Dear Little Girl... You're Allowed to be in the "And"

After a quiet summer filled with both grief and reflection, I’m slowly finding my words again. Thank you for holding space with me. It’s an honor to relaunch this Dear Little Girl series with a letter that met me gently in the middle. I hope it meets you there too.

The studio took a deep breath this summer.

Scheduled classes paused.
The floors rested.
The music softened.

But joy?
Joy still found a way in.

It showed up at drop-ins.
It danced through summer camps with sidewalk chalk and tutus.
It curled itself around those unplanned moments—Freeze Dances and snack-time sillies and the way the tiniest ballerinas scooted closer just to be near “Mrs. Mermaid.”

Even in a quieter season, purpose was pulsing underneath it all.
And I felt God whisper:
“You’re still allowed to live in the ‘And.’”

This Morning, I Heard it Again—Soft but Clear:

"Purpose—with a capital P—is revealed in the doing.
But joy… joy is found when you follow the nudge inside."

And for me, that nudge?
It doesn’t always come with a title.
Or a paycheck.
Or approval from the world.

But it brings me closer to who I really am.

This Summer Taught Me This:

I can rest and still grow.
I can take space and still matter.
I can follow joy and be faithful.
I can honor what was and step into what is.

I used to believe I had to pick one story.
But now I know the truth:
I can live in the “And.”

And that lesson brings me back to my dad.

He loved me deeply.
And he didn’t always understand me.

He dreamed of passing down the business he built.
He wanted security for his kids.
He didn’t want us to struggle.

But I was a creative. A dreamer. A dancer.
And I chose a different path.

For a long time, I wondered if he was proud.
Because I didn’t follow the blueprint.
I followed the music.

But I see it now.
He loved me and didn’t get me.
He wanted to protect me and didn’t know how to guide me through the life I was made for.
He built a legacy with his hands.
I’m building one with my heart.

We were both builders.
Just in different ways.

And both are sacred.

Abraham’s Story in Genesis 22 Feels Different Now.

He climbed the mountain without a clear ending.
All he had was faith.
And that was enough.

That’s what I’m learning.
To surrender the outcome.
To walk forward without needing to know how it ends.
To hold everything—my story, my business, my gifts—with open hands.

Because the moment I cling too tightly, I forget the Giver.
And He is the one writing every chapter.

A Prayer for the Girl Who’s Learning to Trust the ‘And’

Dear God,
Thank You for the moments of joy that reminded me who I am.
For the slow days, the spontaneous dances, the deep breaths between seasons.
Thank You for my dad’s love—even if it came wrapped in misunderstanding.
Help me honor both—what he built and what You’re building through me.
Teach me to follow joy, not pressure.
To live open-handed.
To trust You with the “And.”
Amen.

Journal Prompt:
📖 Where do you feel like you have to choose just one part of your story?
🕊️ What would it look like to trust God with both?

Sweet girl, you’re allowed to live in the “And.”
And you are already enough.

Easy Mexican Pile-Up Recipe: A Quick Family Dinner from My Mama’s Kitchen

So… Am I Bringing Back Recipes?

Kind of! 😄

Lately, I’ve been back to blogging and it’s been so fun. A few of you have asked if I’m going to start sharing meal plans and recipes again. The honest answer?

No to the meal plans—because it turns out, I actually don’t enjoy cooking that much. Who knew?

BUT… I do love it when I stumble upon a recipe that’s quick, easy, and crowd-pleasing. And when that happens, I believe in the sacred rule: sharing is caring. 💛

My mama, Irene, was an excellent cook. Some of her dishes are more involved than others, but this one is a go-to because it’s simple, hearty, kind of healthy, and perfect for busy school nights when you just don’t have it in you to whip up anything fancy.

Irene’s Mexican Pile-Up

Ingredients:

• 1 lb ground beef

• 1 can pinto beans (undrained)

• ½ onion, chopped

• Garlic salt, pepper, and chili powder to taste

Toppings (build your bowl your way):

• Shredded lettuce

• Cherry tomatoes, halved

• Avocado, chopped

• Shredded cheese

• Crushed tortilla chips

• Picante sauce

• Sour cream

• Diced jalapeños

How to Make It:

1. Sauté the chopped onion until soft.

2. Add ground beef and cook until browned.

3. Season with garlic salt, pepper, and chili powder to taste.

4. Stir in the undrained pinto beans.

5. Let simmer for 30 minutes to an hour to let the flavors marry.

How to Build Your Bowl:

• Start with shredded lettuce.

• Add a generous scoop of the meat and bean mixture.

• Layer on your favorite toppings: tomatoes, avocado, chips, cheese, jalapeños, sour cream, and picante sauce.

Done and Delicious!

So easy, so satisfying—and so full of flavor. This is one of those throw-it-together dinners that never disappoints. Whether you’re cooking for a crowd or just want something easy on a Monday night, this one hits the spot.

Let me know if you try it—and if you have a favorite family “pile-up” version, I’d love to hear about it!

Bon appétit, friends! 🧡

Golden Vibes, God Winks, and the Healing I Didn’t Know I Needed

I just returned from something that stretched me—literally and spiritually. ✨

I hopped on a plane to a place where I didn’t know a soul, and I came home with a full heart, a deeper understanding of fascia and healing, and a tribe I didn’t even know I needed.

The MELT Immersion wasn’t just a training—it was a transformation.

First, I learned that I am powerful.

I know that might sound a little wild to say out loud, but stay with me. I’ve always talked about how my dad had this larger-than-life bravado—the kind of presence that filled a room without him saying a word. People noticed him because of who he was, not just what he said. And this past week, I realized: I carry that same energy. I command a room—not with arrogance, but with grace, warmth, and a deep love for people.

That realization came with so much gratitude. It’s like my father passed down this quiet confidence that’s been waiting inside me, and I finally saw it for what it is.

I also saw my sweet mom in me.

She was a caretaker through and through. And somewhere along the way, I became the resident social media helper and fairy hair lady at our training—teaching, serving, laughing, connecting. I didn’t even mean to fall into that role. It just… happened. And in doing so, I realized how much I love teaching. How natural it feels to guide others with compassion, creativity, and kindness.

Over and over, the women I met said, “You’re so patient. You explain it so clearly. And you never make me feel dumb for asking again.”

That’s when it clicked: I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Teaching babies at Preston Center Dance.
Helping women find their worth again through MELT.
Meeting people right where they are and holding space for them to grow.

I also learned I can do hard things.

Neuro strength work? Whew. It nearly fried my brain. But I kept showing up. Kept trying. Kept practicing. And guess what? I found it. I found the movement, the rhythm, the connection.

That’s who I am—I don’t give up.
I love teaching.
I love healing.
And I love that God is still growing me.

Another thing I discovered? I love meeting new people.

Different ages. Different stories. Different spiritual beliefs. But when you find one common thread—like healing, or curiosity, or even just a roller—you realize that all the other stuff? It doesn’t matter. We saw each other. Encouraged each other. Built each other up. Loved one another.

What a gift this past week has been.

And would you believe… I had the sweetest God wink?

It was Saturday night. I was standing in the ocean during a sound bath, letting the waves and frequencies wash over me, when I looked up and saw the moon. It was hanging low, new and crooked—exactly like Janie’s smile.

Janie was one of our precious dancers we lost in the flood July 4. Her smile was unforgettable—wide and joyful, with the tiniest, most perfect tilt.

I looked at my new friends and said, “I feel Janie here with us.”

And later that night, I saw that one of the other mamas—whose daughter Hadley also went to be with Jesus in the same flood—posted a photo from a year ago. It was Hadley, wearing the same hat my friend Luci had been wearing in the ocean during the sound bath.

I couldn’t wait to show Luci.
They were there. I just know it.
Dancing to the rhythm of the water, smiling in the moonlight.

These little signs were God’s way of telling me,
“They’re okay. And you’ll see them again.”

Because that night, all I could think about were the mamas whose girls were supposed to be coming home that very day. My heart ached for them. And God, in His gentle way, whispered peace over my sadness.

So this past week?

It pushed me.
It pulled me.
It hugged me tight.

And somehow, in the most unexpected ways, it healed me and grew me.

I can’t wait to share this work with you—because healing isn’t just possible…
It’s already happening.

SOOOOOOO…If you're ready to get out of pain, age gracefully, and stay active and vibrant for the long haul—let me show you The MELT Method.

This practice has transformed the way I move, teach, and live—and I’d be honored to walk alongside you as you begin (or deepen) your own healing journey.

Whether you're curious, cautious, or ready to dive in—I’ve got a roller with your name on it. 💙

Let’s get you moving, glowing, and feeling good—because you’re worth it.
Always have been.

Dear Little Girl...You Don't Have to Compete Anymore

“When the Lord saw that Leah was not loved, He enabled her to conceive…” —Genesis 29:31
(Leah’s story in Genesis 29–30)

Just like Leah, you kept showing up in a story that seemed to celebrate someone else.
You gave, you stayed, you prayed—hoping it would finally be enough to be chosen.

And somewhere along the way, without even realizing it,
you became everything to everyone.

You wore so many hats in those early chapters, didn’t you?

Wife.
Mother.
Healer.
Helper.
Peacemaker.
Protector.

All while still feeling like a little girl inside some days.

You carried so much, trying to keep everyone else standing—
when you were the one quietly unraveling.

You tried to be the steady one.
The safe one.
The one no one would ever leave.

But sweet girl, listen closely—because I’ve been where you are.

I know the fear that wraps around your ribs like a vice.
The fear of divorce.
The fear of being alone.
The fear of never being chosen—not really.
The fear that if you stop holding it all together, everything will fall apart.
The financial fear. The motherhood fear.
The late-night wondering:
Do I stay to protect my kids—or do I go to protect myself?
Will healing ever come? Will a miracle ever reach this messy, broken place?

I’ve lived those questions.

And I want you to know:
You don’t have to compete anymore.
Not for love.
Not for approval.
Not to be seen, celebrated, or chosen.

Because you already are.

Already loved.
Already known.
Already held.

Even when others missed the weight you were carrying—God never did.

He saw the nights your heart raced in silence.
The mornings your smile covered worry.
The way your mind looped through every worst-case scenario.
The way your son’s pain felt like your own wound.
The way a passing comment could shake your sense of worth.
The way you quietly wondered if you were crazy—or just deeply, deeply tired.

And still—you stayed.
You prayed.
You showed up.
And He never stopped showing up for you.

And now He whispers...

“You don’t have to be strong all the time. You just have to be Mine.”

So exhale, Love.
Set down the fear.
Set down the hustle.
Set down the invisible scoreboard that told you you had to earn love to keep it.

Come sit at the well.
The stone’s already rolled away.
The Living Water is flowing.
And the table?
It’s set—and your name card is there.

No one can take your seat.
Not Rachel.
Not anyone else.

You belong here.
There’s still time.
There’s still hope.
And yes—miracles still happen.

🙏 A Prayer for the One Who’s Trying So Hard:

Jesus,
Thank You for seeing me—especially in the places I once felt invisible.
Thank You for reminding me that I don’t have to compete for what You freely give.
Help me keep laying down the fear of not being enough.
Help me rest.
Help me trust.
Help me stay rooted in the truth that being Yours is enough.
I give You the ache, the old stories, the worn-out striving.
Thank You for choosing me—again and again.
Amen.

Anger, Tinsel, and 1000 Why's

More thoughts from my journal…
I said I would keep writing.
So here I am.
Still grieving. Still healing. Still trying to find light in the middle of all this fog.

July 17, 2025

I don’t know anymore, God.
Today I woke up weepy. My Oura app told me my HRV was low. “Your mind or body has been under strain for a while.”
I screamed at it: “It’s death! It’s Fucking DEATH!”

I guess that’s anger. Or exhaustion. Or both.
I’m tired of the theology people keep handing out like tissues.
I know You didn’t cause this.
I know You weep with us.
I know I won’t know why.

I don’t need reminders today. I need something real.

And yet… the same God I screamed at let me see flickers of good:
In a sash.
In a blanket.
In a quiet dinner from friends.
In mermaid tinsel for two girls.
In a young Mystic counselor choosing pink to honor her campers.

That moment with Nola—putting sparkle in her hair, loving her without needing words—felt like purpose.
It didn’t fix anything. But it reminded me that love is still here.
And that maybe it’s okay to scream and believe at the same time.

I’m still asking why.
I probably will for a while.
But today, I’m clinging to the helpers, the light, and the tinsel.

That might be all I’ve got right now.
But maybe… that’s enough.

Rainbows After The Storm: Grieving, Hoping, and Showing Up Anyway

Thoughts from my current journal entries: July 9–14, 2025

Five days since the flood.
Five days since our community was shattered.

Six little girls gone—three of them my students. Over a hundred lives lost across the region. The grief is thick and muddy, like wading through sorrow that clings to your skin and weighs down your steps.

And tomorrow, we have Janie’s service.

There’s no script for how to do this.

I’ve walked through a lot of pain before, but this feels different. The ache of watching little ones go is unbearable. And trying to teach joy—trying to be light and strength for others—feels like dancing through fog. It’s disorienting. Raw. And so very real.

Our pastor said that anger is part of grief. I didn’t feel angry—not in the shouting sense. But I did go silent. I shut God out, not in rage but in numbness. I couldn’t hear Him over the buzzing of fear, the loop of “why, why, why” that played on repeat in my soul.

And still, He was there.

I started noticing the signs:
💐 A neighbor I barely know bringing flowers.
🎀 A handmade sash from someone who cared.
🍪 Cookies made in silence, shared in community.
🌈 A rainbow arched over the elementary schools—days after the flood.

Was it a coincidence? Or was it God whispering, “I’m here. I still bring beauty from ashes. I still keep my promises.”

I thought about Noah. How did he learn to appreciate rain again after watching the world drown? How did he not tremble at the sound of thunder? Maybe it was the dove. Maybe it was the rainbow. Maybe it was just waking up to a second chance.

And that’s what I’m clinging to now—a mustard seed of hope. That healing can happen. That joy can return. That camp will be holy ground for Graeme. That showing up to teach littles today—ironically in a camp called “Taste the Rainbow”—isn’t just a coincidence. It’s a nudge from Heaven.

Because rainbows don’t erase the storm.
They just remind us it’s over.
And that there’s still a future.

So today, I will show up again.

I’ll teach. I’ll cry. I’ll dance with toddlers and hug moms and lead a MELT class with eyes that might still be puffy. I’ll attend Janie’s funeral and try not to crumble when they talk about her smile, her light, and the way she danced through life.

And I’ll keep choosing surrender over understanding.
Because I don’t understand.
But I believe God is still here.

Even when the rain triggers fear.
Even when joy feels far away.
Even when the chair beside me felt empty for days.

He's showing up again. And so am I.

If you’re grieving too—
You don’t have to be okay.
You don’t have to call it acceptance.
You just have to keep showing up.

Let that be enough.

Remember this:
"The most underrated skill in life: The ability to show up, even when you don’t feel like it.” —Lewis Howes

Thoughts for you to Journal on:
What’s one small way you can show up for your life today—even if you’re in the middle of the storm?

I'm Still Here God...(Even if I can't hear you.)

“Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” — 1 Corinthians 13:7

I’ve always believed in God’s goodness. I’ve walked with Him through some of my darkest moments and have felt Him near when I didn’t think I could go on.

But this week? This week I can’t find the words to pray.

A flood ripped through a beloved girls' camp—one where faith and joy were freely given—and six of the campers were students from our studio. One of them, Janie, held a special place in my heart. They all did. And just like that… they’re gone.

Since Friday night, I’ve scrolled and scrolled, hoping for something—anything—that might bring hope. But the updates only confirmed what my heart didn’t want to believe.

There are no answers. Only aching questions.

Where were you, God?

That’s not a rhetorical question. It’s a real one. Where were you when the river rose? When the cabins flooded? When little girls clung to each other, terrified?

My faith tells me You were there. That You caught them. That You carried them straight into a joy we can’t yet understand. But my humanity is still reeling.

I’ve sat with grief before. I’ve asked the Two Chairs questions:

1. Do You know the situation?

2. Is this too big for You?

3. Do You have a plan?

This week, I asked them again. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have answers.

Because this feels too big. Because no plan could possibly justify this. Because even though I believe God knows, I don’t understand why He didn’t stop it.

Some part of me is whispering, "This isn’t too big for God." But most of me? Most of me is just hurting.

And yet—I’m still here.

Even if I can’t sit in my two chairs. Even if sermons sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Even if I can’t finish a blog titled Where Was God in the Flood.

Today, I opened Corinthians and found this:

“Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” – 1 Corinthians 13:7

That verse was a lifeline.

Love doesn’t eliminate grief. Love enters it.

Love holds space for doubt and sorrow. Love allows us to be both faithful and furious. Love doesn’t fix what’s shattered—but it stays. It bears. It hopes. It perseveres.

So that’s where I am right now.

I’m not standing strong. I’m clinging.

To the memory of these girls. To the hope that they were swept into God’s arms before fear could even register. To love.

So if your faith is shaken today, if your soul feels raw—I just want you to know: It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to cry out. It’s okay to not have the answers.

God isn’t afraid of your questions. He isn’t distant from your heartbreak. He isn’t asking you to perform strength you don’t have.

He’s love. And love is still here.

Even when I can’t hear Him. Even when I can’t pray. Even when I feel like I’m barely holding on.

I’m still here, God. And I believe—deep down—so are You.

Dear Little Girl...You Were Never Second Choice

You don’t talk about it much.
But deep down, you’ve known the ache of Leah—
the woman in Genesis 29,
whose story sits quietly between the lines of someone else's love story.

Leah was given to a man who never asked for her.
Married by deception.
Overshadowed by a sister who seemed to sparkle.
So she kept giving—hoping it would finally be enough.

Maybe this time, she thought.
Maybe if I give more, love harder, carry heavier,
he’ll finally choose me.

And every time he didn’t,
Leah turned her eyes to heaven.

She named her sons after her ache—
hoping each one would be the thing that made him stay.
But by the time she birthed her fourth,
something in her shifted.
She let go of the need to be chosen by a man
and chose to be seen by her God.

“This time,” she said,
“I will praise the Lord.” (Genesis 29:35)

Dear Little Girl,
You were never created to compete for love.
You were created to receive it.

You’ve stayed through storms.
You’ve raised sons in the wreckage.
You’ve poured yourself out again and again,
even when your own cup felt bone-dry.

But look—
the love is coming back to you now.

In texts that say, I’m proud of you.
In the moment your son is moved to tears by your purpose.
In a small box of macaroons that whispers, I see you, Mom.

You are not Leah because you were unloved.
You are Leah because you were faithful.
Because you kept praising.
Because God is building something eternal through you—
three boys worth of praise.

And maybe, just maybe,
He gave you sons to remind you
that you were always worth choosing.

That you are seen.
Steady.
Sacred.

And even when love gets complicated—
God’s love never does.

So rest, Little Girl.
Let go of the need to be picked.
You already are.

And the One who chose you?
He’s not leaving.
He’s just getting started.

Dear Little Girl...Remain in the Vine: A Redemption Still Unfolding

We are home—safe, sound, and somehow still holding on to the peace we found at the ocean.

This trip was a gift. A reset. A holy exhale. It wasn’t perfect, but it was deeply healing. And now, as I ease back into normal life, I find myself reflecting not only on the beauty of the waves and the laughter of my boys but also on the quiet moments with God that shifted something deep in my spirit.

One morning, it rained. And then came the rainbow.

I sat in my quiet time and watched it stretch across the sky—a colorful promise right off our balcony. I couldn’t help but think of Joseph’s robe. The robe that was stripped from him. The robe that symbolized favor. The robe that represented something more than just fabric—it was identity, calling, hope.

Joseph may have been thrown out by his family, betrayed by the people meant to protect him, lied about, and forgotten—but God never left him.

Not in the pit. Not in the prison. Not in the in-between.

He was robbed—first of his colorful robe, then of his reputation, and finally of his freedom. But what no one could take from him was God’s presence. That stuck with me.

Because I’ve felt that too.

I was never physically thrown out, but emotionally, spiritually—I know what it feels like to be discarded. I’ve made choices that strained relationships. I’ve been in seasons where I felt invisible, misunderstood, even unloved. But still—God never left me.

Like Joseph, I’ve learned that faithfulness doesn’t always bring immediate reward. Sometimes, it brings more struggle. But in the wrestling, I’ve also found favor. Through MELT, through my dance students, through quiet moments of surrender—I’ve been trusted with the care of others. Just like Joseph in prison. That matters.

And then I came across the dreams in Genesis 40.

One dream with wine. One with bread. One man restored. One executed.

It struck me—those elements, wine and bread, are the very symbols Jesus used to represent His body and His blood. The cupbearer is restored—new life. The baker is not—judgment. Is it coincidence that one clung to the vine and the other didn’t protect the bread? Maybe. But maybe not.

Jesus said, “I am the vine, you are the branches.” (John 15:5)

So I hold onto that today. I want to remain in the vine. To be fruitful in hope. To multiply joy and peace and healing—not just for me, but for other women who feel trapped. Who feel scared. Who feel unseen.

Women who are just trying to breathe through marriages that feel like mine did. Who are afraid to leave or afraid to stay. Who don’t know where the money will come from or how they’ll explain the pain to their kids. Who feel like the only way to survive is to smile and pretend they’re fine.

If that’s you—please hear this: You are not alone. You are not forgotten. And the pit is not your final chapter.

Let’s remain in the vine together. Let’s be women who bloom with hope. Let’s multiply that hope until it touches someone else's story.

God can use our brokenness and bring beauty. He did it for Joseph. He’s doing it for me. And He can do it for you, too.

Amen.

Dear Little Girl...Let Go of the Mess You've Been Carrying

Dear Little Girl,
You've been carrying a lot. Some of it’s heavy. Some of it’s old. And some of it? It was never even yours to begin with.
But still, you've held onto it — trying to fix it, manage it, make sense of it.
You’ve worn it like that green dress that doesn’t fit anymore but still hangs in your closet — full of stories and weight you’ve long outgrown.

But what if you didn’t have to carry it anymore?

What if the parts that feel too messy to explain — the guilt, the grief, the pressure to hold everyone else together — were already being held by God?
What if the dreams that keep bubbling up — even the messy, uncertain ones — are invitations to finally release?

You are allowed to outgrow what hurt you.
You are allowed to feel light again.
You are allowed to lay down the roles, the expectations, the resentment, and the perfection that was never yours to maintain.

Because here’s the truth:

God doesn’t bless your performance.
He blesses you.
Not the edited, polished, striving version.
Just you.

So today, let go.
Let go of the weight.
Let go of the need to explain.
Let God hold what you no longer can.

It's time to walk freely again.

A Question to Journal On:
What burden have you been carrying that God never asked you to hold?

A Prayer for the Girl Ready to Release the Weight:
Dear God,
I’m tired of picking up what I was never meant to carry. I want to be free — free from the weight of expectations, old wounds, and the fear that I’m not enough.
I want joy again. I want peace.
Help me release what no longer serves me.
Help me live light, love big, and trust You deeper than I ever have.
Thank You for meeting me in my mess — and loving me there.
Amen.

Dear Little Girl...Even the Messy Parts Count

Dear Little Girl,

How could the messy parts not be part of the plan?

Funny how time reveals what pain once concealed. I wrote this a while back, in a season of wrestling and remembering — and now, as I prepare for a family trip that carries hope for healing, I realize just how far God has carried me.

From the tiny one twirling beneath rainbow parachutes, drawn to every bit of color and wonder, to the little girl who played house and dreamed of being seen — really seen. You admired others. You mimicked their grace. And deep down, you hoped someone would see that same magic in you.

Your family wasn’t perfect. Your dad traveled. Your mom drank. But you were loved. And yet, you still carried a quiet ache: Why don’t they see me?

Maybe that’s when the story began to shift. Maybe that’s where the lie snuck in.

Like the day you told your dad you wanted to go to college and dance and act — and he said, “I’m not raising a gypsy.”
In front of Carol Street.
You felt humiliated.
Unseen.
Unheard.
But not unloved.

Still, something rooted in that moment. You tucked away your dream like it was shameful. You chose what was “safe.” Sales. Performance. Achievement. Hustle. It worked for a while — until it didn’t. Until it started to cost you you.

But here’s the plot twist: you never lost what was planted.

Your love for imagination. For movement. For children. For connection. God saw it all. And He never stopped nurturing it. Even when you were chasing approval, trying to be two versions of yourself, running on empty. Even when it got messy.

Especially then.

Because look at you now.

You’re back in the center of your calling — dancing, teaching, loving the kids who remind you of younger you. The full circle wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But it was holy. And it was His.

So, Dear Little Girl… trust that every twist in the story is still on purpose. Nothing is wasted — not even the painful parts.

A Question to Journal On:
Where in your story have you mistaken “mess” for “meaningless”?

A Prayer for the Girl Wondering If She Took a Wrong Turn

Dear God,
Thank You for being the Author of every chapter — even the ones I wanted to scribble out. You saw the dream when I hid it. You held my heart when I dropped it. And You never stopped calling me back. Help me to trust the mess — not as failure, but as formation. Help me to see that even the winding roads lead me closer to You. Thank You for bringing it full circle. Thank You for never giving up on who You created me to be.

Amen.

With love,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl...God Still Speaks

You keep asking for a sign.
Not because you don’t believe in God — but because deep down, you want to be reminded He’s still near. You want to know you’re on the right path, that you’re not walking alone, and that the choices you’re making are leading somewhere good.

You’re not alone in that.

Even the servant in Genesis 24 — on a sacred mission to find a wife for Isaac — asked God for a sign. He didn’t yet know God personally. His prayer began, “Lord, God of my master…” That distance. That unfamiliarity. And still, God answered.

He answered clearly. Gently. Faithfully.
Because God wants to be known.
He wants to be heard.
And yes — He still speaks.

Sometimes through people.
Sometimes through peace.
Sometimes through a whisper or a moment that causes you to pause and say, “That had to be You.”

The question is — are you listening?

You’ve walked through a lot. You’ve grown so much. You’re no longer the girl who used to twist herself into a version others would accept. You’re not driven by fear the same way. And you’re slowly, gently, stepping out of needing constant validation — and instead anchoring yourself in God's steady presence.

The truth?
God doesn’t always give signs because He wants you to trust, not test.
But even when we ask — in our weakness, in our childlike wondering — He meets us with grace.

Maybe today isn’t about needing a sign at all.
Maybe it’s about recognizing how many have already come.
A peaceful night.
A healed conversation.
A little circle of ballerinas scooting their dots closer to you.
A calm morning.
A whisper in your heart that says, “You’re right where you need to be.”

That’s God.
Still speaking.
Still guiding.
Still loving.

So take a breath, dear one.
The pressure is off.
You don’t have to force clarity — just walk in trust.
God is already ahead of you.

A question to journal on:
Where in your life are you asking for a sign — and could it be an invitation to deeper trust?

A Prayer to Close

Dear God,
I know You still speak.
Help me recognize Your voice, even in the quiet.
When I feel unsure or anxious, remind me that I don’t need to force answers — I just need to stay close to You.
Give me ears to hear, a heart to trust, and the wisdom to know when You’re asking me to wait — and when You’re asking me to walk.
Thank You for the little signs You’ve already given.
Thank You for never leaving.
I trust You with the next step.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.

With hope,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl...You're Ready to Share Again

Four years ago, I stood on a stage with nothing but a trembling heart and a truth I could no longer keep inside.
I was supposed to share a neat, prepared talk about the journal I had created after my mom passed away.
But life wasn’t neat then.

I was in the middle of heartbreak.
A season I didn’t choose.
A silence I didn’t want.
A loss that reshaped everything.

So I crumpled the notes I had prepared and spoke from the heart instead.

It wasn’t polished.
But it was real.
And that night, something awakened in me.

I remembered what it felt like to be the girl who smiled to survive —
the girl who stayed quiet to keep the peace,
the girl who betrayed her own heart just to feel loved.

That girl had something to say.
Not because she had answers — but because she knew what it was like to live without them.

Since then, life has unfolded in a thousand unexpected ways.
More grief.
More rebuilding.
More healing.
More surrender.

And now — after all this time — I feel ready again.

Not to perform.
Not to prove anything.
But to write from a place of peace.

Because healing doesn’t always shout.
Sometimes it takes years of quiet journaling, whispered prayers, and choosing to believe you’re still worthy of love.

So if you’ve ever silenced your story out of fear —
If you’re in the middle of a season you didn’t ask for —
Let me tell you what I wish someone had told me:

You’re not alone.
You still have a voice.
And maybe… just maybe… it’s time to use it again.

A Question to Journal On:
Have you silenced your story out of fear?
What would it look like to share it from a healed heart instead of a hurting one?

A Prayer for the Brave Heart:
Dear God,
Thank You for staying with me in every season — even the silent, shattered ones.
Thank You for meeting me when I had no words, and still using my story for Your glory.
Give me the courage to write, to speak, to live with tenderness and truth.
Let someone feel less alone because I didn’t stay silent.
Amen.

With peace and purpose,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl...Grief Comes in Waves

Grief comes in waves.
And today, it’s the quiet kind — the kind that tiptoes in through the back door of your heart.

Today marks sixteen years since I lost the baby I never held.
And today… I miss them.

I wonder who they would’ve been.
A boy? A girl?
Would they have had blue eyes like us?
Would they have danced with me?
Been close with Graeme?
What would they have loved?

I never found out the sex.
I would tell people I did, and I don’t know why I said that — but that’s what grief does.
It makes you say and do weird things.

At the time, I just couldn’t.
I was too overwhelmed by pain.
And now, I wish I had.
I wish I could call them by name.

This morning, I asked God for a sign.
I know He doesn’t have to give me one.
But I asked anyway — because this ache is still real.

I believe love began the moment I knew I was pregnant.
And that kind of love never dies.
It just lives quietly in your bones — rising to the surface on anniversaries and in church pews when you see a newborn resting in her mama’s arms.

And somehow, I’ve learned to praise through the pain.
To thank God for a love so strong it still moves me to tears.
To trust that He holds my baby in heaven — safe, whole, and fully known.

Today, I also felt something else:
Release.

For the first time in a long time, I felt myself letting go.
I prayed for the person I was releasing — not out of obligation, but out of a desire to be free.
Free from the resentment, the hurt, the tension that lives too long in our ribs when we cling to pain.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean re-entry.
It doesn’t mean I erase boundaries or pretend everything’s okay.
But it does mean I can say, “Lord, bless him,” and truly mean it.
And that? That’s healing.

This morning’s Bible study brought me to Genesis 31 —
Where Jacob is confronting his own family wounds.
His father-in-law had manipulated him, betrayed him, changed his wages ten times.
And yet Jacob says:

“But God did not allow him to harm me.”

That verse landed deep.
Because I’ve walked with people who have wounded me.
But I’ve also walked with God.
And He’s always protected me.
Even when I didn’t understand.
Even when I felt alone.

I don’t have to manipulate anything to stay safe.
I don’t have to strive to be loved.
I can rest.
I can be still.

God’s got me.
He’s got my boys.
He’s got my marriage — even when I don’t know what’s next.

So today, I’m not cleaning up the messes.
I’m not fighting to be enough.
I’m simply showing up.
And then I’m breathing.
Laying in the sun.
Resting in the truth that I am fully loved.
Without proving a thing.

A gentle reminder for you:
You don’t have to fix all the messy places.
You don’t have to fight for love or approval.
You can breathe.
You can trust.
You can simply be.

God sees you.
He hears you.
And His plans for you are still unfolding — even now.

A Question to Journal On:
Where is God inviting you to slow down and simply be today?

With love and stillness,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl...You Have A Voice

Maybe today feels noisy — full of plans, pressures, and expectations.
Maybe you're trying so hard to keep everything together that you almost forgot to breathe.

But there’s a whisper waiting for you underneath it all.

God's whisper.
The one that says:

"You have a voice."
"You don't have to strive for it."
"You don't have to earn it."
"You already have it — because you are Mine."

You don't have to carry the weight of your future alone.
You don't have to fix all the messy places.
You don't have to fight for love or approval.

Breathe.
Trust.
Listen.

And you can use your voice — whether it's in quiet surrender, in fierce love, or simply in choosing joy today.

You are seen.
You are heard.
You are loved.

And God's plans for you are unfolding... even now.

So take a moment today — to pause, to breathe, to remember your voice.

A Question to Journal On:
Where is God inviting you to slow down and listen today?

A Prayer for the Listening Heart:
Dear God,
Quiet the noise around me and within me.
Help me to hear Your voice above all the others.
Show me how to trust You — not just with my dreams, but with my everyday moments.
Thank You for giving me a voice that matters.
Help me to use it for love, for truth, and for You.
Amen.

(Sometimes breaking into imperative form creates more power and immediacy — up to your style!)

💡 Optional Add-On Line (before the journal prompt):

So take a moment today — to pause, to breathe, to remember your voice.

Dear Little Girl...It's Ok to Feel Heavy

Some seasons hit harder than others, don’t they?

Even when you’re doing all the things.
Even when you’re showing up for everyone else.
Even when there’s technically nothing wrong—your chest can still tighten, your thoughts can still race, and your body can still beg you to slow down.

I remember one of those seasons.

It was a swirl of caregiving, teaching, end-of-year performances, unexpected emotional anniversaries, and the kind of fear you can’t quite name. Graeme had broken both arms. We were managing—but barely. I was feeding him, dressing him, bathing him. Loving him. All while running a full-time job, managing a recital, and holding space for a marriage, a family, and a future that felt fragile.

I sat with God one morning and all I could say was: I give up.

Not in a hopeless way—but in a surrendering way.

I let go. I handed it over. I couldn’t fix it all, carry it all, or know it all. But I could choose to trust.

Maybe that’s where you are right now.

Maybe trust feels like the only way forward. Maybe you’re handing over fears about your kids, your partner, your work, your purpose, your health. Maybe you're not even sure what you’re handing over—just… something.

And that’s okay.

You don’t need words for the weight you carry in order to lay it down.
You just need the willingness to open your hands.

Because here’s what I’ve learned: God never needed us to be perfect.
Just present. Just willing. Just honest.

So if today feels heavy, here’s what you can ask Him to do:

– Calm the panic you can’t explain
– Lift the weight you don’t understand
– Send little bursts of peace through your ordinary day

Dear Little Girl,
You were allowed to be tired then, and you’re allowed to be tired now.
You’re allowed to say, This feels like too much.
You’re allowed to need help.

And you are still good.
Still faithful.
Still held.

A Question to Journal On:
What are you handing over to God today?

A Prayer for the Heavy Days:
Dear God,
Sometimes I don’t even know what’s wrong—I just feel off.
My heart is heavy, my mind is noisy, and I can’t find the words for the swirl inside. But I’m here. And I know You are too.
Take what I can’t name.
Hold what I can’t carry.
Give me the peace that passes understanding.
Some days I want to be joyful… but today I just need to be held.

So hold me.
Love me.
Whisper truth back into my soul.

I surrender. Take care of everything.

Amen.

With open hands,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl...The Stone Has Been Rolled Away

I was reading Genesis 29 — a chapter I didn’t expect to shake me. It’s the beginning of Jacob’s story with Rachel, but before that love story unfolds, there’s a quiet moment that stopped me:

“There he saw a well in the open country, with three flocks of sheep lying near it… The stone over the mouth of the well was large… When all the flocks were gathered there, the shepherds would roll the stone away… and water the sheep.” (Genesis 29:2–3)

At first, it just felt like pastoral logistics — sheep, shepherds, and a well. But then the Spirit stirred something in me.

Three flocks.
A heavy stone blocking life-giving water.
A shepherd rolling it away so the sheep could drink.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just in Genesis anymore.

I was standing outside a tomb.
I could see another stone — one that sealed death itself.
And I could feel the power of resurrection in the air.

The stone was rolled away.
Not so sheep could be watered temporarily — but so all of us could be given eternal life.
Jesus, the Good Shepherd, the Living Water, had risen.

And maybe — just maybe — the three flocks weren’t just a coincidence.
Father. Son. Holy Spirit.
All present at the well.
All present at the tomb.
All present here, in this sacred moment where Scripture comes alive in your heart.

Dear Little Girl,

You’ve been carrying so much.
Worrying about the future.
Feeling the ache of a child growing up and away.
Sensing a shift, a stillness, and wondering if it means something is wrong.

But maybe today isn’t about figuring it all out.

Maybe today is about remembering the stone has already been rolled away.

You're drinking from Living Water — even as you doubt your own thirst.
You're showing up in your calling — even as you wonder if it’s enough.
You’re choosing hope — even when fear knocks louder.

And that? That’s resurrection.

You’re not the girl who needs to hustle for worthiness anymore.
You’re not the woman who bends and breaks to keep everyone else whole.

You are the one who hears the whisper of the Spirit in Scripture.
Who sees Jesus in the well, in the tomb, in the ordinary.

Let the water wash over the fear.
Let it soften the grief.
Let it nourish the roots of every buried dream.

The tomb is empty.
The well is full.
And the Shepherd still sees you.

A Question to Journal On:
What “stone” has been rolled away in your life lately — and how are you being invited to drink deeply of God’s Living Water?

A Prayer for the Girl Who’s Learning to Live Fully

Dear God,
Thank You for rolling away the stone — in Scripture, in history, and in my life.
Thank You for being the well that never runs dry.
When I feel dry or distant, help me remember You are near.
Help me live like the well is open and the invitation is for me.
Let me be refreshed by Your Spirit and pour that love into the lives around me.
Use my story, Lord — even the hard parts.
Turn my mess into a message of hope.
Amen.

With joy and wonder,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl...You Are Allowed To Say This Is Hard

Some days you’re strong.
Some days you’re tired of being strong.
And today, you’re tired.

The fear creeps in like a quiet whisper: “Here we go again…”
You’ve ridden this ride before. The walking-on-eggshells, the short tempers, the roller coaster of moods and wondering what version of someone you’ll get today. And if you're honest — you're exhausted.

Not because you’re weak.
Because you're human.

You're a woman who fiercely protects her children.
Who shows up to her calling.
Who serves with love even while she hurts.

And today, you feel it all. The heaviness. The “what ifs.” The swirl of grief for what should’ve been different. The ache of past betrayals you thought you buried. And still… you get up. You show up. You speak truth in love. And that, sweet girl, is sacred work.

You’re doing holy work — even if it looks like writing a letter to protect your son, or choosing not to shrink back into silence, or whispering “Lord, I’m scared, but I trust You anyway.”

Because the truth is, this isn't about fixing someone else.
This is about healing you.

It’s about learning how to stay grounded in your purpose and peace — whether the world around you feels stable or not.

And if no one has told you lately, hear this:
You are not too much.
You are not wrong for feeling tired.
You are not broken for wanting more.

God sees it all. The tension. The frustration. The fight to be heard. The courage it takes to live your life fully while still honoring someone else's process.

You’re not alone in it. He’s walking with you.

Even now.

Even in this.

A Question to Journal On:
What fear are you carrying that God is asking you to set down?

A Prayer for the Days You’re Just Not Sure:
God,
I don’t know what to do with all this today. But I trust You do. Help me release what I can’t control. Help me find words when I need to speak, and peace when silence is the right answer. I give You my fears, my hopes, my hurt. Thank You for holding them gently. Thank You for never making me carry it alone. Walk with me, and help me walk in wisdom.
Amen.

You are allowed to be tired.
You are still held.
You are still worthy.
💗
In tenderness and truth,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl...You Can Heal What Still Hurts

You’ve forgiven. You’ve chosen love. You’ve stayed.

But if you're being honest, there's still pain. The kind that hides beneath the surface… quiet, sharp, and unresolved. And just because you've moved forward doesn't mean it doesn’t still sting.

That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

There’s no shame in feeling the echoes of old wounds — the grief that never had space to breathe. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were strong. That staying meant letting it go. But what you didn’t realize was that letting go doesn’t always mean pretending it never happened.

Letting go can mean telling the truth. To yourself. To God.

It can mean sitting in discomfort and saying, “This still hurts.”

It can mean owning the anger you buried for the sake of peace. Or finally admitting that what they did did change you — and you’re still becoming whole again.

You’re not broken for needing healing.
You’re brave for asking God to meet you in it.

And He is.

He’s in the ache. In the silence. In the awkward, in-between spaces. He’s in the surrender — the kind that says, “I’m not okay, but I’m giving it to You anyway.”

You are not alone in this.
He doesn’t just carry your healed heart.
He carries your hurting one too.

And you’re allowed to keep choosing love and still want healing.
You’re allowed to hold joy in one hand and ache in the other.

That is not weakness. That is wholeness.

Keep going, little girl.
You’re doing the hard work.
And your healing is holy.

A Question to Journal On:
What part of your story still stings — even though you’ve forgiven?

A Prayer:
Dear God,
Thank You for being safe enough for my pain. Thank You for being the One I can tell the truth to — even when I don’t have the answers. Help me name what still hurts, release what’s not mine to carry, and trust You to restore every part of my heart. You’ve walked with me through it all. Keep showing me how to heal — not just once, but again and again.

Amen.

With tenderness and truth,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl...God Still has you

Dear Little Girl, God Still Has You,

(Even when it feels like everything is falling apart)

Today we celebrate the day death lost its grip.
The day hope rose from the grave.
The day the impossible was defeated by love.

Easter is not just a story from long ago.
It’s a declaration over your life — right now.
When it looks like everything is falling apart, God is still moving.
When it feels like the end, God is still writing.
When you feel abandoned, unseen, or forgotten — the empty tomb shouts back: YOU ARE HELD. YOU ARE SEEN. YOU ARE LOVED.

Maybe today, your life feels heavy. Maybe love feels heavy. Trust feels broken. Maybe you’re whispering, “Lord, get in my head before I do,” because your mind is racing and your heart is aching. And you’re tired of holding it all together.

Maybe the tension at home is thick. Maybe someone you love is making choices that hurt — and you can’t fix it...

 You want to fight for what matters, but it feels like you're losing yourself in the battle. And sometimes? You don’t even know what to say anymore.

That’s okay.

God hears the whispers you don’t even speak.
He sees the tears that fall in parking lots, in kitchens, in counseling rooms.
He knows when you're at the end of your rope — and He’s already holding you.

Last week, I opened my Bible and found myself right in the middle of Genesis — the part where Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar are at an impasse. Decisions have been made. Lines have been crossed. And consequences follow. Hagar is sent away, heartbroken and alone. She becomes the first single mother recorded in the Bible — cast out with her child.

And what does God do?

He finds her.

He speaks to her.

He provides for her and her son.

He reminds her — and all of us — that even when we’re not part of someone else's “plan,” we are still very much part of His.

Dear Little Girl, even if others don’t see your worth, God does.

Even if you feel abandoned, betrayed, or pushed aside — you are never outside the reach of His love.

And if you're like me — weary from trying, tired from holding back emotions, unsure if you're being too much or not enough — I want you to know this:

You don’t have to beg for love.
You don’t have to fight to be seen.
You don’t need a man, a parent, a friend, or anyone else to tell you who you are.

You are already known, deeply loved, and completely held by the One who created you.

So if you find yourself in a moment like Hagar’s — desperate, on the edge, unsure where to go next — remember: God hears you.

You are seen.

You are worthy.

You are still part of His plan.

Even when things are messy.
Even when you're not sure what tomorrow holds.
Even when you’re just surviving.

God still has you.

Where have you believed the lie that you need someone else’s love to be whole? (Sit with this and journal on it)

Prayer:

Jesus,
When everything feels like it’s falling apart, remind me that You are still holding me together.
When I feel unseen, help me remember You see every tear.
When I feel unworthy, whisper again that Your love has never been based on my performance — only Your goodness.

Thank You for finding me in the wilderness.
Thank You for speaking life over places I thought were dead.

Today, I surrender what I can't fix.
I surrender what feels broken.
I surrender my need to be enough.

I trust that You are still writing my story — and because of You, it is not over.

Amen.

Remember this:

He is risen.

And so are you.

Keep going sister…I see you…I was you…I am you…

Love,

Worthy