ve loved someone through storms most people never see.
Because God has shaped you into a woman who can walk into someone else’s pain
without judgment, without fear,
with hands and heart wide open.

And maybe THAT is the real spotlight today.

Not the Award.
Not the applause.

But the quiet, unseen moment where you step into a hurting room and carry Jesus with you.

Little girl…
Your kindness isn’t accidental.
It’s anointed.

✨ Prayer

Jesus, help me carry Your kindness wherever You lead me.
Let my presence soften heavy rooms.
Let my compassion lift those who are struggling.
Guard my heart from judgment.
Fill me with love that looks like You.
And teach me to receive Your blessings without rushing ahead~
trusting that You know exactly what You’re stirring next.
Amen.

Dear Little Girl...The Way Pain Teaches Us To Stand Taller

Dear Little Girl,

Today my Dad would’ve been 90 years old.

And maybe that’s why everything morning feels a little tender ~
memory, gratitude, ache, and wonder all braided together.

I miss him.
His voice.
His presence.
His steadiness.
The way he could anchor a room with just a look.

But I also see something now that I couldn’t see then:

God was kind in the timing.
I don’t think Dad’s heart could have handled watching the darkest parts of the storm we later walked through.
So God, in His mercy, let him slip into Heaven before the weight of it ever touched him.

And today, on his birthday, this truth hit me hard:

I handled my hardest season the way he handled his.

With my head high.
With grace I didn’t know I possessed.
With dignity he modeled long before I realized I was learning from him.

When life cracked open…
When fear and confusion swallowed the air around me…
When I had to hold myself and my boys together with shaking hands —

I didn’t smear anyone.
I didn’t speak hate.
I didn’t crumble in public.
I kept walking.
Quiet. Steady. Becoming stronger than anyone knew.

And today, I am proud of her —
that version of me who refused to let bitterness have the final word.

Dad used to tap the kitchen table with one finger and say:

“Duck, it’s the law of radiation and attraction.
You get what you give.”

And in so many ways, that one sentence has shaped my whole life.

Relationships shift.
Some become distant.
Some stay close.
Some carry tender spots we don’t know how to navigate.

But I’m learning something sacred:

Not every gap is mine to close.
Not every silence is mine to fill.
Not every wound is mine to heal.
And I am allowed — completely allowed — to protect my peace.

And on this first day of December,
I’m grateful.

Grateful for healing beneath the surface.
Grateful for the quiet rebuilding inside my marriage.
Grateful for the small miracles happening in my boys.
Grateful that steadiness is returning to my home.
Grateful for the woman I’m becoming — one sunrise, one prayer, one breath at a time.

So today, in honor of my Daddy Boy,
I’m choosing to radiate
light,
love,
peace,
and compassion —

the very things he lived,
and the very things God is still shaping inside me.

Happy Birthday, Daddy Boy.
I hope my light reaches you all the way in Heaven.

Dear Little Girl...Lean Toward the Light

Some seasons don’t shout.
They whisper.

They pull you into stillness.
They quiet the noise.
They soften your heart.
They make room for God to speak.

The days after Thanksgiving always feel like holy ground to me—
a sacred pause where gratitude settles in deeper than the meal,
deeper than the gathering,
deeper than the noise.

This year, that quiet feels different.
It feels like rest.
Real rest.
The kind your nervous system recognizes before your brain does.

Slow mornings.
Soft rain.
Coffee with God.
Dogs curled up at your feet.
A house that finally feels steady again.
A heart learning to unclench.
A husband and son laughing at the lake instead of walking on eggshells.

It’s gratitude wrapped in peace.

Yesterday, as Trey rested on the couch, you caught a glimpse of that old college love again—the “I can’t believe this man is mine” kind of love you used to feel long before the years got complicated.

That wasn’t nostalgia.
That was grace.
A flicker of God whispering,
“Look how far I’ve carried you. Look at what I can still do.”

Back in Acts 9 this morning, you saw yourself in Saul again—
the way God takes a person’s weaknesses, flips them over,
and uses them as the very place His glory shows up.

The mess becomes the message.
The broken becomes the bridge.
The darkness becomes the place where light finally wins.

And something inside you softened:

“God… can You turn my weaknesses into strengths too?
Can You use my marriage? My heart? My story? Me?”
And heaven answered,
Yes. That’s what I do.

And so…

You’re learning who you are when life slows down.
When the house is peaceful and everyone feels steady.
When you’re not bracing for the next shift or trying to carry what was never yours to carry.

You’re learning to rest.
You’re learning to breathe.
You’re learning to stay in the calm without waiting for the next storm.

You’re learning who you are in the quiet—
when your heart finally has room,
when peace is allowed to land,
and when hope has space to rise again.

And maybe this is the real miracle of the weekend after Thanksgiving:

Like a flower, you are finally learning to lean toward the light.

Amen.

🍁 DEAR LITTLE GIRL… LET GRATITUDE STEADY YOUR HEART (A Thanksgiving Devotional)

Dear Little Girl,

Before you rush into the noise of cooking, cleaning, hosting, or showing up in rooms that hold both comfort and tension…

Pause.

Breathe.

Put your hand on your heart for a moment.

Feel it?
That steady rhythm?
That’s grace — alive, beating, holding you.

Thanksgiving isn’t just a holiday.
It’s a moment to remember the God who holds you together in ways you don’t even see.

And this year, sweet girl, gratitude might look a little different for you.

You’ve walked through valleys.
You’ve weathered storms.
You’ve held your breath during seasons you didn’t think you could survive.
You’ve navigated moods, triggers, diagnoses, disappointments, boundaries, and the ache of old hurt surfacing right when you want peace.

Yet somehow — here you are.

Still standing.
Still learning.
Still loving.
Still growing.
Still seeking God in the quiet corners of your morning.

That alone is worth a thousand thank-yous.

But let’s go deeper…

Because gratitude isn’t pretending everything feels easy.
Gratitude is naming the goodness of God in spite of the hard.

Gratitude is what steadies your heart when life sways.

And maybe this Thanksgiving…

You’re grateful that forgiveness didn’t break you — it rebuilt you.
You’re grateful that boundaries don’t mean bitterness — they mean wisdom.
You’re grateful that the people who once triggered you no longer have the same power.
You’re grateful for the healing God has been doing in your marriage — quietly, slowly, gently.
You’re grateful for your boys — their laughter, their humor, their faith, their strength, their growth.
You’re grateful for community — the ones who stayed, the ones who left, and the ones who taught you who you want to be.
You’re grateful for the way God meets you every single morning in your cozy spot with coffee and an open heart.
You’re grateful for the stumbles that taught you how to walk in grace again and again.
You’re grateful that even on the days you feel undone… God is not shaken.

And maybe you’re especially grateful for this:

The woman you’re becoming.

A woman who knows peace doesn’t mean perfection.
A woman who knows rest is not laziness.
A woman who knows God uses ordinary days and quiet moments to shape extraordinary faith.
A woman who knows she doesn’t have to match anyone else’s pace or expectations — because her calling comes from Heaven, not from people.

So today, Dear Little Girl…

Give thanks for where you are.
Give thanks for how far you’ve come.
Give thanks for the God who never leaves you where He found you.

And give thanks for the revelation that has changed everything:

Gratitude isn’t something you feel.
It’s something you choose — and it steadies your heart every time.

Happy Thanksgiving, sweet girl.
You are held.
You are guided.
You are growing.
You are so very loved.

With a grateful heart,
Worthy 🤍🍁