Healed and a Little Broken
Every time my knee hurts, I think the same thing: You should’ve kept up with physical therapy. Healing doesn’t always end when the surgery is over. Maybe that’s true for our hearts too.
Every time my knee hurts, I think the same thing: You should’ve kept up with physical therapy. Healing doesn’t always end when the surgery is over. Maybe that’s true for our hearts too.
Transformation rarely happens all at once. It happens quietly—in ordinary days, difficult conversations, unexpected losses, and countless small choices to keep becoming the person we were always meant to be.
We often measure love by how it ends. But maybe love isn’t wasted simply because it wasn’t forever. Maybe every act of genuine love changes us, shapes us, and leaves something beautiful behind—even when the story doesn’t end the way we hoped.
What happens when faith doesn’t disappear—but certainty does? This is an honest reflection on loving God while wrestling with unanswered questions, silence, and the tension of staying in the conversation anyway.
Sometimes love doesn’t look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like showing up again tomorrow. This is an essay about the quiet faithfulness that changes lives one ordinary day at a time.
I am not responsible for forcing someone else’s transformation. I am responsible for mine. Maybe my job isn’t to make someone else change. Maybe my job is to keep letting God change me. And then live like it.
Following a heartbreaking murder trial forced me to wrestle with two things that don’t always fit neatly together: empathy and justice. What do we do when both seem equally important?
Sometimes my body recognizes what my mind hasn’t admitted yet. This is an essay about sadness, memory, and the quiet ways our bodies tell the truth before we’re ready to hear it.