"The Battle Scars I Honor"

I wear my scars

like medals,

like old songs written into my skin.

Each one tells a story —

not of defeat,

but of a woman 

who would not stay down.

There is the scar 

shaped like loneliness —

the nights I cried out 

into a dark that didn’t answer,

and kept breathing anyway.

There is the scar 

shaped like silence —

the times I swallowed my truth

because the world 

told me it was too much,

and still, 

my soul sang beneath it all.

There is the scar 

shaped like betrayal —

trust torn from my hands 

like fragile paper,

yet I learned to rebuild,

stronger, 

wiser, 

fiercer.

There is the scar 

shaped like missing my girls —

a hollow that could have devoured me,

but instead made me 

softer,

deeper,

wider in love 

than I ever knew possible.

There are the invisible scars —

the ones you can’t see,

carved into my mind 

by battles with storms

no one else could feel.

And yet here I stand —

whole, 

scarred, 

sacred.

I no longer hide them.

I no longer ache to erase them.

They are my proof:

I lived.

I fought.

I endured.

I became.

My scars are the script of my survival,

the map of every road 

I dared to crawl through,

the anthem of a woman 

who refused to be silenced.

I honor them.

I bless them.

I carry them with pride,

like a warrior wears her armor 

home from war.

Because I am not broken.

I am battle-forged.

And I am still — gloriously —here!

A Note to you from me!

This time of year is heavy for me in ways that words struggle to carry. Mother’s Day is supposed to be a time of love, celebration, and family—but for me, it’s tangled with deep pain.

My son passed away the day before what should’ve been my very first Mother’s Day. And this year, the day before Mother’s Day marks the day I had to lay him to rest. That pain… it never left. It just shifted and settled deep in places no one can see.

Mother’s Day also falls on the birthday shared by two people I love dearly—my dad and my big sister. But even that joy feels distant right now, like it's trapped behind a wall of grief I can’t climb over. And without my daughters here with me, that wall grows taller. The silence around me echoes with what I’m missing.

I’m not okay right now. I’m mentally beating myself up and the weight is getting harder to carry. I wish I could just "wait it out," but it doesn't work like that. These days don’t just pass—they leave marks that linger long after the calendar moves on.

So if I’m distant… if I don’t reply to messages or comments… please know it’s not personal. I’m just trying to survive the storm in my soul. I need a few days to sit with this pain, to feel it, and maybe one day, to heal a little more.

Thanks for giving me that space. And if you’re holding your babies close this Mother’s Day, please hold them a little tighter—for those of us who can’t.

Dear Me- A Letter to myself

Dear Me, the One Carrying All the Grief,

I see you. I feel every ache in your chest, every tear you’ve cried when no one was watching, every scream you’ve swallowed just to make it through another hour. You are not invisible to me—I know the depth of your love, your heartbreak, and how much you're hurting without Joshua, Natilee and Kaylee.

But I want you to hear something important from me—from us.

You are not alone.

We are still here. We’ve survived storms before, even the kind that rip everything up by the roots. And though this grief feels endless, like it might swallow us whole, I promise you: healing is not only possible, it is ours to claim.

It’s okay to rest, to fall apart, to scream if you have to. But let’s also start walking, step by step, toward something better—for the girls-- and for us. They still need us to be strong. To fight smart. To be the mama they can come back to. Whole. Steady. Ready.

So here’s what I want us to try incorporating into some type of routine and normalcy:

Let’s start talking again—to someone safe. A therapist. A friend. Or just write it out. No filter. 

Let’s nourish our body. Eat something warm, even if it’s just soup. Drink water. Breathe deep.

Let’s get fresh air. Even for five minutes. Let the sun remind us we’re still alive.

Let’s lean into our faith, our purpose, and our fight. This is not the end of our story.

Let’s consider asking for help—real help. If we need inpatient care, that’s not weakness. That’s wisdom. That’s strength.

Our daughters deserve the best version of us, and deep down, we do too. You don’t have to carry this weight alone anymore. I’m here. We’re in this together. And I love you—every fractured, tired, beautiful part of you.

Let’s begin again. For them. For us. For the woman we are still becoming.

With all the love and strength we’ve still got left,

Me