A journaled journey through healing, surrender, and soulful transformation.
Personal Journal Entry
There are moments when life asks more of you than you think you can give.
This past week, I faced one of those moments.
After much wrestling, and more tears than I can count, I made the decision not to attend my son’s wedding.
It is a sentence I can barely write without my heart cracking open again.
And what surprised me most is this: this one choice unearthed so much more than I expected.
The grief wasn’t just about this moment — it was about old griefs, old questions that rose again.
It pulled forward memories of times I felt I had abandoned my children during my divorce — choices I made in order to survive, but choices that still whisper: Did I do enough? Did I cause harm I can’t repair?
I found myself asking again: How much of who they are today was shaped by the storms I could not shelter them from?
Have I lost pieces of the closeness we once had? Will they understand this choice — or will it feel like another wound?
The ache was deepened by watching how relationships shift as we grow. Sometimes the people we love change in ways that bewilder us — shaped by paths we would not have chosen for them.
I am watching this with my son now. He is making choices I cannot support, and I am learning that love sometimes means standing at a distance, holding space but not stepping into every circle.
Through it all, I am being asked to practice the hardest of all disciplines — surrender.
Surrender not as defeat, but as trust.
Surrender not because I wanted this path, but because it is the one grace is leading me through.
This decision is not one of peace — not yet.
But perhaps that is what surrender truly looks like: letting go even when peace hasn’t yet arrived, and trusting that grace will meet me there.
This Week's Journey
A Pause on the Path
This week has felt like walking through deep water — slow, heavy, and layered with currents I did not expect.
The decision not to attend my son’s wedding stirred so much more than present grief.
It reached into old places — memories of years when I had to make impossible choices, when I feared I was failing my children even as I tried to survive.
Those old questions rose again this week:
Did I do enough? Did I leave scars I can never fully mend? How much of who they are today was shaped by storms they should never have had to weather?
There is deep ache in watching relationships shift, too — in seeing the distance life sometimes creates, and knowing I cannot walk every path with those I love.
This surrender is not just about one moment; it is about learning to release what I cannot fix, and to love even from afar.
Layered through this is another quieter grief — letting go, for now, of the creative photography that has been my sanctuary for so long.
Right now, even lifting the camera feels beyond me. That brings its own sadness. But I remind myself this is a season, not an ending. A pause in the path, not the whole story.
I am also learning, in ways I never have before, to let others hold space for me.
To lean into the support of my loving husband, my daughter, trusted friends, and a wise therapist — instead of walking this path alone, as I have so often done.
Even this — learning to be held — is its own form of surrender.
For now, I am sitting in the center of the storm. Not trying to rush through it. Not forcing a path forward.
Simply honoring what is here, and trusting that grace is present, even when unseen.
Surrender, here, is an act of fierce love — trusting that God’s grace will go where my arms cannot.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.”
Tender Lessons of the Heart
Lessons Along the Way
This season is teaching me that surrender is not a graceful single act — it is a thousand quiet releases, moment by moment.
I thought I was only grieving the letting go of attending the wedding.
But this week has shown me that surrender is calling me to release so much more:
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The guilt I’ve carried from past choices
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The longing to somehow undo what cannot be undone
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The ache of watching loved ones change and knowing I cannot follow them everywhere
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The illusion that I must be strong and self-reliant, always carrying my own weight
I am learning that letting others hold space for me is not weakness — it is wisdom.
It is trust.
It is love returned.
I am learning that grief and surrender can coexist with fierce love — that I can release what I cannot control, while still loving with all my heart.
And I am learning that this season of stillness — of not creating, of not doing — is itself sacred.
Some seasons are not for blooming, but for rooting. And perhaps the deepest roots are grown when we dare to be still, to be vulnerable, to be held.
“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10 NKJV
Simple Offerings in the Storm
Invitations for You
This is not a week of doing — it is a week of sitting quietly with what is.
I am learning that surrender sometimes looks like opening my hands — not just to release what I cannot hold, but to receive the support I once thought I had to face alone.
For most of my life, I walked these valleys in solitude — believing I had to be strong, self-reliant, unburdening to others.
But this time, something in me whispered: let love in.
And so I am learning — slowly — to lean on the support that is here:
my loving husband, Mr. P, whose quiet presence grounds me;
my precious daughter, who holds space for my heart;
the trusted friends who have come into my life now, when I need them most.
I have also sought the wise guidance of a therapist — knowing that some journeys of the heart need a companion trained to help hold the tender places.
And in the still moments, I am leaning into these gentle practices:
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Allowing myself to rest — without guilt — when the waves of grief or exhaustion come.
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Breath prayers throughout the day: “Lord, hold what I cannot.”
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Listening to guided meditations that help me find peace and comfort in the storm.
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Reading supportive quotes and prayers — gathering words that anchor my heart when my own words falter.
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Sitting with the pain — not turning from it, but listening gently for what it is teaching me.
And perhaps most importantly, I am practicing what I never have before:
trusting that it is safe to lean on others.
That love is not a burden.
That my healing is allowed to be witnessed.
If you, too, are learning to surrender the myth of doing it all alone — may these simple offerings remind you:
You do not have to carry it by yourself.
Let love in.
Let grace in.
Even in the storm, even in surrender — you are not alone.
In This Season of Surrender
A Quiet Reflection
This is the place where I would normally share my photographs — small moments of beauty gathered through my lens.
But this is not that season.
Right now, even lifting the camera feels too heavy.
When I am simply trying to get through the day, the creative energy that usually flows so easily feels distant — and that brings its own sadness.
Photography has always been a way I process the world, a way I heal.
So to not have it right now feels like another quiet grief I am sitting with.
But I remind myself gently: this is just a season.
One that calls not for creating, but for resting.
A season where surrender means letting go — for now — of what once brought such joy, and trusting that the joy will return when the heart is ready.
Sometimes life asks us not to gather beauty, but simply to be still in what is unfolding.
And I am learning that this, too, is an act of surrender — trusting that even in the unseen places, healing and grace are at work.
If this is where you find yourself too — unable to create, unable to push forward — may I simply whisper: this is enough.
There is sacredness even in sitting out the storm.
In This Quiet Place, We Sit Together
If you find yourself in a season like this — sitting with old griefs, learning to surrender, letting love in where once you walked alone — know that you are welcome here.
This space was created for such tender moments.
We do not need to have it all figured out.
We do not need to carry it alone.
In this quiet place, we sit together — in our questions, in our hopes, in the courage it takes to simply be with what is.
I would love to hear your reflections:
What helps you sit through life’s storms?
What are you learning about surrender in your own journey?
Please feel free to share in the comments below — or tag me on Instagram.
Let us remind one another that in seasons like these, companionship is a form of grace.
Closing Thought & Prayer
There are seasons where surrender feels like sitting in the center of the storm — not fixing, not fleeing, simply breathing through it.
If you are in such a season, know this:
You are not alone.
There is courage in letting yourself be held — by the love of others, by the One who sees all, by the quiet grace at work beneath the surface.
May we give ourselves permission to rest.
To trust that healing does not always happen in motion, but often in the stillness.
And may we offer the same gentle grace to one another — as we sit here together, heart to heart.
Prayer:
Heavenly Father,
I lay this weary heart before You — with its longing, its questions, its ache.
Teach me to trust that surrender is not weakness, but the bravest path I can take.
Help me to receive the love that surrounds me — the hands reaching out, the prayers spoken on my behalf, the steady presence of those You have placed in my life.
Give me patience for this season.
Let me be tender with myself.
And when the way forward feels hidden, may Your grace light the next small step.
Even here, even now — I choose to trust You.
Amen.
With love, laughter, and magic, wishing you a peaceful heart, a special dream, and joy.
