When I took this photo, I didn’t just see a grasshopper molting—I saw myself. Caught in the raw, in-between space between what was and what’s becoming. He hung suspended, halfway out of a shell that once fit perfectly but now couldn’t contain him. And I realized: this is how I feel right now.
After knee surgery, with the reality of needing a full replacement, ongoing weight loss, and so many emotional and spiritual shifts, I am molting too. Slowly shedding old patterns, old limitations, and even old dreams. It’s not graceful. It’s not fast. And it’s certainly not easy.
But it is necessary.
This little guy reminded me that growth often happens out in the open—messy, vulnerable, and miraculous.
This Wasn’t the Plan… But Here We Are
It’s been three weeks since my last blog post… which sounds suspiciously like the start of a confessional. And in a way, it is. I didn’t plan to go quiet, to fall behind, or to let time slip away like a mischievous cat knocking over my schedule. But as it turns out, life had other plans—plans that included surgery, crutches, and more introspection than I ever asked for.
A routine knee scope turned into an unexpected plot twist: I’ll be needing a full knee replacement in the near future. I’d love to say I accepted that news gracefully, but there may or may not have been cookies involved. (Emotional support carbs. Don’t judge.)
In the quiet that followed, I realized something important: I can’t keep writing from the same pace, the same place, or the same expectations. My body is healing. My heart is shedding. And my spirit is—well—still catching up.
So here I am, beginning again. Not with a grand comeback post, but a soft, sincere whisper from the middle of the molting. And yes, that metaphor is about to become very literal…
Molting Isn’t Just for Grasshoppers
A few days ago, I stood in the garden, caught in one of those oddly sacred moments—the kind you don’t plan, but somehow changes you. I spotted a grasshopper, mid-molt, clinging to the netting like a little green acrobat. His old shell dangled behind him, papery and pale, while his new body shimmered with that soft, just-born vulnerability.
And I thought: same, friend… same.
He’d been eating everything in sight for weeks (apologies to my decimated greens), and now I understood why—he was preparing for transformation. Apparently, metamorphosis takes calories. So does mine.
You see, in order to qualify for my upcoming knee replacement surgery, I need to shed a bit of my own “exoskeleton.” Not the grasshopper kind, but the kind made of stress, old habits, and yes, extra weight. It’s not just about the scale—it’s about making space for healing, strength, and a future that doesn’t make me groan every time I pass a mirror.
The truth? I’m molting too. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. Shedding what no longer serves, what no longer fits, what never really belonged. And like that grasshopper, I’m doing it awkwardly, out in the open, hoping the new skin beneath is strong enough for what’s next.
It’s not elegant. But transformation rarely is.
Less Polished. More Present.
One of the biggest lessons life keeps whispering—okay, shouting—is that not everything needs to be polished to be beautiful. Or helpful. Or real.
In this season of healing, I simply don’t have the energy (or the fully functioning knees) to craft long, elegant blog posts every week. And for a while, I felt guilty about that. But then I realized… maybe this is the invitation.
To show up anyway.
To write with more heart and less perfection.
To be present, even if what I bring is tender, incomplete, and slightly disheveled—kind of like me in the mornings.
So moving forward, my blog won’t be disappearing. In fact, it’s becoming more me. I’ll be sharing Letters from the Journey—short, soulful entries that reflect where I am each week. Sometimes poetic. Sometimes raw. Sometimes sprinkled with garden metaphors and spiritual detours I didn’t see coming.
And while I may not be out and about gathering new photographs as often during this healing season, I’ll be revisiting older images—ones that still whisper truth, stir memory, and shine a little light when I need it most. After all, some photos grow deeper roots with time.
I’m also not sure where my photography creativity is headed right now, but I do know this: I’m still watching, still learning, still seeing. It may not be wild landscapes or curated compositions—it might just be small snapshots of life here at home.
Like this one: Mister, mid-balancing act, caught on the window ledge looking out over the garden as if he has the whole world under control. He doesn’t. But he’s trying—and that’s enough.
While resting my knee one quiet afternoon, I looked up and spotted Mister doing what only Mister does best—balancing like a circus cat on the edge of the open window. There I was, bundled up with pillows and ice packs, moving slowly and cautiously, while he danced along the sill without a care in the world.
I couldn’t help but laugh—and sigh a little too. Because in that moment, he mirrored something I’ve been feeling lately: off balance, unsure, trying to stay upright in a season that doesn’t feel entirely stable.
But there he was, perfectly poised, looking outward with curiosity and calm. And maybe that’s the lesson—finding steadiness in the middle of the wobble, and remembering that balance isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence.
The Year Ahead-Soul Themes for the Journey
As I sat in the stillness these past few weeks—knee elevated, movement limited, thoughts swirling—I found myself reflecting not just on what hurts, but on what’s unfolding.
This next chapter isn’t just about healing a joint. It’s about reimagining how I move through the world—physically, spiritually, emotionally, and creatively. It’s about honoring the pace my body requires while inviting my spirit to grow in gentler, deeper ways.
So I’ve decided to shape the next year around soul themes—one each month—to guide my reflections, blog posts, photography (however it unfolds), and my daily walk with God. They aren’t resolutions. They’re invitations. Compass points for a journey that doesn’t demand perfection—just presence.
🌿 Twelve Soul Themes – June 2024 to May 2025
June: Rooted in Surrender – Laying down resistance, trusting the slow beginning
July: The Slow Path to Strength – Rebuilding gently, honoring small victories
August: Becoming Light – Releasing burdens, welcoming grace
September: Thresholds & Turning Points – Crossing into new spaces with courage
October: The Art of Becoming – Embracing identity shifts, growing from the inside out
November: Quiet Courage – Finding strength in softness and spiritual surrender
December: Light in the Waiting – Holding hope through darkness and anticipation
January: Rising Softly – A gentle start, choosing peace over pressure
February: Love That Heals – Tenderness toward self, others, and the Divine
March: Growing Through Grace – Letting grace lead, even when progress feels slow
April: Joy, Reimagined – Discovering delight in the ordinary and overlooked
May: Harvesting the Journey – Looking back with gratitude, honoring how far I’ve come
Each month, I’ll write from the theme—not as a teacher, but as a traveler. I’ll share what I’m seeing, feeling, and learning (and maybe what I’m still trying to figure out). Whether it’s a garden whisper, a late-night prayer, a cat on a window ledge, or a moment of unexpected grace—I’ll meet you there.
P.S. All things are subject to change due to unforeseen circumstances—such as moody knees, divine redirections, extra naps, emotional growth spurts, or the occasional cat walking across my keyboard. Consider this a sacred, unscripted journey.
God's Promise
The week of my surgery, I stepped outside hoping to calm the nerves that had quietly built up all day. I wasn’t looking for a sign—just a little air, maybe some quiet. But then I looked up, and there it was: a soft rainbow arching across the sky, glowing gently against the backdrop of heavy clouds and golden light. I hadn’t noticed it at first, so wrapped up in the unknowns ahead—but once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee the message. It felt like a whisper from God: You’re not alone. I’m already in the next step. Rainbows have never just been weather to me. They’ve always been promises. Not of ease, but of presence. Of grace stitched into the edges of fear. This one arrived right on time, wrapping the sky in light and my spirit in peace.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
With Love and Prayers for Your Unexpected Detours
We don’t always get to choose the timing of our transformation. Sometimes life shifts beneath us, and all we can do is trust the unraveling. But even in the detours, the delays, the molting and mess—we are being remade.
So if you find yourself holding a script you never asked for, know this:
You’re not off track. You’re on sacred ground.
And the story isn’t over—it’s just being rewritten with deeper grace and quieter strength than you ever imagined. 💌
