You worked. You provided. You pushed through.

Rest was a reward. Joy was postponed.

And for many, the promised rest of retirement, never came.

Something needed to shift.

Quietly at first, then all at once, a revolution began to take shape. Not in the streets, not with signs or slogans, but in the daily decisions of ordinary people choosing differently.

And at the center of it is something radical:

Joy.

The Reclaiming of the Self

Over the last decade, more adults have begun to question the systems and expectations that taught them to abandon themselves in the name of productivity.

We are seeing a generation unlearn the idea that their worth is tied solely to output.

According to the American Psychological Association, chronic stress levels have remained consistently high, with a significant portion of adults reporting feeling overwhelmed or burned out in their daily lives. At the same time, therapy usage has increased substantially, especially among millennials and Gen Z, signaling a cultural shift toward prioritizing mental and emotional well-being.

Self-care, once dismissed as indulgent or performative, has evolved from a form of survival into one of reclamation. Studies show that over 70% of adults now engage in some form of regular self-care practice, whether that be exercise, mindfulness, journaling, or therapy.

The Return to Play

There is something deeply powerful happening in the quiet corners of people’s lives.

Adults are picking up paintbrushes again.

They’re learning instruments.

They’re joining book clubs, taking dance classes, tending gardens, baking bread—not for profit, not for performance, but for the simple act of being alive.

Research has shown that engaging in hobbies is directly linked to lower stress levels, improved mood, and even increased longevity. One recent survey found that people with regular hobbies report significantly higher life satisfaction than those without.

Hobbies, once seen as childish or unnecessary, are being reintroduced as essential.

Because somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that play had an expiration date.

This movement says otherwise.

To have a hobby is to resist the idea that your life exists only to produce. It is to say: I am more than what I can monetize.

Naming the Burnout

We are also more aware than ever of the cost of constant striving.

Burnout is no longer a badge of honor, it’s a warning sign.

The World Health Organization officially recognized burnout as an occupational phenomenon, bringing language and legitimacy to what so many have been experiencing for years. In the U.S., surveys show that a majority of workers have experienced burnout at some point in their careers.

And with naming comes permission.

Permission to slow down.

Permission to step back.

Permission to choose differently.

For data read more here: Stress Stats

Rest as Resistance

Perhaps the most radical shift of all is how we are beginning to view rest.

Rest is no longer just recovery.

It’s resistance.

In a culture that profits from your exhaustion, choosing to rest becomes a refusal to participate in your own depletion. It is a quiet rebellion against systems that demand constant availability, constant productivity, constant sacrifice.

Movements centered around rest. Especially those led by creatives, faith leaders, and wellness advocates, have reframed rest as a human right, not a luxury.

To rest is to declare: I am not a machine.

My Return to Joy

For me, this revolution became personal.

There was a moment where I realized I didn’t actually know what I liked anymore—only what I was good at, what was productive, what made sense on paper.

So I gave myself permission to explore.

That exploration led me somewhere unexpected: sitting in a concert hall, listening to the Nashville Symphony. And in that space, something softened in me. Something woke up.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t strategic.

It was just… beautiful.

That moment led me to the harp.

Learning harp as an adult wasn’t about mastery or performance. It was about rediscovery. It was about choosing something simply because it brought me peace, curiosity, and wonder.

It reminded me that joy is not always loud or extravagant—sometimes it is gentle, sacred, and deeply personal.

Invest in Your Joy

If this is a revolution, then joy is intentional, and like anything worth having, it requires investment.

Not just money, but time. Attention. Permission.

So here is your invitation:

Choose one small act of joy this week.

Not because it’s productive.

Not because it’s profitable.

But because it makes you feel alive.

Joy doesn’t have to be extravagant. Sometimes it begins in the smallest acts of curiosity and delight.

If you don’t know where to start, here are a few ideas:

• Learn an instrument (even just the basics, you can be a harpist with me)

• Take a dance class or follow a dance tutorial at home

• Start a small garden or care for plants

• Curate a “soundtrack of your life” playlist and actually sit and listen to it intentionally

• Visit an open house or model home just to explore design and dream a little

• Take yourself on a solo “artist date” (museum, café, bookstore, etc)

• Learn the basics of a niche skill (calligraphy, candle-making, herbal teas, or perfumery)

• Start a “joy journal” where you only record moments that made you smile

• Try birdwatching or cloud watching (yes, slowing down can be the hobby)

• Recreate a childhood favorite activity (coloring books, puzzles, building something)

• Explore your cultural roots through recipes, music, or storytelling

• Create a monthly “theme night” for yourself or friends (film, food, fashion, etc.)

• Volunteer in something that feels life-giving, not just obligatory

• Attend a local event, concert, or workshop you normally wouldn’t consider

• Learn how to arrange flowers or style spaces in your home just for beauty

You don’t have to commit to all of it.

You just have to begin.

A Joyful Revolution

A turning back toward ourselves.

A remembering of what it means to live, not just survive.

Joy is no longer something postponed.

It is becoming something practiced.

In the meals we savor.

In the hobbies we nurture.

In the boundaries we hold.

In the rest we protect.

This revolution is not loud, but it is powerful.

It looks like a woman choosing to go to therapy.

It looks like a man learning how to say no.

It looks like a creative picking up their craft again after years of silence.

It looks like you deciding that your life is worth more than burnout.

The revolution will not only be productive.

It will not only be efficient.

The revolution will be joyful.

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They have the realization

The inspiring monologue happens.

all the tears are wiped away, and commit to becoming someone new is in full effect.

*Cue in the music*

There’s a motivational song playing in the background while we get a fast montage of clips. (mine would be Lovely Day by Bill Withers or Imma Boss by Meek Mills)

A timelapse of early mornings.

Training sessions.

Long runs.

Late nights.

Missed parties.

Small meals.

Alarm clocks going off before sunrise.

We watch them do all the “mundane” tasks that eventually bring them to their destination.

Training for the triathlon.

Practicing for the show.

Studying for the final exam.

These moments are sped through and get about 45 seconds of screen time… if that.

In movies, the process is just the bridge between the problem and the win, but in real life, we live in the repetition.

Going for the walk again.

Opening the document again.

Logging off.

Saying no.

Feeling like we can’t do it and wanting to give up.

Then opening the computer and trying again.

Praying the same prayer again.

It’s boring.

And if I’m honest, this is the part that’s been messing with me lately.

I thought consistency would feel more rewarding. Like once I stopped being inconsistent, there would be this sense of momentum, or confirmation and maybe a little bit more excitement.

Instead, it feels more daunting than anything.

No breakthroughs.

No emotional high that my ADHD thrives off of.

No clear sign that I’m “on the right track.”

Just an intentional choice.

Making The Choice Of A New Mind

Your brain does not care about your goals.

It cares about efficiency.

And according to The Power of Habit: Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business by Charles Duhigg, habits are formed through a neurological loop made up of three parts:

• Cue

• Routine

• Reward

Over time, your brain learns to automate this loop in order to save energy. Because thinking (real, intentional, effortful thinking) is metabolically expensive and can require ALOT.

Your brain is always looking for ways to turn conscious decisions into unconscious patterns so it can free up space for other things.

Which sounds great, until you try to change something.

Creating a new habit isn’t just about making a better choice.

It’s about building an entirely new neural pathway.

Every time you choose to do something differently, like wake up earlier, pray before you scroll, practice the harp instead of turning on Netflix, you are asking your brain to fire in a way that it hasn’t fired before.

And it doesn’t like that.

New neural pathways take time and repetition to become strong enough to compete with existing ones. Especially when the old pathway is tied to something immediately rewarding like comfort, distraction, or rest. The new one is tied to something delayed, like growth, discipline, or healing.

Research has shown that habit formation can take anywhere from 18 to 254 days, depending on the behavior and the individual. Meaning that for months, you could be doing the right thing consistently… and your brain will still register it as unfamiliar effort.

Not identity.

Not routine.

Effort.

Which means every day you show up, not because it’s automatic but because you’re choosing to.

And you do it again.

And again.

Until one day, the path you had to cut through with a machete becomes the one you walk without thinking.

Boredom Isn’t a Sign You’re Off Track

The absence of excitement doesn’t always mean something is wrong.

It means there’s no adrenaline pushing you forward anymore. No urgency. No emotional spike. Just you and the decision you already made.

I feel this the most when I’m practicing harp.

There’s a difference between playing freely and practicing with a metronome. When the metronome is on, it feels mechanical. Like the magic of the music was replaced with math (which was my worst subject).

However, I need to use the metronome to be successful. It forces me to slow down, count, stay on beat and to actually learn rhythm.

Even with me knowing the why and all the benefits of the metronome, it feels like it kills the spark.

There are days I’ll stop mid-measure, grab my phone, and watch a funny TikTok just to give my brain a break, just to feel something again.

Writing can feel the same way.

I’ll sit staring at a sentence, trying to formulate a coherent thought, and my eyes start to feel like they’re melting. The romance of “I’m a writer” disappears, and what’s left is just… work.

Not magical.

Not cinematic.

Just repetition.

The “shiny and new” feeling fades.

The dopamine settles.

And what’s left isn’t hype.

It’s discipline.

Excitement can start a journey, but commitment sustains it.

Feelings fluctuate.

Calling doesn’t.

And when you’re called to it, nothing can stop it but you.

The Danger of This Season

When obedience feels boring, we’re tempted to:

• create unnecessary drama

• chase a “new word”

• abandon what God already said

• mistake stillness for stagnation

But often, God is asking:

“Can you stay faithful even when it doesn’t feel special?”

Because anyone can obey when it feels powerful.

It takes depth to obey when it feels ordinary.

Journal: Faithfulness in the Quiet

• Where in my life does obedience feel repetitive right now?

• What expectations did I have about how this season would feel?

• Have I mistaken emotional quiet for spiritual absence?

• What fruit might God be growing that I can’t see yet?

• What would it look like to honor this season instead of resisting it?

Prayer for the New Season

Father God,

Help us to trust You in seasons that feel quiet and ordinary.

When obedience feels repetitive, remind us that You are still working.

When we don’t feel excitement, anchor us in commitment.

We know you are Jehovah Jireh the Lord that provides and we are thankful for all you have given us and are going to provide suddenly.

Give us the ability to be faithful over the few, so that we will have the ability to steward the “much” that you describe in Luke 16:10.

Deliver us from chasing feelings.

Forgive us for all the times we have mishandled our blessings.

Teach us to value faithfulness.

Teach us stability.

Let us be people who stay steady, not just when it’s thrilling, but when it’s simple.

Help us to honor every season, Ecclesiastes 3:1 reminds us that every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

Allow us to be purposeful.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

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How do you continue to do the right thing without emotional fireworks?

Two weeks ago, we committed to not being stuck in the middle and you said you wouldn’t quit on the goals you started. What’s tough is now you’re realizing your goals require something a little deeper than just action.

It requires a choice. Every day, choosing to opt in.

Faithfulness isn’t built on rushes. It’s built on rhythms.

You don’t need more passion.

Passion is like sugar first thing in the morning, a quick rush that fades fast.

Patterns are the real nourishment. The kind that carries you through the day, even though it may have been a little boring to the taste.

This isn’t just a productivity tool, we’re now stepping into a spiritual principle.

We were never designed to run on emotional spikes.

God designed our lives around rhythm.

• Creation had days and nights.

• Israel had Sabbaths.

• Prayer was daily, not occasional.

We are formed through repetition, and so are our victories.

Daily surrender.

Daily obedience.

Daily returning.

God has always worked through patterns, not pressure.

Even Jesus lived this way.

“But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.” — Luke 5:16

He ministered. He poured out.

But He also stepped away. Refilled. Rested.

Because exhaustion makes people quit things God never told them to stop.

And sometimes, what feels like “losing momentum” is actually God teaching you sustainable obedience.

Faithfulness Is Meant to Be Sustainable

Jesus carried the weight of the world, and still moved at a walking pace. (that’s why I call Him Big Sandals!)

He wasn’t frantic, rushing from miracle to miracle like He was racing a clock before the cross.

He didn’t treat every need like an emergency.

He stopped for interruptions and listened. We see this in Mark 5:25–34, when a woman who had suffered for twelve years touched His garment. In the middle of a crowd, on the way to heal someone else, Jesus stopped…

not because the moment was efficient, but because it was obedient.

He withdrew when ministry got loud.

He left crowds and even slept in the middle of storms. Because urgency never controlled Him — obedience to His Father’s business did.

He could have done more if we look at it from our natural, productivity obsessed eyes, but He chose to do what the Father gave Him for that moment.

That’s the example of sustainable faithfulness.

• Not doing everything.

• Not proving your devotion through exhaustion.

• Not running on urgency and guilt.

But walking with God at the pace of obedience.

Because faithfulness isn’t about how hard you push.

It’s about how long you stay.

So what does sustainable obedience actually look like in real life?

3 Ways to Stay Faithful Without Burning Out

1) Shrink the goal, not the vision

The vision can stay big, but your daily step might need to get smaller.

Instead of:

“I need to write a chapter”

→ Write 200 words.

Instead of:

“I need a full workout”

→ Go for a 10-minute walk.

Small obedience, repeated, builds real strength.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path,” — Psalm 119:105

2) Schedule obedience

If it lives in your head, it competes with your feelings.

If it lives on your calendar, it becomes part of your life.

Faithfulness often looks like:

“I don’t feel like it… but it’s 7 PM, and this is my writing time.”

That’s stewardship.

3) Protect your energy like it’s part of the calling

You guard your time.

You guard your money.

But do you guard your energy?

Some distractions leave you too drained to obey God in the things that matter.

Rest is not laziness.

It’s preparation to continue.

“It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest… for He gives sleep to those He loves.” — Psalm 127:2

Journal: Build Your Rhythm

Sit with these:

• Where am I trying to operate on hype instead of rhythm?

• What is one area of my life I need to simplify right now?

• What small, repeatable action could help me stay consistent?

• Where do I need to rest without guilt?

• What would sustainable obedience look like in this season?

You don’t need to do more.

You need a way to keep going.

Prayer for Direction

Father God,

Thank You for calling us.

Thank You for being faithful. We know You are not a god that would give us a calling and leave, but You are the God that will walk with us daily.

We invite You in our journey.

Father, we ask that You give us wisdom to build lives that last.

You said in James 1:5, “if anyone lacks wisdom, they should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to them.” we are asking for it God.

Give us divine direction and instructions.

Be a lamp to our path. Ordain our footsteps, and with each step we take, let it be a sign of our faith and trust in You. Allow us to continue to conquer the ground of our goals and dreams as we continue to walk.

Teach us rhythms that protects our strength.

Help us to recognize when we need to rest and actually rest.

Remove the pressure to perform and replace it with the grace to be consistent.

Show us how to pace ourselves with You. Not ahead of You, not behind You, but in step with You.

Let our obedience be sustainable.

Let our faithfulness be steady.

Let our lives reflect long, faithful walking with You.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

Don’t forget to join our Accountability Circle! We are sharing the journey to accomplish our goals together, taking the steps together.

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You’re at the place where motivation dips, your discipline wobbles, and your bed is starting to feel a little more cozier. So you start to snooze the alarm set to wake you up to go to the gym, or bypass the reminder to write and slowly, you lose the momentum.

You are not lazy.

You are not failing.

You are in the part of the journey where growth stops being aesthetic and starts being formed.

The water weight has been shed, and now it feels like the progress has slowed. Now is the time to focus on breaking down the real stuff and not the superficial.

This month isn’t about becoming a “new you.”

It’s about staying committed to the you God already called forward.

Scripture reminds us:

“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9

“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin…” — Zechariah 4:10

You began… now keep going!

Keep running the race and reap the benefits of you showing up, saying yes and taking one step at a time.

When your days start feeling ordinary. You don’t need a new burst of inspiration.

You need renewed strength.

Consistency is worship.

Discipline is devotion.

So this is your gentle nudge, not your guilt trip:

Keep going!

and if you stopped, pick it back up.

Start again, without shame.

Journal: Pause & Realign

Take a few minutes and sit with these.

1. What goal or intention did I feel excited about in January that I’ve quietly neglected?

2. What has actually been draining my energy this past month?

3. Where have I been waiting to feel motivated instead of choosing discipline?

4. What is ONE small action I can take this week that moves me forward?

5. What would faithfulness (not perfection) look like for me right now?

Growth rarely looks dramatic. Most of the time, it looks like doing the next right thing again.

Prayer for Endurance

Father God,

in the name of Jesus,

Thank You for the vision You gave us and for trusting us to steward the vision well. Father we ask You to provide us with supernatural strength to continue.

When motivation fades, be our stamina.

When discipline feels heavy, be our help.

When we get tired, give us Your energeia1.

Break up the hard places in our hearts where discouragement has tried to settle.

Plow the soil of our souls so we can receive what You’re growing in us.

Teach us long obedience.

Help us to be faithful in small things.

Remind us that unseen progress still matters in Your Kingdom.

Remove shame from starting again.

Replace pressure with perseverance.

Give us the grace to keep showing up faithfully.

We trust the harvest will come in Your time.

in Jesus name we pray,

Amen.

Join the Accountability Circle

Okay… I’m finally doing it. 👀

I’m opening up a chat thread here called the Accountability Circle.

This is a space for us to:

• share one goal or focus for this season

• do simple weekly check-ins

• encourage each other when the middle gets hard

Not hustle culture.

Not comparison.

Just faithfulness, together.

Start with this in the chat:

“One thing I’m staying committed to this season is ______.”

Let’s stop trying to do purpose alone.

February isn’t where we quit.

It’s where we root deeper 🌱

— Ariel 🤍

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Seeing the instagram posts that treated scriptures like prescriptions:

going through a break-up - read this

struggling with self-image - read that

need direction - here you go, easy peasy

I tried approaching the Bible that way, but it didn't reach the ache the way people said it would.

One day, I was struggling deeply. I don’t remember the issue it was now, but I remembered the weight of it and I found myself wondering: “How would my Heavenly Father comfort me in this moment? What would He actually say to me?”

I started looking up scriptures and started weaving them into a letter. Little did I know this would be a letter I would still reference from time to time.

From my heart to yours. I hope it holds you like it once held me ❤️

Prayer For a Broken Heart

Dear Child,

Right now you are lost and struggling, but I want to remind you that I am El Roi the God who sees. I see you, I see what has happened and I see your broken heart. I meant what I said in Psalm 34:18 which is “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit”. Let me save you child, I am here with my arms wide open waiting for you to run into My embrace. I’m closer than you realize, nearer than your next breath. I am waiting to hear your voice. I am ready to answer when you call. Tell Me where it hurts, child. “Cast all your cares and anxieties on me because I CARE FOR YOU” 1 Peter 5:7.

Listen, people may fail you and your heart may also steer you in the wrong direction but I, as your God, I am the rock and strength that your heart needs and I am your portion forever. Psalm 73:26. My love for you will never expire and will never end. I am not a person/man/woman who would lie. Heaven and Earth will pass away before a word I have spoken to you returns empty.

I can handle whatever you tell me because I am your God. Release it to me so that you can no longer be troubled by it. Do not be ashamed because I already know and have seen. I heal the brokenhearted and I bind up the wounds, healing their pain and comforting their sorrow Psalm 147:3. I am the well that will never run dry! I am a strong tower that will keep you safe! I am the comforter that will cover you! Know with great confidence, that I, God, am concerned about you and cause all things to work together as a plan for those who love me, to those who are called according to my plan and purpose. And I called you (Romans 8:28)

You are my workmanship and I created you in my likeness and image. “I chose you to be in me before the foundations of the world, that you would be holy and blameless before me in love” Eph 1:4. I have chosen you and set you apart before you were born and called you into My grace, and I was pleased when I created you Galatians 1:15. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. You are worth more precious than gold, than much pure gold; you are sweeter than honey, than honey from the honeycomb. Psalm 19:10. You will never understand true love until you release what hurt you and experience my love, as your Abba Father.

Pick up your head now!

It is good for you that you have been afflicted because now you would first hand learn My ways Psalms 119:71. There is an occasion for everything and a time for every activity under heaven Ecclesiastes 3:1-2.

This is your time to heal.

This is your time to build up, because you have already been torn down.

This is your time to laugh, because you have already wept.

This is your time to dance, because you have already mourned.

This is time to be with me, because you already have walked without me.

Now go forth my child, because joy is coming.

From your loving Father,

God

For the last two years, Nashville has been home for me. I’ve learned its streets, found my favorite restaurants, got settled into a new church home and built relationships that matter. And yet, this year, I’m not able to go home for the holidays and that reality has carried a very heavy heartache.

It’s bittersweet, and as someone who is used to being alone, I didn’t expect.

I’m deeply grateful to be embraced by new people.

Friends who invite me to their tables, communities that open their arms, moments that remind me I’m not alone. At the same time, there’s a tenderness that shows up when I observe other families gathering, traditions unfolding, stories being retold without me in the room where they began.

Holding gratitude and grief at the same time is one of adulthood’s strangest lessons.

The Bittersweet Middle

Being in a new city during the holidays often places you in the in‑between:

• You’re not isolated, but you’re not quite home.

• You’re included, but you’re also watching from the outside.

• You’re building something new while missing what shaped you.

It can feel disorienting.

If that’s you this season, I want you to know: there’s nothing wrong with feeling both thankful and sad. Love stretches across distance, and the ache you feel is proof of connection.

How to Cope When You’re Away From Home

Here are a few grounding practices that have helped me navigate the holidays in a new city:

1. Name What You’re Feeling Out Loud

Don’t minimize it. Say, “I’m grateful, and I’m grieving.” Both can exist. When you name it, the weight shifts from confusion to clarity.

2. Create One Small Tradition of Your Own

It doesn’t have to be elaborate. A specific meal, a candle you light each night, a playlist you only play during the holidays. Ritual anchors you when everything else feels unfamiliar.

3. Let People Love You Without Guilt

Accept invitations. Say yes to community. Being welcomed by new people doesn’t betray your family—it expands your capacity for belonging.

4. Stay Connected, But Set Gentle Boundaries

FaceTime, texts, and photos can be comforting. Choose connection that nourishes you, and step back when comparison or longing becomes too heavy.

5. Remember: This Season Is Not Permanent

This year is a chapter, not the whole story. You are allowed to survive seasons you wouldn’t choose and still grow in them.

Solo Holiday Fun (When You’re On Your Own)

If you find yourself with quiet days or empty evenings, here are some gentle, intentional ways to make the most of them:

• Host a solo movie night — pick comfort films or childhood favorites and make it an event.

• Cook one meaningful dish — something from home, or something new that becomes your tradition.

• Explore your city slowly — holiday lights, local cafés, bookstores, or a long reflective walk.

• Write letters — to family, friends, or even your future self.

• Serve somewhere local — soup kitchens, donation drives, or church outreaches can reframe the season.

• Create instead of consume — write, make music, paint, journal, or pray without pressure.

Sometimes honoring the season looks less like celebration and more like gentleness.

A Prayer for Those Struggling This Season

Father God,

We lift up your son or daughter right now.

We know You are Jehovah El Roi - the God who sees me - please see us in this moment.

You see the ones who are celebrating loudly, and You also see the ones holding it together quietly.

For those spending the holidays in unfamiliar places. Away from family, tradition, and what once felt like home.

Draw near now.

Sit with them.

Sit with the ache that words can’t fix.

You say in Psalm 34:18, "The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

We are admitting our hearts are broken and we are holding grief that shows up alongside gratitude.

Comfort us in this moment. Show us that You are with us.

Give strength to those navigating empty spaces, peace to those carrying complicated family stories, and tenderness to those learning how to belong again.

Remind us that distance does not erase connection, that love travels farther than geography, and that You are present in every city, every room, every quiet night.

Let this season be marked not only by what is missing, but by what You are gently rebuilding.

Thank you Lord for the answered prayer.

We ask all this in Jesus’ name,

Amen.

A Quiet Benediction

If you’re spending the holidays in a new city, I hope you find moments of unexpected warmth. I hope you allow yourself to feel what you feel without rushing it away. And I hope you remember that belonging isn’t only found in places, it’s carried within you. It’s shaped by where you’ve been and where you’re becoming.

You’re not behind. You’re not forgotten. And you’re not alone. Even when it feels like home isn’t in your grasp.

Grace to you this season.

Even if I don’t actively think about what happened this month, the reminder slowly creeps up.

Thriving at work.

Checking things off the list.

Making big strides in debt management.

I feel like I’m doing great and moving along in life the way you’re supposed to.

Then, I start to slowly feel my energy depleting. Thoughts start running faster. My heart beating louder and sleep gets shorter.

Oh, it’s November.

I’m not marking the day, but my body has kept the score. It’s around the time I decided to give up. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I used to hold onto the thought that God gives His toughest battles to His strongest soldiers, but I can’t march on that beat anymore.

Why can’t you endure hardness like a good soldier…. why can’t you endure hardness like a GOOD soldier… WHY CAN’T YOU ENDURE HARDNESS LIKE A GOOD SOLDIER…why are you no good.

The war cry never stops ringing and

I wonder will the fighting ever end.

My heart mis-takes the surviving as thriving and my brain says

“what if…we

stop here”

I remind myself remembering isn’t the same as returning, however, sometimes my mind remembers too vividly the pain that drove me to check-out that day.

Target Red 
by: Cheyenne Ariel Páez 

I always struggle with leaving the line for self-checkout.
It will be faster,
I won’t waste any more time.

I think about all the things I could have done while standing here.
Imagining myself getting home beating the estimated GPS time.
Cleaning up items I left behind while rushing through my days.
Wash the clothes piled high in my laundry basket,
Maybe I’ll finally see the bedroom floor.

I want to switch lines and go to self-checkout.
Maybe the pain of standing still would ease,
Only if I just moved my feet.

I paced through every aisle
searching for something
to make this money earned
feel worth it.
always wishing
I could stop working,
just play.

Tempted
to slide recklessly
down the slip-n-slide,
yet I hold back, afraid.

I will always think about the self-checkout line,
but I’ll just stay here.

I’ll stand.
I’ll wait,
until it’s actually my time.

Pulling Out The Light

Thanks to the community around me, I survived that day and I chose to keep going everyday after.

The truth of the matter, something did die that day and it was the part of myself who suffered in silence. There were so many wounds that I was hiding. Letting them get infected with the belief system that I was not worthy, my story is shameful/disgrace and this is what I deserved.

I wish I could hug the little girl in me that decided to smile through the abuse and decided silence was better than using my voice. Who then continued to use a smile to cope and push down the pain.

I’m going to dig it all out for you.

The body remembers pain, but it also remembers how to survive it.

If there’s a month that feels heavy for you, know that you don’t have to outpace it.

You don’t have to fake it.

You can breathe through it. You can rest in it.

You can whisper thank You even if your voice shakes.

Prayer For The Racing Mind

Father God,

Your child is here.

Raising up the battles no one else can see.

the quiet wars within our thoughts,

the noise that doesn’t always have a name.

When my mind races, remind me of Philippians 4:7.

that Your peace surpasses understanding,

guarding my heart and mind in Christ Jesus.

When my thoughts spiral toward fear,

let 2 Timothy 1:7 become my anchor:

You have not given me a spirit of fear,

but of power, love, and a sound mind.

When I feel trapped in the same pattern,

breathe Romans 12:2 over me:

Be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

When I forget that I am held,

whisper Isaiah 26:3 —

You will keep in perfect peace

those whose minds are stayed on You.

And when the memories return too vividly,

help me to rest in Psalm 34:18:

You are near to the brokenhearted

and save those who are crushed in spirit.

Lord, teach my mind to rest where my body cannot.

Teach my thoughts to bow before Your truth.

May every wandering idea find its way back to You.

The still point,

the gentle light,

the sound mind

You promised.

Amen.

Not because I ran out of words, but my body couldn’t keep up with what my mind was excited to produce.

This one’s for anyone who’s been trying to find their rhythm again.

Am I Still Worthy When I Can’t Produce?

There’s a version of me that gets things done.

Vibrant. Poetic. Intentional. A tad hypercritical.

She has big dreams and even bigger spreadsheets. Breaking up the year in four quarters, running life like a business.

If we’re in July, she’s already re-evaluating Q4 goals and adjusting the plan accordingly to what life may have thrown.

When she’s on, she’s unstoppable.

She writes, she prays, she pours out.

She answers the text, shows up for the event, finishes the project. A great friend.

She leads in ministry, comforts her people, and makes art from the ruins.

She doesn’t move without a vision and when she does, mountains shake.

But lately… she’s been quiet.

Not because she’s lazy.

Not because she doesn’t care.

She’s just tired!

The Ache of Performance

Tired in the way that turns loud laughter into long silences.

Tired in the way that makes even simple things—replying, posting, showing up—feel heavy.

Tired in the way your body starts whispering before your mind will admit something’s wrong.

And in that fog, a question rises:

Am I still worthy when I can’t produce?

When I’m behind on goals.

When I’m too drained to be the eldest daughter hero.

When I’m managing PCOS flare-ups and hormone-driven fatigue.

When my body says slow down but my mind keeps saying you’re falling behind.

Even in spaces meant for healing, performance creeps in.

“You’re not inspiring…

you’re not meeting deadlines…

you’re behind,

now someone else gets what you didn’t bother to fight for”

I thought rest would bring peace, but what it really brought was grief.

Grief for the girl who kept producing in pain because she thought rest had to be earned.

Grief for the silence I called strength, and the burnout I baptized as obedience.

Maybe…

Maybe I am still worthy.

Even when my inbox is ignored.

Even when I cancel plans instead of pushing through.

Maybe God isn’t keeping score.

Maybe He’s like the God who met Elijah under the tree—exhausted and done—and didn’t rebuke him, just fed him and let him rest.

Maybe He’s like the God who called David a man after His heart, even after the failures.

Maybe He’s like the God who still breathes life into dry bones, and into the ones who forgot how to move.

Burnout & Body Check-Ins

Here’s what I’m learning: burnout doesn’t always start in the spirit.

Sometimes it’s physical: your body pleading for hydration, sleep, movement, or nutrients.

Sometimes it’s mental: your mind stuck in overdrive, replaying unfinished checklists or unprocessed memories.

Sometimes it’s spiritual: your soul asking for stillness, prayer, or honest worship.

When we neglect one, we sacrifice all.

Healing demands integration.

So check in with your body.

💬 Ask: What do I need today—food, prayer, rest, or release?

Small reminders for when you feel disconnected:

• Stretch before you scroll.

• Drink water before you overthink.

• Rest before you run.

• Say no before resentment makes the decision for you.

You are not falling behind, you’re finally listening.

A Prayer for the One Who’s Tired

Father God,

The God of Enough.

The God of Rest.

The God who sees.

God, see me.

God, meet us in the middle.

Some days we don’t feel like much,

just tired bones and hearts that ache.

Remind us that our worth isn’t tied to our hustle,

that our value doesn’t vanish in the pause,

that even in stillness, You see.

Teach us to breathe without urgency,

to rest without guilt,

to exist without performing.

Meet us in this quiet place.

In the undone, the unposted, the unpolished.

Show us that the quiet place is not a scary place.

Let us find You not in our output,

but in Your outpour.

Thank You for still calling us worthy,

even when all we can offer is ourselves.

We can’t be our best selves by ourselves.

So I pray each person reading this receives a community that loves them well

and shows them how real You are.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

Before You Go 🥹

If this found you tired, stretched thin, or feeling behind,

take this as your permission slip to slow down.

You are not lazy for needing rest.

You are human, and deeply loved.

Tell me in the comments or reply privately:

How has your body or spirit been asking for rest lately?

Let’s remind each other:

our worth isn’t earned; it’s inherited.

Leave a comment

Not the kind that fades with sleep, but the kind that settles in your bones.

The kind born from being called a “second mom” before you ever got to be just a kid.

No one gives you a handbook for that kind of childhood.

You just become her.

The one who packs the lunches.

The one who makes sure homework is done.

The one who hushes arguments, folds the clothes, keeps the secrets, wipes the tears.

You become responsible by default.

Helpful by survival.

Strong by necessity.

And for a while, you wear it like a badge of honor—until you realize it’s heavy.

Really heavy.

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Second Mom Syndrome

People think it’s a compliment:

“You’re like a second mom to your siblings.”

“You’ve always been so mature, so nurturing.”

But they don’t see the silent grief wrapped in that praise.

They don’t see the ways it cost you your freedom, your softness, your childhood.

You learned to anticipate everyone’s needs before they even voiced them.

You cleaned up messes you didn’t make.

You became the emotional anchor when you barely had time to find your own footing.

And now?

Now you’re in relationships where you keep trying to fix, manage, carry.

You apologize for taking up space.

You assume care-taking is love.

You pour and pour until you’re empty, wondering why no one thinks to refill you.

It’s not just exhaustion.

It’s residue—from years of shaping yourself around other people’s needs.

The Pause Before Parenthood

People ask when you’ll have kids of your own.

But how do you explain that you already raised a family?

That the idea of starting over—diapers, tantrums, self-sacrifice—feels less like a dream and more like a return to a version of yourself you just started healing from.

You’re not cold. You’re not selfish. You’re just… recovering.

Recovering from the years no one asked if you were okay.

Recovering from guilt that never belonged to you.

Recovering from the lie that love must always come through sacrifice.

Some of us delay motherhood not because we don’t want to give life,

but because we’re still learning what it means to live.

We want to run in the ocean.

Sleep in.

Create something.

Say yes to things with no guilt.

Say no and not feel responsible for someone else’s disappointment.

We want to heal before we pass anything down.

God Sees the Firstborn

Scripture doesn’t ignore the weight carried by the firstborn—it honors it.

“Sanctify to Me every firstborn… it is Mine.” — Exodus 13:2

From the beginning, God claimed the firstborn as His. Not to use or overburden—but to set apart. To bless.

“Israel is my son, my firstborn.” — Exodus 4:22

Even the entire nation of Israel was considered the “firstborn” of God—loved, chosen, and destined to lead others into promise.

And for those of us who feel the crushing responsibility of being “first,” Jesus came to redeem that role too:

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.” — Colossians 1:15

He took the pressure off our shoulders and placed it on His. And He leads with grace.

You are not just the family fixer.

You are the first-fruit of something sacred.

You were not meant to burn out before you bloom.

To the Eldest Daughter Reading This:

You are allowed to reparent yourself.

You are allowed to unravel the caretaker, the overachiever, the fixer—without losing the love in your heart.

God does not call you strong just so you can keep suffering.

He calls you whole.

And wholeness means honoring your needs, not just meeting everyone else’s.

You don’t have to hold it all.

You don’t have to be the rock for everyone.

You don’t have to earn rest through exhaustion.

The same grace you give to others?

Pour it back into yourself.

Let this be the season you live, not just survive.

Laugh freely. Cry when you need to.

Take up space, not because you’ve proven yourself—but because you were always worthy of it.

🕊️ Reflect & Respond:

💬 Are you the eldest daughter or sibling? What did you learn early that you’re now trying to unlearn? Share your story in the comments below or forward this to someone who gets it.

📝 Journal Prompt:

What’s something I’ve carried for others that it’s time to give back to God?

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There’s a blue bird in your heart,

and I touched its cage…

A few years ago a friend told about a poem by Charles Bukowski’s “Bluebird”.

When I finally listened to it—​really listened—​I heard more than Bukowski’s gravelly confession.

I heard something familiar.

A sound I heard from my father, male cousins, uncles and even my male friends. I never understood it until that poem. The sound?

A cry for help.

Support.

Love.

Comfort.

Emotional safety.

Today I’m sharing my poetic response, “Baby Boy Blue,” and the questions it pressed into my spirit about masculinity, emotional labor, and the weight men still refuse to lay down.

Here’s a link to the YouTube video if you’ve never heard the poem

Baby Boy Blue “A Response to Charles Bukoski”

by: Cheyenne Ariel Paez

There's a blue bird in your heart

that you won't let free.

Historically,

Every boy has been told:

being a man means stopping at nothing

to subdue this bird.

Stop it from seeing the light of day,

smother it.

Put a bag over its head and waterboard it,

Drown out its chirps,

As it desperately tries to signal others towards your pain.

Scolding it to silence, yelling:

“No one’s coming to save you!”

“I’m suppose to be a man”

What is a man?

By your display, he is

Strong in stance,

emotionally blank,

programmed to rescue the princesses

and slay every dragon.

But what happens,

when you go home after all the madness?

You muffle the groans through whispers under your breath

Tending alone to burns under your armor.

Do you think you hide it well?

I saw a glimpse of your bird.

The flutter of its wings behind your eyes.

I recognize the song

by the trail of music notes you secretly paint

on the walls across your city.

Your only outlet:

spray cans and graffiti,

remixing your heartbeat’s song to a palatable melody that you’ll allow others to hear.

It’s art—your art

There's a blue bird in your heart,

but its wings have been burnt

By past lovers and misplaced kindness for others,

So you don't allow it to fly anymore.

You nurse its pain in secretly,

numb it with rum and friends.

Flings without strings,

because it's where fun begins,

and expectations end.

Many fight for your attention,

seeing the benefits of you.

But you never give in

because they don't see you.

There's a blue bird in your heart,

and I touched its cage.

Never seen someone get this close,

You try to flap your wings to scare me away.

Then you stop,

You hear the melody of my bird.

An unrecognizable sound,

Similar to your blues with the bass of free.

I recognized your caged blue bird,

I too held mines back

And hid it from others to see.

If you allow me,

I want to stand with you

and together watch

your blue bird fly free.

Behind the Lines

Why this piece?

1. A famous poem, my revelation.

   Hearing Bluebird exposed how fiercely men guarded their own tenderness.

2. The invisible backpack.

   Men often carry ancient bricks of “be strong,” “don’t cry,” “be the hero.” The load is heavy, but the silence is heavier.

3. Holy gratitude for womanhood.

   As women we know pain—yet we’ve also marched, legislated, and prayed our way toward bodily autonomy, financial freedom, and space to feel. I’m amazed by how far we’ve come in just a few generations.

4. Revealing two truths at once:

   • I’m grateful for the strides women have made—choice over our bodies, bank accounts in our own names, degrees on our walls.

   • I’m grieved that so many men are still locked in cages of their own making, bluebirds beating against steel ribs.

   Progress loses its radiance if half the sky is still barred.

Where Can the Bluebirds Land for Men?

• Social permission: Women’s movements have normalized vulnerability circles, therapy talk, accountability groups. Where are their equivalents for our brothers?

• Internal policing: Male-bonding often rewards stoicism and punishes softness.

• Loss of language: Many men were never given vocabulary for grief, fear, or longing. They default to humor, anger, or silence.

Reflection Prompt:

Think of a man you love—father, friend, partner, son.

When was the last time he felt safe enough to cry in front of you?

Thoughts?

1. Share this post with the men in your life—let them know the cage can open.

2. Journal or pray through these questions:

   • Where did I first learn what “strength” looks like?

   • How do I react when the men around me show emotion?

3. Resources you might suggest to them (and use yourself):

   • “I Don’t Want to Talk About It” by Terrence Real

   • Therapy for Black Men / Latinx Therapy directories

   • Breath-work apps (how simple exhalations unclip the lock

Drop a comment:

• A moment when you witnessed a man’s vulnerability and how it changed you.

• Prayers, poems, or playlists that helped you process hidden grief.

• Ideas for building healthier accountability among men.

(Remember to “like” insightful replies—your engagement fosters safety.)

May every bluebird—hers, his, theirs—

feel the wind of collective mercy

and finally find the sky. 🌤️

Thank you for sitting with this tender conversation.

If today’s words stirred you, tap the heart ❤️, share with a friend, keep this circle growing.

Grace & boldness,

Ariel

I haven’t been able to have content planned.

Couldn’t even pick up a book or record a poem.

But suddenly, I felt the tug to pick up the Bible and read Genesis.

Back to the beginning, when the world was a big void.

Before trauma, before systems, before striving. And what I’ve found reading the first book of the Bible again isn’t just stories I heard in Sunday school.

I’m finding patterns. Wounds. Divine themes. Echoes of my own life.

I’ve been asking questions I never thought to ask before:

• Why did Adam not answer God’s question and went straight into blaming Eve?

• Was there a command to scatter before the Tower of Babel? (Spoiler: yes—Genesis 9:1.)

• Why didn’t he talk to God about the famine since God brought him to that land?

• Why didn’t Abram pray before going to Egypt? Why didn’t he ask for protection for Sarai?

• What kind of covenant was being formed between God and His people—and how many are there in Genesis?

• Why did Lot go with Abram when God told him to leave everything?

• Why does Genesis describe the souls they “gotten” in Haran?

• Why does Abram call on God again when he returns to Bethel (Gen 13:1-4)? Was he relearning God's presence?

• What traits does God reveal in these early chapters?

I had so many more questions pop into my head that I spent hours researching and digging into, but they weren’t just curiosity-driven rabbit holes to fall into. They were mirrors of my own heart. the same whys I was asking about the Tower of Babel and dissecting Abram(ham) choices were really a reflection of the mistakes I keep making too.

I saw my own life in the unfinished obedience of the people.

Like Abram—how often have I partially obeyed, clinging to comfort or family ties? God told him to leave everything, but Lot still went with him. Was it fear of being alone? Was it compassion? I saw myself in that hesitation. I moved to Nashville and left my whole family behind, but to be honest, there. isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t question God on this choice. I miss my friends, my family and sometimes the chaos because it’s familiar, and whether we want to admit it or not, we fear things we don’t know for sure.

I noticed the mercy of God woven through messy choices.

Adam’s gaslighting. Eve’s vulnerability. Noah’s drunkenness. Abraham & Sarah’s laughter. Lot’s confusion. All these moments that were once framed as sin or failure—I saw something more: humanity, held in tension with heaven.

Even Abram—called and chosen—acted out of fear. He didn’t pray before Egypt. He asked Sarai to lie to protect himself. Yet God still protected them anyway. That shook me.

God was always making covenants. Not just rules. Not just judgment. Covenants. Promises. Reassurances of His character, even when people forgot theirs.

• The covenant with Noah, marked by a rainbow, was about mercy.

• The covenant with Abram wasn’t based on performance—but on promise. A lineage, a land, and a legacy.

And when God changed Abram’s name to Abraham—adding the "ham"—we saw a glimpse of the divine breath inserted into a human identity. A holy expansion.

I asked if God chose Abram because he was the firstborn, and I realized: God rarely chooses the first in line. It’s not about birth order. It’s about willingness. Obedience. Surrender.

I wrestled with Babel—why they didn’t want to scatter. Then I saw that the command to multiply and fill the earth came long before the tower (Gen 9:1). Their resistance wasn’t about bricks—it was about control. Comfort. Fear of being spread too thin. Maybe even the fear of failing on their own or without their safety net?

I saw Abram wrestle with his choice of turning down the spoils of war from the King of Sodom. He knew he made the right decision spiritually as he didn’t want such a cruel nation to say they made Abram rich and take God’s credit, but intellectually (which is where I get stuck all the time) he wasn't sure. What moved me in this story was he brought those questions to God, which God answered by saying “Fear not, Abram: I am thy shield, and thy greatest reward.” (Genesis 15:1)

Because sometimes I’m Abram too—spirit-led in one moment, stuck in logic the next. Asking God if I made the right decision after already obeying.

That hit close to home.

And through all this, the biggest thing I realized?

God doesn’t need me to be perfect—He just wants me to return.

To walk again in the cool of the day. To ask again. Wonder again. Begin again.

This re-reading of Genesis didn’t give me all the answers. But it gave me a posture.

Of softness. Of reverence. Of starting over, not as punishment, but as invitation.

So if you’ve been feeling far off, confused, or spiritually stuck—maybe the answer isn’t to strive harder.

Maybe it’s to go back.

Back to the beginning.

Back to the breath.

Back to the voice that still walks in the garden, whispering your name.

Back to Genesis.

You hear it in the sizzle of garlic meeting oil.

In the steady rhythm of pilón and pestle turning herbs into memory.

In the way rice and beans show up again and again on our tables as a faithful delicacy.

Food was never just food.

It was a love language. A peacemaking offering. A way to say “you’re still welcome here.”

Sometimes it was the only way forgiveness was spoken in a family.

Sometimes, it was the only way love was offered without condition.

In Caribbean homes, we don’t just feed bodies—we feed souls.

And nowhere is that clearer than at the table.

🍽 Breaking Bread with Judas: When the Table Holds Tension

Let’s be honest—some family dinners aren’t easy. Sometimes the table holds people who’ve hurt you. Who no longer align with your values. Who no longer know you and still see you as the version of yourself God already redeemed.

And yet… the table is still sacred.

At the Last Supper, Jesus sat with His disciples and with Judas.

He knew betrayal was coming. Knew the kiss, the coins, the cross.

And still… He fed him.

Still, He offered the bread. Still, He knelt to wash his feet. Sometimes the miracle isn’t walking away, it’s staying long enough to offer grace.

Not every conversation needs to be had.

Not every family member needs front-row access to your healing.

But sometimes, you’ll be called to sit beside someone who doesn’t understand your purpose and you still pass the plate.

Because love doesn’t always mean agreement.

Sometimes it simply means: I see you. I’ll feed you. I’ll let God do the rest.

🌶 The Pepper That Held the Pot Together

When the fiery one becomes the foundation

There’s always one in every family.

The one who speaks before thinking.

The one who storms out mid-argument but shows up early to help cook.

The one who burns a little too hot, but is fiercely loyal underneath it all.

Peter was that kind of disciple.

Hot-headed. Heavy-handed. Quick to cut off ears—literally. (John 18:10)

The kind of person people side-eyed at gatherings, unsure if he’d stir the pot or spill it.

And yet… Jesus called him the rock.

“On this rock I will build my church.” (Matthew 16:18)

The same man who denied Him three times would become the first to declare Him boldly.

The one who cursed under pressure would become the one who carried the early church.

In Caribbean kitchens, we know that sometimes, the pepper isn’t the prettiest part of the dish.

It’s the part you warn people about.

The part that might make you tear up a little, but it’s also what gives the whole pot its flavor.

That’s Peter. The scotch bonnet of the story. Spicy, unpredictable, not for the faint of heart, but absolutely essential.

And maybe you’ve got someone like that at your table.

Or maybe it’s you.You’ve been told you’re too much.

Too intense. Too emotional. Too bold.

But God isn’t put off by your fire.

He can build with it.

He does build with it.

Because sometimes the very ingredient we’re tempted to leave out is the one holding the whole thing together.

🧒🏽 Little Plates, Big Purpose: The Thunder Twins at the Kids’ Table

Why the next generation belongs in the room

In most Caribbean households, there was always a kids’ table. A little plastic table pulled up on the side, bright-colored cups, mismatched spoons, and tiny chairs that creaked with too much joy.

At a glance, it looked like playtime, but if you really watched… they were learning everything.

Who got the biggest piece of plantain. How abuela stirred her coffee just right. What stories were safe to ask about and which ones carried silence.

The children weren’t just guests. They were witnesses.

In scripture, Jesus welcomed youth with the same kind of reverence. James and John, the “Sons of Thunder,” were likely teenagers when He called them.

Young. Bold. Passionate. Loud.

They didn’t have it all figured out, but they didn’t need to. Jesus brought them close anyway.

He corrected them, but He never dismissed them.

And that’s the lesson:

The ones at the kids’ table now might be the ones carrying the table later.

So many of our traditions were passed down without paper—just rhythm, repetition, and reverence.

How to season without measuring.

How to listen when elders speak.

How to respect the silence before a blessing is said.

It’s our job to bring them in. To let them taste and see. Tell the stories out loud while they still want to hear them and make sure what we inherited doesn’t die with us.

Because legacies don’t live on accident.

They live on purpose—plate by plate, story by story, prayer by prayer.

🫓 Bread for the Prodigal: Leaving Room for the Return

Every family has a prodigal.

The one who left.

The one who hurt you.

The one you’re not sure you’ll ever trust again.

But Jesus told us the story of the father who ran toward the prodigal with open arms,

Who didn’t shame him, but instead said,

“Kill the fattened calf. Prepare the feast. My son has come home.” (Luke 15:23-24)

Sometimes we’re the prodigal. Sometimes we’re the one preparing the feast. And sometimes, we’re the bitter brother in the corner—wondering why grace came so easily for them. While we stayed faithful laboring and haven’t even received 1/10th of the fruits.

No matter where you sit in the story, the truth remains:

There’s always a place at the table.

No matter how long it’s been.

No matter how far you’ve gone.

✝️ The Table as an Altar

In our Caribbean roots, the table wasn’t just for meals. It was where healing happened.

Where grudges dissolved over sancocho.

Where children memorized family recipes and the smell of home.

Jesus turned a regular table into a place of remembrance:

“Do this in memory of Me.” (Luke 22:19)

Your family table might not be perfect.

But when it’s centered in love, your heart builds an altar for it, marking the memory of what happened there like the Israelites did when God showed out for them.

Bread becomes healing.

Rice becomes history.

The table becomes home.

✨ Reflection Questions:

1. Who do you need to break bread with, even if it’s hard?

2. Who at your table is becoming the “rock” you didn’t expect?

3. What wisdom can you pass to the next generation before the recipe is forgotten?

✨ Reflection Prompt:

What meal helped your family come back to one another?

What does the table mean to you now that you are in the adult seat?

That relationship felt a lot like the teacup ride at a carnival.

It started off slow and sweet. With gentle smiles, steady spins, just enough motion to feel safe. You think, “This is nice. This is safe.”

And then the spinning picks up.

Faster. Harder. Dizzying.

It makes you sick. It makes the people around you sick, but just when you’re ready to get off, it slows back down.

Back to the same soft pace that made you stay.

It wasn’t the chaos that trapped me. It was the calm that followed. The “love” that felt like a reward for sticking by his side during the turbulence.

That’s what made it dangerous.

And I became an addict. Clinging to his pretty words.

You know the ones—“I love you,” “I’d never hurt you,” “It’s only me and you.”

I wanted those words to be true so badly that I ignored what his actions were actually telling me.

Bleeding Pink became a turning point—a final goodbye.

It marked the moment I stopped rewriting his lies into poetry and started reclaiming truth.

Yes, it took more than one heartbreak to leave. But I’m free now. And this poem is a promise to myself:

I will never again silence my voice so someone else can control the story.

I will never again be hypnotized by words that don’t align with actions.

This poem will be part of my upcoming poetry collection, but I wanted to share it now because this one helped me bloom.

🎧 You can listen to the poem or read along below.

Bleeding Pink

I love pretty words,
They create a universe I can roam in.
I frolic through the garden of similes,
And smell the sweet aroma of your metaphors.
The colors of your sentences blowing through your breath.
An exhale of beauty.
Draped in red jealousy love.
Greenly envious of us.
I love pretty words,
But then your weather changed.
Your cold wind in my hair.
The hallow stump behind your stare.
You’re Stunted,
And I’ve been indoctrinated into the belief that if I just keep pouring my water you would one day grow again.
You never did,
You never grew back into the tree that you claimed once stood there.
My love kept seeping back into the ground in hopes to touch your roots.
The shallowness of your core made me realized your love wasn’t as deep as I thought it was.
I finally stand up.
Stepping out,
I was pricked by the thorns of your intentions.
Disgusted on how I compared my honey to every flower I saw you stopped at.
Now I just have one question…

When you were picking the last of my pedals, did you stop at I love you?

Or will you admit you love me not.
Pretty words,
Camouflaged serpents.
I finally see your fangs.
Pretty words,
I won’t let you hypnotize me again.

-Written by Cheyenne Ariel Paez

Reflection

I used to romanticize pain as long as it came wrapped in promises.

Now, I write to remember that love is not just about words. It's about how those words live. How they show up when it matters. How they match the truth.

Bleeding Pink was my moment of truth.

I sat in that for a looooong time. Getting back in the teacup knowing it was making me sick.

Writing this poem reminded me that my voice, love and time isn’t something to be handed over frivolously. It’s something I’m learning to guard, to honor, and to share on my terms.

If you’ve ever stayed too long for the sake of “what could be…” or “what if it’s about to get better…”
If you’ve ever mistaken pretty language for real love…
If you’re finding your way back to your voice after betrayal…

I see you.

And I hope this poem gives you language for your own rising.

Tell me—what are you reclaiming?

Drop a word, a line, or a whisper of truth in the comments below.

A shimmer of gold hugging my mother’s ankle as she stood at the stove, humming in the kitchen. Before I understood words like legacy or lineage, I knew how her anklet caught the light—how it made her seem powerful and soft all at once.

But here’s what you need to know about my mom:

She ain’t dainty. Never was.

She was the girl out there playing football, tackling boys twice her size. Jumping into baseball games if they were short a player. Gathering all the kids from our projects and teaching them how to dive at the Roberto Clemente pool. She had this mix of toughness and tenderness—she could lead a game, cook a meal, and wear her jewelry like armor.

And my dad? He knew exactly who she was. According to my mother, they had a little thing at first and then she went to North Carolina for a short period of time. Wrote letters to my dad while she was out on the reservation, rocking climbing and he DIDN’T write her back (gasp). The saving grace that got them together, my mom returned to the Bronx and was looking real snatched. A direct quote from my dad “that thang was thangin’ ight!” My dad did a double take down the hill and walked into the pizza place to get reacquainted with my mom and the rest was history.

Back then, he worked at a jewelry shop and one thing about my dad is he always works extremely hard. My mom’s love language is receiving gifts and he delivered. He’d bring her necklaces, trying to impress her, but my mom wasn’t interested in anything small or delicate. No thin chains for her. She wanted thick Cuban links. Heavy-duty pieces that matched her bold, unbreakable spirit.

Their love story was built like that.

Strong. Sturdy. Not always polished, but deeply rooted.

And tucked inside that story was always the jewelry. Solid symbols of their love, their life, their style.

The Magic of the Jewelry Box

The real magic happened when my mom opened her jewelry box.

Anytime her sisters, cousins, and/or friends came over she would go into her hiding spot and bring out the box. Not just any box, but this carved wooden treasure chest with secret drawers and velvet compartments. I’d sit on the edge of her bed, wide-eyed, watching her lift each lid like she was opening a portal to the past.

Inside were years of stories:

✨ Her engagement ring.

✨ The first ring my dad ever gave her.

✨ My grandfather’s gold chains, still heavy with memory.

✨ My paternal grandmother’s rings, glinting with age and reverence.

✨ And then—mine and my sister’s baby jewelry. Tiny bracelets, gold crosses, nameplates. Little heirlooms tucked away like sacred reminders that we were loved from the very beginning.

She would give a piece away to them. I would selfishly give a dirty stare thinking about the money she just gave away until I realized it was her way of giving them a piece of her love. She cherished and cared for every piece she was given, bought or found. She didn’t just keep them for safekeeping. She kept them as anchors. As proof that love—real love—could be worn, carried, remembered.

The First Anklet

I can’t remember the first anklet I ever wore because since I was a literal new born baby I was adorned with gold.

I must have been eight or nine, watching my mom and my tias get ready for a family gathering. Their hands moved with practiced ease—hoop earrings clicked into place, necklaces layered just right, toe rings and anklets adding the final touch.

I was mesmerized by their feet—gold glinting against sun-kissed skin. I wanted that shimmer. That knowing. That confidence.

I don’t remember if I asked, or if my mom just knew. But she pulled out a tiny anklet—simple, elegant—and fastened it around my ankle.

“Now you’re one of us,” she smiled.

Just like that, I felt seen. Grown. Connected.

When It Broke (and Never Came Back)

When I moved to Nashville, I brought just a few things with me—but that anklet, the one I’d worn since I was 14, neverleft my ankle. It had seen me through awkward phases, heartbreaks, graduations, beach days, late-night prayers. It was a piece of home, of history. Of me.

So when it snapped off during my first week in this new city, I panicked.

Like—full-blown panic attack, crying on the floor.

I searched everywhere, turned my little apartment upside down.

It was gone.

I called my mom, sobbing—knowing she’d understand and probably fuss at me for losing it. (She definitely did both. Caribbean moms love hard, but they don’t let you off easy either.)

But here’s what I’ve come to realize:

I never found that anklet because I wasn’t meant to.

Coming to Nashville wasn’t just a move—it was a shedding.

A release.

The shackles of my past self, all the versions of me that anklet had held, needed to be left behind so I could step into who I was becoming.

It wasn’t a sign I’d made a mistake.

It was a sign I was making room.

That anklet did its job—it carried me through the girl I was.

And when I stepped into this new season, it let me go.

But what I’ve learned—what my mother, my family, my culture have always shown me—is that even when the jewelry breaks, the chain never really ends.

The rhythm of the islands, the love of our people, the legacy of those who came before—it keeps pulsing beneath my skin.

Gold or no gold, I carry the Caribbean in every step.

Caribbean Adornment: More Than Style

Growing up in a Puerto Rican/Indo-Caribbean family, jewelry—especially anklets—was never just decoration. It was declaration. My mother and all her sisters wore them boldly. It was the signature of Caribbean womanhood—radiant, rhythmic, unapologetic.

Anklets carry centuries of cultural significance, influenced by Indigenous Taíno heritage, African legacy, and Indian adornment traditions.

They are:

🌺 Symbols of femininity and self-expression – Gold, silver, or beaded, they speak without words.

🌺 Ties to ancestry and tradition – Echoes of the women who came before.

🌺 Marks of joy and celebration – Worn on vacations, festivals, or just because we want to feel good in our own skin.

The Tradition Lives On

Now, when I clasp an anklet around my ankle, it’s not just for fashion.

It’s for grounding.

For remembering.

For honoring the boldness of the women before me.

Each one whispers:

I see you. I remember you. I carry you.

And one day, if I have a daughter, I’ll open up my own jewelry box—my treasure chest of stories—and pass her one of mine. I’ll fasten it gently around her ankle and say:

“Now you’re one of us.”

💬 Your Turn

Did you grow up wearing anklets, toe rings, or jewelry that carries cultural meaning? Do you have a memory of your mother’s jewelry box—or a piece you now treasure?

I’d love to hear your story. Share in the comments below or message me on Instagram at @_arielspeaks.

June is Caribbean Heritage Month and I have a ton planned to celebrate. Stay tune and let’s honor the beauty we come from—one chain, one shimmer, one story at a time.

#CaribbeanCulture #PuertoRicanHeritage #AnkletsAndTradition #IslandRoots #ArielSpeaks

The tension between duty and desire.

Between clocking in and having fun.

Between being everything for everyone else and still remembering you’re allowed to dream, too.

For most of us, life doesn’t look like dreamy writing retreats or lazy mid-morning café musings.

It looks like early alarms. Long shifts. Endless group chats. Overlapping appointments. Exhaustion that lingers even after a full night’s sleep.

And still… we carry these glowing embers inside us.

A song that needs finishing.

A book that begs to be written.

A podcast idea scribbled on the back of an old worksheet.

A vision for a sanctuary—a space of healing and joy—for yourself and others.

That vision matters.

Even if no one else sees it yet.

Even if your days feel too loud and your calendar too full.

Even if your creative self feels like she’s been buried under responsibility.

There’s still room for her.

There’s still room for you.

So how do we nurture that sacred part of us when life won’t slow down?

You honor your daydreams like they’re instructions.

You write notes in your phone.

You whisper voice memos while doing laundry.

You treat creativity like the lifeline it is.

And sometimes?

You say no.

You cancel plans.

You take a personal day.

You make rest part of the work.

Not because you’re lazy.

But because your spirit needs time to breathe.

Because creativity is not a luxury. It’s survival.

A Few Anchors for the In-Between:

1. Balance Looks Different Every Day

Some days, you’ll feel lit up and flowing. Other days, the win is simply showing up.

Both are enough.

Don’t let perfection silence your progress.

✍🏽 Journal prompt: What does “balance” actually look like for me right now?

2. Time-Block Like Your Dream Depends on It

Waiting for the perfect time usually means never starting.

Start small. 20 minutes here. 10 minutes there.

Build the habit of showing up for yourself,

even if it’s just a whisper of progress.

🗓 Try this: Block out one “creative appointment” this week. Honor it like you would a meeting with someone else.

3. Give Yourself Grace

You’re doing a lot.

And you’re doing better than you think.

Some seasons will bloom. Others will feel dormant.

Don’t confuse quiet with failure.

✍🏽 Reflect: Where have I been too hard on myself lately? What would I tell a friend in my place?

4. Reconnect with Your Why

When the weariness creeps in and you wonder if any of it matters—pause.

Remember why you started.

Remember who you’re becoming in the process.

💡 Tip: Record a 30-second voice memo of your “why.” Save it. Play it when you need to remember.

So is it possible?

To tend to your responsibilities and your creativity?

To water your calling and pay your bills?

Yes. But not without boundaries, intention, and grace.

Let’s stop waiting for the perfect season.

Let’s bloom right here—between the noise, the work shifts, and the stolen moments of quiet.

You’re not behind.

You’re not broken.

You’re becoming.

And yes—there’s still room to dream.

There’s still room for you.

And while the month has passed, the stories don’t disappear with the calendar. The ache doesn’t vanish when the hashtags fade.

For many of us, these aren’t distant headlines. They are personal histories. They are names we know. They are parts of ourselves we’ve had to learn how to carry—with trembling hands, with whispered prayers, with quiet courage.

In this video, I speak from that place.

Not to retraumatize, not to relive.

But to reclaim.

To remind.

To reach out.

Because healing isn’t linear, and silence doesn’t always mean peace.

And yet—there is hope. There is God. There is the power of speaking.

To anyone who has ever felt invisible, unworthy, or broken because of what was done to you—I want you to know:

You are not what happened to you.

You are not too much.

You are not too late to begin again.

I hope this offering meets you gently.

Below is my SAAM reflection video:

With love and honor,

Cheyenne Ariel Paez

Resources for Survivors

If you or someone you love is navigating the aftermath of sexual assault, please know that support is available. Here are some trusted, free resources:

📞 24/7 Hotlines

• National Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN):

  Call 1-800-656-HOPE (4673) or chat online at rainn.org.

  Confidential, 24/7 support connecting you to local resources.

• Tennessee Statewide Sexual Assault Hotline:

  Call 1-866-811-RISE (7473).

  Available 24/7 for support and information.

• Crisis Text Line:

  Text HOME to 741741.

  Free, 24/7 crisis support via text.

🏥 Local Support in Middle Tennessee

• Sexual Assault Center (Nashville):

  Offers free counseling, advocacy services, and forensic exams at their SAFE Clinic for individuals aged 16 and over.

  Visit sacenter.org or call 615-259-9055.

• Project Safe Center (Vanderbilt University):

  Provides individual advocacy to Vanderbilt community members affected by sexual misconduct.

  24-Hour Crisis/Support Hotline: (615) 322-SAFE (7233).

🌐 National Resources

• National Sexual Violence Resource Center (NSVRC):

  Find local support organizations and educational materials at nsvrc.org/find-help.

• Take Back The Night Legal Assistance:

  Free legal support for survivors of sexual violence.

  Call 567-SHATTER (567-742-8837) or visit takebackthenight.org.

Gentle Reminder:

You are not alone. Support is available, and healing is possible. If you need someone to talk to, please reach out to any of the resources above.

I didn’t grow up seeing harps.

But in 2024, something shifted.

I had just moved to Nashville—new city, new job, and for the first time in a long time, a little more room to breathe.

I was working full-time, sure, but I wasn’t juggling three side hustles just to stay afloat.

I had evenings. I had weekends. I had… free time.

So I started exploring.

I wandered into bookstores, local cafés, random open mic nights and one weekend, I found myself inside the Nashville Symphony.

The music was beautiful, but it was that harp that got me. Grand. Golden. Ethereal.

And I couldn’t get it out of my head.

So I did what any curious dreamer does: I Googled.

“How much does a harp cost?”

First word: Daaaang.

Even the student ones weren’t cheap! but I was still determined and I kept digging.

Google, tell me about these lesson prices, instrument rentals, what it takes to learn. I was low-key spiraling. Was I being ridiculous? Too late in life? Too broke for this?

But I couldn’t shake the feeling.

My new co-workers could not go a shift without me mentioning new facts I was learning about the harp. FaceTime conversations with friends went from them checking in on me to screen sharing harps for sale and picking out the best looking affordable options.

I was enamored and I had to get close to one.

I reached out to a local harp teacher for an intro session. I walk into her home studio and there were so many big beautiful harps. Some gold. Some brown. Some with angels on it. Some with a modern feel.

The best part? The intro lesson was $30.

We sat down, talked about my goals (and my budget), and I told her I was brand new—like, don’t even know how to read music brand new.

She didn’t laugh. She smiled.

And she gave me an assignment:

“If you’re serious, spend the next two months learning how to read music on the piano (since there’s more resources and learning material for piano vs harp). If you can do that, come back in the summer and we’ll start harp lessons.”

Let me tell you—reading music is a whole different language.

I was decoding treble clefs and time signatures like a student cramming for finals.

But it was the bass notes that nearly did me in.

I went on Facebook Marketplace and found a $5 keyboard that came with a stand and chair. I’d sit at my little beginner keyboard with YouTube tutorials, using simply piano and flashcards, muttering things like, “Why is middle C never in the middle??”

But I showed up. My desire to play the harp expect intensifying.

Slowly, my eyes started recognizing notes (Thank you NoteRush). My fingers began to move with more intention.

It was humbling, but it was also empowering.

Because I wasn’t just learning piano.

I was proving to myself that I could commit to something outside of obligation. That I can start something new. That it wasn’t too late. That I could still be taught.

trying to perfect “Ode to Joy” on the piano

In June 2024, I plucked my first harp string.

It buzzed against my skin, soft but full of promise.

And just like that, I felt the little girl in me appear. Smiling and dreaming.

Learning harp as an adult hasn’t been easy.

It’s awkward. It’s heavy (literally—my neighbor was confused and asked me about it when she saw me on her ring cam bringing it down the stairs).

And it’s unlike anything else I’ve ever done.

But it’s become mine.

My pure joy.

My pause in a world that runs too fast.

Here’s What I’ve Learned Along the Way:

✨ You will feel like a giant baby—and that’s okay.

Your fingers will fumble. Your back will ache. You’ll forget what you just practiced 5 minutes ago. It’s normal. Be gentle.

✨ It’s more physical than people think.

This instrument isn’t just elegant—it’s a workout. From posture to calluses, it will stretch your body as much as your mind.

🔑 The right teacher makes all the difference.

Dr. Sarah didn’t just teach me how to play—she taught me how to believe in my process. She cheered me on, even when I forgot every note in a scale. She amazing and if you’re in the Nashville area, I highly recommend her.

✨ Your progress will be beautifully messy.

Some days you’ll feel like it’s all coming together and I am a harpesian (a nickname my friend made). Other days, a potato. Keep going anyway.

✨ It becomes more than music.

The harp has become a prayer, a meditation, a reminder to slow down and listen to what my soul is saying. It’s truly become my happy place.

✨ You’ll learn more about yourself than you expected.

You’ll rediscover your patience. Your resilience. Your capacity for joy.

If you’ve ever dreamed of picking up something new, especially something that feels wildly out of reach, I hope this is your sign.

You don’t have to be a 10 years old in a conservatory.

You don’t need a perfect plan.

You just need the courage to begin.

And if the harp happens to be calling your name too… I’ll save you a seat.

Reflection

💛 I know I’m not the only late bloomer out here! what’s something you’ve learned (or are learning) as an adult that surprised you? Let’s share and cheer each other on.

Because it’s never too late to fall in love with something new.

The stories passed down from our families aren’t just memories, they’re maps. They shape how we see the world, where we come from, and where we’re going. I grew up surrounded by the women in my family switching seamlessly between English and Spanish while gossiping in the kitchen. Their voices layered with laughter, thick attitudes like their New York accent, and the breeze of the island’s waters. My mom is the middle child of six sisters, so she’s mastered the art of bickering with her siblings while simmering arroz con gandules and frying up bacalaítos like she was mindlessly scrolling through her phone.

In our one-bedroom Bronx apartment, packed with my parents’ two biological children, five of my cousins, and a revolving door of neighborhood kids, stories lived in every corner. They spilled out during domino games on sticky summer afternoons, floated down the hallway with the smell of café Bustelo, and echoed off the fire escape where we’d sit watching the block come alive.

I remember the block parties. Jumping in the bounce houses, folding chairs lining the curb, uncles grilling while my father DJed. Music blasting from massive speakers. The music switching to reflect the different tastes of the people who showed up—salsa, freestyle, merengue, bachata, 80s, R&B and hip-hop. We’d take turns dancing in the street and running through the spray of a cracked-open hydrant, squealing and soaked, barefoot and free.

The soundtrack of my childhood was cousins yelling over each other, double-dutch ropes slapping the pavement, and my aunties trading chisme and old-school wisdom like sacred rituals. Even then, I knew those stories weren’t just talk, they were part of my inheritance. They were teaching me about resilience, about joy, about survival. About who we were and where we came from.

These moments shaped my idea of community, and now, in adulthood, I find myself longing to continue this story. A story still filled with love, laughter, and people.

When I think of Jesus, I remember that He, too, was a storyteller. He didn’t just share wisdom with His disciples and strangers all around the world. He shared it with His mother, His brothers, His neighbors. In the book of Jude, His own brother writes not only as a sibling, but as a servant, contending for the faith and truth passed down through family and revelation. Jesus’ parables weren’t just lessons, they were lifelines. They revealed the heart of God and the depth of humanity.

And if storytelling was powerful enough for Him to reach the multitudes, then it’s powerful enough for us to reach one.

That’s why I write. Just as Jude carried the truth of his brother, we carry the voices of our generations. I believe our stories whether cultural, spiritual, personal, they have the power to heal, to honor, and ignite change.

The Weight of Our Words: From Contracts to Calling

Growing up, my dad often said, “Your word is your bond.” At the time, I didn’t realize how deeply those words would root themselves in me. But they did, and they planted the seed for how I understood integrity, trust, and expression.

When I started college, I majored in law, specifically contract law. There was something about the structure that appealed to me. Contracts are clear-cut, binding, and leave little room for ambiguity. Everyone involved agrees to the terms, and each party is held accountable. It felt safe—predictable—even in a world that often wasn’t.

Looking back now, I realize it wasn’t just law that drew me in. It was the power of language. The way a few words on a page could determine futures, outline relationships, and shape what was possible.

Words are a lifeline for me. When I couldn’t speak my heart aloud, I’d write it in letters. When I didn’t know how to pray, I’d journal to God. When I lost my voice, writing helped me find it again.

Whether it’s Scripture, poetry, or storytelling, words have become my anchor and my offering. And I hold them close, because I know what it means to feel like you have none at all.

The Word That Transforms: Scripture as Our Foundation

The Bible is more than just an ancient text—it’s living, breathing truth. It’s filled with stories of success, failures, love, loss, redemption and more. In my darkest moments, God’s words have been my anchor and encouragement I needed to make to the next day.

• When I felt unseen: “You are fearfully and wonderfully made.” (Psalm 139:14)

• When I felt silenced: “The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” (Exodus 14:14)

•When I felt useless: “She’s like the merchant ships [abounding with treasure]; She brings her [household’s] food from far away” (Proverbs 31:14)

• When I doubted my purpose: “For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works.” (Ephesians 2:10)

Scripture reminds me that words create worlds. From the very beginning of Genesis to Jesus Himself being called “The Word made flesh” (John 1:14). It’s proof that God speaks life, and so should we.

The Rhythm of Healing: Poetry as My Voice

I started writing poetry before I even understood its depth. The first poem that sticks out in my mind is “That Girl” by Alysia Harris. The raw emotion she exuded and the unapologetic way she put herself out there. Unbothered by how others might perceive her. This was her truth, her feelings, and the world (including the guy) was going to hear her.

She echoed so much of what I felt, and she was the first relatable example for me on how I could use poetry as a vessel of expression. It just made sense. Poetry gave me a way to name the pain I carried, the love I secretly longed to express, the identity I hadn’t yet unlocked, and the faith I was slowly building. Over time, poetry became more than just personal expression; it became a way to reclaim my voice.

For a long time, I stayed silent about my wounds.

Trauma stole my ability to speak.

Fear kept me in the background.

But then, I wrote. And through poetry, I spoke.

• I wrote about the things I was too afraid to say out loud.

• I gave language to what I thought was unspeakable.

• I discovered that healing isn’t just found in the words we read but in the words we release.

Poetry is power because it honors both emotion and truth.

And as someone who once felt voiceless, I now know this:

Our stories deserve to be heard.

Speaking Life, Speaking Truth

The Bible, poetry, and storytelling have shaped me because they all point to the same truth: words carry weight.

• They can heal or harm.

• They can bring life or destruction.

• They can draw people closer to God or push them away.

That’s why I choose to use my voice carefully, intentionally, and boldly.

If you’ve ever felt like your words don’t matter, I want to remind you—they do. Whether through a conversation, a poem, a book, a song, or a social media post, what you say carries impact.

So speak life. Tell your story. Share your truth.

Because words have power. And the world needs yours.

What words will you speak over yourself this week? Whether through Scripture, poetry, or storytelling, I’d love to hear what’s impacted your journey. Drop a comment or reply—I’d love to continue the conversation.

#ArielSpeaks #TheSpeakersCircle #PowerOfWords #FaithAndCreativity #SpeakLife

It’s like standing at the edge of something wild and beautiful—looking back at all the storms I’ve weathered, the heartbreaks, the hidden victories, and realizing… I’m still here. By grace.

This year, I turn 31.

My road to thirty started in the middle of a big leap. Moving across the country, clinging to faith, and learning to trust God with the unknown. And now, thirty-one feels like a launching pad. A deeper yes. A holy invitation forward.

I’m not just ready for what’s ahead. I’m ready to let go of what can’t come with me.

So here is a list, a release, a quiet declaration:

I’m jumping. Again. With open hands.

🚪Leaving This at the Door: The Timeline That Wasn’t Mine

It feels like every American woman has this timeline embedded into their DNA.

💍Married by 25

🏡 A house by 28

👶🏽 Kids by 30

🎯Career perfectly packaged with a bow by now.

I’ve spent so many years measuring my life against a checklist I didn’t create.

No more.

I’m choosing purpose over pressure. Becoming over performing. I’m learning that divine timing doesn’t bow to societal timelines and neither should I.

💥No Room for This: Shrinking to Be Digestible

I’ve dimmed my light , softened my edges, and made myself smaller so others wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. But no more apologizing for my bigness.

• My dreams are BIG

• My voice is LOUD

• My calling is GRAND

and I say yes to it all!

From now on, I will not contort myself to fit into rooms I was born to expand and neither should you.

🛑We Don’t Do That Here: Performative Healing

This is a big one for me! You know that thing where you act like you’re okay, just because you’ve “done the work”?

I’m releasing that too.

Healing isn’t a box to check. Still going through isn’t proof that God hasn’t been good. Healing is a process—sometimes quiet, sometimes loud, and nonlinear. It’s messy. It’s layered. It rarely follows a straight line. And I’m learning to give myself permission to still be healing without shame.

Sometimes we rush to get to the “other side” of our story, just so we can offer it up as a testimony. But God’s goodness isn’t only seen after the storm. It’s revealed in the process. In the mud being wiped from our eyes, in the clarity that comes in stages.

Even Jesus paused with the blind man and asked, “Can you see?”

And the man replied, “I see people… they look like trees walking.”

So Jesus touched him again.

That’s the kind of grace I’m learning to receive. Grace that makes room for needing Him again. And again. And again.

I’m not who I was. But I’m still not fully who I feel destined to be.

And I thank Big Sandals for that.

💌 New Policy: No Over-explaining My “No”

No is a complete sentence.

I’m done offering disclaimers, essays, or guilt-soaked explanations when I honor my limits. Boundaries are not a betrayal; they are a love letter to my well-being.

🙅🏽‍♀️Not My Job: Fighting to Be Understood

Some people won’t get you.

And that’s okay.

I’m learning that peace often looks like letting go of the need to be validated by those committed to misunderstanding you.

🛑Grind Culture? Blocked. Rest is not laziness.

Burnout is not a badge of honor.

My worth is not tied to how productive I am.

We live in a world that applauds the grind, even if it costs us our health, our peace, and our joy. Maybe you’ve been there too: juggling Instacart runs, Uber rides, side hustles, freelance gigs, and odd jobs just to make ends meet. Falling asleep on buses, in break rooms, or between tasks because your body is running on empty. And still, somehow, feeling like you’re not doing enough.

But let this be a gentle reminder: You don’t have to earn your value by exhausting yourself.

You don’t have to prove your purpose by burning out.

What’s meant for you won’t require your self-abandonment.

God’s promises don’t demand your depletion, they invite your trust.

This season is about realignment.

You are allowed to rest—and still be deeply worthy.

🎯I’m Allowed to Dream Bigger: No More Guilt for Wanting More

I can be grateful and still want more.

I can love my life and still long for the next chapter.

Desire doesn’t cancel contentment, it reveals where God might be calling you deeper.

I’ve always been a dreamer and a doer. A hustler at heart. I work hard, extremely hard! I chase my goals with everything I have, and when I reach one, I’m already casting vision for the next. And sometimes? I feel guilty about that. Like maybe I should just be satisfied. Like ambition and faith can’t coexist.

But I’m learning that God doesn’t shame our longing. He speaks through it.

He’s the one who planted vision in our hearts to begin with.

If you’ve ever felt guilty for dreaming bigger after reaching a goal, or like your hunger for more somehow makes you ungrateful—breathe.

You’re not broken. You’re being expanded.

This year, I’m giving myself permission to hold both:

Gratitude and growth.

Peace and pursuit.

Stillness and vision.

You don’t have to shrink your dreams to prove you’re thankful.

You get to honor God by walking boldly into every door He opens, even the ones you didn’t expect to knock on so soon.

💃🏽Letting Go Of The Fear of Being “Too Much”

Too emotional.

Too ambitious.

Too spiritual.

Too passionate.

Too loud.

Too soft.

Too sensitive.

I used to think all my “too much” was a problem to fix.

That if people got too close, if they experienced all of me, they’d walk away.

That my fullness would overwhelm, confuse, or disappoint.

So I tried to tone it down.

Dim the light.

Soften the edges.

Make myself easier to carry.

But the truth is—I love me. I love the way God made me: bold and soft, driven and tender, deep-feeling and big-dreaming. I love the fire, the sensitivity, the way I see the world and want to heal it. And I no longer feel the need to apologize for being someone who feels, hopes, and believes deeply.

God designed me in His image—not as a mistake but as a masterpiece. I’m not “too much.” I’m wonderfully custom-made. And so are you.

So now? I’m reclaiming every “too” as a testimony.

Too emotional? That’s compassion.

Too ambitious? That’s vision.

Too spiritual? That’s discernment.

Too sensitive? That’s depth.

Too much? That’s divine fullness.

We weren’t created to be small—we were created to carry glory.

If you’ve ever felt like your bigness made others uncomfortable, or that shrinking made you more likable, this is your reminder:

You don’t have to fit to be worthy.

You don’t have to edit yourself to be loved.

Be all of you.

Every God-breathed part.

So here’s to this new chapter and next level of becoming.

Here’s to soft goodbyes and solid boundaries.

Here’s to unlearning what was never ours to carry.

Here’s to walking boldly into the woman I was always meant to be.

And if you’re reading this—no matter your age—you can do the same.

What are you letting go of?

In November 2021, I wanted to disappear.

As I sat in the basement of my previous church home listening to women share their testimonies of overcoming, conquering and how God stepped in. I couldn’t stop the overwhelming feeling that God abandoned me and did not love me.

I remember what I kept saying in my head “You hate me and I’m tired of trying to make you love me.”

I had reached what I thought was the end of myself — numb, exhausted, and vision blurred by pain I didn’t know how to carry these burdens anymore. After I left the church, I tried to leave this Earth. Unsuccessful, because God stepped in but I still attempted to take my own life. After intervention from loved ones (my cousin, sister and friends), and now back in the same apartment. I sat in stillness, not because I was grateful to still be here or because I like the quiet, but because I was empty.

In the middle of that darkness, I heard God speak.

Just six words.

“I’m going to move you.”

At the time, I didn’t understand what that meant. I thought maybe it would be a spiritual shift, maybe a job change. I didn’t know. All I knew was I was broken… and somehow, God wasn’t done with me.

A Church That Let Me Heal

Soon after, a friend invited me to her church. She said, you don’t have to stay.. you don’t even have to join, but I know you need to reconnect with God. Little did she know, she not only reconnected me with God but she introduced me to a community that would show me so much more.

My first service was three days after I attempted to take my own life. I had a few friends that also attended that church. Most of the other members knew me from the previous ministry I was a part of. As I walked up the stairs into the sanctuary, my mind flooded with thoughts.

What if they see my brokenness… What if the see the bandages… What if God tells them what I did.. They know my previous ministry, what if I can’t be that same leader as before… What if I can’t show up as perfect?

I sat in the wooden pews, nervous, shaking, anxiety-ridden and the next thing I will never forget. The First Lady came over and hugged me. She held me so tight and did not let go. First, she cried for me as if she could feel my pain while holding me. Then it turned to crying with me.

She didn’t know what happened three days prior, but God showed her what I needed. I needed this community. I needed love.

They didn’t force healing on me.

They didn’t expect me to “bounce back.”

They let me be.

They let me cry, be angry, sit in silence, learn to walk again — with Christ this time. Slowly. Safely. In my own timing.

That space was a miracle.

a clip of me going up for prayer and the church surrounding me with love after the big turndown

2022: From Milk to Meat

In 2022, something in me began to shift. I was in the infancy stage of my healing journey, and my palate was starting to change. Survival was no longer satisfying me, I wanted to taste of something more. I was learning to listen to myself and most importantly, trust God.

That desire led me to book my first solo trip to Puerto Rico. A full week. Just me. For the first time, I made a decision completely for myself and I only did things that felt like me.

I wandered through a tropical garden and learned about medicinal plants.

I paddle-boarded into a golden sunset.

I explored my roots, my family’s history, my ancestry.

I breathed.

And one day during that trip — in the stillness of my room — my phone lit up. A notification I had never received before:

Saved Girl Brand Group Prayer (Live).

I had followed the page about a year earlier after hearing Sazj and Ed speak at our youth ministry, but I had never gotten an alert… until that moment.

I was already awake. So I joined. Why not?

As Sazj prayed, I suddenly felt a tug. I needed to ask for prayer.

I typed in the chat. She paused. Read it.

And then she began to pray and prophesy.

She said:

“Your wounds are so deep… they’re infected, and it’s touching the bone. But God wants to heal it.”

I was stunned. Seen. Exposed. And strangely comforted.

She asked me to message her. I did.

That message led to a divine connection.

She invited me to her upcoming conference — Milk to Meat, happening in April.

She told me she felt I needed to be there.

She was right.

Those three days were vital. Even though I was hesitant and a little standoffish at first, something broke open. I let the women in. And slowly, they would become my sisters.

2023: The Quiet Year

Then came 2023.

My “quiet year.”

God told me: “Don’t renew your lease.”

And I said, “Okay… sure.” (But inside, I was nervous.) I didn’t have a plan. I had been trying to get into a corporate position at my job, thinking that was the breakthrough. I was going through interview after interview, clinging to the hope that it would all work out.

Meanwhile, something else was unfolding.

I was called to ministry.

I got licensed as a minister.

I preached my first sermon — on the fall of the first temple and the rebuilding of the second. It felt… poetic. Because I, too, was being rebuilt in the same place where I had once crumbled: the church.

A Prophetic Word & A Plot Twist

Then came the 2nd Saved Girl Conference, and God stopped being quiet.

We had been praying and preparing, and one of the guest speakers came up to me with a word. She said she saw country music over my head. (I laughed a little — that’s random.) But then she asked, “Have you been praying about relocation?”

I froze. “Yes,” I whispered.

She looked at me with calm certainty and said,

“God says you’re moving to Nashville.”

I was stunned. Nashville? I wasn’t even sure how to get to Nashville. But I held onto that word with shaky hands and cautious hope. Still, I was focused on securing that corporate job, convinced it was the way forward.

Then, on October 3rd, 27 days before my lease ended, I got the rejection email.

I was in a work meeting when the message popped up on my iPad. I burst into tears right there. The job I thought was my breakthrough… gone.

But then — once again — I heard God speak.

“Look at your same position… in Nashville.”

So I said, “Fine, Big Sandals.”

(That’s my nickname for Him because that’s my guy.)

The Move

What happened next moved fast:

• October 5th — I interviewed.

• October 7th — A second interview.

• October 10th — I got the offer.

• October 29th–30th — I packed up my apartment and drove into destiny.

Just like that, I moved.

Not just cities — but seasons.

From brokenness to becoming.

From silence to surrender.

From milk to meat.

To what you are currently seeing.

If You’re in Your Quiet Year…

I want to tell you something I wish someone had told me:

God is not ignoring you. He’s preparing you.

The silence isn’t the absence of God.

It’s the invitation to stillness.

To listen.

To trust.

To obey — even before it makes sense.

The move might not be immediate.

The breakthrough might not look the way you imagined.

But trust me…

When He moves you, He really moves you.

I’m living proof.

—

Thank you for being here in The Speaker’s Circle.

If this touched you, I’d love to hear your story too.

Drop a comment, reply to the email, or just sit with it — you’re seen. You’re held. You’re becoming.

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