Vulnerability used to terrify me. It felt like standing in the middle of a storm, stripped of all armor, fully exposed to the winds and rains of judgment, rejection, and shame. For so long, I believed that strength came from the walls I built—keeping people at a distance, protecting the parts of myself that I

For so long, I believed that strength meant having it all together—never letting the cracks show, never revealing the messy parts of myself. I thought that if I could just keep the masks on, hold everything in place, I’d be safe from judgment, rejection, or failure. So, I buried my emotions, hid the pain, and

I used to think that holding it all together was the key—being the perfect wife, pastor, and friend. The more I could control, the safer I felt. I believed that if I could just keep everything in its place, life would work out the way I wanted it to. Spoiler alert: It didn’t.When the pieces

For as long as I can remember, I've had a pattern with men—a pattern that has left me feeling exhausted, heartbroken, lonely, and so deeply misunderstood. I’ve carried a heavy weight of shame around it, believing that my constant need to please, prove, and mold myself to fit into their lives was some personal flaw

For so long, I wore perfection like a suit of armor. It wasn’t just about looking put together or having everything in its place; it was about control. Perfection was my shield—a way to hide from judgment, failure, and the ever-present fear that I wasn’t enough. If I could just keep everything perfect, I thought,

Have you ever found yourself clinging so tightly to control that you miss the freedom hiding in the chaos when it all falls apart? Maybe it’s a relationship that’s slipping through your fingers, or perhaps it’s a career you’ve poured everything into, only to watch it unravel despite your best efforts. We’re often so focused

Finding Balance, Humor, and Unexpected Joy Between Life’s ExtremesGrowing up, I always thought the middle was the absolute worst place to be. I was the middle child, which meant getting lost in the shuffle between my siblings. And don’t get me started on the middle seat in the car! Stuck on that uncomfortable crack, sandwiched

I thought I was really rolling. I had just recorded five songs at Blackbird, a once-in-a-lifetime event that left me feeling on top of the world, like I could do anything. I was on track to release a book in October and had begun receiving invitations for podcasts and TV interviews. This was my dream—so

When the phone rang last night, I looked over and saw it was my mom. She never calls at night unless something has happened. My heart dropped, and I immediately thought about my dad. Is he missing? Hurt? Did something happen to him? My dad loves to go out on walkabouts in the Moab desert

I recently found myself entranced by Melissa Etheridge’s documentary, "I'm Not Broken." I eagerly devoured the episodes and was left craving more after only two. The documentary delves into the opioid crisis and the penal system, particularly focusing on the Leavenworth, KS facility. It’s a poignant exploration of the cycle of hurt people hurting others,