Molly Booker at United Methodist Church of Eagle ValleyThe church basement always felt haunted, but not by ghosts. It was haunted by the unknown. The dark. The damp. The unused. While upstairs buzzed with hymns, potlucks, and praise, the basement sat mostly idle—full of forgotten Christmas costumes, dusty canned goods, and that low-level discomfort kids

Starting Over at MidlifeYou’re not late. You’re right on time.There’s this tricky terrain I keep bumping up against: how do we tell the truth about what hurt us without turning our healing into harm?I came out at 47, and in doing so, I cracked open an entire identity I hadn’t fully accessed before. I didn’t

Our basement pipe is still clogged.The gutters are… well, not “guttering.”There are boxes in the hallway, boxes in the basement, and probably boxes in my subconscious.The backyard? Torn up. No grass, no doggy door.It’s a mess.And yet: I’m home.There was a time not long ago when a mess like this would’ve wrecked me. In fact,

There are letters I write in my head that never leave my lips.Letters I whisper in the car, in the kitchen, in the quiet.Letters I scribble in my journal, or tuck behind my eyes like tiny, burning secrets.This is one of those letters.To my dad.The one I’m desperate to write. The one I don’t want

Molly Booker, 1981Gentle Content Note: This post includes reflections on childhood discipline, physical punishment, and the emotional impact of being silenced. If those topics are tender for you, please care for yourself as you read. Skip, pause, or come back later if needed. My intention in sharing is not to relive the pain, but

Discovering new terrain at Frick Park Pittsburgh, PAThis week I heard the sound of my own singing voice.Not in the literal sense—though I do love to sing when no one is home. It was deeper than that. I heard the sound of my own voice as a parent, a partner, and a human working through

Kira, Leo, Kelly and Molly at Pittsburgh PrideGod is in the shuffle, the yard sale, the book club, the missed scissors—and we are growing.This morning, I opened my eyes in Pittsburgh. Still feels new to say that. There are boxes everywhere, a dishwasher that doesn’t work, Olive keeps throwing up, and the scissors are still

Construction on move in day…deep breathsIt’s been exactly one week since our house was packed up.Since then, we’ve been living in the in-between — between states, between rooms filled with boxes, between who we were in Tennessee and who we’re becoming in Pittsburgh.We arrived Saturday. The moving truck arrived Monday. And today — Wednesday —

Audio playback is not supported on your browser. Please upgrade.(something new…article voice over…if you’d rather listen than read…this is for you).Yesterday, a team of strangers packed up my entire house.It’s the first time I’ve ever paid someone to pack for me, and even as I write that, I feel a flicker of shame. Shouldn’t I

Bronco love at Machu Picchu, PeruWhat if loving more didn’t mean loving less?I used to be scared to pray.Jesus felt like someone I was supposed to revere—and God, even more so. Holy. Distant. Intimidating. I didn’t want to mess it up. I confused fear with reverence, silence with respect. I was taught to stay in