Dear Little Girl...When Fear Knocks, Stand on the Cornerstone
Friday left me emotionally spun out. A situation with my son stirred fear, anger, and mama-bear instinct, leaving me tangled in uncertainty. But in Acts 4, God reminded me: the Cornerstone hasn’t moved. Even in waiting rooms, fear doesn’t get to drive.
“When everything feels shaky and uncertain, the Cornerstone hasn’t moved.”
Friday left me completely spun out.
When there’s a situation involving one of my boys—especially one that feels unfair or unjust—it hits me at my core. My mama-bear instincts kick in, my heart pounds, and my mind races with what’s right, what’s wrong, and how to make sure truth is seen. It’s a swirl of fear, anger, and fierce protection, all wrapped together.
And while I was emotionally tangled in every detail, I felt like the world was dancing along around me… completely unfazed.
The contrast between my inner storm and the calm—or perhaps the unawareness—of everything else made me feel even more alone in it. It was as if I was standing still while life moved on, swirling past me in rhythm I couldn’t quite join.
That contrast triggered something in me. Memories of other hard seasons started playing like a highlight reel—times when I felt like I was carrying the emotional load alone. Add that to the other fears swirling around me lately, and by midday my heart was in overdrive. I even found myself drinking during the day, which isn’t typical for me. A clear red flag that my internal world was off balance.
🌀 When Fear Starts Driving the Bus
I’ve learned that underneath my anger usually sits one thing: fear.
Fear that I’ll have to do the hard thing again.
Fear that my child could be misunderstood or labeled in ways that aren’t fair.
Fear that patterns I’ve seen before are repeating.
Fear that I’ll be abandoned when things get hard.
Fear that the stress will make me sick again.
Fear that my life is unraveling before my eyes and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Fear about finances and what could happen if everything really does fall apart.
The fear is real. It’s loud. And if I’m not careful, it starts calling the shots.
🚗 And Fear Is a Terrible Driver (and a Terrible Aim)
By the evening, I was exhausted—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. And in that weary place, I opened my Bible to Acts. It felt like God timed it perfectly. Peter was addressing the Jewish leaders, pointing them back to Psalm 118:22:
“The stone you builders rejected, which has become the cornerstone.”
— Acts 4:11
This verse hit me differently this time. Peter wasn’t just talking about a prophecy fulfilled—he was declaring something unshakable.
Jesus, the rejected stone, is the Cornerstone.
The anchor.
The foundation.
Even when leaders misunderstand.
Even when systems fail.
Even when fear screams.
The Cornerstone has not moved.
🧍♀️ Boundaries & Trust
That truth led me to two commitments for the days ahead:
Strengthen my boundaries.
I learned long ago that there’s really only one person I can change—me. The Serenity Prayer still steadies me:
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Trust the Cornerstone.
Even if the outcome doesn’t look like what I imagined, I can trust the One who holds it all. That trust anchors my soul.
⏳ The Waiting Room
I’m still waiting on answers.
Waiting on outcomes.
Waiting to see how things will unfold.
Over the last nine years, I’ve spent a lot of time in “waiting rooms.”
The kind where emotions rise and fall like waves.
The kind where you have no control over what’s happening behind the doors.
Like the waiting room of a hospital—when someone you love is in surgery or ICU—and all you can do is look up and pray.
That’s where I am today.
Looking up.
Choosing not to let fear take the driver’s seat.
If fear tries to climb in, I’ll pull over, ask it to exit, and anchor myself again to the Cornerstone.
💬 Question for you to Journal on:
Where is fear trying to take the driver’s seat in your life right now?
What would it look like to bring that fear to the Cornerstone instead of carrying it alone?
🕊 A Prayer
Lord, you see every place where fear tries to take the wheel in my life.
You know the worries I carry—both the spoken and the silent ones.
Today, I choose to bring them to You, the Cornerstone.
Anchor my heart in Your unshakable truth.
Remind me that I am not alone in the waiting room, the storm, or the unknown.
Give me courage to loosen my grip on control and place it back in Your hands.
Teach me to trust Your steady foundation when everything else feels shaky.
In Jesus’ name.
Amen.
✨ You are not alone in this, friend.
Even in the waiting rooms of life, the Cornerstone holds steady. When fear tries to climb back into the driver’s seat, take a breath, look up, and remember—you are anchored to something unshakable.
Love,
Worthy
Dear Little Girl....Resurrection Is Still on God’s Calendar
In a world torn by violence and division, it can feel like we’re living through a cultural winter. But just as Easter always comes, resurrection is still on God’s calendar. Even in silence, He is at work—inviting us to be light, love, and hope in a culture gone mad.
A school shooting in Evergreen. An assassination in Utah. A weekend in memoriam of 9/11.
Violence. Hatred. Fear.
It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? And everyone has an opinion. Peers, pundits, politicians—you don’t have to look far to find finger-pointing on both sides of the stage. Maybe it’s our way of trying to make sense of the senseless. But what if, instead of shouting louder, we simply asked: God, where are You in all of this?
This morning I heard a phrase that stopped me in my tracks: a culture gone mad. And honestly? That’s what it feels like. Our country is divided, confused, and sometimes it seems like we’ve lost God completely.
Yet I think about my own story. My marriage was once in ashes, scattered everywhere. And slowly—tenderly—God pieced it back together. If He could bring beauty from those ashes, could He not also bring beauty from the ruins of a nation?
Maybe what we’re living through is a kind of cultural winter.
Fall strips things bare.
Winter feels silent, harsh, even dead.
But deep in the soil, life is still hidden. And spring always comes.
And here’s the hope that steadies me: just like Easter comes every spring, resurrection is always on God’s calendar.
Even in silence, He is at work.
Even in barrenness, He is preparing new life.
So what if the invitation right now isn’t to fix it all—or even to understand it all?
What if it’s simply this:
✨ Be the good news.
✨ Be love.
✨ Be joy.
✨ Be light.
Because that’s what the world needs most. Not more anger. Not more division. But a reminder that the Spirit is still here. And revival is still possible.
💭 Question to Journal on:
Where in your life does it feel like winter right now—and how might God already be preparing a spring you can’t yet see?
🕊 Prayer:
Lord, in a world that feels heavy with violence and division, remind us that You are not absent. Teach us to be carriers of Your light when the darkness presses in. Help us trust that even in cultural winters, resurrection is coming. Make us instruments of peace, love, and hope—because You are still writing the story. Amen.
Dear Little Girl...When God Says Trust
You don’t have to force it. You don’t have to choke it. You don’t even have to feel brave. You just have to trust—one breath at a time, one step at a time. The same God who met you in the waiting is the same God who carries you in the trusting.
You know the wilderness well.
The long nights. The waiting. The ache of questions that never seemed to end.
But you also know something else—
you know the God who met you there.
The One who whispered “Wait” when you wanted to run.
The One who held you when hope felt thin.
The One who brought redemption to places you thought were lost.
And now, His whisper is different.
It’s no longer “Wait.”
It’s “Trust.”
Trust feels harder than waiting sometimes, doesn’t it?
Waiting can still keep your hands closed tight.
But trust?
Trust asks you to loosen your grip.
To unclench your fists around the things you love most—
your calling, your body, your family—
and believe that He’s big enough to hold them all.
Trust is not about blind leaps.
It’s about remembering what He’s already done.
If He brought beauty from ashes before,
why wouldn’t He do it again?
Look at your own story—
the marriage that found light again,
the sacred moments you thought were gone but weren’t.
That was trust.
That was grace unfolding in real time.
And now, dear one, He’s asking the same of you here.
With your foot. With your work. With the future you can’t quite see.
You don’t have to force it.
You don’t have to choke it.
You don’t even have to feel brave.
You just have to trust.
One breath at a time. One step at a time.
Because the same God who asked Abraham to wait,
then to trust,
is the same God who is with you now.
He’s still the God who provides.
A Prayer:
Lord, You know how tightly I hold the things I love. You see the fear that rises when I imagine losing them. Today, I choose to unclench my hands and trust that You are good, that You provide, and that You will carry me. Give me the courage to release what I cannot control, and the peace to know You are already holding it. Amen.
A Question to Journal On:
Today, I’ll go first. I’ve found my true love and passion in teaching kids—and right now my foot has a potential real problem. I’m terrified of losing what I just discovered. But today, I’m trusting… trying to unclench and let go.
What about you? What are you holding onto so tightly that God might be asking you to release?
With you in the journey,
Worthy
Dear Little Girl… You Are Loved Even in the Heavy Moments
Some seasons feel heavier than others — and sometimes we can’t explain why. I’ve known those days too, the ones where nothing is wrong but your heart still feels heavy. If that’s where you are today, hear this: you don’t have to fix yourself to be worthy. You are already loved.
Dear Little Girl,
Some seasons feel heavier than others — and sometimes, we can’t even explain why.
It may be the weight of memories we thought we had already laid down.
It may be the body remembering what the mind tries so hard to forget.
It may simply be the ache of living in a world that spins too fast.
I’ve known those days — the ones where nothing is wrong but your heart still feels heavy. And maybe you’re there right now.
If so, hear this:
You are loved.
Not because of what you accomplish.
Not because you keep it all together.
Not because you force yourself to feel “fine.”
But simply because you are.
Dear Little Girl, when the weight presses down and your heart can’t find words, you are still loved.
Completely.
Unconditionally.
Always.
You don’t have to fix yourself to be worthy.
You don’t have to hide your heaviness to be held.
You don’t have to understand every ache to be covered in the love of a God who sees it all.
And here’s what I know on the other side of some of those heavy places:
The weight doesn’t get the final say.
Love does.
God does.
So even if today feels heavier than you hoped, you are still His. You are still loved.
A Question to Journal On:
Where do you most need to whisper to yourself today: “I am loved”?
A Prayer for the Heavy Days
Dear God,
Thank you for loving me in the heavy and in the light.
When the weight feels too much, remind me that I don’t carry it alone.
When fear tries to creep in, anchor me in your peace.
When memories rise, meet me with healing.
Help me rest in the truth that I am Yours. Always.
Amen.
With hope and love,
Worthy
Dear Little Girl...You're Already Seen
You’ve spent so much of your life trying to be seen — twirling harder, talking faster, smiling brighter. But here’s the truth: you were already seen by the God who never missed a single moment. And now, He’s leading you full circle, back to the place where passion meets purpose.
Dear Little Girl,
You spent so much of your life trying to be seen.
Twirling harder. Talking faster. Smiling brighter.
But no matter how loud you tried, it often felt like no one really heard you.
Your father didn’t understand your love for the arts — so you exaggerated your wins, hoping one day he’d say, “I’m proud of you.” You weren’t chasing fame. You were chasing his attention.
You grew up, married, had children, built a life — and still found yourself shape-shifting to be enough. You quit jobs, poured drinks, tried to keep up. You wore every version of “pleaser” until one day, you just got tired.
Tired of striving.
Tired of proving.
Tired of explaining why you loved what you loved.
But here’s the truth:
You were already seen.
By the God who never missed a monologue.
By the One who knows every story, every stumble, every start-over.
He saw you in the seasons when you felt most forgotten. And He sees you now — not for what you do, but for who you are.
And here’s the beauty of this full-circle moment:
Because you’ve lived as the overlooked, you carry a gift for seeing the overlooked. You notice the quiet ones. You cheer for the vulnerable ones. You create space for the ones who need to know they matter.
This year has been heavy. Loss has touched the dance floor. Tears have touched the stage. But even here, in the ache, God is writing a story of purpose. He has led you back to the little ones — the children who twirl and tiptoe and trust you with their whole hearts.
Cooper was never wasted. It was a stepping stone — a part of the plan that led you back to the passion, dream, and calling you’ve carried all along.
And now, as you walk into this new season, remember:
You don’t have to perform to be valuable.
You don’t have to exaggerate to be interesting.
You don’t have to be anything more than exactly who you are.
Because girl, you’re already seen.
A Question to Journal On: Where is God showing you that the waiting and the detours were never wasted?
A Prayer for the Girl Learning to Stop Proving
Dear God, thank You for seeing me long before anyone else did. Thank You for the stepping stones that became sacred paths. Thank You for giving me the gift of being with the little ones who remind me that joy is found in presence, not performance. Keep me grounded in who I am in You — worthy, loved, and already seen.
Amen.
With love,
Worthy
Dear Little Girl...God Will Meet You Where You Are
You don’t have to wait until you’re strong to be seen by God. Even in the overwhelm, He’s already there—faithful, present, and ready to carry what you can’t. Inspired by Jacob’s story in Genesis 28, this devotional reminds you that God doesn’t need your perfection—just your presence.
Dear Little Girl,
I wrote this a few months ago, back when the weight in my chest felt heavier than my faith.
When I was juggling clients, classes, a show—and barely holding it all together.
Reading it now, with a little more clarity and a whole lot more peace, I see what I couldn’t fully grasp back then:
God was in the story the whole time.
So if that’s where you are today—still holding your breath between tasks, whispering prayers between tears—
This is for you.
You’re trying so hard to be strong.
To do enough, be enough, stay ahead of it all.
You’re carrying hope for your children, healing for yourself, and heartache that never quite settles down.
And still, you keep going.
But here’s what I need you to hear:
God isn’t asking you to be enough. He’s asking you to let Him be.
Because He’s already in the story—even the overwhelming parts.
Even the parts you’re bargaining through.
Even the parts you think are too messy to matter.
Remember Jacob?
His story is found in Genesis 28.
He was a liar, a trickster, a man running from the fallout of his own mistakes. And that’s exactly where God showed up.
Not after Jacob made amends.
Not when he proved himself worthy.
But right there—in the wilderness, alone, with a rock for a pillow.
God gave him this promise:
“I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go.” (Genesis 28:15)
Jacob didn’t find God because he was holy.
God found him because He is faithful.
And maybe that’s you right now.
You’re not running, exactly, but you're moving fast.
And under all that motion is a quiet plea:
“Please meet me here.”
He will.
He already has.
So today, take the next step—not toward perfection, but toward presence.
Offer your best, not your performance.
And when the weight rises in your chest, breathe and remember:
God’s faithfulness is not dependent on your hustle.
His love is not waiting on your clean-up.
He is with you—right here, right now.
✨ A Question to Journal On:
Where in your life are you bargaining with God instead of trusting Him to meet you exactly as you are?
🙏 A Prayer for the Girl Who’s Carrying Too Much:
Dear God,
Thank You for showing up in the middle of my mess—not when I’ve got it together, but when I’m barely holding on.
Remind me that I don’t have to prove anything. I just have to trust You.
Help me surrender the burdens You never asked me to carry.
Help me give my children, my dreams, my fear, and my failures back to You.
Thank You for being faithful even when I doubt. Even when I run.
You are in this story—every part of it.
Thank You for never leaving.
Amen.
With love,
Worthy
Dear Little Girl... You're Allowed to be in the "And"
After a summer marked by both joy and unspeakable loss, I’m slowly finding my way back to the page. This letter is a reminder—for me and maybe for you—that we’re allowed to live in the “And.” You don’t have to choose between grief and growth, purpose and peace, or legacy and calling. Both can be holy. And you, sweet girl, are already enough.
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
Looking for a quick, flavorful dinner your whole family will love? This Mexican Pile-Up is straight from my mama’s kitchen—simple, satisfying, and perfect for busy nights. Packed with seasoned beef, beans, and all your favorite toppings, it's a build-your-own bowl of comfort and crunch. Bonus? It’s easy enough to throw together when you don’t feel like cooking. 😉
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:
Sauté the chopped onion until soft.
Add ground beef and cook until browned.
Season with garlic salt, pepper, and chili powder to taste.
Stir in the undrained pinto beans.
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
This past week pushed me, pulled me, and hugged me tight—all while it was healing me and growing me. I came home with new tools, new friends, and a reminder that healing isn’t just possible—it’s already happening.
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
Somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, you became everything to everyone. Wife. Mother. Healer. Helper. Peacemaker. Protector. And all the while, you feared divorce, worried about finances, and wondered if healing would ever come. If you're there now—holding your breath and holding it all together—this is for you. From someone who's been there. You don’t have to compete for love anymore. You already are chosen.
“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 raw thoughts from the fog of grief. What do you do when the answers run out, the platitudes feel hollow, and you're left yelling at your phone and still talking to God? You keep writing. You keep healing.
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
“Discipline isn't about feeling motivated. It's about showing up regardless.” — Lewis Howes
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.)
When grief feels too heavy and faith starts to crack, love—real, raw, unshakeable love—becomes the only thing left to cling to. This is for anyone who’s been asking, "Where were you, God?"
“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:
Do You know the situation?
Is this too big for You?
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’ve stayed through storms, raised sons in the wreckage, and poured yourself out even when your cup was empty. But Little Girl, you were never second choice. Like Leah in Genesis, your story isn’t about being unloved—it’s about being seen by a God who always chooses you.
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
A rainbow. A robe. A reminder that even when life strips you of your comfort, your reputation, or your freedom—God never leaves. In this post, I reflect on Joseph’s story, the quiet beauty of healing after heartbreak, and what it means to remain in the vine. This one’s for the woman who feels trapped, forgotten, or afraid. You are not alone—and your story isn’t over.
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
You’ve been carrying things God never asked you to hold. This Dear Little Girl devotional is a midweek reminder that you can release the guilt, pressure, and pain — and walk in freedom again.
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
You thought the messy parts meant you were off course — but what if they were part of the plan all along? In this tender letter to your younger self, rediscover the beauty in the detours and the God who never let go.
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
Maybe it’s not about needing a new sign — but recognizing the ones you’ve already been given. In this week's Dear Little Girl devotional, we reflect on the ways God still speaks through peace, people, and everyday whispers. What if He’s already answered… and now He’s just asking you to trust?
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 and shared my story — not from a place of polish, but from raw, real pain. I was in the middle of heartbreak, and instead of reading my notes, I crumpled them and spoke from the heart. That moment changed everything. Today, I’m ready to share again — this time from peace, not pain. Maybe you are too.
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
Sixteen years ago, I lost the baby I never held. Today, I remember. I reflect. And somehow, I also release. This is a story of quiet grief, unexpected healing, and the gentle voice of God reminding me that I am loved — even in the letting go.
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.”