In My Way

I turned 36 on Saturday.

And birthdays have a different weight to them now.

I’m grateful. I’m excited. I can look around my life and see so many prayers God has answered. There is love around me. There is growth in me. There are things happening in my life that remind me that God is still writing a beautiful story.

But there is also grief.

There is still a part of me that wishes I could pick up the phone and hear my mom say, “Happy Birthday.” There is a part of me that wants to tell her everything that has happened. I want her to see who I’m becoming. I want her here for the things I’m praying will happen next.

That is the strange thing about grief.

Joy doesn’t make it disappear.

You can be genuinely happy about where your life is going and still ache for the person you wish was here to see it.

And as I step into 36, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to trust Jesus with both.

The joy and the grief.

The excitement and the uncertainty.

The prayers that have been answered and the prayers I’m still waiting on.

The life I have and the life I thought I would have.

And I’m realizing something about myself:

Sometimes, I am in my own way.

I pray for God to lead me, but then I try to tell Him where we should go.

I ask Him for peace, but I keep replaying every possible outcome in my head.

I tell Him I trust Him, but then I pick back up the very thing I laid at His feet because I’m afraid He won’t handle it the way I want Him to.

Grief has made that especially hard.

Losing my mom taught me something I never wanted to learn: life can change without your permission.

There are things you cannot plan for. Things you cannot fix. Things you cannot go back and redo.

And when you have experienced that kind of loss, control can start to feel like safety.

If I can think far enough ahead, maybe I can protect myself.

If I can prepare for every possibility, maybe nothing will catch me off guard.

If I can keep everything and everyone okay, maybe I won’t have to experience that kind of pain again.

But that isn’t trust.

And that isn’t freedom either.

At 36, I don’t want to spend another year trying to control things that were never mine to control.

I want to trust Jesus.

Really trust Him.

Not the kind of trust that sounds good in a Bible study or looks good in a caption. I mean the kind of trust that requires me to loosen my grip when I have absolutely no idea what God is doing.

Because if I’m being completely transparent, I like to know.

I want to know what’s next.

I want to know how things are going to work out.

I want to know the people I love will be okay.

I want to know the things I’m praying for are going to happen.

I want to know that everything I have walked through has a purpose.

I want to know that I’m making the right decisions.

I want to know that everything is going to be okay.

But faith doesn’t always come with answers.

Sometimes faith simply comes with an invitation:

Trust Me.

And whew. That sounds simple until Jesus asks you to actually do it.

This past year has stretched me in ways I’m still finding words for. I have had to learn how to keep living while grieving. How to laugh without feeling guilty. How to celebrate when someone I desperately want beside me isn’t physically here. How to let people love me when my instinct is sometimes to retreat into my own sadness.

I’ve had to learn that healing doesn’t mean I miss my mom less.

It means I’m learning how to carry my love for her differently.

And maybe trusting Jesus in this season means trusting Him with my grief too.

Trusting Him when I miss her.

Trusting Him with the questions I’ll probably never have answers to.

Trusting Him when old guilt tries to convince me that I should have known more, done more, or somehow changed what happened.

Trusting Him enough to stop punishing myself for being human.

I cannot go backward.

But I can trust Jesus moving forward.

Proverbs 3:5–6 says, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.”

That scripture hits differently when your own understanding is the thing you’ve been leaning on.

Maybe that is what God is teaching me at 36.

Stop leaning so hard on what you can see.

Stop demanding answers before you obey.

Stop trying to make tomorrow feel safe before you allow yourself to enjoy today.

Stop rehearsing worst-case scenarios.

Stop carrying responsibilities that belong to God.

Get out of your own way.

Because there is still life to live.

There are still places God wants me to go.

There are still people for me to love.

There are still dreams in my heart.

There are still prayers God is answering.

There are still moments that deserve my full presence.

And I don’t want fear of losing something tomorrow to rob me of loving it today.

I don’t want grief to make me afraid of joy.

I don’t want what happened to me to keep me from experiencing what God still has for me.

I don’t want to spend 36 trying to predict every possible ending.

I want to be present.

I want to love deeply.

I want to laugh loudly.

I want to take the trip.

I want to celebrate the wins.

I want to let myself be loved.

I want to keep becoming the woman God is calling me to be.

And when grief comes—and I know it will—I want to make room for it without allowing it to convince me that life stopped when my mom’s did.

Because she mattered.

She still matters.

And loving her for the rest of my life does not require me to stop living mine.

That realization has been huge for me.

So my prayer for 36 is changing.

I’m not asking God to give me a year without pain.

I’m asking Him to give me the courage to trust Him through whatever comes.

I’m not asking Him to show me the entire plan.

I’m asking Him to give me enough faith for the next step.

Instead of constantly praying, “God, show me what’s next,” I’m learning to pray:

“Jesus, help me trust You with what’s next.”

Help me stop running ahead of You.

Help me recognize when fear is disguising itself as preparation.

Help me stop trying to protect myself from things that haven’t even happened.

Help me release the guilt I was never meant to carry.

Help me be present in the life You’ve given me today.

Help me believe that what You have for me does not require me to manipulate, force, chase, or control it.

Help me get out of my own way.

Because maybe 36 isn’t about having everything figured out.

Maybe it’s about surrender.

Maybe it’s about letting Jesus be Jesus.

Maybe it’s about accepting that I don’t have to know everything because I belong to the One who does.

I’m walking into 36 with grief.

But I’m also walking into 36 with hope.

With love.

With expectation.

With gratitude.

With dreams.

With people who love me.

And most importantly, with Jesus.

There is so much I don’t know about this next chapter of my life.

But I know God has carried me through every chapter before this one.

So I’m loosening my grip.

I’m releasing the timeline.

I’m releasing the fear.

I’m releasing the guilt.

I’m releasing the need to have every answer.

I’m releasing the version of my life I’ve already written in my head.

And I’m trusting Jesus with the actual story.

At 36, I’m getting out of my way.

And I’m letting Him lead.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in You.” — Psalm 56:3

Here’s to 36.

To missing my mom and still choosing joy.

To carrying grief and still making room for hope.

To not knowing exactly what comes next and trusting Jesus anyway.

And to finally getting out of my own way.

Dear God,

Help me get out of my own way. Teach me to trust You with the things I understand and especially the things I don’t. When grief feels heavy, hold me close. When fear makes me want to control what comes next, remind me that You are already there. As I walk into 36, help me live fully, love deeply, choose joy without guilt, and surrender every part of my story to You. I don’t need to know what’s next as long as I know You’re leading me.

Signed,

Getting out of my way

Thank You

A year ago, I entered a season I never wanted to know.

The kind of season that changes you. The kind that divides your life into “before” and “after.”

Almost a year ago, I said goodbye to my mom.

Even now, those words don’t feel real. There are days when I still reach for my phone, thinking I should call her. Days when something funny happens and I instinctively want to tell her about it. Days when I wish I could hear her voice, ask her advice, or simply sit beside her one more time.

Grief has a way of reminding you how deeply you loved.

But today, instead of focusing on what I lost, I want to focus on what I was given.

Thank you.

Thank you, Mom, for every sacrifice I never saw.

Thank you for every prayer you prayed over me when I didn’t know you were praying.

Thank you for every lesson, every correction, every hug, every conversation, every moment you spent loving me.

Thank you for showing me what faith looks like.

You weren’t perfect, but you pointed me to the One who is.

I watched you trust God through hard seasons. I watched you worship when life wasn’t easy. I watched you show up week after week, sitting in your place at church, loving Jesus with consistency that now means even more to me.

Some of the seeds you planted in me are only now beginning to bloom.

I hear your wisdom in my decisions.

I see your strength in my perseverance.

I recognize your love in the way I love others.

And I thank God for every piece of you that lives on in me.

This year has taught me that grief and gratitude can exist together.

I can miss you and still be thankful.

I can cry and still praise God.

I can wish you were here while trusting that you are exactly where God has called you to be.

Scripture tells us in 1 Thessalonians 5:18 to “give thanks in all circumstances.” Not for all circumstances, in all circumstances.

And if I’m honest, there have been days when giving thanks felt impossible.

Days when my heart was heavy.

Days when I questioned why.

Days when I simply missed my mom.

But even in those moments, God remained faithful.

He has carried me through every tear, every lonely holiday, every milestone, every moment when the weight of grief felt too heavy to bear.

Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

I have lived that verse this year.

Not because the pain disappeared.

But because God met me in it.

He sat with me in my sorrow.

He strengthened me when I felt weak.

He reminded me that death does not get the final word.

Because of Jesus, goodbye is not forever.

Because of Jesus, there is hope beyond the grave.

Because of Jesus, I know I will see my mom again.

What a gift that promise is.

As I reflect on this year, I realize that grief has taught me to treasure what matters most.

People matter.

Time matters.

Faith matters.

Love matters.

And while I would give anything for one more conversation, one more hug, one more Sunday sitting beside my mom, I am overwhelmingly grateful for the years God allowed me to have with her.

Not everyone gets a mother who loves fiercely.

Not everyone gets a mother who prays.

Not everyone gets a mother who leaves behind a legacy of faith.

I did.

And for that, I say thank you.

Thank you, Mom.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you for pointing me toward Jesus.

Thank you for helping shape the woman I am becoming.

And thank You, God.

Thank You for every year, every memory, every lesson, every laugh, and every moment.

Thank You for sustaining me through this year.

Thank You for never leaving me.

Thank You for the promise that this separation is temporary.

A year later, my heart still aches.

But my gratitude is greater.

Thank you.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

‭‭Psalm‬ ‭23‬:‭1‬-‭6‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Let Go

Letting go isn’t a one-time decision. It’s something I’ve had to learn to do again and again, sometimes with tears, sometimes with peace, but always with trust. I have this recurring thought that sometimes if life was a little easier I would have no problem surrendering.

Right now, I’m in a season of waiting. Waiting on God to restore some things I’ve lost. Waiting on clarity. Waiting on healing in places that still feel tender. And in this season, He’s been asking me to do something both simple and hard: let go.

Let go of how I thought my life would look.

Let go of timelines I’ve outgrown.

Let go of who I thought I needed to be.

This process hasn’t been easy. There’s grief in releasing the familiar. There’s fear in stepping into the unknown. But there’s also been beauty, because in the letting go, I’m discovering something deeper. I’m learning to ask, “God, who are You shaping me to be now?” And I’m learning to trust that His hands are gentler than mine.

Letting go isn’t about failure or weakness. It’s about faith. It’s a holy exchange: my control for His peace, my plans for His purpose, my striving for His sufficiency.

So here’s the prayer I’ve been praying, maybe it’s one your heart needs too:

“God, help me release what’s no longer mine to carry. Help me to trust You with what I can’t yet see. And give me the courage to become who You’ve called me to be, even if it looks different from what I imagined.”

I’ll let go,

make it easy,

and just let go.

Because sometimes the holiest thing we can do is open our hands and trust that He’s still writing a good story, even here.

What is God inviting you to release in this season?

Where might He be creating space for something new to grow?

Let's see what he unlocks for you.