My co–star says that because my Aquarius is in something, I flitter from topic to topic without probing too deeply.
A therapist might call me avoidant.
A man might call me a tease.
Yet my God says, Come to me. Talk to me. Walk with me.
It’s funny how many versions of ourselves people think they know — how many ways the world tries to define us when we’re just trying to be.
I am someone who puts a lot on my plate, because my goal genuinely is to eat. I try to be everything I can to everybody, and I try to only rely on me. But in doing that, I forget that I’m a human being too.
I put so much faith in my Lord that I sometimes forget I’m allowed to be fragile. I forget that He made me with limits, with a body that needs rest, with emotions that sometimes crack and spill over.
Recently, my health stopped me in my tracks. I was hospitalized, and for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t “push through.” I was reminded that I’m not a superhero. I’m not immortal. I’m just me.
And being me is still enough.
When I got home, I still had to show up — as a mom, as a woman, as myself. I got my kids ready, bring to school, homeschool, cleaned, breathed, and let my body remind me that even if it’s breaking, it’s still capable too.
That’s when it hit me: so many of us are walking around exhausted — trying to keep up, hold it together, keep the mask on, hold the faith up high. But we forget that God never asked us to be perfect. He asked us to be present.
We don’t always give ourselves the same grace we so freely give others.
We don’t always recognize that some days, just existing is an act of faith.
Even in the bad, there is still good.
Even in the breaking, there is still beauty.
Even when your body feels like it’s betraying you, your soul is still reaching for light.
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The Guilt of Slowing Down
When my body first forced me to stop, the first thing I felt was guilt.
For me, rest has always been a sign of weakness — something I’m trying to let go of.
As someone who truly has to rely on herself, I’ve had to learn that gentleness isn’t laziness — it’s healing.
It’s repair. It’s grace in motion.
I’m learning to let go of wanting people to care, or being sad when they don’t show up.
Instead, I’m showing up for myself in the ways I wish others would.
I’m letting go of expectations and allowing people to be what they can be — and walking away from those who simply don’t.
When I say I let my body show up for me, I mean spiritually, emotionally, and physically.
I let it calm me.
I let it help me feel God’s way through me.
I let it move — slowly, softly — even when it hurts.
Sometimes capability is etched into the simplest things.
The fact that I’m breathing.
That I can still push Alaska around in the wagon in the yard.
That I can still teach her a lesson, even if my lungs feel heavy.
I remind myself that I’m capable simply by existing. That alone is enough proof of strength.
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To the Ones Who Feel Their Body Is Betraying Them
If you’ve ever felt like your mind or body was betraying you — I want to tell you something that I had to learn the hard way:
that betrayal is just a figment of our imagination.
Our bodies aren’t betraying us; they’re strengthening us.
Even in the darkness, there’s still light.
Even in the hurt, there’s still strength.
We’re breaking, we’re building.
We’re dying while we’re living.
We’re hurting while we’re happy.
Our bodies’ “betrayal” is often just the fuel we need to keep becoming more.
So maybe today, instead of punishing yourself for being tired, thank your body for surviving.
Thank it for fighting for you in quiet ways you can’t even see.
Thank it for being both fragile and fierce.
Because even when it feels like your body is against you —
you are still here.
And that means you’re still becoming.
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For You
Maybe this week, you try this:
when your body aches, speak to it gently.
When your mind races, slow it down with truth.
When you start to feel guilty for resting, remind yourself — you’re not weak, you’re healing.
Let your body show up for you in whatever way it can.
Let your soul follow.
And let your faith hold you softly, not demand perfection.
You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are becoming.
And that’s divine work.
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