if you’re wondering why i’m terrified of peanuts.

I haven’t eaten peanuts since 2008.

I used to eat extra crunchy Jif by the spoonful and call it dinner. I needed peanut butter like most adults need coffee. Now I won’t touch anything with peanuts anywhere in the ingredient list.

But why? It’s simple really.

I’m scared of peanuts.

I see that confused look on your face and I truly can’t blame you. I also know your next question.

Are you allergic to peanuts or something?

No. But that is a logical conclusion. Unfortunately anxiety is the opposite of logic.

Anxiety. My lifelong nemesis. A constant companion for most of the days I can remember. However in 2008 my chronic, but underlying, anxiety disorder became a full blown panic disorder.

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I was pregnant. Hormones are more powerful than I ever realized. And I lived in crisis mode for nine months. I became paralyzingly afraid that I had developed a severe peanut allergy and if I ate one the worst would happen.

Honestly, peanuts were the least of my worries.

Every second of my life was shrouded in morbid fears that I could not escape. Daily tasks were now risky and dangerous. My physical symptoms spiraled out of control and I rarely left my bed.

And I knew it was crazy. I knew I sounded nuts. I knew no one else was worried about falling through a sewer grate or contracting every deadly disease mentioned on the evening news. I knew not everyone was convinced they were dying.

But you try reasoning with someone knee-deep in a panic attack. It is not typically an effective approach.

Someday I will share my full story of healing and restoration. It would be approximately 79,823,987,564 pages long, but the description on the back would read something like this:

“When an ordinary day becomes the day you have your first panic attack, life probably won’t ever be the same. Six years later I look back on my journey and see the darkest storms of my life but I also see healing, restoration, and hope. Those storms caused total devastation. I was obliterated and left for lost. But hope doesn’t give up. Hope believes, it trusts, it stays. Hope rebuilds what was destroyed. Hope sees what is impossible and knows Jesus still can. Today I can’t believe where I was, how far I’ve come or the beauty of the person rebuilt from that place of desperation and loss. But I know one thing for sure, there is purpose in our pain. Also, I still don’t eat peanuts, but I like to consider that a cute little battle scar.”

Anxiety tried to destroy me. It stole so much, and it will always be a part of my story. But it will not win. Maybe it’s a part of your story, too. Hear me say this. It does not have to win.

I’m not here to talk about how medication or therapy or acupuncture or diet or Jesus (well, I’m always a fan of Jesus) will be your quick fix. I’m not talking about how I beat anxiety and because this and this worked for me it will work for you. I believe with all of my heart that each story is different. Each healing journey is different. But most of all I believe that anxiety does not get to win. Once upon a time I couldn’t imagine beating it and I needed someone to remind me. Some days I still need the reminder.

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I have two babies now. They hate it when I call them babies but I tell them to deal with it because they’ll be my babies tomorrow and when they go to prom and when they have babies of their own. I’ll always kiss them in public too. But I digress.

I have two babies. They are the best thing I have ever done, the most precious thing in my life and that is some scary business.

Mixing motherhood with anxiety?

It’s a perfect storm really.

Like I didn’t have enough anxiety ammunition before there were two tiny people I would do anything for.

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Now I have to keep them safe? I’m in charge of them? Me? The one who is afraid of peanuts and taxi drivers? Now I have to worry about choking hazards and SIDS and correctly installing a car seat?

(Insert a myriad of colorful language here.)

But hold on. I didn’t see this coming. And I have a sneaking suspicion that you didn’t either. Yes you, mama. The one almost ready to give birth or with a tiny one in your arms while you read this. The one who fights fear all day every day. The one who maybe feels like less than a great mama because anxiety monopolizes your time and your sleep and your smile. I’m talking to you. Listen to me.

If you’ll let them, your tiny child will be the catalyst for healing in your life.

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Life is terrifying. We need only turn on the news to understand that this world is broken and life is fragile. It always has been and it always will be. We worry because the worst can happen and someday it might.

But.

Life is more wonderful than it is terrifying. Sometimes I just forget.

When I look at my boys I know that worry is not the legacy I want to pass on. Anxiety is not their birthright. Fear will not define them.

So I fight.

I have fought for six years. I have spent endless hours, and money I didn’t have, to find answers. I have prayed desperate and when words failed me I know Jesus understood my tears. I have doubted. I have questioned. I have been angry and defeated and fatigued. I have screamed at my God in one breath and begged him to save me in the next. I tried to walk away but he followed me.

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And in the worst of the terrible moments, when fear was doing a victory lap, I looked into the faces of the babies I adore and I knew if I didn’t want to fight for me I needed to fight for them. I don’t want to teach them a lifestyle of worry. I won’t.

Today I can hardly believe how far I’ve come. The months of constant panic seem more like a bad dream than a life that I lived. But I did live them. I still worry more than most. Anxiety grips me when I least expect it and takes my breath away. But it no longer controls me.

I don’t know what your journey has been like. I don’t know how you will find healing. But I know it is possible. I know you are worth fighting for. I know my Jesus never leaves your side.

I know my boys may someday face fear that feels unbeatable. That thought brings me to my knees. Not my babies. Not them. Please, no.

I can’t protect them from everything. Including their own fears. But I can show them what it looks like to never give up. I can show them that prayer changes things. I can be an example of vulnerability and honesty and willingness to share my journey if it could possibly help one person. I can discuss anxiety like the true thief it is instead of teaching them to be ashamed or embarrassed by it. I can teach them that life is a gift and to celebrate the beauty instead of being paralyzed by fear.

I can teach them that if a day comes when fear feels too strong that there is always hope.

I will show them that sometimes true courage is driving a car for the first time in half a decade. Tell them that bravery is not just for knights and ninjas. Sometimes the bravest person is the one who flies across the country by herself, shaking and sweating, because anxiety sucks but Jesus makes me brave.

And who knows. Maybe someday I’ll show them that healing is eating a handful of peanuts. Unless you’re actually have a peanut allergy. Then please do not eat a handful of peanuts.

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armpits. and pudding.

I can remember it just like yesterday. I mean it was only last week, but the trauma is as fresh as five minutes ago. We were driving to Whole Foods to buy clay for my face. (It’s a thing. It works. I promise. But more about that in another post.) We had just taken our exit when one of my children needed something super important right that very second. I remember reaching into the backseat to tend to my little angels. I was trying to reach whatever had fallen onto the floor and rolled just far enough out of my reach to make me swear under my breath. As I reached for it I suddenly realized that the terrible odor I was smelling was definitely coming from me. I dropped my arm down at lightning speed. Just as I was about to come up with a wafer thin excuse about why I could’t reach the dropped toy, I heard my husband do a quick double sniff.

The dreaded double sniff.

You know the one.

It’s not the deep inhale of a man savoring a woman’s perfume or delighting in the aroma of chocolate chip cookies. It was the quick, one two sniff, with the crinkled nose and the sideways glance. The double sniff that is typically reserved for dumpsters or newborn diapers or in this case his wife’s underarms. And then, just to make the situation more horrifying, for me, we had the following conversation.

Me: Oh crap, you just smelled me didn’t you?

Husband: Well yeah. But I’ve been smelling you a lot lately.

Me: (mortified and stuttering) WHAT?!?! What a terrible thing to say to your wife! What do you mean you’ve ‘been smelling me a lot lately’?!

Husband: I mean I know you’re experimenting with different deodorant options and…

Me: WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME!!! How many other people have been ‘smelling me a lot lately’? What did they say to you? WHO ELSE KNOWS ABOUT THIS?! This is the worst conversation I have ever had. Ever. It’s not my fault you know. They just don’t make a good aluminum free deodorant option. I am trying!!! Do you think I want to smell?

I continued on and on in my own defense. I was vaguely aware that my crazy was showing and my husband somehow refrained from laughing out loud at me.

But I knew how bad I smelled and I knew the Florida heat was out to destroy my quest towards smelling good and I knew I had most likely alienated dozens of potential friends because of my experimenting. And I wanted to scream. So I did. In my head anyway.

Why is there no middle ground between smelling like a flower but filling your pits with aluminum, and saving your body from all of the aluminum and chemical exposure but sweating like a pig and smelling like a trash can? 

THERE HAS GOT TO BE A BETTER WAY!

That day I stayed in the shadows at Whole Foods hoping that everyone else was too busy, figuring out how to sell their stocks to pay for quinoa and kale, to smell me. I paid without making eye contact and high tailed it to the car. I was bound and determined to figure out a way to a) not smell and b) forego chemicals and metals and c) never have a conversation about my body odor with my husband EVER again.

You guys, the last seven years of my life has been spent experimenting. Experimenting with food and beauty products and household cleaners, and homeopathy, and holistic medicine, and acupuncture and essential oils and on and on and on. Once in a while I experiment in the kitchen and make an amazing recipe. And just as often I try some new goop on my face and wind up with a breakout reminiscent of eighth grade. I have found brilliant doctors who have helped me heal and regain a life I never thought I would live again. I also visited a doctor who went barefoot in her office and was a clown in her spare time. She tried some sort of laser, energy, Star Trek treatment on me. When I asked her to explain how it worked, she laughed and said she had no idea.

I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

Now it’s time to share all that stuff with you. So wrapped up in between motherhood posts, and homeschool stories and dreams of saving sisterhood, I will continue to share with you my crunchy catastrophes as well as my biggest victories. Maybe you are on a healing journey of your own and some of what worked for me might help you. Maybe you can learn from my mistakes. Maybe you have had similar experiences and knowing you are not alone will be encouraging. Maybe you’re perfectly healthy and you can’t relate to my story at all but you want to laugh at a stranger. Whatever reason brought you here, welcome.

I’m excited to inform you that I think I may have found the answer for my armpits. I’ll share more when I’m absolutely sure, but I’ll give you something to research and think about in the meantime.

Magnesium oil.

It’s a miracle worker. Our bodies need way more magnesium than we give them. And our armpits tend to stop stinking when we use magnesium oil as deodorant. Now I have sensitive skin and straight magnesium oil is a little irritating for me so I am currently experimenting with exactly how much to use and how to dilute it so that it keeps me stink free but not in pain. Then you can benefit from my suffering. You’re welcome.

But seriously, read about it, I’ll be back soon to discuss the results of my experiments. Oh and I’ll talk about acne and how clay can heal your skin. Because that is a train you need to get on. And since you’ve stuck around this long and read more about my armpits than any one person should ever have to, I want to share the recipe for one of our favorite treats as a thank you and please come again. IMG_0080 I found the recipe for that gorgeous raspberry chia pudding right here. IMG_0081 Then I made our go to avocado chocolate pudding. Yes I said avocado. And yes it is delicious. And yes one of my kids will eat it and the other one won’t because he says it looks like poop. Oh well, more for me. IMG_0086 And him. Because he loves pudding and I love him so I’m willing to share. A little bit. How do you make this pudding you ask? I’m not a food blogger so I don’t have the fancy recipe card plug in yet or anything, but this is so easy I think we’ll be okay with out it.

Chocolate Avocado Pudding
serves 3-4 (or one if you’re a pig like me)

Ingredients 

  • 1 medium avocado
  • 1/2 c medjool dates
  • 1/2 very ripe banana
  • 2 1/2 tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
  • 1/2 tsp vanilla
  • pinch of sea salt
  • a small amount of coconut milk or water

Instructions

  1. Remove pits from dates and soak dates in warm water for 15-20 minutes.
  2. Throw all of the ingredients, except for water/coconut milk, into a blender and puree. (It is important to note that a high powered blender like a Vitamix is the best for this recipe. However, I don’t have a Vitamix, in fact I blend this up in my tiny little NutriBullet. I do have to stop several time and scrape the mixture down the walls and keep going, but I promise it’s worth it!)
  3. While you’re blending you will find that you need to add small amounts of liquid to get the pudding to the right consistency. Slowly add water or coconut milk, but be sure to not add more than you need because you want pudding, not soup. I typically end up adding a tablespoon or a little more but I do it a tiny bit at a time.
  4. Now put your pudding in the fridge for a while and serve it cold. Topped with raspberry chia pudding. Or coconut whipped cream. Or almond butter. Or use it as a pie filling. Or make fudgsicles. The opportunities are endless!

There you have it. I hope it made all of the armpit talk worth it. Let me know how your pudding turns out, better yet take a photo and tag it to #thecrunchyconfessional so I’ll be sure to see it! And now i’m off to watch Friends on Netflix until one of my children wakes up needing a snack and sixteen cups of water before they go back to sleep. Sweet dreams everyone. IMG_0090

kryptonite and two tiny dreams.

Friday we will have been married five years.
My firstborn will be four years old before the temperature outside drops below 80.
My baby can talk, and most of our extended family and some of our closest friends haven’t ever met him.
The days pass me by, I find myself waking up already excited for bedtime.
I go through the motions.
Sometimes even the motions are too hard.
Five years.
Who decided to fast forward time?

This carousel of doctors visits.
A cabinet filled with some effective,
most ineffective,
medications and supplements.
Good days,
bad weeks.
Contagious giggles,
patience,
and temper,
lost.
Hope peaking,
hope waning.

I want off.

I step outside myself and I peer back in.
Removed from my emotions I see the truth.

I am stronger.
I am healing.
Sick does not define me.
Weak is not my forever.
But…
I am stuck.

Allow the emotions back in and I am paralyzed.

Fear has always been my enemy.
Allowing fear to push me into a stagnate life, this is my kryptonite.

{stagnate}
1. to cease to run or flow.
2. to be or become stale or foul from standing, as a pool of water.
3. to stop developing, growing, progressing, or advancing.
4. to be or become sluggish and dull.

 I read these definitions, immediately cringing. In all honesty I almost deleted the beginnings of this post and started again with something prettier.

 But this is important.
Too important to delete.
Too important to forget.
So I continue.

 I think anyone walking through crisis, trauma, illness, divorce, job loss, and the list goes on, finds their own version of survival mode. I’m no psychiatrist, but I believe survival mode looks different for each person. I also believe that it is vitally important. Survival mode is what prompts people to look at the single mom dealing with four kids while working full-time, and then some, to pay the bills, and declare, “I don’t know how you do it!” Survival mode is what causes people to read blogs or Facebook pages started in support of a young child dealing with a life altering illness or injury and wonder, “How do they stay so strong? How are their parents making it through each day?” Survival mode is what keeps up standing through the deepest and darkest of life’s valleys.

 Survival mode is one of God’s great gifts to us.
We will face difficulties in this life.
That is guaranteed.
But God’s grace is sufficient and through the crisis, we continue on.
Knowing our strength is not our own.

Enter the problem with survival mode.

Here I am.
Not the strongest I have ever been.
But no longer the weakest.
Yet I live my days in survival mode.
Auto pilot.
Survival mode was never meant to last forever,
too much of what makes us thrive is lost during that time.
Yet I can’t seem to turn it off.

I am terrified to believe I am getting stronger.
Some strange place in my head tells me that as soon as I accept that beautiful dream as truth, I will get worse again.
I have wonderful days and then five minutes of weakness, or exhaustion, or anxiety, convinces me that the entire process is starting all over again. I’m immediately convinced that I’ll be bedridden by tomorrow.

The constant fear of the next catastrophe stops me in my tracks.
Paralyzes my emotions.
Forces my entire being into stagnation.

That is where all of the time goes.
That is what takes all of my energy.
Preparing to survive the next horrible thing that is definitely coming, always lurking around the next corner.
And the only way to make it through these imagined, horrifying, inevitable, disasters is to turn everything that defines me, that moves me, that is me, off.

And in this place.
I cease to flow.
I am stale.
I am foul.
I stop growing.
I am sluggish.
I am dull.

 And my heart breaks.

I find joy and beauty in moments of my day.
I write them down.
Photograph them.
Cherish them.

 I kiss my boys loudly.
I stare at them in awe.
I shower them with as much love as any human ever could.

But when I look into my heart,
deeper than the naked eye can see,
I see a broken connection.
A switch flipped to off.
An engine stuck in neutral,
revving loudly but going nowhere.

Who is this person?

When I am outside peering in, I feel sad for her.
When I am inside, I am ashamed.

How could I let this happen?

 Survival mode no longer necessary.
So I chose this?
I am here voluntarily?
This is what I want for my life?

Now I am angry.

Until recently I chose to be oblivious to the sad state of my heart.
I knew life had been hard, I knew I needed healing, I knew it would be a long road, but I blamed my circumstances and refused to take any responsibility for my stagnate heart.
And then something happened, unexpected, almost unwanted, as I tried to protect my fragile existence.

 Two tiny dreams flew into my heart, they nestled deep into my wounds so open and raw.
Two tiny dreams that made old wounds bleed but somehow my heart felt full.
A feeling so foreign but so much like home.
Two tiny dreams that whispered of the life I know I was born to live.
Two tiny dreams that caused a battle so fierce between my oldest foe, fear and new hope fighting desperately to take hold.
Two tiny whispers play on repeat in my ears, a tumultuous love song causing my mind to spin.

 In that chaotic cyclone, I see it.
I see the moment.
I see the truth.
I see my fear.
I see my excuses.
I see my choice to stop trusting the One who gave me life.
I see his heartbreak.
I see the path I took to now.

Jesus, please let me un-see it.
Silence.

Jesus, please say this is not my fault.
Silence.

Jesus, I had to protect myself.
Silence.

Jesus, it just seems too hard.
Silence.

Jesus, thank you for new dreams.
I touch the spot on my chest, once again full.

 Jesus, I’m so sorry I broke your heart.

 Knees bent, heart bleeding, tears running, hope healing, dreams living, trust growing, Jesus holding.

 Baby steps forward.
Flowing.
Fresh.
Beautiful.
Growing.
Strong.
Radiant.

 This life I was meant to live.
This life I chose not to live.
This life He gave back to me.

Only a fool would believe the battle is over.
Only a fool would believe God will not always win.

Today my joy is found in knowing, believing and trusting that Jesus will never give up. He will never let me settle for stagnate. And even when they cause fear to knock at my back door, he will always give me dreams.

I just have to choose to move.

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“When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.”

Rainy Days

When I woke up this morning it was raining.

Torrential downpour kind of rain.

I wanted to pull the covers back up over my weary head and stay in bed until the sun was shining and I miraculously felt energized and alert. However I have babies, and babies wake up and want milk and food and books read to them and toys to be played with and squabbles to be solved for them. So when I heard H’s little voice on the monitor, I’ll admit that I laid in bed and just listened to him chat with himself for a few minutes, but when his chatter turned into t rex style squeals, I pushed the covers off and opened the door to my baby boys room and was greeted with his sunshine smile and outstretched arms.

Unfortunately my day did not consist of much more sunshine. The rain continued to pour outside, Hudson quickly became a tantrum throwing, cranky monster, who is either teething or has another ear infection (fingers crossed it’s teething). Ezra woke up and the two boys together were somehow able to use up any reserve of energy that I had stored up by around 10am.

But we made it through the day.

It wasn’t pretty. I spoke more harshly at times than I needed to. I lost my patience more quickly than I’d care to admit. But for some reason my boys still love me and still wanted to hug me and kiss me and cuddle me. I genuinely believe that they know the days when my health is not as strong and I believe that God gives them extra grace and mercy for me as a mama. And extra kisses and cuddles too.

For those of you who are not familiar with our journey, let me share briefly. I had two very rough pregnancies. I was quite physically ill with both of them, losing a lot of weight and having many other strange physical symptoms due to weakness. I also began having severe panic attacks that lasted throughout Ezra’s entire pregnancy and resurfaced during Hudson’s pregnancy. After each pregnancy I began to slowly regain my health, however about three months after Hudson was born I began to get much worse. Doctors initially told me that it was just stress and anxiety, because once you have struggled with anxiety, many doctors want to blame any problems that you have in the future on that. It is an extremely frustrating situation to be in, especially when you know that what you’re experiencing is not anxiety, but finding a doctor to listen to me took quite some time.

To make an incredibly long story, sort of short, we have spent the last year visiting countless doctors. My symptoms seemed random and strange to them and blood work always came back clear. So to explain away my migraines, extreme weakness, chronic fatigue, vision changes, breathing difficulties, etc, I was told I needed to take an anti-depressant. I am a big believer in the proper medication for a condition, but these doctors were throwing anti-depressants at me because they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me.

Finally, after over a year of sickness, many days not being able to get off my couch or care for my boys by myself, I have found a wonderful combination of two doctors who have taken on my case and have recognized that there is more than meets the eye, and they were determined to figure it out. I had my adrenal gland function tested last summer and those lab results showed very low adrenal function, which could definitely account for many of my symptoms, but after pursuing adrenal treatment for over six months and not seeing improvement, I spoke to my new applied kinesiologist about why I wasn’t healing and he began to look further. He discovered that there was an infection in my body, at the time not knowing what sort of infection, we began super boosting my immune system to help my body fight this mystery infection. I immediately began to see some results, more than I had seen in over a year. As we continued treatment he began to treat me more specifically for a parasite that we believe I was infected with during my final week living in Hawaii when I went canoeing in a river (note to self: never canoe again). I began to have severe symptoms about two days after that. Since beginning this treatment I have seen steady improvement in my energy levels, my weakness, my moods, and so on. I have a long way to go to achieve total health, since my body has been weak for so long. But for the first time in a long time it appears we are on the right track and I am finally beginning to believe that healing is possible.

Chronic, long-term illness of any kind is scary and exhausting and frustrating, and so many other things all wrapped up in one super unattractive package. A lot of days, including days like today, I find myself giving in to the frustration and the heartache of not being the mom or the wife that I want to be. I yell at my kids because I’m mad at myself for not having the energy to play with them. I put Hudson down for a nap and I park Ezra in front of the tv so I can nap on the couch and hopefully wake up with enough energy to make dinner. I stare at healthy, energetic moms chasing their kids around the park with their nice clothes and their hair done, with a mix of adoration and jealousy of what they are able to do. A lot of days I am a little bit sad and a lot embarrassed by my weaknesses, and although I know in my head it’s not my fault, sometimes my heart still betrays me.

In life, it is always far too easy to focus on the bad, the heart break, the struggle. We are all guilty of letting the bad take over from time to time. And when you are faced with any sort of long-term challenge, survival mode kicks in and all you are concerned with is making it through the day, existing to see tomorrow.

Dreams stop coming.

Laughter is strained.

Hope is gone.

And if that were the end of the story this would be one of the most depressing blog posts ever written. Thank goodness that is not the end.

This struggle has stolen so much from me. So many of the things I prided myself on are now only distant memories. And even the things I still do are only a shadow of what I wish they could be. But in this process I have become someone who I never would have been without this struggle.

I didn’t wish for this struggle. But when I look closely at my heart, I really like the person this season has left behind. Because behind all of the hard moments, beneath the frustration and the embarrassment, is a raw, broken heart that is slowly being pieced back together by her Jesus whispering to her who she truly is.

Who I truly am.

I am stronger, more compassionate, more loving, more grateful for the gift of life than I was before this difficult road began. And my sincere prayer is that this journey and the things I have learned will continue to mold me and who I am every day for the rest of my life.

I believe I am on the road to healing. And I don’t just mean physically. After such a difficult season my heart and mind need healing as well. One of the main ways I am trying to heal my heart is by purposely finding the beautiful moments, the joy filled seconds in my day, and recording them so that even in the midst of a difficult season I will have hundreds and hundreds of beautiful memories to look back on. It is rare that you would find me without my camera because snapping those tiny moments of wonderful and creating a scrapbook of happy for myself and my family has forced me to recognize how much beauty is overflowing from our life, even when it seems like there is only pain and struggle. My previous post talks about my New Years resolution to find joy in life and since then that simple resolution has become an entire community of people on instagram (@thepursuitofjoyproject) all dedicated to finding the beauty in life, the wonderful in ordinary moments, and sharing those moments and inspirational stories with each other. It has been so healing for me to see what brings happiness to other people, to hear others stories of heartbreak and see how they have found beauty in the midst of their heartache.

Life is not at all what I imagined it would be like right now. But I do know one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt, God knew that this was the path life would bring myself and my family down, and he didn’t abandon us here to fend for ourselves. He brought us here because his purpose is greater than ours and my deepest hope is that our struggle can encourage and inspire others. Other mamas who aren’t able to do as much as they think they ‘should’, other families going through illness and feeling like it will never end, people who just need to know that no matter where they are in life, that God has not forgotten them and that there will be beauty from pain. If our story brings even one person closer to Jesus, then I consider every tear worth it.

It’s late. Ezra is in bed next to me, waking up every few minutes with a coughing fit. I’m exhausted in every way, but when I remind myself to take the time to find the beauty in this moment, my stress fades and all I notice is my baby boy’s tiny fingers reaching out for mine, and the way his little body tucks up against mine perfectly and the rhythmic song of his snore. I notice these things and I tuck them away to cherish forever, and i’ll take them out and cry happy tears as I remember them long after he’s holding another girl’s hand.

These tiny fleeting moments, that so many of us miss because we don’t take the time to notice them, are so very precious. Take time today, no matter how difficult things might seem, to look for the beauty and tuck it away to hold on to forever.

I promise you will not regret it.