Tag: faith

T is for Transitions, Truth, and Treading Water

by Mothersense, posted in Mental Health Recovery, Reclamation

If you noticed the quiet here on Friday, thank you for your grace. My body called a hard timeout, and honoring that pause wasn’t optional—it was necessary.

When you’re running a series like this, missing a beat can make you feel like you’ve fallen behind. But as we step into T, it feels right on time. Today, T stands for three things that are currently intertwined in my life: Transitions, Truth-Telling, and Treading Water.

The Reality of Treading Water

When we talk about life changes, the world loves to highlight the “before” and “after.” We talk about making strides, taking big leaps, and celebrating clean breaks.

What people rarely talk about is the awkward, exhausting space in between—the season where you are simply treading water.

Treading water gets a bad rap because it looks like standing still from the surface. But underneath? Your legs are moving constantly just to keep your head up. It takes real energy to hold your ground while your body and mind adapt to change. If all you did today was keep your head above water while navigate a hard shift, that wasn’t a wasted day. That was survival.

Facing the Hard Truths

You can’t navigate a transition successfully on half-truths or wishful thinking. Real growth requires a serious period of Truth-Seeking and Truth-Telling—starting with the person in the mirror.

That means looking squarely at what we are putting into our bodies, our minds, and our daily routines, and asking: Is this actually serving me, or is it just a crutch?

For me, that truth-telling hits close to home right now:

  • The Habit Swap: Back in January, I made the big decision to quit smoking. That was a huge win, but to keep the edge off, I picked up vaping. It cut down the harm, but the truth caught up with me: my lungs are letting me know in no uncertain terms that vaping has to go, too. Moving from one crutch to another isn’t the final destination; it was just a stepping stone on the way to full clarity.
  • Fuel vs. Filling Space: I’m in a season where I have to be intensely mindful of every single thing I eat. It can no longer be about convenience or quick fixes. I am actively learning to seek high nutritional value and genuine flavor, shifting how I view food entirely.
  • Adding & Subtracting: Transitions aren’t just about cutting things out—they’re about replacing old, harmful patterns with nourishing ones. It’s an ongoing audit of habits, routines, and inputs.

Bringing Your Circle Into the Fold

The hardest part of truth-telling is doing it out loud with the people who love you.

It is terrifying to admit to the people close to us that we are struggling, or that a habit we thought we had under control is actually holding us back. But hiding our struggles only isolates us.

When we tell the truth to our family, friends, and support system:

  1. We drop the mask: Pretending “everything is fine” takes twice as much energy as actually dealing with the problem.
  2. We invite accountability: The people who love us can’t help us keep our balance if they don’t know we’re tipping over.
  3. We build a safer bridge: Letting others see our raw transitions allows them to support us in practical, meaningful ways.

Finding the New Normal

Learning a whole new set of life skills—whether it’s stepping away from nicotine entirely, restructuring your diet, or managing physical boundaries—feels heavy when you’re doing it all at once.

If you are currently in a transition of your own, give yourself permission to tread water for a minute. Be honest about where it hurts, stop pretending you have it all figured out, and let the people who care about you help hold you steady while you build your new normal.

We don’t have to swim laps today. We just have to keep reaching for the truth, one breath at a time.

The Letter L: Lessons, Layers, and the Beauty of Letting Go

by Mothersense, posted in Mental Health Recovery, Reclamation


Today marks a fresh page in the notebook. If you caught my post Saturday August 1,  on A New Beginning, you know we are stepping into this season with fresh intention, a clean slate, and a willingness to embrace where we are right now.
As we keep moving through our alphabetical journey, we’ve arrived at L. And honestly? It couldn’t have come at a better time. Life isn’t linear—it’s full of turns, unexpected shifts, and quiet victories. Today, we’re unpacking three “L” words that help us make sense of the journey and keep us grounded as we build what’s next.
1. Lessons (The Gold in the Grit)
Every season leaves behind a trail of wisdom—if we’re willing to look for it. The hard days, the messy kitchen tables, the pivots in our plans, and the unexpected delays aren’t waste; they are curriculum.
When we look back on where we’ve been, the goal isn’t to linger on what went wrong, but to gather up the lessons. What did that challenging week teach you about your boundaries? What did that creative block teach you about rest? When you view every outcome as information rather than failure, suddenly nothing is lost. Everything becomes fuel for where you’re going next.
Takeaway: Don’t regret the detours. Write down the lesson, keep the wisdom, and drop the weight.
2. Layers (Embracing Your Multitudes)
None of us are just one thing. You aren’t just defined by your day job, your family role, your creative side projects, or your past. You are a collection of layers built over time.
Sometimes we feel pulled in a dozen directions because we carry so many different passions and responsibilities. But here’s the beauty of layers: they give you depth. The patience you practice in one area of your life feeds into your creative work. The organizational systems you build for your home give you the freedom to dream bigger. Embrace all the different titles and talents you carry—they don’t make you scattered; they make you whole.
Takeaway: You don’t have to fit into a single box. Give yourself permission to honor every layer of who you are today.
3. Letting Go (Making Room for the New)
You can’t start a new chapter if you’re still holding onto the clutter of the last one. Whether it’s physical space, old expectations, or the pressure to have everything figured out by Monday morning, letting go is the ultimate act of trust.
As we launch into this new season, take a look around your desk, your calendar, and your mind. What are you holding onto simply out of habit? What mental tabs can you close today? When you clear out what isn’t serving your current season, you create the quiet space needed for new ideas, new energy, and new peace to settle in.
Takeaway: Hands that are full of old clutter can’t reach for new blessings. Open your hands and let it go.
Bringing It Home Today
As you move through this weekend, take a quiet moment over your morning coffee or evening wind-down to ask yourself:
What lesson am I carrying forward into this new start?
What layer of myself have I been neglecting lately?
What space do I need to clear out to make room for what’s next?
Here’s to living intentionally, learning as we go, and giving ourselves grace for the journey.

Recalibrating Gratitude

by Mothersense, posted in This Life


I sometimes catch myself being ungrateful.
Not in a loud, stomping-my-feet kind of way. Not in a way that would be obvious to anyone watching. But in the quiet way where I start overlooking what’s good and fixating only on what’s wrong.
The past few months have been particularly rough — financially, emotionally, physically. I still don’t have real answers about the left flank pain, though it has improved, and for that I am thankful. The heart issues? They seem to have been a fluke… or maybe a warning shot across the bow. Either way, my heart is strong, my blood pressure has normalized, and that is no small gift.
Emotionally and physically, though? It’s felt like one of those rickety carnival rides — the kind that jerks you around without warning. Up, down, sideways, spinning just fast enough to make you question your equilibrium.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I caught myself.
Not focusing on solutions. Not leaning into my usual “everything is figure-outable” mantra. Not scanning for silver linings or mapping out next steps.
I was wallowing.
And honestly? That’s not like me at all.
I’m the one who finds the bright side. I’m the one who reframes. I’m the one who says, “Okay, this is hard — now what are we going to do about it?”
But even the strong ones get tired. Even the optimistic ones have days where the weight feels heavier than usual.
So I did what I know to do when I feel myself drifting off course.
I recalibrated.
I carved out a little time each day to be alone. To reflect. To sit with my life and my circumstances without judgment. And somewhere in that quiet, I found something steady again.
Gratitude.
Not the fluffy, hashtag kind. The grounded kind. The kind that says: I am still here.
I am still able to spend time with my mostly grown kids.
I get to hear my sweet Aubree call me “Grand-ma-ma!”
I get to feel Charlotte slip her little hand into mine and lean in for a forehead kiss.
That is not small. That is everything.
I am fortunate. I am blessed. Even on the bad days. Even when the money feels tight. Even when my body feels unpredictable. Even when I have a moment (or two) of wallowing.
Gratitude doesn’t mean pretending things aren’t hard. It means refusing to let the hard things be the only things I see.
Perspective, y’all.
If you are weary, you are not alone. If you’ve been riding your own version of a bad carnival ride, I see you. But take a moment. Look around. Find one thing — just one — that anchors you back to what’s still good.
Recalibrate.
Because bitterness is heavy. Despair is suffocating. But gratitude? Gratitude steadies the ride.
We’ve got this.
Love and light, folks.

2025: Lessons from the Valley of Hope

by Mothersense, posted in This Life

2025: Lessons from the Valley

2025 was one for the books.

It was a year of long pauses and deep reflection, a year where many days were spent in the valley and far fewer on the mountaintop. A year filled with storms—some sudden, some slow-building—and not nearly as many victories as I would have liked. It wasn’t a year that offered easy answers or tidy endings. It was a year that asked me to sit with discomfort, uncertainty, and fear, and to learn what it truly means to endure.

Difficult seasons have a way of stripping life down to its essentials. When the noise fades and the days feel heavy, you learn quickly what matters and what doesn’t. You learn what you can cling to when there is nothing left to hold but hope—sometimes not even hope as we like to define it, but simply the decision to keep going.

There were moments this year when the darkness felt especially close. Moments when the questions came faster than the answers, when the weight of “what if” pressed hard against my chest. And one of those moments came under fluorescent lights, in a hospital room, as I prepared to undergo anesthesia for a heart catheterization.

Lying there, surrounded by beeping machines and hushed voices, my mind did not wander to all the things I still wanted to do or all the plans I hadn’t finished. It went straight to one thing—one moment I desperately wanted to reach.

My daughter’s wedding.

As the anesthesia began to take hold, fear crept in. Not the loud, panicked kind, but the quiet, sobering fear that asks: What if? What if I don’t wake up? What if I don’t get there? What if the moment I’ve been holding onto slips past me?

In that moment, I clung to prayer. I clung to love. I clung to the image of my daughter in a wedding dress, to the sound of laughter and music, to the sacred hope of being present for one of the most important days of her life. When everything else felt uncertain, that was my anchor.

And I made it.

I made it to the wedding.

And it was beautiful.

My daughter was beautiful—radiant in a way that goes far beyond appearances. There is something profoundly moving about watching your child step into a new chapter, about witnessing love take shape in front of you after all the years of raising, protecting, worrying, and praying. Standing there, heart full and eyes wet, I knew with absolute clarity that every storm, every valley, every fearful moment had led me to that sacred joy.

2025 taught me that difficult times don’t always come with immediate redemption. Sometimes the victory isn’t in the overcoming but in the surviving. Sometimes it’s in showing up—still breathing, still loving, still willing to hope even when hope feels fragile.

What do we cling to in the darkest moments?

We cling to love.
We cling to faith.
We cling to the people and moments that remind us why staying matters.
We cling to the belief that even in the valley, beauty can still be waiting ahead.

This year wasn’t easy. It wasn’t gentle. But it was meaningful. And if there is one lesson I will carry forward, it is this: even when the storms are many and the victories feel few, life can still surprise us with moments so beautiful they make the struggle worth it.

2025 may have been a year of hard lessons—but it was also a year that reminded me why I keep going.

The Art of Compassion: Helping Loved Ones Heal

by Mothersense, posted in This Life

When You Can’t Fix It: Being There for Loved Ones in Their Pain

There are moments in life when someone we love is hurting, and there is nothing we can do to take their pain away. Grief, loss, heartache—these are deeply personal experiences, and while we may wish to absorb their suffering, to shoulder it for them, we simply cannot. It is their journey, and our role is not to fix it but to walk beside them. So how can we show up in meaningful, supportive ways without offering empty words or repeating well-worn advice?

Hold Space Without Filling It

Silence can be one of the most powerful ways to show love. So often, we feel compelled to say something, anything, to ease the discomfort of pain. But instead of searching for the perfect words, try simply being present. Sit with them in their grief. Let them talk, cry, or say nothing at all. Being a steady presence can speak volumes more than any well-intentioned words ever could.

Acknowledge Without Trying to Solve

One of the most painful things for someone in distress is feeling unheard. When they express their pain, resist the urge to offer solutions or compare their experience to something you’ve been through. Instead, acknowledge what they’re feeling: “I hear you. That sounds incredibly hard.” Sometimes, knowing they are seen and validated is all they need.

Offer Tangible Help

Rather than saying, “Let me know if you need anything,” offer specific assistance. Bring them a meal, run an errand, pick up their kids from school, or handle a small task that might be overwhelming in their current state. Practical support can be a lifeline when grief or hardship makes even basic tasks feel impossible.

Respect Their Process

Healing is not linear, and everyone moves through pain at their own pace. Some days they may want to talk, other days they may withdraw. Some moments will be filled with tears, others with unexpected laughter. Let them lead the way, and don’t impose expectations on what their grief should look like.

Lean on Faith, If That Feels Right

For many, faith provides comfort, but in moments of deep pain, even the most devout can struggle. If faith is a part of their life, remind them gently of their beliefs without forcing platitudes. Instead of saying, “Everything happens for a reason,” try, “I am holding you in my prayers” or “I am here to sit with you in this, however long it takes.” Sometimes, embodying faith through love and patience is more powerful than words.

Encourage Without Pushing

There may come a time when they need professional help, whether it’s therapy, a support group, or other resources. If you sense they’re struggling beyond what they can bear, gently encourage them without making them feel broken or weak for needing help. You can say, “You don’t have to go through this alone,” and offer to help them take that step when they’re ready.

Find Your Own Support

Loving someone in pain can be exhausting. You cannot pour from an empty cup, so lean on your own faith, family, or friends when you need to process your emotions. Supporting them doesn’t mean ignoring your own needs; it means showing up from a place of strength rather than depletion.

Love Them Through It

At the heart of it all, the best thing you can do is love them. Love them when they cry, when they push you away, when they don’t have the words, when they feel stuck. Love them not by trying to remove their pain, but by being someone who remains, steady and unwavering, no matter how long the journey takes.

Because sometimes, the greatest gift we can give is simply showing up, again and again, with love.