Trying to belong Every Sunday I went to church. If there was a service, a meeting, a choir rehearsal, or a youth activity, chances are I was there. My grandmother took us on Sunday mornings. My grandfather took us back on Sunday evenings. Between Sunday School, worship services, Girls’ Auxiliary,
Some lessons were never written on the blackboard. My first day of kindergarten arrived on a warm September morning along the Texas Gulf Coast. My parents were divorced by then, but that morning my father came to walk me to school. I remember the comfort of his hand wrapped around
Before the Labels Before we learn our names, before we speak our first words, before we accomplish anything at all, we enter the world carrying an undeniable truth. We are born worthy. We are born to belong. She knows nothing of success or failure, approval or rejection. She knows only
Somewhere along the way, I learned to protect myself. I don’t remember making that decision. I simply remember living it. Whenever disappointment came close, I withdrew. Whenever criticism appeared, I grew quiet. Whenever life hurt, I built another layer of armor around the softest places in my heart. Looking
A continued reflection on That Wall… Some childhood memories soften around the edges as the years pass. Others never do. This is one of mine. It began on a Sunday. My younger sister and I were staying with our grandparents, as we often did after my parents divorced. Sundays were
Meeting the little girl who learned to build walls. Whenever I sit down to write, a familiar fog settles over me. Ideas are plentiful, yet the moment I reach for them, a quiet voice insists I have nothing worth saying. For years, I believed my struggle with creativity came from
What the journey is about. My soul clamors for a creative release. Yet whenever I reach for a pen, a paintbrush, a keyboard, or a blank page, something unsettling happens. A fog creeps in, and a familiar voice begins to whisper: Stop. You don't know enough. Don'
The porch light is on. You’re always welcome here. I don't have one long story to tell you. I have small pieces of my life, set down as I've found the courage to look at them. Some I understood right away. Others I'm
The quiet work that shapes a soul. A home for my voice. The porch light is on. You're always welcome here.