224 Media

This morning I’m painting—finishing something I started last night.

I spent a couple of weekends inside, half by choice, half because my body wouldn’t let me leave. Half sickness, half flu, half the quiet that forces you to sit with yourself.

That sitting is something that happens to me at the end of every season, but especially at the end of every year. I always find myself being sat down by God—and choosing to sit down myself. I love it. I get to look back at everything that has happened, not in an aesthetically pleasing way, but in harsh reality. In the quiet of the night. In the early mornings when the painting won’t quite come together.

I’ve learned a lot about myself this year. I’ve learned a lot about my past selves. I learned especially about high school Bria—and all the versions in between. I’ve learned about love and loss, especially loss. I’ve learned about friendship. About being a woman. About what it means to be a man.

This year was both beautiful and crippling.

I spent more than half of it sick—most days in bed, most days talking to God, wondering if I’d ever get out of this labyrinth of pain and simply existing. There were days I pleaded for God to take me home because the physical pain felt endless. And if I’m honest, it hasn’t ended. The pain I feel today is the same pain I felt last December—the same pain that triggered everything that followed.

Now I live with a diagnosis that only two percent of people get. And that’s okay.

I’ve learned that some of us carry physical pain so the mind can hold greatness, just like some of the most gifted bodies struggle with a mind that can’t keep up. For me, it’s a little of both. I’m not always hands-on, but I’ve noticed I do have gifts—and I know those are exactly the things the enemy wouldn’t want to stay.

I’ve been attacked spiritually, financially, emotionally—and strangely, all of it has been great. This is not a year I would take back in any form.

This was the summer I turned pretty.

The fall I fell in love.

And the winter I grieved.

I grieve because there are people whose last conversations with me will forever be held in 2025. I grieve because someone was taken suddenly. Someone got their beautiful wings. I grieve because I’ll never speak to them in this lifetime again.

Every kind of loss is different. It doesn’t come with warning or preparation. It comes—and it takes.

Earlier this year I said The Stranger in the Lifeboat would be my theme, and it’s almost eerie how true that became. It brought me to this question: If God were sitting right in front of me, what would I do?

And the truth is—I don’t know.

Because it doesn’t matter if God or Jesus is standing right in front of us. He’s always been here.

The real question isn’t recognition. It’s choice.

Do we choose Him?

Do we choose light?

Do we choose change?

Because Jesus is all of those things. He teaches all of those things. And still—most of the time—we don’t choose them. It’s easier to choose stagnation. Easier to stay where we are, to remain comfortable, to keep ourselves just far enough from our potential that we don’t have to risk meeting it.

That fear almost stopped me from starting 224.

I started it on February 3rd, in my room. I told no one except my best friend. I posted slowly. Quietly. And then came readers. Followers. Familiar names from my hometown. It grew into a community—something real.

This is the first year I can say I accomplished everything I set out to do. And I’m proud of that.

My children have grown immensely. I’ve grown as their mother. I’ve had stormy days, sick days, days where growth had to happen from bed—but growth still happened.

Sometimes seeing where others lack helps you recognize where you are blessed. Not in envy. Not in pride. Just in clarity. Sometimes we need to witness struggle to understand God’s strength within us.

And faith.

And resilience.

And maybe that’s what this year was here to teach us.

That strength doesn’t always look like productivity.

That survival is still sacred.

That growth can happen quietly, slowly, even from bed.

Maybe where you are right now doesn’t look like where you thought you’d be. Maybe you’re grieving something that never came, or someone who left too soon. Maybe you’re tired of believing for things that haven’t happened yet. Maybe your faith feels thin, or complicated, or bruised.

That doesn’t mean you’ve failed.

It means you’re still here.

And if you’re still here, there is still work to be done. There is still beauty to be made. There is still love to be given and received—even if it looks different than you imagined. Especially if it does.

God doesn’t waste years like this. He doesn’t waste pain, or waiting, or sickness, or silence. He sits with us in it. He meets us in it. And slowly—sometimes imperceptibly—He changes us through it.

So wherever you’re standing at the edge of this year, I hope you let yourself rest. I hope you tell the truth about what hurt. I hope you honor what survived. And I hope you don’t count yourself out just because the road looked nothing like the one you planned.

Light is still available.

Change is still possible.

And love—real, steady, redemptive love—is still choosing you.