The Pain In Love

As someone who truly believed that love could heal everything, I find this a difficult piece to write.

When I said love heals all, I guess I specifically meant my love. For most of my life, I believed that if I loved deeply enough, if I loved with every fiber of my being, I could heal what was broken. I could ease people's pain. I could save them. Maybe, in the process, I could save myself too.

But the truth is, love doesn't heal everything.

The ability to love wholeheartedly is a gift, but if you're not careful, it can be catastrophic.

For years, I believed it was my responsibility to love people back to wholeness. And when they weren't "fixed," I blamed myself. If my love couldn't heal them, then maybe there was something wrong with me.

I made it my mission to help everyone achieve their goals, follow their dreams, and become the best versions of themselves. Meanwhile, I was losing myself. I was becoming someone I didn't even recognize.

I spent so much time being everyone's cheerleader that I realized I often wanted their success more than they did.

Maybe part of that was because I never believed I could create the life I wanted for myself. I doubted my own ability to change, so I poured all of my energy into helping others change instead.

I became the loudest cheerleader anyone could have.

But eventually, I learned a painful truth: no matter how loudly I cheered, people would still make their own choices. Some would stay stuck. Some would repeat the same cycles. Some would walk away from opportunities I knew they were capable of taking.

And so would I.

When you realize that, especially as someone who always had stars in her eyes, the world suddenly goes dark.

Every now and then, I'd get a brief spark of confidence. For a moment, I would believe in myself the same way I believed in everyone else. I'd think maybe I could do the things I encouraged others to do.

But the feeling would fade.

So I'd return to helping people because watching them succeed lit something inside me that words can hardly describe. It still does.

Maybe that's why I was drawn to photography. Maybe it's why I am suddenly finding a passion to learn so I can educate.

There is something incredibly beautiful about helping someone see themselves differently.

When I show a client a photograph, and they stop and ask, "Wait... is that really me?" something shifts. They begin seeing themselves through a new lens.

It saddens me to my core when I think about how many people spend years believing lies about themselves.

They tell themselves they were never enough, or that they were too much.

Being able to offer someone a new perspective, even for a moment, is one of the greatest blessings I've ever been given.

I love being the cheerleader.

I love being the person who reminds people of their strength.

I love being the one who shows up, day or night.

I love being the person who says, "You don't have to carry this alone."

Those are parts of myself I've learned to appreciate.

But I've also learned that every gift needs boundaries.

Loving people unconditionally is one thing.

Blaming yourself for their downfall is another.

Somewhere along the way, I started measuring my worth by the outcomes of other people's lives.

I think it started with my mom.

I loved her with everything I had. I spent years trying to do whatever my little hands and heart could do to make things better.

When she struggled with addiction, I internalized it.

Was I not doing enough?

Was I not loving her enough?

Why couldn't she get better?

Ten-year-old me wrote songs about those feelings long before I understood them.

Before I even knew what the world was, I was carrying the weight of it on my back.

I took on pain that wasn't mine.

Stress that wasn't mine.

Responsibilities that weren't mine.

Again and again, with people I loved deeply.

And eventually, I learned something:

Love is not enough to heal wounds that someone else must choose to heal.

Love is a feeling.

A beautiful one.

A powerful one.

Sometimes it consumes you so completely that it feels like you're on fire from the inside out.

But love alone is not enough.

And perhaps the hardest truth of all is that sometimes it never will be.

Love is a beginning.

You can love someone with your whole heart and still never see them again.

You can love someone and still have to let them go.

Then comes the difficult work of making peace with the place in your heart that will always miss them.

Because if you don't make peace with it, it will consume you.

Love isn't enough to save a marriage.

Love isn't enough to fix finances.

Love isn't enough to lose weight.

But love is a start.

After love comes action.

You can love financial freedom, but unless you change your habits, nothing changes.

You can say you love yourself exactly as you are, but if your goal is to become healthier, your love for yourself must be strong enough to support change.

You can love someone who is struggling, but they must choose their own healing.

Love can encourage.

Love can support.

Love can inspire.

But love cannot do the work for someone else.

If love alone could heal addiction, my mom would have been healed years ago.

No one has been loved and prayed for more fiercely than she has, especially by her mother.

Watching someone repeatedly find hope, glimpse change, and then fall back into a cycle that threatens their life is devastating.

It teaches you that some battles belong to the person fighting them.

No matter how much you love them.

No matter how badly you want it for them.

No matter how many sleepless nights you wait by the phone.

Still, despite everything, I refuse to stop believing in people.

I'd rather have too much faith than none at all.

The beautiful thing about having a heart that loves deeply is that when someone disappoints you, pushes you away, or lets you down, you still have love left to give.

The challenge is making sure that gift doesn't become the very thing that destroys you.

You cannot measure your worth by the outcome of someone else's life.

You cannot take responsibility for choices that were never yours to make.

You only have control over yourself.

So pour your energy into what you can actually be accountable for.

Your healing.

Your growth.

Your dreams.

Your life.

Just as others must choose their own healing, you must choose yours.

You have to become your own loudest cheerleader.

You have to believe in yourself with the same passion you've spent giving away to everyone else.

Love people deeply.

Believe in them.

Support them.

But don't confuse loving someone with saving them.

Love them where they are.

And most importantly, love yourself enough to create boundaries with the people who don't love you where you are.

At the end of the day, all that matters is that you're proud of how you've shown up; for yourself, for your values, and for the life you're creating.

We can love people.

We can encourage people.

We can walk beside people.

But we cannot live their lives for them.

The goal is to reach a place where, regardless of where they are on their journey, you are at peace with yours.

Never stop loving people.

But never let loving people become the reason you stop loving yourself.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

Rewrite The Story

There comes a point in life where you think surely the hardest part is behind you. You finally catch a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel, and bam, you are blind. You start breathing again, and now you feel the walls closing in. You start believing again, and then suddenly another wave crashes over you. And then another. It can feel suffocating, like the second you begin finding your footing, the ground disappears beneath you all over again.

As I am writing this, it is well past midnight, my computer is balanced on top of my son’s Easter basket because I don’t even have the strength to sit at my desk and honestly, I almost didn’t write this at all. I am absolutely exhausted in every sense of the word, in every single flavor exhausted comes in. But some thoughts refuse to let you sleep until you finally let them out. Phew, what a week.

If I am being truthful, it has been far more than just a hard week. It has been a hard few years. Years filled with mistakes, heartbreak, rebuilding, learning, losing, growing, and trying to figure out who I am beneath all of it. But somewhere in the middle of the chaos, there has also been beauty, wisdom, and perspective. The kind that only comes from surviving things you once thought would break you.

The version of me from a year ago would not have handled this season well. She would have spiraled until the spiral became her entire identity. She would have searched for distractions instead of solutions. She would have coped in ways that numbed the pain temporarily while quietly making everything worse underneath the surface. She would have focused so much on the hurt that she never would have addressed the root of it.

But this time was different.

Recently, I received news that completely blindsided me. For about two hours, I unraveled. I sat, heart racing, barefoot and overthinking, and let myself feel the weight of it all. But then something unexpected happened. I got up.

I answered my client emails. I showed up early to a meeting. I stayed consistent with my fitness goals. I took a long drive and let myself think instead of react. I breathed deeply and forced myself to look at the situation logically instead of emotionally detonating my entire life over temporary pain.

And somewhere in that moment, I realized something powerful.

I had finally taken my power back.

For so long, I gave other people the ability to determine my worth. I let opinions destroy my confidence. I spent years trying to prove myself to people who had already decided who they thought I was. I exhausted myself trying to earn validation from people who were going to judge me no matter what version of myself I became.

The truth is, people will talk regardless. They will criticize you when you are struggling, and they will criticize you when you are thriving. They will misunderstand you while you are healing and while you are succeeding. So why do we hand over so much control to voices that were never meant to lead our lives in the first place?

For the first time, my fear was not losing other people. My fear was losing the progress I had made within myself.

And then I realized something else.

I would not let that happen.

I only spiraled for two hours instead of two months. I returned to my routine instead of abandoning myself completely. I allowed myself to feel the pain without becoming consumed by it. That may sound small to some people, but to me, it felt life-changing. I finally took accountability and knew how I could grow from it.

Over the last few weeks, I have spent a lot of time alone. Just me, my thoughts, my faith, long drives, heavy weights, and long conversations with God. And in the stillness, I realized I needed a completely different approach to life moving forward.

I realized that we get to rewrite the story.

When it feels like everything is burning down around us, maybe it is not destruction at all. Maybe it is a revelation. Maybe life is clearing out what no longer belongs to us, so we can finally see the road that was hidden underneath it all. Like a wildfire burning through dead trees in a forest, making space for something healthier to grow in its place.

Maybe the ending we are grieving is actually making room for the beginning we prayed for.

I know what it feels like to hope so deeply for something that you begin building your future around it, without even realizing you have. I know what it feels like to love people, places, dreams, and plans so fully only to watch them disappear. And sometimes it feels cruel how quickly life can shift. One moment you are celebrating what you think is permanent, and the next moment you are grieving something you never imagined losing.

But that is life.

What defines us is not what falls apart. It is how we choose to rebuild afterward.

We can either let pain convince us to live in fear, or we can let it teach us how to live with deeper gratitude, stronger boundaries, wiser hearts, and greater faith.

I truly believe now that some things in my life needed to burn. Not because they were all bad, but because I had outgrown them. Because I was clinging to things that could not come with me into the next chapter. Because sometimes God removes what we would have never willingly released ourselves from. So it can and does feel brutal.

And somehow, even in the grief of it all, I can finally see the beauty in the rebuilding.

I get to carry the lessons forward.

I get to break cycles.

I get to choose who has access to my life, my energy, my story, and my future.

I get to decide what the next chapter looks like.

For the first time in a long time, I am weary but not afraid. I am learning to trust God even when I do not understand where He is leading me. I am learning to trust the process of becoming. And maybe most importantly, I am learning to trust myself.

I know this will not be the last hard chapter of my life. There will be more endings someday. More seasons that force me to rebuild. But now I know that when the fire comes again, I will walk out carrying wisdom instead of destruction. I feel deeply blessed by the trees still standing and the glimmer of light showing me the way.

So if life feels heavy right now, let it be heavy. If things are falling apart, let them fall apart. If doors are closing, let them close. The only thing truly within our control is who we choose to become in the aftermath.

Do not let pain make you forget who you are.

You are not stuck in the story you were handed.

You are allowed to rewrite it so much better.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

The Wisdom of Time

Well y’all, it’s been about two months since I last posted on this blog that was supposed to go up at least weekly. I’ve written ideas down almost every day, but I haven’t made the time to sit down and actually write. Truthfully, I think part of me avoided it because deep down I already knew what I needed to admit to myself.

I need to slow down.

Lately I have been piling more and more onto my plate trying to become “better.” Trying to maximize every hour of the day. Trying to rush things that only time can heal. Somewhere along the way I convinced myself that by now I should have it all figured out. I should have the perfect routine. The perfect balance. The perfect schedule that somehow allows me to be the best mom, run a successful business, heal emotionally, stay healthy, stay disciplined, stay creative, stay present, and still somehow look put together while doing it all. Professionally, I am almost always the youngest person in the room, and for a second when I really stopped to think about that, I felt proud of myself. But somewhere along the way I started overlooking how far I’ve come and only focusing on how far I still think I need to go.

Surely by now I should be meal prepping balanced meals, hitting every macro goal, drinking enough water, getting 16,000 steps in, lifting consistently, responding to every client fast enough that they don’t move on to someone cheaper, more available, or more experienced, planning preschool lessons, baking bread, fulfilling orders, keeping a spotless home, filming content, editing galleries, maintaining friendships, getting outside, healing my grief, overcoming anxiety, learning emotional regulation, studying nutrition, growing in my faith, learning to love my body, becoming financially stable, and still somehow having enough energy left over to fully pour into every person I love.

And every single day that I can't do all of it, I feel like I failed.

When I finally sit down and look at everything I expect from myself on a daily basis, I realize I have been measuring my worth by impossible standards. By standards I would never ask of anyone else. Every day feels like a race I am constantly losing no matter how hard I try to win.

But last night, I laid down beside my baby girl and watched her smile at me while talking about animal sounds and singing little songs I sing to her throughout the day. At 8 p.m., the only thing on her mind was Patty Cake. She looked over at me and said, “Oh hi mama,” like I was the safest and best thing in her entire world.

And suddenly everything got quiet.

Because while I’ve been obsessing over becoming a “better” version of myself, my children have already been loving me as I am.

That moment reminded me this is what matters. This moment. This version of life right now.

Why do we hold ourselves to timelines we would never expect from anyone else? We understand that meaningful things take time. We wouldn’t want a tattoo artist to rush a sleeve in an hour. We wouldn’t trust a doctor who only went to school for one day and then said, “Let’s operate.” We wouldn’t marry someone after knowing them for a week (well most wouldn’t haha). Deep down we know that good things require patience, intention, and time.

So why are we so cruel to ourselves when our own growth takes time too?

I know I’m not alone in this feeling. I know so many of us are addicted to constantly raising the bar because we know we are capable of becoming something incredible. But just because we are striving for more does not mean we are failing where we are.

When I look back at my life, I realize I am already living prayers that an older version of me cried over.

The woman I was five years ago would not believe this life exists. She would not believe that one day she would have two beautiful babies calling her mama, a home that finally feels peaceful, fresh bread cooling on the counter, galleries exporting on her computer, and a career built from the girl taking iPhone photos, with $2 in the bank trying to figure out lighting in her 1 bedroom apartment. She would not believe that I learned how to set boundaries with the people who hurt me, that I stopped letting the fear of what everyone thought of me consume my entire life, that I came back to God, learned how to cope without food or overexercising, and finally started understanding that healing is not something you earn by suffering. She would not believe that I learned what real love feels like, grieve honestly, dance again, nourish my body instead of punish it, create artwork, and build a life that once felt completely impossible for me.

The girl taking iPhone photos four years ago could never have imagined where we would be today.

So why do I keep living like who I am today still isn’t enough? And honestly, who am I even trying so desperately to prove myself to anymore? I spent so many years worrying about being enough for everyone else, and the truth is I don’t anymore and that alone speaks volumes. For God, I am already enough. For my babies, I am already enough. And if love finds me again one day, I know the right person will love me for who I am now, not for some future version of me I’m exhausting myself trying to become. Because the truth is, we can only truly love people as they are in the present, not for who they might someday turn into.

But somewhere along the way, I became the hardest person for myself to satisfy. Maybe the real healing is learning that I do not have to earn my own love by achieving every impossible standard I set for my life. Maybe I am allowed to be proud of who I already am while still growing into who I want to become.

Growth is beautiful. Discipline is beautiful. Wanting better for yourself is beautiful. But wisdom comes from understanding that becoming takes time. Healing takes time. Stability takes time. Love takes time. Confidence takes time.

Nothing rushed ever blooms the way it was meant to.

Lately I’ve caught myself replaying old situations thinking, “If I knew then what I know now, things would have ended differently.” But the truth is, that version of me made decisions with the knowledge she had at the time. She was learning. She was surviving. She was doing her best.

And I am now.

I cannot do every single thing on my list every day. But I can do some of them. I can move forward slowly. I can love my children well. I can keep showing up. I can keep trying. And maybe that is what success actually looks like. 

Not perfection.
Not exhaustion.
Not proving your worth through constant productivity.

Just consistency.
Just presence.
Just continuing.

We spend so much of life chasing the next version of ourselves that we forget to honor the person carrying us there.

You are enough today.
Not when you finally heal.
Not when your body changes.
Not when your business grows.
Not when life becomes easier.
Today.

Because the truth is, every version of you that survived until now deserves credit too.

You cannot rush grief.
You cannot rush healing.
You cannot rush wisdom, love, purpose, or growth.

But you can rush through your life so quickly trying to arrive somewhere that you forget to actually live it while you’re here.

And I think that’s what I’m finally learning.

Maybe the goal was never to become perfect as fast as possible.
Maybe the goal was simply to become slowly, honestly, and fully while still allowing yourself to be loved in the middle of the process.

One day we will look back and realize the most beautiful parts of our lives were never the moments that we finally “made it,” but the moments we allowed ourselves to breathe long enough to actually be there to learn the wisdom of time.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

The Reflection Yet To Be Seen

I saw a video today that simply said:

“You have to water yourself until you feel like you again. Not the version of you surviving. Not the version of you exhausted. Not the version that kept showing up empty. You have to water yourself until you recognize your reflection again. You have to water yourself until you can love yourself again without conditions, without punishment.” - Jay Jay Douglas

Only twenty-seven seconds into the video, and those words hit me like a wave. A heavy wave that moved through my body so suddenly that it almost brought tears to my eyes.

I have always avoided mirrors.

But what if I have never recognized the person in them?

What if the version of myself I have always known I could be is someone I have never actually met? Someone I have only ever felt trying to escape from inside of me.

What if my nervous system has done nothing but survive for as long as I can humanely remember? For as long as I can remember, through the unknown trauma that sometimes makes my mind forget.

What if, for my whole life, I had seen who I could be in my head, but every time I looked in the mirror, I felt like an imposter? I replayed every single conversation over in my head, wondering if I said the wrong thing or said too much. Feeling guilty for simply existing, for taking up space, for being in rooms I never felt welcome in.

I hear people say all the time that they wish they could go back to a time when they felt confident in their bodies.

But the truth is, I have never had a moment like that to return to. Even when I was finally what I thought I always wanted to be, skinny enough to fit into a size four dress, I was battling anorexia and convincing myself nothing was wrong with it as long as the tag said small.

What if I have never felt rested?
What if I have always shown up empty?
What if I have never recognized myself?

What if I have never loved myself without conditions or without punishment?

Maybe I never loved myself at all because I never knew who I was. Maybe I loved parts of myself, but never all of them.

I always saw the woman I could be, that I could love, but I never knew how to get there.

From a very young age, I had this image in my head, a powerful, fit, tattooed woman singing country music in Nashville, Tennessee.

I will give you a hint. None of those things have changed in the reflection I am working toward. If anything, I have only added to it.

The foundation has always been the same.

And as I accomplish pieces of that vision, it will simply grow.

Over the years, I have added more to the picture of who I want to be. A strong, present mama who teaches her babies how to be humble and kind, who leads by example through accountability, forgiveness, and the courage to apologize. A woman who builds her house and her home. A businesswoman who creates something meaningful and helps people see the beauty in the littlest of things. A woman who travels the world, experiencing every walk of life and witnessing and capturing God’s creation with her own eyes and her camera. A loving wife in a biblical marriage built on peace, respect, and sacrifice. A homesteader, building a life that feels intentional and rooted.

The vision has gotten bigger, but the feeling behind it has always been the same.

Sometimes, when I am working with clients, I will write paragraph after paragraph into the AI photo creator, trying to create an example image of the idea I have in my head. I will describe the lighting, mood, textures, environment, and the emotion I want the image to convey. I try to take something that only exists in my mind and turn it into something someone else can see.

But even then, it is still just an example. It is never the exact image that lives in my head.

Becoming who we are meant to be feels a lot like that.

For years, I have had the inspiration of who I am meant to become living in my mind. I can describe her. I can feel her. I can picture the way she moves through life.

But no one else can see her yet.

I can’t just show people a photo and say, "This is who I am becoming."

I can’t hand them a finished image and expect them to understand the vision fully.

They would have to imagine it.

And the truth is, most people will not.

But that is okay because at the end of the day, it is not their life to imagine.

It’s mine. Just for me.

I am the one who gets to dream it up. I am the one who gets to write the description. I am the one who gets to draw the blueprint.

And someday, instead of trying to explain the vision, people will simply meet the result.

I have always felt this strange, heavy presence when meeting certain strangers. A sudden wave that tells me they will someday be a part of my life in a meaningful way. Every time I have felt that I have never been wrong.

That is the same feeling I have about the future version of myself.

She will be a huge part of my life.

I just haven’t met her yet.

But I am getting closer to meeting her every day.

The tattoos are a small thing in the grand scheme of everything, but they might be the most noticeable.

From the outside looking in, people probably think wow she just keeps getting tattoos.

But I know exactly when I will stop.

I am simply creating the artwork I have always envisioned for my real body. The body I am going to spend the rest of my life in. And we are not quite done yet ;)

One day, the project will be complete.

Just like one day I will look in the mirror and be happy with the body I get to live life in.

One day the quiet things I am doing right now will pay off.

One day I will look in the mirror and say yes that is me.

That is the woman who has always been inside me, trying to get out.

The version of me that no one has ever fully seen, because I pushed her away for so long, or maybe I didn’t push her away intentionally, but simply forgot about her for a while. A while longer than I would like to admit. Giving to everyone else from an empty cup and wondering why I could never be happy with my body, and why my mind never felt at peace. Wondering why I couldn't love myself when I tried to forget my own existence, tried to distract myself by trying to be the person everyone else needed.

But now is the time.

Now every day I can feel myself getting closer to recognizing my reflection.

Closer to letting people see the person I have always been underneath the anxiety, the fear, the pain, and the years of neglecting myself without realizing it.

For the first time in my life, I am starting to like what I see in the mirror.

I am starting to like my mindset. I am starting to like who I am becoming.

Every day I spend choosing things that are better for me. Choosing peace. Choosing gratitude. Choosing God. Setting boundaries. Reflecting on hard topics. Thinking before speaking. Speaking with intention. Being disciplined. Being consistent. And none of it is perfect, but damn is it better. Every. Single. Day.

All the things that once felt impossible feel easier than the alternative.

And I have finally realized something.

I cannot save everyone else. I can’t change anyone else.

But I can save myself, and I can change myself.

And maybe just maybe I can become the reflection I have always wanted to see and the reflection my kids will grow up seeing.

I pray that in finding myself and creating that reflection, I can truly love myself without conditions and without punishment.

I pray I become someone who is not just surviving but living.

Someone who no longer accepts breadcrumbs as a full meal or idolizes the bare minimum.

I pray I become the woman who has boundaries and refuses to sacrifice her peace for anything. Who finds peace in every day.

And most of all, I pray that in becoming her, I do it in time for my children to learn something I did not learn soon enough.

I hope they see their reflections much earlier in life than I ever did.

Not just to see them but to love them.

To love who they are in every phase of their lives.

I am grateful for everything that broke me.

I am grateful for every blessing.

And strangely enough, I am grateful for all of the pain that forced me to shed the skins of my past selves so I could become the version of myself I am today and the version of myself I will keep becoming.

I cannot wait for the day I get to look in the mirror and say, “Yes, that’s me.”

And while body dysmorphia is hard, there is something strangely hopeful about it too.

Because when your perception of yourself is always shifting, one day you might wake up and the change will catch you completely by surprise.

Someday, maybe I will still try to avoid a mirror out of habit.

But then I will catch a glimpse.

And in that small moment, I will realize all the work I have been doing has finally brought me face to face with myself.

I will take a deep breath.

I will smile.

And I will feel a kind of gratitude I cannot even imagine yet.

Then I will go on with my day, continuing the path that made me brave enough to look in the mirror in the first place.

And I will never be afraid of my reflection again.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

Unspoken Words

For someone who writes so much about staying true to who you are, about speaking your mind and communicating your feelings, I still struggle with it every single day.

There’s a quiet irony in that.

Because the truth is, sometimes speaking your mind, pouring out your heart, or saying the thing that’s been sitting heavy on your chest can hurt more in the long run. We romanticize honesty as if it’s always freeing, always the right choice. But sometimes honesty reopens wounds that were finally starting to close. Sometimes it invites confusion where there was finally peace.

Yes, sometimes it’s a risk you have to take. But sometimes it isn’t.

More often than I’d like to admit, there are so many unspoken words I have yet to say. Words to me, that I would love nothing more than to say and communicate. And yet I restrain them, because even coming from a place of love, they might cause more hurt to them or to me.

While I am still learning, slowly but surely, I am realizing that sometimes love looks like silence. Not all of the time, not most of the time, but some of the time, some of the hardest time looks this way.

Sometimes strength looks like sitting in the stillness and letting the wave pass instead of reacting to it.

Some doors need to stay shut, no matter how badly you miss what was behind them. No matter how badly you wish you could share every waking moment again. No matter how natural it feels to reach for the familiar.

I think the hardest part is knowing when to speak and when to let it remain unspoken. And sometimes you get it wrong. Sometimes you slip. Sometimes emotion speaks before wisdom has a chance to.

But at the end of the day, who is the judge of any of it?

You have to make the choice you can live with. You just have to think it through. Is this a door I truly want to open again? And why do I feel called to open it?

Do I understand the real reason behind this desire?

Am I lonely?
Am I hurting?
Am I bored?
Am I seeking attention, affection, care?
Or do I genuinely want to leave it cracked open because there is something real and healthy waiting on the other side?

Sometimes it’s enough just knowing they’re okay. Knowing they’re alive and well. Knowing they’re doing just fine without you. That realization can sting in its own quiet way, but at the end of the day, I just want them to be happy. I want God to bless their life in unimaginable ways, and I trust that He will.

And if all I have to endure in return is a little daily heartache, then maybe that’s okay.

What a blessing it is to miss someone who once held such a huge place in your heart. What a blessing it is that they were in your life at all.

I don’t regret anyone or anything that came with it. I don’t regret the love. Even though pain corresponded. Pain does get duller as time goes on. Some days it doesn’t feel like it. Some days it feels just as sharp. But overall, it softens. It teaches. It reshapes you.

As much as I want to say the words that weigh heavily on my chest, sometimes it’s okay to sit in silence.

While my heart cries out wanting to know every detail of their day, wanting to share every moment, wanting to laugh again, wanting to ask for advice, wanting to reach for that familiar shoulder to cry on, wanting to reminisce and try again, I smile and say I’m doing okay.

Meanwhile, the unspoken words try to claw their way up my throat because they’ve been held back for so long.

But sometimes, some words are better left unspoken.

And some hearts aren’t meant to be reopened, not because the love wasn’t real, but because healing matters more than revisiting a wound that finally stopped bleeding.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

Hanging On By A List

She wakes up exhausted, barely able to open her eyes.

For a brief moment, as she lies there in the stillness, she forgets the ache that has become her constant companion. But the second her feet touch the carpet, reality rushes back in. There is no easing into it. No turning back.

Her appetite is gone. The nausea returns like clockwork. Her nervous system reacts as if someone is about to set off dynamite beneath her feet, and her heart begins to race again.

She reaches for the list she made the night before. Somehow, it always seems longer in the morning.

It almost feels ridiculous that she has to write things like get out of bed, make the bed, pack gym bag, put shoes on, fill water bottle, put mascara on, be a present mom, make steps to grow the business. You would think a simple list would do. Gym. Meal prep. Computer work. Read. Even saying it that way feels lighter.

But she cannot trust her mind to carry her through general tasks. She needs a step-by-step guide because she is not moving through her days with a clear mind or a healed heart. She is hanging on by a thread, and that thread is a forty-step list designed to keep her from slipping beneath the surface again.

Brush teeth. Fix hair. Eat something if you can. Drink water, especially if you cant eat. Be patient. Be present. Be a present mom. Make steps to grow the business.

She moves through her life like a shell of a human being, finally sitting in the quiet after years of constant noise. For the first time, she is processing more than twenty years of pretending she was fine. Pretending words did not cut. Staying quiet. Choosing loud rooms because they were easier than listening to her own thoughts.

But now the room is not loud.

She has walked away from what was not good for her, and in the silence she can hear everything. Without the distractions, the pain arrives all at once. Every memory. Every good thing that ended badly. Every bad thing she denied. Every time she covered for someone. Every time she brushed off her own feelings.

Every time she blinks, she replays a memory. Every time she blinks, her heart winces, knowing she had to make the hard choice. And the hard choice left her to face more than just her demons.

It crashes into her body like something physical, like someone is reaching inside her chest and pulling her heart out with bare hands. Her pulse pounds as if she is about to free climb Mount Everest.

She seems to keep finding new kinds of pain she never knew existed.

She stands in front of the mirror. A single tear slides down her cheek. She wipes it away and looks back at the list.

Do the next thing.

She is beginning to see that she let people hurt her more than they ever knew. That she was already so wounded within herself that others simply became collateral damage in a story she had not yet faced. That in more ways than one, she had been shrinking herself just to keep the peace.

She follows the list exactly. By the end of the day, she has barely sat down. Her body aches for rest. Her mind whispers that she is falling short in her business, in her parenting, in her health. She cannot seem to win at all of it at once.

Her heart has little to say right now. It feels like a gaping hole, and it may remain that way for a while as she learns how to close it.

Time will heal. But patience in the quiet is brutal. Patience in the silence of days that used to be shared. Everything she does carries the weight of what once stood beside her.

She is grieving deeply. Yet she is still showing up.

Even if she is showing up like a robot, simply completing the next item on the list, that mechanical version of her is protecting something fragile. It is keeping her from being dragged back into the deep survival mode she once lived in.

I say “she” because it cannot be me forever. This cannot be the version of me that survives.

God’s got me. I trust in Him. So I plan to feel it all the way through, so I don't have to feel it forever.

Someday, she will be a memory. The woman strong enough to keep her head above water will fully emerge. And I will live to speak about that day.

Someday it will not hurt this much.

But that day is not today.

And for now, that is okay.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

Remember To Change The Sheets

Phew. This one is gonna be a hard one.

Today, as I watched my littles drive away with their dad, a wave of nausea hit me so fast I swear I could feel it in my throat. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t just a “sad moment.” It was physical. Like my body didn’t understand why my babies were leaving and my arms weren’t stopping it.

I kissed my one year old on her forehead. I told my little man I’d see him at gymnastics tomorrow. I tried to sound normal. Like this is normal. But it isn’t. Not really.

Because I’m not kissing them goodnight in the only bed they’ve ever known. I’m not laying them down and tucking them in and listening for their breathing before I finally go to sleep. I’m not grabbing my son water, turning on the monitor on the highest sound setting, and setting it next to my pillow like I do every other night.

Now they have two beds each. One there, one here. And three nights a week, the beds in my house are empty.

And the craziest part is how quickly the house changes.

At first, I almost feel relief. For an hour, maybe less, I can breathe. I can take an everything shower. I can shave. I can paint my toes. I can do all the things that make me feel like I exist outside of motherhood.

But then it hits me. Because once the shower is done and the quiet settles in, I don’t get to rest. I get to clean.

I walk past my bed and see a stuffed animal foot peeking out from underneath it, like a tiny reminder that just a few hours ago my whole world was running around this house. I pick it up and carry it into the room they were playing in before they left, and suddenly the silence feels louder than any tantrum ever did.

That’s when the thoughts start.

Did I spend enough time playing with them? Did I do enough to show them how much I love them? Did I work too much? Did I truly sit and make sure I was present, or was my mind wandering too far away? Did I really soak them in the way I should have?

And as if the universe wants to make sure I feel it all, I find a half eaten chicken nugget on the floor that I could’ve sworn I watched her eat.

So I turn on music. Loud enough to drown out the spiraling thoughts. Loud enough to convince myself that everything is fine, because technically… it is.

I know they’re safe. I know they’re having fun. I know they deserve time with their dad, and he deserves the same. But knowing that doesn’t stop my chest from aching.

I start laundry, because that’s what moms do. I make sure their drawers are stocked with clean clothes for when they come back home… well, when they come back to this home. I vacuum. I clean the bathroom. I scrub that one spot in the shower that I hate scrubbing. I plug in my Scentsy warmer because I don’t have to worry about tiny hands burning themselves if they tipped it over. I move the TV to a place I can actually see it because the other five days, I forget it even exists.

The house becomes spotless, not because I’m some perfect adult who has it all together, but because I don’t know what else to do with the quiet.

Then I open my phone to make a grocery list, but someone sent me a reel, and I scroll without thinking. Instagram always seems to know when they leave, because that’s when it starts feeding me happy family videos like salt in an open wound. Smiling moms, laughing dads, kids running through the kitchen, wholesome little moments that make you wonder why life couldn’t just be simple.

I scroll longer than I meant to, feeling guiltier with every video, like distraction itself is something I should be ashamed of. Then I see the one that always gets me, the video where the man falls in love with the mom and her kids and proposes to the mom and the daughter too because he knows they’re a package deal. He knows love doesn’t come in halves. He knows you don’t choose the woman without choosing the babies too.

And that’s when I stop watching reels.

Back to the grocery list. I restock on enough fruit to feed a small village. I plan meals for the week because meal prep day is coming. I buy a backup gallon of milk, and I order extra flour because I already know my three-year-old is going to wake up Sunday morning expecting homemade bread like he can’t breathe without it.

I can’t risk those eyes. The ones that look at me like he’s a teenager, eyes halfway rolled, hands on his hips, while he asks, “Mommy… you forgot the breadddd?”

When the groceries are ordered, I switch the laundry over and get ready to go to the gym. I look around at my freshly vacuumed carpet, my sparkly bathroom, my bed made like a hotel, the empty trampoline, the living room free of toys, and for a second, I almost sigh in relief because my home is so clean.

Almost.

Then I walk past their room and realize I left the light on. Silly me. I step inside to turn it off and I see their sheets all twisted up, stuffed animals scattered, little signs that prove they were here. That this room was alive just yesterday.

And something in me breaks all over again.

I strip the beds because I should probably wash the sheets anyway. I toss everything into the washer and stare at two bare mattresses. Two empty spots where my babies should be sleeping. I turn off the light and walk out the door while it takes everything in me not to text their dad every ten minutes asking for another picture, another video, another reminder that they’re okay.

I go to the gym. I run errands. And then I go to a coffee shop, because I don’t want to go home.

I sit there with my tea, and I look like every other adult in the room. Like a single, working woman with a quiet life. Like someone who can just sit and exist without being needed every second. And for a moment, I almost forget how heavy motherhood feels when it isn’t physically in your arms.

But I can’t fully relax. I can’t keep both headphones over my ears because what if someone needs me? I hear a small child say “mommy,” and my head turns faster than my brain can even process it.

I check the time constantly like I have somewhere I’m supposed to be, even though I don’t.

And I sit there just long enough for my body to remind me of everything it went through bringing two humans into this world. Tailbone aching, pelvis sending shooting pains down my leg, and nerve damage that still flares up when I sit too long. Trauma is stored in places nobody talks about. I leave after about an hour, because I can’t sit longer than that on hard surfaces. I choose coffee shops based on the seating they provide, and even that choice comes down to being a mama.

Even my body still belongs to motherhood, and it always will.

That’s the part people don’t see.

To the world, I look like a single woman living her life. But I’m not one person. I’m three. Even on the days it’s just me, I am still made up of four tiny feet running through my heart.

I can paint my toes, I can drink my tea while it’s hot, I can have a quiet house and a clean floor, but my chest still aches for the noise. For the mess. For the chaos. For the constant “Mommy watch this!”

And even in all of this, I know how blessed I am. I know there are so many mamas out there who would give anything to feel this kind of ache again, because their babies aren’t coming home at all. I know some mamas are truly grieving in a way I can’t even comprehend, and I don’t take that lightly. I thank God every single day that I still get to wake up with my babies in my life, that I still get to hear their laughter, still get to kiss their cheeks, still get to be their mama.

And while I carry so much gratitude, it doesn’t take away the ache of watching them leave.

Everything is a reminder that they will always have two homes. I will always have to kiss them goodbye for a couple of days. I will always have nights where their beds are empty, and the silence is so loud it feels like it’s pressing against my skin in the place they should be snuggled up on my chest.

Sometimes it’s nice to feel like an individual, to exist outside of motherhood, to remember I’m still a woman. But at the end of the day, I’m a mama first. I always will be.

And I am proud of myself for always finding the beauty in the chaos. I really am. But now I have to find beauty in the stillness too, and I will. I know I will. I’m just still in the era of feeling physically sick over it, and that’s okay.

And I know time will pass and things will get better, but sometimes I have to remind myself. I know they are there. I know they are okay. I know I made the right choice.

At the end of the day, at least I can say I always remember to change the sheets.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

I Wish I Could

“I Wish I Could.”

Those are four words I hope I don’t say for a very long time.

Because the truth is… you can.

“I wish I could” is a present tense phrase. It’s not past regret. It’s not too late. It’s not missed opportunity. It’s something sitting right in front of you, waiting on you to decide if you want it badly enough.

Now obviously, if your “I wish I could” is something like I wish I could fly or I wish I could have superpowers, then sure… maybe not.

But honestly? Even that depends on how you define superpowers.

Because I’ve seen people overcome things that should’ve destroyed them. I’ve watched people choose forgiveness after betrayal. I’ve seen women rebuild their confidence from absolute rock bottom. I’ve seen men and women fight their way out of addiction. I’ve watched people lose everything and still show up with kindness.

If that’s not a superpower, I don’t know what is.

But most of the time, when we say “I wish I could,” we aren’t talking about the impossible. We’re talking about the uncomfortable. We’re talking about the things that require discipline, effort, or courage. The things that require us to stop waiting for motivation and start choosing change.

And that’s why those words are so dangerous.

Because they sound harmless… but they’re often a disguise for fear.

Because “I wish I could” usually looks like this:

I wish I could wake up early. I wish I could eat better. I wish I could be more present. I wish I could tell them how I really feel. I wish I could stop being afraid. I wish I could just go for it. I wish I could apply myself more. I wish I could write again. I wish I could learn new skills. I wish I could spend more time with the people I love. I wish I could be kinder. I wish I could go to church more. I wish I could be more grateful.

And the theme is always the same.

You CAN.

Maybe not instantly. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not all at once. But you can.

And most of the time, the sentence shouldn’t end there.

“I wish I could” should only be the beginning of the conversation, not the end of it.

I’ve always had this deep desire to learn. If I don’t know how something works, I want to figure it out. I want to know the why behind the reason. The how behind the final result. I want to see the rough drafts before the finished product.

And I think that’s why this phrase bothers me so much.

Because there’s a huge difference between “I wish I would have…” and “I wish I could…”

One of them is regret. The other one is still an open door.

And what I’ve learned is this: the more you start doing the things you “wish you could,” the less you’ll have to live with the words “I wish I would have.”

Because regret is heavy.

I think back on past experiences all the time. Past choices. Past moments. Past versions of myself.

And sometimes I catch myself saying, “I wish I had…”

But then I correct myself.

Because the truth is, I’m glad I didn’t.

I’m glad I made mistakes. I’m glad I learned the hard way. I’m glad I felt pain that forced growth out of me.

Because now I have wisdom.

And wisdom changes everything.

The thought process shifts from “I wish I would have tried harder in school…” to “I’m glad I learned that lesson, because now I work harder in my career.”

That’s growth. That’s perspective. And that’s the whole point.

So let’s get personal.

Maybe you can relate, maybe you can’t, but these are some of the biggest mindset shifts I’ve made in my own life. The kind that didn’t just change my thinking… they changed the way I live.

I wish I didn’t stay silent.

Mindset shift: I’m glad I stayed silent, because now I know what it feels like to not be heard.

Present day: I communicate when something feels off. I choose hard conversations over no conversations at all.

I wish I valued myself and knew my worth.

Mindset shift: I’m glad I learned how damaging it is to live without self-respect.

Present day: I protect my peace. I know my worth. I hold myself to a higher standard because I refuse to become someone I wouldn’t be proud of.

I wish I told them how I felt. I wish I spoke my mind.

Mindset shift: I’m glad I didn’t, because I wouldn’t have used the right words.

Present day: I think before I speak. My words mean more than they ever have. And when I speak now, I speak with intention.

I wish I found beauty in every storm.

Mindset shift: I’m glad I saw how dark life can get when you lose yourself.

Present day: I make conscious decisions every day to never fall back into that place. I will choose myself if it means I never forget who I am.

I wish I held them a little tighter.

Mindset shift: I’m glad I got to hold them at all.

Present day: I hold hugs longer. I listen more intentionally. I pay attention to the little things, because I know one day I won’t get them back.

And then I had a realization a few days ago.

I’ve heard it before, but for the first time… it actually clicked.

Live like you can.

Live like the version of you that you dream about already exists.

Eat like you already have the body you want and you’re maintaining it. Pray like God is already the center of your life, even if you’re still learning how to get there. Love like you want to be loved. Treat your children like the blessing they are. Show up to work like you’re already the CEO. Post like you’re already the influencer. Treat self-care like it’s your job. Stand firm on boundaries that the old version of you would’ve let slide. Go for the run like you’ve been doing it for five years.

Because slowly but surely… you start becoming the person you’ve been waiting to meet.

And honestly… how sad would it be to live your entire life without ever meeting the best version of yourself?

We have no idea how much time we have here.

So why wouldn’t we try?

Why wouldn’t we fight to become the version of ourselves we know is possible?

How incredible would it be to meet the version of you who feels confident in their body, when your whole life you’ve struggled to even look in the mirror?

How freeing would it be to become the version of you who doesn’t second guess every decision?

And along the way, we get to look back and be grateful for every version of ourselves that got us here.

Even the versions we were once ashamed of.

Because they weren’t failures.

They were lessons.

They were building blocks.

They were the reason we’re stronger now.

And before you know it…

The person who used to sleep past noon now watches the sunrise every morning.

The person who had a crush for five years and never said a word now speaks up without fear.

The person who stayed too long now walks away the moment the standard isn’t met.

The person who used to live in clutter and chaos now makes their bed every morning, and their floor has been sock-free for six months.

The person who couldn’t pull themselves out of depression is now stronger, healthier, and mentally clearer… because they decided they’d rather be depressed in the gym than depressed on the couch.

Slowly but surely… decision by decision…

Small step after small step… they built a life that was always meant for them.

They just didn’t know how to get there yet.

So what if we tried something different?

What if we focused on doing just one thing every day that moves us forward?

If it’s a hard day, maybe you only move forward in one area.

Maybe you reply to an email that pushes your business forward. Maybe you send an invoice. Maybe you clean one corner of your room. Maybe you get out of bed and take a shower, just to reset your mind.

But on the good days, imagine if you intentionally stepped forward in multiple areas: emotionally, physically, mentally, financially, spiritually.

That could look like reaching out to someone you love. Going for a ten-minute walk. Reading one Bible verse. Saying one prayer. Making one social media post. Drinking one extra bottle of water. Taking ten minutes to stretch. Writing one paragraph. Making one better choice than yesterday.

What if every day you listed your goals, and you made a tally every time you made a step toward them?

Even the smallest one.

It’s a fun perspective, isn’t it?

And honestly… it’s been on my mind a lot lately.

And I’m grateful it has.

Because when I wake up knowing I can choose to do it all, when I wake up knowing I can, my days feel fuller. My life feels more intentional. And I feel more fulfilled.

Because no, nothing will ever be perfect.

Nothing will ever be easy.

But if we start replacing “I wish I could” with “I can”… oh, the blessings we’ll endure. And oh, how we’ll realize how blessed we already were all along.

Thank you for being here,
Kaitlyn

PS. And to my mom, this one’s for you. You CAN.

What Hurts The Most

Have y’all ever heard the Rascal Flatts song What Hurts the Most?

Man… what a true song that is.

I always thought it was so accurate when it says, “What hurts the most is being so close, having so much to say, and watching you walk away.” But honestly, it hurts even more when no matter how badly you want someone, no matter how badly you wish things could be different, you’re the one that has to walk away. No matter how badly you wish the timing could align, that they would do better, that they would choose you, or that you wouldn’t be put in the position to make that choice.

I’ve had to make that choice more times than I want to admit. I had to with my mom, my marriage, my family, and now with a dear friend… a choice that might have hurt more than all of them.

Some days I wish I could have had one more day with each of them before I knew I had to walk away. One more good day. One last goodbye to the version of them in my head that I had to let go of.

I know many of us have had to walk away from similar things and people. And I don’t think we talk enough about how brutal it is when you truly assess what is best for you and your life, and you realize the person, the job, the material thing, the influencer you idolize is actually hurting you. The food you love is what is preventing you from reaching your goals. The alcohol you turn to is why you lost your job. The scrolling at night is preventing you from feeling rested. When you truly have to walk away from something you love, something small or large, even when it’s hurting you, it cuts like a knife.

Things were different when I had to walk away for myself. Let’s be real, I never truly walked away when it was just me. I always gave people too many chances. If I’m being honest, I didn’t ever walk away from people I loved until I had babies.

What hurts the most is believing in people's goodness and potential to a fault. Believing that people can always change for the better, but who am I to decide what better is? The truth is, it isn’t fair for me to expect people to change just because I want them to, or because if I were in their shoes, I would do something differently. It isn’t fair to love someone based on who they could be while ignoring who they are. I’ve had to learn that loving people well also means accepting them as they are, not constantly living in the hope of what could be.

I have to stop falling in love with potential, and start living in the present.

When I started walking away from family, I started thinking about the way these people made me feel as a child, and I realized I never wanted my babies to feel the same. That was the moment something in me shifted. That was the moment I knew I couldn’t keep allowing certain things into my life, because now it wasn’t just about me anymore.

I walked away from my mom after giving her chance after chance, watching her relapse time and time again. I prayed for her. I let her meet her grandkids when she finally got into rehab for a month, and I don’t regret that. I wouldn’t change that for the world. Truly, that may be the only time she ever gets to see them, so I am grateful for that day.

It used to break me more than it does now, but sometimes I think the hard truth is this… sometimes acceptance is feeling numb. Realizing the mom I put on a pedestal as a child was actually a figment of my imagination is crazy. And unfortunately, now as an adult looking back on it, 90% of what I remember are the bad things that I once brushed past.

It’s funny how perspective changes when you really put people in the light. Shadows hide flaws. Shadows hide scars. But when you really think about what someone did, you can never put those memories back in the darkness.

I never knew what a trauma response was until a couple of years ago, when I realized the reason I don’t like summer is that I have an anxiety attack almost every time I get into a car that’s been sitting in the sun all day. I recently went into a sauna and realized that triggered it too. My mom still to this day has no idea I get reminded of the cause of that much too often.

I never realized how yelling makes me shut down. How being talked over makes me lose my words and go silent. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I have everything to say, and I feel like they’ll never listen. I never felt like communicating would make anything better; it would just make them more upset, no matter how hard I tried to just express my feelings, and it never came from a place of judgment or trying to inflict pain upon them, but I felt it was always seen that way. This came up a lot in my marriage, but started as a child, too scared to speak up when I got that sickening sensation in my stomach, when my heart would race, and my hands would shake, I would turn to music instead of addressing the person or the problem. Maybe that’s why I started writing music at 7 years old, and honestly, now saying that out loud, that is exactly why.

I take irritation as a personal attack. I say I’m sorry more often than I should because I feel like a burden. I would do anything to not hurt someone I love. And I always stay just a little too long, hoping the outcome will be different.

I have a lot to work on as a person, emotionally, spiritually, mentally, physically… all the way around. Every day, I am trying to just make one better choice for my life and these beautiful babies.

Coming from someone who always loved group gatherings and lots of people, and avoided confrontation at all costs, life lately has been painfully brutal. It has been full of hard conversations. Hard conversations the little girl in me would have never had the guts have. Kaitlyn, before kids wouldn’t have. But Kaitlyn, as a mom, has to make hard choices on a daily basis. Choices that someday won’t be as hard, they may not even phase me, but at this moment they feel heavy.

I have to choose not to speak to my mom because she put my family in danger. I had to leave my marriage because it made me weak, and I lost more of myself than I ever thought possible. I had to break contact with family members who belittled me behind closed doors and faked a smile to my face.

And I had to walk away from one of my favorite people to share my day with, because it wouldn’t be fair to either of us in the long run.

In all of these situations, I stayed a little too long. But as I get older, and as I strive to do better every day, I believe it will slowly hurt less. I might be building the walls a little higher now, because I have precious cargo inside the castle.

Everything I do is for these babies. And although my heart is shattered, I know someday it won’t be. Boundaries and hard conversations will get easier. There will be less pain, because I won’t stay too long waiting and hoping for change. I won’t keep holding onto people as if I can love them into becoming who I need them to be.

Somehow, I still have to be me. Still be there for everyone and love them the only way I know how. But building the wall a little higher to protect my heart is something I would choose every day over giving it to someone who will break it without even trying.

People can only hurt you as much as you let them.

I want to strive to still be me, but to really think before letting people in. This isn’t to say I don’t love every single person I’ve had to walk away from, because I do. I always will. But I have to protect my littles, and in doing what’s best for them, they are teaching me how to do what’s best for me.

They deserve a mama that is fully present, physically and mentally. A mama that can teach them about boundaries, and having to walk away from things that don’t feel right. And sometimes, oftentimes, it isn’t forever… but it is for now.

I believe God brings people into your life for a reason. I believe nothing is an accident, and I find peace in knowing everything has a purpose. I have immensely grown as an individual from the people and experiences that led me to where I’m at today.

There was a time my dad and I had to take a break, and now I wouldn’t change the relationship we have for the world. Some things are not forever and some things are, but we can’t spend every day trying to figure out if it will be forever or not. Only God knows. Only God knows if that relationship will heal, and only God knows if you and that person will reunite someday.

I’m challenging myself, truly challenging myself, to give it more to God. Not just people… but information as well.

Everything happening in the world right now has been making me physically sick, and I know I’m not alone in that. It has become really hard for me to walk away from it. I’ve been battling if I want to know more, if it makes me a coward to shield my eyes, but what I’ve realized is this: I don’t need to know everything that is going to put my heart and mind in a terrible place.

It’s good to be informed, but when it’s taking such a hit to my spirit, I have to give it to God. I can’t carry everything, and I can’t fix everything. Sometimes the healthiest thing I can do is step away and protect my heart, understanding how terrible things are, but also seeing that there is so much good going on in this life that I don’t want to miss. I have 2 beautiful babies I am holding extra tight tonight, praying for everyone affected by everything going on in this world, and being ever so grateful I get to tuck them in and kiss their sleepy foreheads.

I’m trying to turn to God now more than ever, and I’m trying to find answers in His Word. I’m finding that if you look hard enough, the answers are all there. You are never truly alone, no matter how lonely it gets.

There will be a day that I say no right off the bat instead of yes, even if I really want to. And there will also be another time that I stay a little too long, even though I hoped I wouldn’t. I’m human, and we all have our days and make our mistakes, but what matters is how we move forward.

I love people to a fault. It might be my favorite and least favorite thing about myself sometimes, but at least I recognize it. I would rather love someone more than I should have, believe in them more than I should have, support them more than I should have, than to have never loved at all.

But all this being said, we need to learn how to walk past what is not good for us so it takes away the option. We need to choose ourselves to the point that the temptation isn’t there, so that we can walk past it before we put ourselves in a place where we have to walk away from it. And we will get there, but that’s the beauty in wisdom, that’s the beauty in time. And although what hurts the most sometimes is having to walk away, every time you walk away from something that isn’t right for you right now, it points you in the direction of what is.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

It Must Be Nice

Isn’t it funny how often we hear the phrase “It must be nice”?

I can take accountability for saying it myself, and I know many of us have. But most of the time, we wouldn’t say it so easily if we truly paused to consider the depth behind whatever it is we’re assuming.

We stand in our own yards, full of weeds, and look down the street at a perfectly green, freshly mowed lawn. Must be nice to have such a beautiful yard, we think. But did we ever stop to wonder how long it took to get there? How that lawn became as beautiful as it appears today?

Did we ever consider that the house was built brick by brick by owners who once had pennies in their pockets? That the property was caught in a nearby grassfire, leaving every single blade burned to a crisp just five years ago? That the husband who lives there was in a devastating car accident and is now paralyzed from the waist down? That only in the last six months were they finally able to afford a gardener to help maintain the lawn you quietly long for?

Interesting perspective, huh?

And this is just one example.

Because the truth is, this phrase shows up everywhere.

Even though we all know how hard life has been for each of us through grief, financial instability, changes in our bodies, pain, and sacrifice, why do we believe everyone else has always had it easy? Why do we assume they were gifted a life without adversity or challenges? Why do we believe they simply got lucky?

And when that jealousy begins to rise, when comparison quietly creeps in, why do we look outward instead of inward? Why do we sit with resentment when we could pause and gain a bigger perspective? Why do we allow jealousy to take root when we could soften our hearts and realign our vision? And when we find ourselves unable to do that on our own, why do we hesitate to turn to God? Afterall, we are only human.

You see a woman walking down the street and wish you looked like her.

But what you don’t see is that she lost the only person she has ever truly loved. That she hasn’t been eating. That she runs, not for health, but to escape the pain that settles in when she stands still. And that is the body you wish you had.

You see a family of three in church, hands held, heads bowed in prayer, and you wish you had a family like that.

But what you don’t see are the miscarriages they are grieving, the marriage they are desperately trying to save, and a home on the edge of foreclosure. They came to church today for the first time because they are hanging on by their last thread.

You see the CEO of your favorite company pulling away from work at noon in his fancy Porsche without a second thought.

Meanwhile, he goes home to an empty penthouse. His wife left him not because she wanted more money, but because she wanted him. She supported him while he chased success, and he took her presence for granted. Now he has more money than he could ever spend, but none of it matters without the woman he wishes he had fought harder for.

The grocery clerk who always has a smile and seems so cheerful, the one you wish you could be more like. What you don’t see is that he is a veteran who now lives in a tent down the hill, fighting homelessness while still choosing kindness.

So when we think about all of these things, these small glimpses into the lives of people around us, would we really want to trade places with them? Would we willingly choose to endure everything they have just to have a better lawn fifty years down the line?

I don’t know what your answer is, but mine is surely no.

I would much rather be grateful for all I have been through and genuinely happy for the people in my life who have accomplished the goals I hope to reach one day. Maybe instead of being jealous of people we perceive to be ahead of us, we can thank God for the path he has placed us on.

Maybe the perspective shifts to this.

God, help me start pulling the weeds in my own yard so that it can flourish someday.

God, help me choose better things for my body so I can grow stronger over time.

God, help me prioritize my mental health so I can build a healthy, lasting relationship.

God, help me learn new skills and embrace discipline so I can work my way up and create a better future.

God, help me be patient so I can be kind.

Instead of being jealous of others, let us celebrate them. Let us honor how far they have come. Let us learn their story before judging the final product or the one still in the process of becoming.

And this goes the other way too. Not just with people we envy, but with those we judge as less than. But that is another story for another time.

At the end of the day, before judgment or jealousy, let us take a step back. Let us bring those feelings to God instead of letting them harden our hearts. Let us celebrate others for how far they have come, and celebrate ourselves for continuing on our own unique, beautiful paths.

We are such small beings on this massive planet, yet we constantly compare ourselves to a perception rather than the full story. We see what is in front of us and assume we know what it took to get there, what it cost, or the pain they endured.

I recently had a friend share with me that when I was still in my marriage, she often thought, “It must be nice.” What she didn’t see was that I was suffering in silence. No one truly knew the depth of my daily heartache, how hard I was trying to hold everything together, or how desperately I was attempting to fix something when I didn’t even know where to begin. They didn’t see the nights I spent screaming, crying, and begging God for even the smallest glimmer of hope, for a way forward that didn’t end in a broken family. All the while, I was keeping my business afloat, showing up for the people in my life who needed me, and doing my best to stay quiet about what was really happening once I walked back through my own front door.

Nothing is ever as it seems. So when these feelings arise, because they are undeniably human, maybe we pause. Maybe we pray.

Maybe the lesson is not to stop noticing beauty, success, or joy in others.
Maybe it is to stop assuming it came without loss and stop wanting to trade places.

And maybe, just maybe, instead of saying “It must be nice,” we learn to say, “I don’t know their story.”

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

Someday Far Away

Someday far away, someone will look at you in a way your heart has yearned for forever. But they won’t just see you. They will see the tiny hands holding onto each of your legs. They will see the version of you that unravels when the sun goes down. They won’t just see you, they will love you.

They will love you with such a steady presence that you never have to question it. They will show you what it means to be valued, appreciated, and worthy. Someday far away, you will meet the person who makes you feel more like yourself and never less than. They will fall in love with you, not for what you can give them, but for all that you are.

Every stretch mark. Every thigh dimple. Every worry. Every tear. They will love the things you’ve spent years trying to hide.

They will love the way you can’t help but dance in the kitchen in your socks to your favorite song. They will love that even in a happy relationship, you still belt breakup songs at the top of your lungs just to stay awake on a late drive home. They will love your desire to try everything good on the face of the planet at least once. They won’t make fun of you for working late because you love what you do. They will support your passions and never make you apologize for talking too much.

They will drive you to a hike they researched just to watch the sunset, then take photos of the stars. They will sit in the quiet with you when you can’t find the words and patiently wait until you can. They will love you through your flaws and insecurities and help you gently take off the makeup of your emotions. They won’t just want what’s on the surface, they will want what lies beneath.

Someday far away, you won’t have to defend yourself. They won’t judge you, they will want to learn you. They will want to know every little thing they can do to make you feel special. They will wake up early with the kettle boiling, kiss your forehead awake, have the kids ready for school, your gym bag packed, and breakfast waiting on the counter. They will set up your favorite theater snacks for an indoor movie night. They will create scavenger hunts for gifts when it isn’t even a holiday.

They will do all of this because you know firsthand that kind of love exists. It’s the kind of love you gave away much too soon.

So maybe while you wait, instead of letting impatience dampen your days, don’t worry so much about someday far away. Give yourself the same love you have poured into others.

You don’t have to wait to love yourself. But what does that even mean?

It’s taken me my whole life to start figuring it out. Loving myself was never something I was good at, yet loving others always felt easy. It’s effortless to look at my best friend and think she is absolutely perfect, flaws and all, because I don’t see them. The things she criticizes about herself are beautiful to me. Every mistake she makes only makes her stronger for having overcome it.

I’ve always loved this way. I love hard. I see the best in people. I excuse things others would find unforgivable. As time goes on, I still love deeply, but now I love with intention.

And that’s what I want to challenge you to do today, as I challenge myself. It’s a daily battle and I’m sure it always will be. But if every day we choose to love ourselves the way someone else in our life loves us, maybe that’s one step closer to actually believing it someday.

Make a list of the things that drive you crazy about yourself and hand it to someone who wouldn’t want a world without you in it. See what they say. Or even better, make that list and work on it. I’ll be right there with you.

You don’t have to wait for someday far away. That day will come.

In the meantime, love the version of you that isn’t just one person, but three. Love the mom who sometimes unravels when the sun goes down. Love yourself stronger than you ever loved someone who took it for granted, and this time, give that love the appreciation it deserves.

See yourself as worthy. Value yourself more than you ever thought possible. Fall in love with yourself for all that you are. For your discipline. For your parenting. For your drive. For your curious, wondering mind.

Love every stretch mark. Every thigh dimple. Every tear. Love yourself through the phases of life you never imagined you’d walk through. Love your body like you dreamed of this body your whole life. Treat it like today matters.

Dance alone in the kitchen in your socks. Belt those breakup songs down the highway. Work late because you’re excited to finish the project. Go to the gym to test your limits and make yourself proud. Plan the hike that puts you in the perfect spot for sunset and star photos. Sit in the silence when you can’t find the words, then write them.

Have the kettle boiling for yourself. Pack the kids’ stuff. Leave a sticky note of encouragement on your gym bag. Set up your favorite snacks and get cozy with your favorite chick flick. Do the work, even in the dark, so the woman in the light can look back and say, you got her here.

Don’t dim your light. Ignite it. Let it burn so brightly that it becomes harder and harder for anyone to blow it out.

And someday far away, you’ll meet someone whose fire burns just as bright for you. And when that day comes, you won’t complete each other, you’ll complement each other. Two whole people, standing side by side. Your fires won’t compete or consume; they will warm, steady, and strengthen one another. You’ll know how to tend your own flame, and they’ll know how to protect theirs, and together you’ll create something that doesn’t burn out but burns brighter. Not because you needed saving, but because you both chose to show up, fully lit, fully alive, and willing to keep the fire going.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

Footprints In The Snow

Taken By: Kaitlyn Layman @casperphotography23

About a month ago, my grandma lost her best furry friend. Her name was Coco.

Last week, the kids and I visited her house after a fresh snowfall. My son already knew Coco had passed, and when I talked with him about it, he simply asked, “Are the angels taking care of her, Mommy?” Tears filled my eyes as he continued, asking if they were holding her and which angel was taking care of her in particular.

Since that day, we have been back to her house a few times. My daughter often wanders into the room where Coco used to sleep. There is a photo in a frame, and she always makes sure to give it many kisses.

As we stood together looking out the window, my grandma’s eyes began to tear up. She softly said, “I have never seen my backyard so perfectly covered in snow. I woke up still looking for her paw prints.” Before I could let a tear fall down my own face, my son spoke up and said, “We can make footprints in the snow.”

Almost immediately after her words, that was his response. We can make footprints in the snow. As adults, we wouldn’t think to respond to grief that way, yet to him, she was not missing the pain itself; she was missing the footprints, and he found a way to give them back.

He put on his coat and boots and ran outside. He got down on his hands and knees and began pawing at the snow just like Coco would have, creating his own paw prints. He then asked my grandma if she wanted to join him. Before I knew it, they were both out there, not crying over Coco, but laughing, remembering her, and finding joy in her memory.

It made me think about how, when the light in our lives dims, we are often left wondering how to find it again. When we lose the people we love, when plans change, when mistakes are made, and when truths are revealed, how can we make our own footprints in the snow? How can we begin to bring the light back into our lives when things do not go the way we hoped?

Are we sometimes missing a solution simply because our hearts are closed? If we change our perspective, is there a way to recreate the footprints? Is there a way to honor the memory of what once was while still moving forward? And even when people are still alive but have deeply hurt us, can we find a way to remember them fondly, can we at the very least thank God for the wisdom gained during their time in our lives? And not even just thank God, but wholeheartedly be filled with gratitude that we were able to experience, grow, and learn from what has been put on our path, even when thinking those thoughts can sometimes feel impossible when the grief takes over every part of our bodies.

Something to ponder today, and something I have been thinking about a lot lately.

What is something in your life where you could make your own footprints? For me, it is loneliness. It is the emptiness that tries to settle in after the kids are asleep, the laundry is folded, the dishes are clean, and the work is done. When there is nothing left to do but be still. Sometimes, stillness is the hardest thing to face. Slowing down in the chaos can feel harder than staying busy, especially for me. But there is a quiet, uncomfortable, unique kind of beauty found within the moments of empty stillness. The moments you realize that you actually love lying down in your cold sheets with plenty of room to move using 5 unnecessary pillows, the moment you realize you can listen to music or watch a movie that only you enjoy, or go to bed at 7 pm just because you feel like it.

You may never be able to replace what was once there, whether it was a person, a feeling, or a comfort that is no longer available. But you can find ways to slowly bring the light back. For me, it’s this blog, it’s finding myself again, and learning to find peace in the quiet. Is it still lonely sometimes? Of course. But I am learning to bring the light back slowly, one blanket, one book, one smile, one laugh, one post, one self-embrace, and one footprint at a time. 🤍

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn

The Last Time.

Taken By Alexus Maynard

They always say there was a last time. A last time that most often goes unnoticed. Can you remember yours? The last time you carried your sleeping child from the car into the house. The last bedtime prayer whispered beside their bed. The last story you read before they could read on their own. The last night they slept in your room before mom and dad sleepovers weren’t cool anymore.

Today I created a last so I would never forget it. Today was the last time I gazed into my daughter’s eyes while she was still attached to me. The last time she would need my body to nourish her in this sacred and intimate way. Today was the last time I breastfed my little girl and depending on how life unfolds it may be the last time I ever breastfeed. That truth feels like a dagger to my heart.

I always wanted more babies. I always wanted a family that stayed whole. I never wanted things to feel broken. But sometimes life breaks anyway. Glasses shatter. Hearts ache. And you are forced to adjust the vision you once had for your life. The thought of never carrying another baby. Never feeling those tiny kicks. Never laying in a quiet hospital room with a newborn on my chest still shatters me. And at the same time I am ever so incredibly grateful that I was given the chance to be a mama at all. Knowing how many women yearn for the opportunity to become pregnant even once. Knowing mamas who grieve babies they never got to bring home. Truly understanding that kind of loss has humbled me deeply. I was blessed to experience motherhood not once but twice and I hold that truth with gratitude I cannot fully put into words. Sometimes that makes the sadness feel selfish but we are human and gratitude and grief are allowed to exist together. I thank God every single day for making me a mama not just once but twice and I will spend my life grateful for that gift.

Still the pain remains. During my daughter’s first precious year my life was unraveling. My marriage was unraveling. I was suffering in silence trying to hold the world together keep my business afloat and be more than just a good mom. I moved three times in one year and learned that material things mean nothing. I realized that even when I was physically present for so many moments mentally I was often somewhere else. Knowing that breaks me.

But as the year went on something shifted. I began to find a version of myself I had never met before. A version who was wounded but growing. One who started to understand her worth change her perspective and for the first time experience a glimmer of true peace. I learned that peace is not given it is created. And I learned all of this while growing my newborn into the beautiful little girl she is today.

I cannot get that time back but we survived it. And now my goal is to slow down. To wake up earlier. Watch the sunrise. Listen to the tiny feet running through my house. To work on my business but not let my business run me. While today closes a chapter I am afraid I may never experience again it also opens a new one with a version of myself I am still learning. One who is present. One who listens when things do not feel right. One who puts her babies first always.

Breastfeeding was so much more than nourishment. It was one of the most intimate healing and grounding experiences of my life. Through everything this past year it gave me unmatched joy and comfort. My daughter healed parts of me I never knew needed healing. My son did too in his own ways. But having a daughter made me see myself differently. It made me realize how deeply I just wanted to be loved and cherished and how powerful the bond between a mother and her children truly is.

Closing this chapter shatters me. But knowing there is still so much life ahead so many possibilities and so much love to give is slowly super gluing the cracks. I am ready to reclaim my body not for how it looks but for how far it has carried me. For nourishing my babies for two full years and growing them for eighteen months. Our bodies are incredible and they deserve more grace than we give them.

I have struggled with body dysmorphia my whole life. Mirrors have never been kind to me. But today I can say I am grateful for this body flaws and all because without it I would not be here loving these beautiful babies.

The days are long sometimes. But not a single day goes by that I do not think if I could just have one last. And maybe that is the point. Someday we will wish for just one more day of crying toddlers food on the walls and tired eyes. So maybe instead of calling today just another day we can see it as one day less and love it a little harder.

True unbreakable love is all I have ever needed. And that is exactly what I found in motherhood. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to experience growing another miracle, but even if that day never comes, God has already blessed me with more than I ever deserved in the two hearts walking outside my body.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn