I want a garden and to tend to all my chickens.
Keep up with cleaning the coop more regularly.
Add dairy goats so I can milk them every day and make goat milk soap.
Use that same milk to make other things, and can all the things from my garden.
Make all the jams I dream up.
Add more products to my farm stand.
Bake all the sourdough (a multiple-day process, but so worth it).

And I want to paint.
To get my she-shed together so I can lose myself there—
paint all the things, reopen my Etsy shop,
sell my paintings, take commissions,
and feel that sacred stillness that comes when I create.

I want to learn how to sew.
To do more needle felting.
To crochet gifts for others and make things for the farm stand.
To junk journal—collecting bits of ephemera that tell their own quiet stories.
To write in my Substack more regularly.
To send out writing pieces for publication.
To share my heart with the world.
To be inspired again—with prompts, ideas, and meaning.

I want to do another presentation for a motherhood conference.
To start a podcast with my friend Haley—the one we’ve dreamed about.

And I want to homeschool better.
Not just the bookwork, but the together loop—the fun, the field trips, the creative days.
I want to go to more co-op activities,
plan more myself, take the kids to the library more, and play outside with them more.
(Though this week’s rain has made that a challenge.)

I want to be a better wife—to love Nick more intentionally,
to meet his needs, to serve him,
to show him how much I see and appreciate all he does.

I want to be a better mom.

I want our home to be a refuge from the world.

I want to find my rhythm again—
a true, steady rhythm of household maintenance and the mundane,
which are really the sacred things:
laundry, dishes, meal planning, grocery runs.

I want to stop using language that shames myself.
Like I just did.
“I want to be a better…”—implying I’m not enough.

For a while, my health didn’t allow me to do the mundane but essential things to run a household.
Now that my health does allow me,
it’s my the anxiety and PTSD that get in the way.
The noise.
The chaos.
The loudness that comes with love and life and kids—it all triggers me.

And so the cycle begins.

For a while, I’ll stay consistent with my Substack, but then another ball drops.
I’ll do well with the farm stand, but something else slips.

I can’t do all the things.
But I want to.

And in the quiet moments, I remind myself—
the first ball I want to hold steady is my relationship with God and Jesus Christ.

To have daily, meaningful prayer.
To open my scriptures and linger there,
reading slowly enough to understand and feel.
Not rushing through to check it off a list,
but pausing—truly connecting—and carrying those moments of prayer in my heart throughout the day.

The next ball is my relationship with my husband,
then my relationship with my children,
and only then comes everything else.

And maybe, just maybe,
it’s time to stop always thinking about what future me wants—
the future garden, the perfect rhythm, the finished she-shed,
the ideal version of our land and my art and all my dreams—
and instead focus on present me.

What can today’s me do—right now—
to tend to what truly matters most?
To bring those top three things into balance,
or at least to add to them, even in small, imperfect ways?

Because peace isn’t found in doing all the things.
It’s found in doing the right things,
right here, right now.

Peace is found in the seemingly mundane tasks—
in the quiet folding of laundry, the stirring of a pot, the sweeping of a floor.
It’s found in the pause before I react to my children,
in the breath I take to refocus and re-center
on what I truly want to be doing in this very moment.

Not to should on myself,
but to re-center on what I truly desire at my core—
to fill the buckets that matter most,
to raise up the balls I want higher,
instead of juggling the unnecessary ones.

And maybe that’s the real rhythm I’ve been searching for all along.

🕊 Closing Reflection

If you’re reading this and nodding along, I hope you know you’re not alone.
So many of us carry the weight of wanting to do it all—because our hearts are full of good things.
But maybe the real work is learning which things to set down,
and trusting that God will help us carry the rest.

Here’s to finding peace in the pause,
and learning to love the life we already have—
one quiet, imperfect, sacred moment at a time.

Someone like my grandmother.
She was offered thousands for her paintings and never sold a single one—on purpose.
It was never about that.
She painted to quiet her spirit.
To speak the unspeakable.
To pour light onto canvas and let it speak when words couldn’t.

Each painting was a quiet act of generosity.
Each brushstroke, a kind of prayer.
She gave them away freely.
Hung them in her home.
Tucked them into corners of churches and community rooms.
And now—years later—her legacy isn’t what she made.
It’s what she gave.
And what she stayed:
soft, steady, radiant.

She was a woman who wasn’t exactly what you’d picture when you think of soft.

She kept her hair short—always.
Hairsprayed to perfection, not a strand out of place.
She wore a sharp, steady smile, or none at all.
And her tongue? It could be cutting. Brutally honest in a way that didn’t flinch.

I’m only now—at thirty-five—able to part my hair down the middle without hearing her voice echo in my mind,
telling eight-year-old me I looked like Pee-wee Herman.
(It was the short haircut. I was trying something new.)

But this—this painting, this giving—
this was the soft part of her.

Soft like that half-smile she did sometimes,
like she was trying not to seem amused. Or kind. Or gentle.
Trying not to let you know she cared.

But she did.

And you could see it,
not always in her words,
but in the way she painted light into dark corners—
and gave it away without needing anyone to say thank you.

Blooming can seem like it should be an event.
Like the corpse flower—rare, dramatic—drawing a crowd just to witness its opening.
But real-life blooming usually isn’t like that.

Most of the time, it’s quiet.
Almost imperceptible.

It’s the blooming of my ministering sister:
in her check-ins, her hugs, her soft presence, her small gifts, her steady love.
Not loud, not showy.
But constant.
A life poured out in gentle, daily yeses.

It’s the blooming in hard seasons that takes my breath away.

Like the daisy that pushes through a crack in the concrete—
fragile, determined, wild with grace.

Like the mother who wrestles with anxiety but keeps coming to church,
week after week,
with two little children under four,
even when her husband stopped coming.
She arrives anyway—tired, trembling, but blooming.

Like my friends,
who lost children—
who lost their best friend—
in a car crash that shattered so much.
And still, they show up.
Every week.

To teach at co-op.
To serve at church.
To sing at events.
To bring their gifts—voice, violin, presence—
to a world that keeps turning, even after theirs cracked open.

That’s blooming.
Not the loud kind.
The sacred, stubborn kind.

Like my friend—
a mother of two under five—
whose belly is blooming now,
not for herself,
but as a surrogate for a family waiting with breath held and hearts wide open
for the arrival of their darling baby girl.

Like my sister-in-law,
who once bloomed her womb for another family too—
and now stands steady and strong for her boys
after the hurricane stripped their home to the studs—
and then another came, just days later.

This is the kind of blooming I think of often.

The kind that doesn’t draw crowds.
The kind that happens quietly, courageously, continuously.

Women who believe their blossoms go unnoticed.
Who think their bloom isn’t big enough, bold enough, bright enough.
But they don’t see—
how breathtaking their blossoms really are.

I think of my mother—
always giving.
A wedding attended in unbearable pain,
her shoulder shattered, surgery waiting—
but she was there.
For family.
For love.
For the moment.

She helps my homeless brother tirelessly.
She is there for every appointment,
every hospital stay,
every late-night worry
for my brothers with fragile bodies and complex needs.

I think of my mother-in-law—
who just yesterday brought me literal blooms from her yard.
Who wakes early to take my youngest to forest school,
because my anxiety makes traffic feel like war.
She does this without complaint.
She gives grandma time freely,
even when it means getting locked out of her house for nearly an hour.
Even then—she showed up again to take the other two.
To soak up more love before we move.

I see the blooming happening in my nine-year-old, too.
It doesn’t always look calm.
The emotions are hard to balance—
but the heart is so big.

A few days ago, on the first morning her dad was out of town—
she knew it would be hard for me.
She woke up early,
made chocolate chip pancakes for her little brothers,
cleaned it all up,
and brought me Perk in bed. It’s my favorite morning drink.

She is learning what it means to bloom.
To notice someone else’s heaviness.
To offer comfort not because it’s expected,
but because it’s needed.
Because love makes her brave.

And so I gather these blooms.
Not the ones on display.
Not the ones spotlighted in galleries or podiums.
But the quiet ones.
The sidewalk daisies.
The front yard roses picked in morning light.
The belly carrying someone else’s baby.
The aching shoulder dressed in grace.
The grandmother knocking on a locked door with arms still open wide.

These are the blossoms I hold close.
These are the women I want to be like.
The ones who don’t announce their blooming.
They simply bloom.
Again and again.
For love.
For family.
For calling.
For joy.

Most blooming is done in quiet.
But that doesn’t make it any less miraculous.

So this—
this is for the ones who stayed soft.
Who bloomed anyway.

You can find the first part of my poem The Ones Who Stayed Soft published in this gorgeous literary journal, ’ newest issue “Bloom”!

They plan to share each piece of this publication on their SubStack, petal by petal in the order of the issue. Mine is first, so it will be published on their Substack tomorrow too! I’ll link over to it there once it’s up.

Please visit the link below to open this bouquet and see the first part of this poem:

https://dandelionrevolutionpress.com/issue-3-bloom/

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Before a potter can shape anything, the clay must be centered. It may sound simple, but it’s one of the most essential—and delicate—parts of the process. If the clay isn’t perfectly centered, everything else will struggle. The pot will wobble. The sides will rise unevenly. The piece might crack or collapse altogether.

So the potter presses gently but firmly, adjusting the pressure with both hands. One hand pushes, the other supports. The clay fights it at first—but when it finally finds its center, it moves with the wheel in perfect rhythm.

That’s when the shaping can begin.

When Centering Comes First

Sometimes, even when a potter thinks the clay is centered, they begin shaping—only to have the piece wobble or collapse. It looked ready. It seemed stable. But the clay was just slightly off. It wasn’t fully grounded, and the structure couldn’t hold.

Our Potter, of course, never makes that mistake. He doesn’t misjudge or miscalculate. But sometimes we place ourselves on the wheel and say, “I’m ready. Please build me. Shape me.”

And yet, we haven’t truly centered ourselves in Christ. Not fully.

We may be praying, reading scriptures, doing what we’ve always known to do—but if our hearts are still clinging to the world, still divided, still holding back what we don’t want to surrender—we’ll wobble under pressure. And when the pressure comes—whether through the ordinary weight of life, the adversary’s attacks, or our own fears and resistance—we can crumble, not because the Potter failed, but because we weren’t willing to be fully centered.

Sometimes, before any shaping can begin, we need to simply be still.

To sit on the wheel.

To let Him move us, gently, to where our true center lies.

Often, it’s the simple things—those “mundane” daily acts of devotion—that bring us back to center: reading His word, praying with intention, listening quietly, choosing trust.

And maybe the most important ingredient of all: a willing heart.

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Scripture That Centers Us

The scriptures often speak of foundation, steadiness, and spiritual focus—reminding us where our true center must be.

Helaman 5:12

“And now…, remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation… which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.”

When Christ is our center, we don’t just withstand the storms—we are shaped through them.

Mosiah 3:19

“For the natural man is an enemy to God… unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit.”

Centering takes yielding. Letting go. A quiet surrender to the Spirit rather than the pull of the world.

Matthew 11:28–29

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest… and ye shall find rest unto your souls.”

True centering doesn’t feel like striving. It feels like rest in Him—because it’s not about controlling the spin, but trusting the hands that hold us.

A Moment I’ll Never Forget

This is where I get really vulnerable.

After my first husband left me, I was depleted. If you know me, you know I’m a confident person. But by the time he left, I had been dwindled down by emotional abuse—and on the day he walked out, physical.

I still can’t believe I begged him to stay.

I told him I would do anything. I would go to all the therapy. I believed him when he said it was all my fault. I believed everything he told me—every quiet, manipulative whisper that chipped away at me.

Like the way he’d hold me on his lap while we were cuddling, watching TV, and say,“Have you been stopping for more sweets? They’re so, so yummy, huh?”

Said with a smile. Said like a joke.

Or the way he’d smirk and say, “I bet your old boyfriends couldn’t hold you like this.”

He never directly said I was fat. But somehow, even at my thinnest as an adult, I felt like I was. That’s what those kinds of comments do.

And yet—I still begged him to stay. But he didn’t.

And now, I thank God for that.

The day he left, I was completely alone. My parents were out of town. My brother that lived there at the time not home either. I was sitting on their leather couch, a bottle of leftover pills in my hand—maybe mine, maybe my mom’s—I don’t even know.

I felt like damaged goods.

Utterly unfixable.

Unworthy of love.

My mind drifted back to my mission—memories I hadn’t let myself sit with for a long time. I remembered learning that some of my companions had written to the mission president with concerns about me. I was moody and snappy. He told me he didn’t know what to do with me, who to assign me with. I was shocked. I hadn’t done that in my writings to him.

I thought that was just part of the mission.

You’d get paired with someone who might say things that hurt you, or annoy you, or act unkind—and you just swallowed it. Someone you wouldn’t necessarily pick to live with for 6 weeks minimum, I thought that was just a normal thing to butt heads with someone you literally can’t be out of sight from and would tire of one another at minimum.

You smiled. You pushed through. You wrote letters that said everything was fine, because that’s what you were supposed to do, right? That what I did and thought was how I eventually would feel alright was if I pretended everything was fine.

I was fine. It was all fine. Until I wasn’t

I didn’t think you were supposed to complain. I didn’t think you were supposed to admit you were struggling.

I didn’t write about the hard stuff—

Not about my grandma dying in the MTC.

Not about my 3 older handicapped brothers that were all in and out of the ICU for months, not knowing if I’d be told in the next email they died.

Not about the carbon monoxide poisoning, the black mold, the pneumonia, the multiple times of bronchitis I had on the mission.

I just kept smiling.

But inside, I was breaking.

And then, unexpectedly, the only other grandparent I grew up knowing, my Papaw died.

And sick with pneumonia and completely numb and unable to function and go on anymore after this final blow, I was sent home from my mission honorably and saved future companions from living with my messy, broken self.

And on that couch, I broke again. It’s really me. I’m the problem, I thought. No one will ever want to live with me. No one will ever want to marry me.

And for a moment, I believed I needed to die.

But then—

I surrendered.

I didn’t take the pills.

My faith and my Savior held me.

I put them back in the bottle, and I stayed.

Years later, I sat on that very same couch—now mine, passed down from my parents—this time with my husband, and our children snuggled beside me.

And it hit me like a flood:

This is what surrender can lead to.

This is what happens when we let ourselves be centered on the wheel.

That moment of collapse—of almost giving up—was the moment I unknowingly let Him press me into center.

I stopped pretending I could hold myself together.

I let Him start to shape me.

And now, the life I have—my husband, our children, the quiet joy of family—was shaped right there, in the place I almost ended it all.

I am so glad I stayed.

I am so glad I surrendered to Him.

Staying Centered

Before the shaping can begin, we have to be still. We have to let Him center us. And sometimes that takes more time than we expect.

Sometimes it means doing the quiet, faithful things—reading His word, praying with honesty, being willing to let go of what we’re clinging to.

Sometimes it means laying everything down—our pride, our fear, our timing—and just saying, “Here I am. I’m willing.”

Because being centered isn’t about perfection. It’s about surrender. It’s about trust.

If you’re feeling off-balance, or like you keep collapsing under pressure, maybe it’s not because you’re failing—maybe it’s just time to come back to center.

And if all you can offer today is stillness and a willing heart, that’s enough.

That’s where the shaping begins.

About This Series: In the Hands of the Potter

This series was born from a painting I cut from an old Ensign magazine and taped to the back of my Preach My Gospel manual as a missionary. It features a woman shaping clay, paired with my favorite scripture:

“But now, O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.”

Isaiah 64:8

That image and verse have stayed with me ever since—through refining seasons, healing, and quiet moments of becoming.

Pottery speaks deeply to my spirit.

It reminds me that God is not distant; He is close—His hands gently shaping, sometimes pressing, always creating with love.

Each post in this series explores a stage of pottery and the spiritual truths it reveals: from surrendering as clay, to enduring the fire, to finding beauty in brokenness.

We are not forgotten in our shaping.

We are held.

And we are being formed into something beautiful.

• What helps you feel spiritually centered?

• Are there “centering practices” in your life that bring you back to Christ?

• Have you ever felt like the clay—off-balance, unsure—but willing to stay on the wheel?

I’d love to hear how God has been shaping you, too. 🏺💛

Leave a comment

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As a mom who homeschools three kids, is managing and planning a new to us homestead of 10 acres (we just moved here a month ago—hence why my writing took the back burner for a few weeks), writes, paints, photographs, cooks, and is recovering from a stroke—I don’t need another thing to do or remember. I need support. And that’s what I’ve found.

Here’s a glimpse of how AI supports me in daily life:

• It helps me structure and refine my writing—acting like a gentle editor or coach

• It finds words I can’t recall by me describing to it information about the word I’m looking for

• It helps me reword or simplify everyday explanations I know people will eventually ask me—like how we homeschool or what my husband does for work—so I can practice responses that sometimes feel hard to form under pressure for me

• I’ve set it up to create daily word and poetry prompts as part of rebuilding my vocabulary post-stroke

• It identifies mystery plants I photograph

• It maps out my garden design and helps with plant timing, spacing, care, and integration into other parts of life

• It creates realistic meal plans and grocery lists

• It sets reminders and keeps me on track with the small details that otherwise slip through the cracks

• It’s helping me plan out pasture ideas and breaking down our homesteading ideas into doable tasks by steps and seasons

• It’s helping me plan out what animals to start with first in regards to our goals and land specifically

• I use it instead of Google for questions most of the time as I have my phone “dumbed” down so most of my apps are blocked, preventing me from wasting time and getting stuck scrolling or mindless reading of clickbait articles that pop up on the Google page.

It doesn’t create the work for me—it helps me create it and fine-tune it.

Homeschooling Help

AI supports me as I plan our family’s homeschool rhythm, offering ideas for themed lessons, gentle structure, and flexible academic planning that works around real life. It’s helped me incorporate more hands-on learning, like copywork from scripture, poetry, and art integration—all while honoring our values and goals. I can give it a general overview of what we did that day that wasn’t textbook learning, and it will pull out what skills and lessons those things that day taught during living our normal life. So much is learned in normal home living, it’s truly fascinating and encouraging to read about what specific things can be learned from just living life and embracing the lost art in keeping a home and homestead.

Co-op Class Planning

I also just wrapped up teaching a homeschool co-op class before our move, called Logic Unlocked, where kids explore critical thinking and teamwork through immersive escape rooms. AI helped me:

• Design full escape room experiences with puzzles, clues, storylines, and roles

• Map out rotations, adjust difficulty by age, and balance learning with fun

• Incorporate educational elements from STEM, history, geography, and art

• Create printable resources and editable documents

• Keep everything organized and engaging for both the kids and me

What It Doesn’t Do

It doesn’t take away my autonomy.

It doesn’t write for me.

It doesn’t erase my artistic voice or creative fingerprint.

It’s also not perfect. You need to fact check, for sure.

I’m also not here debating the potential copyright issues of how AI models were trained. I’m using it as a tool to help with my original work.

I’ve even had it retain a few of my published articles so it understands my voice and style. I put in my unedited drafts or jumbled thoughts, and it helps shape them into clarity—I repeat, just like any editor or writing coach would. That’s not artificial intelligence replacing me—that’s just intelligent assistance supporting me.

To me, it’s one of those tools where it’s all about how you use it and not letting it use you.

Especially after my stroke, when my brain fatigues easily or anxiety makes it hard to respond in the moment, this tool has been a lifeline. A bridge back to words, ideas, confidence, and clarity.

So no, it hasn’t dulled my creativity.

It’s helped me return to it—with more space, more direction, and more grace.

Thanks so much for reading!

If you’d like to support this little corner of the internet, every share, comment, or like is truly appreciated—it helps more than you know. 🌼

I’m also excited to share that I’ll be featured in ’s upcoming Bloom collection, where part of a poem I wrote will be published! I’ll be sharing the second half of that poem right here on Substack after the collection is released—so stay tuned.

This virtual event is designed to connect mothers with mental health resources, offering a low-barrier approach that deeply values community and connection. It is 100% volunteer-driven by mothers who care about building up awareness and support for other mothers.

In my session, I'll be sharing how I discovered I was stuck in survival mode after trauma, postpartum challenges, and a stroke—and how I gently began to heal through somatic tools like EFT, vagal toning, and hypnotherapy when talk therapy alone wasn’t enough. I’ll be sharing practical ways to support nervous system regulation for both you and your children, and what redefining strength in motherhood has come to mean to me—one breath, one moment at a time.

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Every speaker has either lived through the trenches of maternal mental health challenges or helps mothers professionally—often both. Come as you are, find what you need.

This summit is perfect for you if you:

• Want to hear from therapists, authors, mothers, and mental health advocates

• Are looking for more resources to add to your mental health toolbox

• Desire less hustle-culture and seek community

Ticket Options:

• $25 Standard Ticket: Live access to all sessions, Q&A participation, basic materials, and 1-week replay access

• $47 VIP Ticket (Early Bird Pricing): Everything in standard, plus access to any of the VIP speaker offers/materials, and a full year of access to all recordings!

Join us to feel compassionate support October 10-11 by clicking below 👇🏼

REGISTER NOW

I hope to see you there!

This is not that.

This is now.

This is not then.

It hurts a little now.

It hurt a lot then.

I’m healthier now.

But I was strong then.

And I’m even stronger now.

Yesterday, I had to have a midline placed—because that’s what my body needs whenever I need an MRI with contrast. My vasculature has been shredded by years of IVs, midlines, and PICC lines. There are only so many usable veins left.

My mind has been flashing back and forth between images—the ache in my arm now, and the sight of myself in that hospital bed, hooked up to tubes, fighting to stay.

Back

and

forth.

Back and forth.

The mind reels. The body remembers.

Be still.

Calm the water.

Stay the ship.

I am steady. I am here.

This is not that. This is not then.

I let myself feel the ache.

I let the tears come.

But I didn’t stay stuck in the past.

I breathed. I anchored. I returned.

Because healing isn’t about pretending it never happened. It’s about recognizing that it did—and knowing I’m still here.

Still healing. Still whole. Still here.

• Have you ever had a moment where your body remembered something before your mind did?

• What grounds you when the past tries to pull you back?

• What does healing mean to you—right now, in this season?

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If you haven’t already, please read my recent guest essay on ’s lovely substack:

Just Write Mama

Witnessing Humanness #1: Joy

To wrap up April, this week’s essay is a featured guest essay from fellow writer Melissa Anderson. Melissa submitted her essay to my call for guest posts for a series I’ll feature periodically throughout the rest of the year: "Witnessing Humanness." In these divided times, I want to highlight the basic emotions we all share and showcase how we are all, …

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a year ago · 11 likes · 11 comments · Breeann Adam and Melissa Anderson

And another recent guest essay contribution on ’s:

We Have This Hope

So We Won't Forget...a writer collaboration

More than a year ago I started writing a series I affectionately called So I Won’t Forget. This has become the means by which I put remembering into practice—the way I tune my senses just enough to see what God has been doing in the nooks and crannies of my life…

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a year ago · 10 likes · 12 comments · Emily Curzon, Holly C Sharp, Kelly S. Phillips, and Melissa Anderson

Post 1 of the “In the Hands of the Potter” Series

The Hands That Shape

There’s something powerful about watching a potter at work.

The way their hands move—firm, yet gentle—the rhythmic spinning of the wheel, the careful shaping, the quiet intention behind every touch.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not accidental.

It’s an act of presence.

The kneading, the smoothing, the shaping and reshaping—

the water, the tools, the steady pressure,

the messy, strong, purposeful hands.

A lump becomes something beautiful and useful—not by accident, but by being held and shaped with love.

That image has always captured me.

The Painting That Stayed with Me

I first saw the painting years ago in an Ensign magazine—a woman at a pottery wheel, her hands steady as she shaped the clay, light brushing across her face as she worked with quiet strength. There was gentleness in her touch, and strength in her focus.

Something about it stirred me deeply. Something I couldn’t exactly pinpoint. I just knew it made my heart warm. I knew I wanted to keep it close so I could have that feeling every time I looked at it. I carefully cut it out, taped it to the back of my Preach My Gospel manual, and carried it with me every day of my mission.

Beneath the painting was a scripture I now carry in my heart:

Isaiah 64:8

“O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.”

It has become my steady reminder in seasons of refinement.

We are the clay. He is the potter. We are the work of His hands. He is shaping me. Be moldable.

That verse—and that painting—are the seeds of this series.

The Clay Doesn’t Shape Itself

Clay doesn’t become beautiful on its own.

In its raw form, it’s soft. Messy. Unformed. Sometimes it’s dry and cracked and needs to soak in some water to come back to its softer raw form.

And yet—clay holds potential.

But only when it’s placed in the hands of someone who knows how to shape it.

There are times in life when I feel like that raw clay—unsure, unfinished, uncertain if anything good can come from what I’m carrying. There have also been times when I’ve felt too dried out. Too cracked. Too broken to ever become soft again. To ever become something the Potter would be able to—or want to—work with and mold again.

But then I remember:

It’s not about my ability to shape myself.

It’s about who I’m surrendering to.

Just as a potter kneads the clay, presses out imperfections, and begins the work of molding—our Heavenly Father invites us to place ourselves in His hands.

To stop striving alone.

To trust Him to form what only He sees.

Different Clays, Same Potter

There are so many types of clay—Earthenware, stoneware, porcelain, air-dry, polymer, paper clay—and each one has its own makeup. Its own strength. Its own path to refinement.

Some are durable and gritty. Some are smooth and delicate. Some need extreme heat to become strong. Others dry quietly over time, without ever entering a kiln.

Each one was made for a different purpose.

Each one is shaped and finished in its own way.

But all can become beautiful in the hands of the Potter.

What a thought:

How beautiful will the pottery in heaven be—with all the different types of clay gathered together?

Each vessel shaped uniquely, with stories of refining and redeeming,

each one standing as a testimony to the same gentle, powerful Hands.

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The Series Begins

This is just the first post in a series I’m calling “In the Hands of the Potter.”

We’ll walk through the pottery process together—from shaping to firing, from cracks to golden restoration.

Each stage will invite us to reflect on the ways our Heavenly Father is working in us, even when we can’t see the full picture.

If you’ve ever felt broken, worn down, cracked, too raw, unshapeable, or unsure of where you’re headed—this series is for you.

You are not forgotten.

You are not finished.

You are the clay in His hands.

And what He is shaping is holy.

          We are the Clay by Julie Rogers

About This Series: In the Hands of the Potter

This series was born from a painting I cut from an old Ensign magazine and taped to the back of my Preach My Gospel manual as a missionary. It features a woman shaping clay, paired with my favorite scripture:

“But now, O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.”

Isaiah 64:8

That image and verse have stayed with me ever since—through refining seasons, healing, and quiet moments of becoming.

Pottery speaks deeply to my spirit.

It reminds me that God is not distant; He is close—His hands gently shaping, sometimes pressing, always creating with love.

Each post in this series explores a stage of pottery and the spiritual truths it reveals: from surrendering as clay, to enduring the fire, to finding beauty in brokenness.

We are not forgotten in our shaping.

We are held.

And we are being formed into something beautiful.

Would love to hear your thoughts and/or answers to these questions below in the comments!

• Have you ever felt like the clay—cracked, dry, or unfinished? What helped you trust the process?

• What does the image of a potter and clay stir in your own heart?

• Is there a verse, image, or moment that has stayed with you in seasons of refining?

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  Thanks for reading let’s find joy! This post is public so feel free to share it.

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Not the typical kind, anyway—

the kind where you stare at the paper

and nothing shows up.

For me, the words used to flow.

A line would come,

then the next,

and the next would just form—

easy, liquid, like water flowing.

Especially when it came to poetry.

But now, post-stroke,

I find myself staring,

not at emptiness,

but at too much.

So much all at once.

Hundreds of words and ideas

scroll through my mind,

rapid and untethered.

I feel so deeply about all of them,

but I can’t grasp just one

to pour onto the page.

Often the word I need—

or the topic I was so sure of moments ago—

vanishes.

Floats out of my grasp.

And I have to search

and search

to find it again.

There’s so much power in how I’m learning

to see this shift—

not as a loss,

but as a re-mapping.

The old flow was like a river,

constant and direct.

Now it’s more like rain—

coming from all directions at once,

harder to collect

but no less full of potential.

I know my brain is trying—

building new neural pathways,

finding fresh routes to old roads.

I know it’s working so hard

to find its new way

of communicating.

So I’m practicing patience.

And grace.

Because even if I stumble with my words,

they’re still mine.

And I’m still here.

Still writing.

Still grasping.

Still pouring.

The flow just looks a little different.

Life is like that sometimes. Messy, complicated.
Bandaids just don’t stick.

We got that letter from the neighbor.
A letter that felt like a punch to the gut.
(You know the one—from this post 👇).

What you also don’t know is that just the day before, we had gone to the temple, prayed, and received a clear, peaceful answer: it was time to move our family to the Kansas City area.

Kansas City holds a special place in our hearts. It’s where Nick and I met 11 years ago, both there for the summer. We always imagined coming back one day, settling down with our future family. That time has finally come.

We were driving to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho for Nick’s work conference, and we sent in the offer in from the road. I was so sure it was our house. The seller loved our letter with the offer. We were told she even told our realtor that she loved us. She even texted me saying she loved us. I was convinced.

So the whole weekend in Idaho became one long, breath-held pause—waiting for a yes.

The trip had its own chaos. On the drive up, we had to stop so many times for bathroom breaks. There was one particularly funny moment when it was just the boys who had to go, and that meant we could pull over on the side of the highway. Watching them both try to see how far they could get their pee to fly had me laughing through the stress. Just another pocket of funny tucked into the mess.

We made it to Coeur d’Alene, where the kids and I swam at the hotel while Daddy went to his work conference. We had the entire pool to ourselves—both days. days. Well, except for the older couple who came for half an hour, were so sweet, and told me to enjoy the loudness and craziness. “You’ll miss it one day,” they said. Before they left, they even laid towels all over the slick, wet floor after Brooks slipped and fell twice. Angels in disguise.

The kids and Nick had been coughing and battling sickness earlier in the week, but I thought I’d make it through okay.
Spoiler: I didn’t.

My asthma flared, my lungs got worse, and I ended up feeling it coming on strong the whole drive back. I stayed home from church that Sunday.

And then we got the news on Monday: the house wasn’t ours.

It was April Fools’ Day.
And you best believe I thought it had to be the cruelest joke of all.
But it wasn’t a joke. It was real.

And me? I’m kind of known as the Queen of April Fools among my friends. But this year? I had nothing.

I was depleted—emotionally, physically, spiritually.

I did what I always do when the weight feels too heavy: I took a bath.
A hot-hot detox bath. Oils diffusing. Baking soda and magnesium salts and oils swirling in the water. Trying to soak the stress and sickness out of my body.

That’s when a friend texted, “Hey! You’re amazing at April Fools’. Any ideas for me?”
And I realized—I wasn’t doing anything.

Cue the spiral.
The “I’m failing as a mom” loop.
You know the one.

So yeah—no clever tricks this year. Just me, soaking in a tub and being April Fooled by thinking that house was ours.

And then—because life wasn’t done—our landlord emailed. Not because of the neighbor’s note. But because they’re selling the house.

“You are good tenant ever I had,” they wrote in their best English.
And also: we had to be out by May 17.

We asked for the end of May. They agreed. But still—
we have to find a house
we have to make an offer
we have to move
now.

Then today, while on the phone with our realtor, trying to decide if this next house might be the house…
My dad called.
He was following the ambulance.
My mom had fallen.
She broke her arm—maybe her leg too.
And that was today.

But—I also want to tell you about the good that’s been tucked in the chaos.

Like laughing with Nick after I said we needed to buy spring rolls instead of bubble wrap. (Aphasia after a stroke + perimenopause = word salad. My words go rogue on the regular.)

Like deep, honest conversations with our kids—reminding them that adulting is hard, but we’re doing our best to choose a life where they can flourish.

Like teaching my Logic Unlocked class at co-op and watching kids light up solving escape rooms—while our realtor texted videos of houses I wouldn’t even have time to look at until class was done.

Like visiting the lake after, the older two playing with all their co-op friends we’re going to miss so much and chasing ducks, watching Brooks laugh with his friend Nora.

Like today—when Brooks didn’t want to go to his beloved forest preschool. I gave him a mission:
Find the tiniest, coolest rock you can and bring it back to show me.

“Are you ready?” I asked.
“Yes,” he nodded.
“Okay. Now, what’s your mission when you get to forest school?”With a completely serious face he said:
“Leave.”

I laughed so hard I cried.

So yeah—life is a swirl of grief and joy, stress and beauty.
The bandaids won’t stick.
But the laughter?
The love?
The tiny cool rocks?
Those stay.

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I didn’t realize how often I told myself what I should be doing—until I noticed how heavy it felt.

It was subtle at first.
Just quiet, passing thoughts.

I should have gotten up earlier.
I should be more patient.
I should have done more with the kids today.
I should be further along in my healing.

It didn’t feel like pressure—it felt like responsibility. Like motivation. Like doing my best.

But day by day, should began to sound less like a helpful nudge and more like a judgment.
A constant whisper that who I was in that moment wasn’t quite enough.

It felt heavy.
And it was weighing me down.
It does weigh me down.

This is a call to me.
To you.
To all of us and our “shoulds.”
To eradicate it from our vocabulary.
To release it.

And we have to be thorough—because there are many different types of should. It can get tricky when you start wading through your thoughts and how you talk to yourself. You might think some of the shoulds are good.

Ones like:

I should add milk to the grocery list.
I should schedule the kids’ well-child appointments.
I should put these in the wash right away—the kids need them for Forest School tomorrow.

But I’m here to tell you—it’s still should.

And it can evolve so smoothly, so effortlessly, into the worst kind of should:

the should’ves.

They tend to piggyback on each other:

I should’ve already made the grocery list. Should’ve already gone to the store.
I should’ve scheduled that appointment months ago. Should’ve called yesterday when I had that extra five minutes.
I should’ve washed these earlier in the week. Should’ve already had them clean and ready.

And if you follow that train, you’ll find a caboose full of shouldn’t haves.

I shouldn’t have let the milk run out in the first place.
I shouldn’t have forgotten to schedule their well checks again—it’s just once a year and shouldn’t be that hard to remember.
I shouldn’t have waited until the night before to make sure their things for tomorrow were together and ready.

These are all interwoven—almost incestuous—with another “sh” word: shame.

And I’m here to tell you:
I’m done with that family.

I’m done letting my mind fall so quickly along the should lines and into the pit of shame.

So I’m choosing to proactively notice should—everywhere.

Just last week, I was waiting to turn onto a busy road and missed a chance to go. I sighed deeply.
“Should’ve gone,” I muttered.

But I caught it.
I felt that familiar shame creeping in—wondering if the person behind me was annoyed. I noticed it, and I said out loud,
“No. It’s okay. There will be another chance.”

And in that little moment of giving myself grace, I felt my love for myself grow.

Because there’s a difference between saying:

“I should go for a walk,”
and
“I want to move my body because it helps me feel grounded.”

One shames.
The other empowers.

I don’t need more rules. I need more grace.
I don’t need more pressure. I need more presence.

So I’m trading my shoulds for:
• I get to
• I choose to
• I want to
• I am allowed to
• I can wait until I have the capacity
• I don’t have to do it all today

This isn’t laziness. It’s liberation.

A Gentle Prompt for You:

What’s one “should” you’ve been carrying lately?

Can you pause, notice it, and ask:

Is this voice coming from love—or from shame?

And if it’s shame…

What would it look like to speak to yourself with grace instead?

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Dear Anonymous Neighbor,

You don’t know me. At least, not really.

You haven’t stopped by to introduce yourself or said hello when we’re outside. You left a letter instead—a letter about noise, trash bins, and the “reflection of our parenting.” You didn’t sign your name, but your words carried weight. And I’ve carried that weight every time I open the door or hear my children laugh too loudly outside.

But since you took the time to write, let me write back—not to accuse, but to share. Not to defend, but to invite you to understand what you haven’t seen.

You don’t see the learning taking place inside our home. The frequent breaks we take for physical and emotional regulation—because our school day doesn’t follow a bell, it follows our bodies and our hearts.

Since the elementary school is behind our house, you worry my 3 kids interrupt the hundreds there too much. You don’t hear the schoolchildren who often yell over the fence for my kids to come out and yell at each other across the fence—right in the middle of our lessons. Or yell and wave up at us in our second story window during our piano lessons, asking if we can hear them. The noise from the school regularly interrupts our learning, but we don’t mind. We expect kids to be loud. Because that’s what kids do.

You don’t hear that sometimes the noise you think is ours is actually from the public school just behind us. My husband works mostly from home and has often thought our kids were outside when they should be learning—only to realize it’s the school kids, whose voices carry through the fence.

You didn’t know that the week you probably heard the most screaming, the week you specifically mentioned, was the week my husband had a surgery (with complications), our 9 year old sprained her ankle, and just one day after my husband had the surgery—our four-year-old fell off the trampoline and lost consciousness. We rushed him to the ER. It was terrifying. We’ve been holding that moment with shaky hands and quiet prayers ever since.

You don’t know that one of our children is autistic—and sometimes, their response to a situation doesn’t always match what’s happened. A small frustration might result in a big reaction. A scream that feels disproportionate. That’s part of the journey we’re on. And we’re working on it every single day—with love, with patience, and with hope.

You don’t see the backstory—that these children came from 800 wide-open farm acres in Alabama, where they could roam and breathe and yell without bothering anyone. And now, they’re learning to live in a cookie-cutter neighborhood with a tiny cement backyard and houses pressed together like Tetris puzzle pieces. Their world has shrunk. And they’re doing the best they can to stretch out in the space they have.

You don’t know that we’ve left anonymous Christmas gifts on neighbors’ porches each year, hoping to spread light and kindness in a world that’s often harsh and lonely.

You don’t know that the trash bins you mentioned are placed right next to a neighbor’s who regularly leaves theirs out longer than we ever have. And the couple of times ours sat out for a day or two? We were sick with COVID and the other time with walking pneumonia, trying to function and care for our kids.

Sometimes, our four-year-old chases the neighborhood bunny through a nearby yard or two. You might call that “trespassing,” but to him, it’s magic. It’s wonder. He sees soft fur bounding through green grass and forgets, for a moment, the boundaries grownups have drawn. We remind him—gently and often—not to run through yards. He’s learning. But he’s four. And it’s a bunny. And in his world, that’s a chase worth taking.

Just like it’s hard to resist riding down the neighbor’s driveway with the fun hill—even though he knows he’s not supposed to. Most days, he remembers. Sometimes, he gives in. And we course-correct, again, with love and patience.

I don’t expect you to love the sound of children. But I do hope you’ll pause the next time you hear laughter or frustration or even a cry—and consider that what you’re hearing might not be misbehavior. It might be growth. It might be joy. It might be a family trying its best.

We are not just noise. We are a home. A homeschool. A family full of learning and love and loud, real-life moments.

There are no laws or HOA rules against children playing loudly in their own yard or public spaces during daylight hours. And yet, your words made me feel like we had broken something sacred. We’ve been here for two years, while we try to figure out if we want to buy here or move out of state. You implied that our presence here should be temporary, as if renting somehow made us less. That our parenting was flawed because our kids live loudly. But the truth is, we are doing what any family would do—learning, living, laughing, growing.

We are not perfect, but we are present. And we’re raising kind, curious, spirited children who are learning about boundaries, kindness, emotional regulation, and yes—empathy. Maybe they’re learning that last one faster than the adults around them.

So this is not a rebuttal. This is an invitation: to empathy. To understanding. To seeing a fuller picture.

And maybe, to starting a conversation. One we wish you would have tried first.

Your neighbors (but hopefully not for much longer),

Dr & Mrs Anderson

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*trigger warning, near death experience

Dear Melissa,

You did such a good job. You held that baby in your womb as long as you possibly could. You sacrificed so much to bring him into the world. And you did. He’s here. He’s healthy.

And now, you are dying.

The nurses haven’t been pushing on your stomach to help your uterus contract. They don’t know that you’ve been hemorrhaging internally. You’ve been complaining about pain and complaining about pain. Maxed out on the pain meds, the nurses have grown frustrated with your complaints.

Until you were no longer able to complain.

Darkness.
Voices. My name. Someone shouting my name.
Blackness.
Pressure. Pain. Sharp pain. Unbelievable pain.
Blankness.

Beeping from every direction.
Blurred faces—dozens of them. Some on my left, some on my right—digging into an artery, many more at the foot of the bed. Six hands pressing down. Hard. Too hard.
I scream—no, Nick would say later, I moaned, something raw and inhuman.
I gasp—air like fire in my throat. Hands press down—why? What’s happening? Darkness swallows me whole.

The smell of antiseptic. Someone calls my name.
And always, always, Nick at the back of my head, behind the bed, rubbing the top of my head, whispering he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Gone again.
Darkness.
Darkness.

A voice. My name. Pressure and sharp, sharp pain.

Darkness again.

And then

Light.

A conversation. A choice. “You’ve done well. You can stay. It would be absolutely okay to stay. You would not be giving up.” I see their faces. Nick’s, Annabelle’s, my new baby boy, Warren’s. “If you go back, I can’t promise it will be easy. It will not be easy.” I’m so tired. So very tired. I made a choice. I could feel the pull of their love anchoring me.

I went back.

Remember. Remember you are a warrior. Remember you chose this. Remember their faces. Remember the love. The joy.

“Yea, I say unto you,”… “that there could be nothing so exquisite and so bitter as were my pains. Yea, and again I say unto you”…“that on the other hand, there can be nothing so exquisite and sweet as was my joy.” Alma 36:21

You didn’t know yet, what He meant about it not being easy.
You didn’t know yet, how deep suffering could go.
You didn’t know yet, that it could get harder than this.
You didn’t know yet, that the only way to feel exquisite joy is to know exquisite pain.
But you will.

You will learn what He meant when He said it would not be easy.
You will know what it means to learn to walk through darkness and into light.
And always, always, the ones you love will anchor you home.

Embrace this gift of life.
Hold on.
Keep going.

This life—this choice to stay—is still unfolding. And there is joy waiting for you in the days ahead.

“Help is closer than you know
And you've got Angels always around you”

With Love,

Melissa

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She walks with a slow gait. Shuffling, yet elegant. She wears her jewelry, her hair curled. Each Sunday, she picks out a family she feels should play with her special bag of fidget toys. It’s always the Sunday we really need it. The sense of specialness, the joy of new toys, the attention it snags from the kids—it helps me, and it helps them. And, let’s be real, it helps everyone that day. My kids can be loud and wiggly.

She lives right in front of the intersection where we lost four of our dear friends this time last year in a car accident. She seems connected to us all. She’s also one of my ministering sisters, so she checks in on me even more. She comes to visit or tells me to stop by after church near my children’s birthdays for a special gift for them. She knows that loving my kids is loving and serving me.

She is a seamstress by trade, but her stitches go far beyond fabric. Her hands, softened by years of threading needles and hemming edges, seem to mend hearts, too. She hems pants and even a bra for me once, adjusting seams with the same patience she brings to life. When she hands the clothes back, neatly folded and restored, it feels like more than just a favor. It feels like love stitched in, seam by seam.

She alters clothes—and souls.

She delivers pizza without notice, just knowing we need it. It was icy that day, and I watched to make sure her gentle walk brought her back safely to her car without slipping.

I made sure to pick out a special card for her. It has punny sayings on it, like “I ap-peach-iate you,” “thanks a melon,” “thank you berry much” with an applicable fruit drawn on it. I choose one for her and write a heartfelt message inside. I send it via snail mail, even though I’ll see her at church on Sunday. Everyone loves getting handwritten, happy snail mail from a real person.

She comes up to me on a Sunday, grasps my hand, and squeezes it three times before saying, “I got your card. Thank you. You just never know. You just never know. Thank you. It meant so much.”

I hope it touched her heart as much as she touches mine.

Do you know a seamstress of the soul, too? I’d love to hear about yours!

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It wasn’t anything beyond the normal—kids laughing, kids whining, kids yelling, kids singing, kids crying, kids dancing, kids arguing.

The dog remembered he’s actually a dog and was barking at a delivery person dropping something off on the porch. Yes, the kids are safe, and we’re not dying no matter what it sounds like, Amazon delivery worker. I walk downstairs but don’t open the door to get the package until I’m sure they’re driving away.

My watch and phone buzz with a text I hadn’t responded to. More text reminders of medicines that need to be picked up. A call from an unknown number—not answering that. I can’t believe I used to pay for ringtones. Now my phone is just always on vibrate.

There are baskets of clothes piled up in the laundry room, dirty countertops, dirty dishes in the sink, cluttered floors, cushions on the couch all askew, crumbs everywhere, and a clump of dog hair floating off the dog now because the Seattle area decided it’s spring weather for probably a couple of days. And that’s just what I can see with a quick scan. We can only imagine the things under the couches and whatever the heck is going on upstairs. My homeschool room constantly looks like a tornado went through it. Make that three tornadoes, the size of each of my children.

I was about to snap—tell everyone to be quiet, to just stop for a second—when I noticed something.

My four-year-old, unbothered by the noise and chaos, was twirling in circles, completely lost in his own world of K-POP, courtesy of his Toniebox (he’s obsessed…thank you so much, ball-hopping app thing, for introducing him to K-POP). His giggles and smile rise above the rest. He’s wearing his favorite thing to wear—an old Elsa and Anna sleep dress that used to be his older sister’s. He wasn’t overwhelmed. He wasn’t wishing everyone would just stop what they were doing. He was just… here. Fully present. And happy.

I thought of Jesus on the boat in the middle of the storm, the waves crashing, the disciples panicking—and yet, He slept. Not because the storm wasn’t real, not because the chaos wasn’t there, but because His peace wasn’t dependent on the storm stopping. And I wondered—could I find that peace too? Right here, in the depths of my own storm? The chaos of my everyday?

Can I find peace here, in it, instead of just waiting until it’s over?

Maybe peace isn’t something I have to chase after, waiting for the perfect quiet moment.

Maybe it’s something I can embrace—right now, in all the noise, in the mess, in the undone things.

Maybe peace isn’t found in the absence of chaos, but in choosing where I place my focus.

Not after the storm, but in the middle of it.

Not after the noise fades, but while it still swirls around us.

And maybe, just maybe, peace looks a little like a four-year-old twirling, completely unbothered by the storm.

Snowflakes sway softly

Fractals frozen, frolicking free

drowsy discs descend

Miracles

How can anyone forget miracles? How do I forget the miraculous things God has done for me when it gets hard again? How do I question if I’ll make it through the current breath-stealing hardship? Will He make sure it works out how I hope it will for me? Will I be okay?

Whatever I’m facing now may pale in comparison to the trials I’ve already survived—a 100% success rate, to be exact—and yet I still find it hard to remember the light in the darkest, hardest moments.

I find myself relating to the apostles who literally walked with Jesus in the flesh and still forgot. How often did they watch Him perform miracles, only to question Him the next time something seemed impossible?

John Hilton III mentions this in his blogpost, “Remember the Miracles”:

One of my favorite illustrations of our tendency to forget comes from two miracles performed by the Savior in back-to-back chapters. In Matthew 14, Jesus Christ fed 5,000 men, plus women and children with only five loaves and two fishes. It was an astounding miracle! After seeing this, as well as Christ walking on the water, his followers said to him, “Of a truth thou art the Son of God” (Matthew 14:33).

In the very next chapter, 4,000 men, plus women and children were listening to Christ. The Savior said, “I have compassion on the multitude, because they continue with me now three days, and have nothing to eat: and I will not send them away fasting, lest they faint in the way” (Matthew 15:32). You would think that the disciples would say, “Sounds great Lord, we would love to see you do another miracle,” but instead they respond, “Where will get enough bread to feed so many people?” (see Matthew 15:33).1

The apostles forgot. And sometimes so do I.

Remember.

How do we actually remember?

Time and again, we are told to remember in the Scriptures. The ability to remember and to forget is hardwired into us.

It’s easy to judge the apostles for their doubt, but when I reflect on my own life, I realize I’ve done the same. Why do we forget so easily? Science offers some fascinating insights.

The Queensland Brain Institute describes memory formation beautifully:

“The brain simmers with activity. Different groups of neurons (nerve cells), responsible for different thoughts or perceptions, drift in and out of action.

Memory is the reactivation of a specific group of neurons, formed from persistent changes in the strength of connections between neurons. But what allows a specific combination of neurons to be reactivated over any other combination of neurons?

The answer is synaptic plasticity. This term describes the persistent changes in the strength of connections – called synapses – between brain cells. These connections can be made stronger or weaker depending on when and how often they have been activated in the past. Active connections tend to get stronger, whereas those that aren’t used get weaker and can eventually disappear entirely.”2

That last sentence bears repeating: “Active connections tend to get stronger, whereas those that aren’t used get weaker and can eventually disappear entirely.” (Emphasis added)

Remembering isn’t automatic. It’s deliberate. If I don’t revisit the memories of miracles in my life—if I don’t use those synaptic connections—they weaken. They fade. They disappear.

Science confirms what the Lord has always taught: remembrance is a deliberate, consistent effort. When I revisit spiritual experiences, I’m strengthening those connections. When I let them fade, I’m weakening my ability to remember His miracles.

Remember.

A Body Broken, A Spirit Strengthened

I know this concept well from when I had to relearn to walk post-stroke. Forming new neural pathways, strengthening weakened and damaged synapses, and doing it over and over, consistently, is crucial to recovery.

My muscles had atrophied from not just complete immobility from being in a coma for a few days, but I had also been on bedrest my entire pregnancy (credit for that goes to HG (Hyperemesis Gravidarum), gestational hypertension+preeclampsia) with Brooks, my 2020 covid baby. After the C-section, I would be rushed to the ICU for blood pressure instability, would go on to have a brain stem TIA (complete paralysis from the neck down and not feeling them stabbing my toes scared everyone in the room), and after the 7th unit of blood was transfused, they finally found out where I was bleeding internally.

I was already trying to recover from a lot of physical things that were damaged or had atrophied when I had a stroke in the fall of 2021 on the right side of the brain, resulting in left side deficits. I had to be placed in a coma for a few days to get the seizures I was having under control. Being immobile for that length of time (not just during but possibly especially after) and is not restful, it’s incredibly painful. I was in severe pain constantly just from trying to move again. I yearned to be able to do “ordinary” mom things, human things like washing dishes, doing laundry, changing my child’s diapers, bathing myself. I didn’t know if this was going to be my new normal forever.

Do I have the faith to not be healed?

I can tell you the veil is thin. It’s the thinnest when you’re going through the most pain your body, your heart, your soul, your every cellular essence has ever felt. I can tell you angels are real. They are around me. They are around you. And they helped lift me. And Jesus, the Savior and Redeemer of my soul, carried me. He truly did. And He will again.

Remember.

A Baby's First Steps, A Mother’s Renewed Faith

2021. It’s evening time. I’m sitting on the couch in our RV, in physical and mental agony. I’m sobbing. Gut-wrenching sobs. My mom and my husband watch me in their own form of agony for me, for us. I cry out, “How will I ever walk again?” Just then, Brooks, now 12 months old, props himself up and takes his first wobbly steps toward me.

That’s how, Mama. Baby steps.

Faith in Healing: A Priesthood Blessing

Fast forward to 2024. It’s evening time in late January. I’m lying in my bed, in physical and mental agony. I can walk now. And I have answers—ones we’d sought for so long. A rare genetic mutation that affects all connective tissues, including skin, joints, hollow organs, and arteries, had been causing my health to progressively worsen for years.

This diagnosis finally gave me clarity, but it didn’t change the pain. Every day hurts. The average life expectancy is 51. Is this my forever? I don’t know. But I do know this: I do now have the faith to not be healed.

Healing doesn’t always come all at once. For me, it came in stages—sometimes painfully slow ones. I saw noticeable progress as I moved from a walker to arm crutches to a cane. The physical miracles were easier to see then. But healing from something like this—mentally and physically—is never just about the body. The pain of immobility, of being unable to do “ordinary” things cut into my soul. I wondered if this would be my forever.

That evening, I realized something profound: in all my years of receiving blessings for symptoms, injuries, and complications, I had never received a priesthood blessing for the condition itself—the very thing that was causing it all, now that we knew what it was. With that realization, I turned to my husband and asked for a blessing. I would be fine if nothing changed, but I knew I had the faith to be healed (or not) right then and there, and He had the power to do so, if it was part of His will for me at that time in my life. He can. He will. He does.

As he placed his hands on my head, I felt the Spirit fill the room. The words of the blessing confirmed that I had learned all I needed to from my trial. “Arise,” it said, “and go forth to serve and show the goodness and miracles He has wrought in your life.”

As the blessing ended, I felt a slow, warm surge of strength enter my very marrow. It wasn’t an instant, overnight change, but I knew—I knew—that something had shifted. Healing had begun.

The Healing Unfolds

Now, a year later, my life looks drastically different. I’ve lost almost 100 pounds. The daily joint pain, swelling, bruising, and bleeding are gone. My bloodwork is incredible, and I’ve been able to come off numerous medications.

I’m no longer just surviving—I’m thriving. Where I once felt like the one always needing help, now I can sign up to serve in Relief Society. I can say “yes” to opportunities. My body, once so broken, feels renewed.

It’s not perfect, though. It’s not supposed to be. Life still has struggles—my PTSD and anxiety were recently triggered, and balancing my nervous system has been a challenge. But even in that, I see His hand. Already, He has helped me again, and I’m doing so much better than I was just a couple of months ago.

He Heals Us All

Christ heals in ways that remind me of my own journey—sometimes gradual, sometimes immediate, but always filled with purpose. Just as my healing came step by step, His healing often works in stages. He strengthens the weak, binds up the brokenhearted, and restores what seems impossible to restore.

And sometimes, He heals us in ways we don’t expect. That blessing reminded me that healing isn’t just about being made whole; it’s about being made ready—to serve, to grow, to testify of His goodness.

My healing is not just physical—it’s spiritual. It’s an ongoing journey of faith, trust, and surrender. It’s a reminder that while life will never be free of struggle, I don’t face it alone.

Because of Him, I am healed. And because of Him, I will always be whole.

Remember.

How I Choose to Remember

Like the apostles, I’ve had moments of walking on water—or at least, watching Christ hold me afloat when the waves seemed certain to drown me. And yet, when new storms rise, I find myself wondering, “Where is the bread? Will He really show up again?”

Remember.

I’ve seen more miracles these past few years, than I could ever have imagined to and yet, I can imagine it because that is the God I believe in. So, how can I forget? The answer is in science. The answer is quite simply, life.

I told some mom friends recently that sometimes I think, those days in the hospital fighting between life and death might just have been easier than this. Than what they’re doing, what they’ve been doing for a long time. Being back in the “land of the living” is hard. Being a mom and a wife is hard. This every day, all day long thing is brutal. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I’ll never be done with it. You don’t have to have huge, personal miracles to believe. To have something to remember. Miracles still happen even in the hard and messy of every day life. Miracles come in many different shapes, sizes, colors. Miracles happen to every body, every day. Even with the person who does not get “healed”, there are miracles happening.

And sometimes…sometimes, I forget. I wonder, how will I get through this? Forgetting that He has always been here and it’s not just me alone, traipsing through this life, trying to get through it.

If I’m not actively reminding myself of what He has done, I’ll forget that He’s done it, I’ll question if He can, and doubt if He will. Because if I’m not remembering, I’m forgetting.

Remember.

For me, I’ve learned to remember by writing it down. I keep a journal of my miracles—not just the parting of Red Seas, but the quiet, tender mercies that make up my days. Because what we write down, we revisit. And what we revisit grows stronger.

Sometimes, I also create “cues” to help me recall. A song, a photograph, or a particular place can bring me back to moments when God was undeniably present. The By Study and Faith blog3 reminds us that “sacred memory work” can be deeply personal, from keeping symbols in our homes to retelling our stories of deliverance to others.

Elder Ronald A. Rasband, in his talk “Lest Thou Forget”4, emphasizes the importance of remembering spiritual experiences:

“Never forget, question, or ignore personal, sacred spiritual experiences. The adversary’s design is to distract us from spiritual witnesses, while the Lord’s desire is to enlighten and engage us in His work.” He encourages us to recall times when we felt the Spirit and our testimony was strong, especially during crises.

When the Trials Come Again

Even with all this intentionality, the trials still come. And in the hardest moments, doubt tries to creep in. Harvard research reminds us that forgetting is often our brain’s way of prioritizing—clearing space for the here and now.5 But when trials overwhelm, that clearing can feel like losing sight of the miracles entirely. I’ve realized that in these moments, I’m not just battling the trial itself, but also the natural process of forgetting, of letting what I know slip out of focus.

That’s when I have to lean into deliberate remembering. I remind myself of the counsel from By Study and Faith:

“Create anchors of memory. Tie your testimony and faith to moments of spiritual clarity and divine intervention.” It’s in those anchors—those immovable moments of certainty—that I find the courage to keep going, even when the current trial feels impossible.

I don’t always know how this will work out. My mind still goes to the “what ifs” and “whens.” But when I pause and breathe, I remember: He’s done it before. He’s parted my waters, multiplied my loaves, and calmed my storms.

And He will again.

Remember.

How do you remember?

Take a moment today to pause and reflect on a miracle you’ve witnessed—whether it was grand or quiet. Write it down. Share it with someone. Tie it to something tangible that you can revisit in the days to come.

Because when the storms rise again—and they will—you’ll want those anchors to steady you. You’ll want to remember that He’s done it before.

And He will again.

I’d love for you to share the daily ways you remember. Perhaps a future post can dive into this deeper, with practical ways and examples of how to remember.

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Bubble baths. Floating bubbles and giggles and kids and my rolls that no one cares about (not even me anymore). One with my daughter and me and each boy by themselves because tonight it’s more fun to slide down the slippery side and spread out and float. Naked booty running down the hall, “can’t catch me!”, he says, but I always will.

Daily prompt challenge via For the Joy & the Sorrow: Writing the World writing intensive

Baby Steps
how will I ever do this?
breaths stutter
tears leak
heart quakes
soul shakes
mind breaks 
toddler giggles
his rolls jiggle
eyes twinkle
he’s been waiting for this moment
been planning this moment 
even before he was born
he stands up
one foot forward
second foot next
b a b y 
s 
 t 
  e 
   p 
    s
that’s how, mama
He answers with no words uttered

On grandparents and grandkids missing each other:

A few things that get me through
When I am missing you:

Night-skies
fire-flies

Butterflies winging
Birds singing

Winds breeze
Green leaves

Kid cackles
Sunshine fractals

Grasses sway
Horses neigh 

FaceTime rings
Child sings 

Letter snail 
Love mail

FRIENDS

Up a hill
on an adventure
In a golf cart
with my friends

All around all the trees
and through all the leaves
Having fun with my friends

By Annabelle Anderson, 7 years old

My priorities shifted to surviving and breathing each day as it came, while still not able to fully be present in the moment because I was constantly trying to physically and mentally make it to the next moment, or trying to forget the current moment because it was too painful, or stuck reliving a traumatic moment from the recent past; flashbacks would come and I’d remember something that happened during an ambulance ride, a seizure, waking up from the coma, abuse from a nurse, and more things I’d be stuck watching on replay in my mind. I, Melissa, wasn’t fully present for so much of 2021 and 2022.

But now the PhD is finished. We’ve traveled across the country from Alabama to Washington. We’re living in a beautiful home with tons of space. Nick (my husband) has his dream job. The RV and truck sold. A new minivan purchased. And now we can open our eyes and let out our breath and take it all in.

Getting back into creating art is one of the ways I’ll be slowing down into the present. I have a feeling that I’ll be leaning into the process more this year, with the art guiding me instead of planned finished pieces. Abstracts really allow me to flow more in the process, so you’ll probably see more of those.

Be here. Be where you are. All in where you are being. Open heart & open eyes to embrace it and see it all. That’s my goal and hope for me for 2023.

Here’s some recent art pieces I’ve created and am trying to decide if I like them and if I’ll put them on my Etsy. I’m feeling rusty after so long away.

By lately, I mean post-stroke (P.S.). So, for the past 2 years, and even a bit before, journaling, writing, processing, has been very hard and non-existent for long stretches of time. My earliest memories of trying to journal P.S. are of telling Nick what to write down for me and he’d record these things in his Notes app. He’d write down questions I had for doctors, things I wanted to make sure to remember to mention to them, dreams I would have, things I would remember from my Near Death Experiences, and lists of things that would just run on repeat in my fragile mind that needed to be released somehow. And he’d write it down for me when I physically and cognitively wasn’t able to.

Now that I’m “back”, I can write my own notes. It’s a slow process coming “back” from a stroke. You’re never really the same after any type of Near Death Experience. I’ve joked with the kids a few times when I’ve done something I haven’t in awhile and say “mama’s coming back y’all!” and we all laugh and it’s funny. But, really, I find the term “coming back” to be a little stress inducing for me. I’m not the same and never will be the same and thank God I’m not the same, but also, please God help me be the same in some things, and thank you God that I’m here, but also, please, please God, help me get through this because it’s so hard to be here.

So many things are just so loaded and heavy. There doesn’t feel like there are simple answers any more and yet, it really comes down to the simple things in life that joy is found in. I’m “fine” and “good” and so thankful I’m alive and then sometimes I’m also not. But mostly I am. And we have a big house now, and Nick’s got his big boy dream job, and we’re living what we’ve dreamed of and worked towards for 7 years. There is so much love and joy and happiness that my eyes leak. And also, when I’m in the middle of a flare up with some of my health conditions, I forget. I used to wonder how can people who have Seen miraculous things forget? How can you just forget? You can. Until you remember again.

And so what I’m trying to say is, it’s often hard to gather my thoughts into a long, seamless, cohesive, continuous stream.