The Secret Place

Somewhere in the mess… you disappeared.

Between the responsibilities, the heartbreak, the expectations, and the silent battles no one sees—you got lost. Not all at once. But slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece.

And now you look in the mirror and barely recognize her.

Here is the truth no one wants to say out loud:
You will not find yourself in the noise.
You will not heal by staying busy.
You will not rise by pretending you’re fine.

You find yourself in the longing.

That ache deep inside that whispers, There has to be more than this.

We were never called to survive at surface level. Survival keeps you functioning—but it does not make you whole. It keeps you moving—but it does not make you free.

Freedom lives in the secret place.

Not a physical place. A sacred one. The place where only you and the Father have walked. The place you avoid because it feels too deep, too raw, too exposed.

But that is where she is.

The happy, carefree, full-of-life, Jesus-got-this kind of girl. She isn’t gone. She’s buried under fear, disappointment, and exhaustion.

Scripture says,

“He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.” — Psalm 91:1

Dwelling requires staying.
Staying requires courage.

It takes courage to sit still long enough to feel what you’ve been outrunning.
Courage to face the darkest parts of your own heart.
Courage to stop surviving and start seeking.

But healing does not happen on the surface.

It happens in the depths—the place where the tears fall freely and the masks come off. The place where you finally whisper the prayers you’ve been afraid to pray.

And there, in that quiet, the Father meets you.

Not with shame.
Not with disappointment.
But with presence.

Until you choose to rise and visit the hidden places of your soul, you will never rise from the ashes of the life you are living.

It is okay to feel.
It is okay to stop.
It is okay to take time for you.
To be quiet.
To be still.
To search.
To seek.
To pray.

Push yourself toward what makes you healthy. Safe. Stable. Whole.

Turn down the noise.
Shut the door.
Go to the secret place.

And stay.

Because when you do, the pieces begin to settle. The lies lose their grip. The chaos grows quiet.

And one day you will look in the mirror again—

And recognize her.

Not the woman who barely survived.
But the one who went into the depths…
and came back alive.

Her Silence

Silence isn’t harsh.

It isn’t cold.
It isn’t punishment.
It isn’t manipulation.

It is exhaustion.
It is grief.
It is quiet defeat after fighting battles no one else saw.

When her voice has been dismissed long enough…
When her emotions have been minimized…
When her needs have gone unmet…

Silence does not arrive loudly.

It creeps in.

Slowly.

She does not wake up one morning deciding to withdraw. She arrives there after trying. After explaining. After crying. After praying. After hoping.

And when nothing shifts… something inside of her does.

Silence becomes protection.

Not because she wants distance — but because she can no longer survive exposure.

Survivor mode is never a place she longs to be.

No woman dreams of becoming guarded. No wife desires to grow quiet. No heart hopes to become cautious with the very person it once felt safest with.

And yet, survivor mode often finds her.

It finds her when she realizes she must fight not just for the marriage — but for herself.

There is a particular kind of desperation in silence. It is the moment she realizes that if she does not guard her heart, she may lose herself entirely in the longing for what used to be.

But here is the sacred turning point:

If she finds the strength and courage not to disappear inside the silence… she will discover something unexpected there.

She will find herself.

Not the version shaped by disappointment.
Not the version shrinking to be understood.
Not the version constantly over-explaining her pain.

But a woman rebuilding.

A woman expecting.

Expecting growth in the quiet.
Expecting clarity in the stillness.
Expecting healing in the hidden places.
Expecting peace that does not depend on another person’s consistency.

There is hope in her silence.

Because silence is not the end — it is the reset.

Psalm 46:10 says,
“Be still, and know that I am God.”

Be still.

Not because the pain isn’t real.
Not because the marriage doesn’t matter.
Not because the hurt disappears.

But because in the stillness, God begins to restore what chaos tried to steal.

In the silence, He reminds her:

She is not invisible.
She is not irrational.
She is not too much.
She is not alone.

He meets her there — not in the shouting, not in the proving, not in the defending — but in the quiet surrender.

And slowly, what once felt like defeat becomes rebuilding.

She finds peace in the silence.
Growth in the silence.
Joy in the silence.
Hope in the silence.
Laughter in the silence.
A new breath of life in the silence.

The silence that once felt like loss becomes the place she rediscovers her strength.

And when she rises again, she will not rise hardened.

She will rise healed.

And that kind of woman?
She no longer fights to be heard.

She walks in peace — knowing the One who sees her never stopped listening.

Beyond the Cupboard Doors

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28 (NIV)

Loneliness brings with it a longing—for conversation, for connection, for someone who will simply listen. Often, we can be surrounded by people and yet feel completely isolated in the room. It’s in those moments that our thoughts tend to take over. A million things swirl through our minds—things we long to say out loud, hoping someone might care enough to hear them.

And so, we begin to ramble to ourselves.

Washing dishes. Sweeping the floor. Folding socks.
The simplest tasks of life become the closest thing to conversation we have. I found myself there—stuffing blankets into the cupboard, talking out loud, letting random thoughts spill into the air, fully aware that no one was listening. My mind jumped from one thought to the next until I suddenly stood still, suspended in a moment that felt detached from reality.

And then, I imagined walking into the fairytale land of Narnia.

Disappearing into the cupboard that stood before me—its presence faint, almost inviting. We often find ourselves dreaming of a place beyond reality, a place that offers escape from everything we carry inside. A world of redemption waiting just beyond the applewood doors. A life untouched by pain, fear, or disappointment.

If only it were that easy.

The weight of real life presses so heavily on our souls that we begin to create a delusion—believing there must be something better, something lighter, somewhere else. Yet, as we journey through this uncharted land of fantasy, we quickly discover that even it is plagued by an eternal winter. Betrayal comes from those closest to us. Innocence is stripped away by deeper magic. And the escape we longed for becomes nothing more than a reflection of our own broken reality.

And then—we see Aslan.

The creator. The redeemer.
The one who transforms this place of escape into a mirror of truth. Suddenly, it becomes clear: the sinner is desperate—for forgiveness, for redemption, for salvation. Desperate for a Savior willing to lay Himself down, taking on every sin of humanity.

I close the applewood doors.
I snap back to reality.

And in that moment, I realize my burdens were never meant to be carried into another world—they were meant to be laid at the altar. His grace is sufficient for me. Always. Every single day of my life.

Lord,
You see the quiet moments—the cupboards, the silence, the words spoken into empty rooms. You see the longing, the exhaustion, the places we wish we could escape from and the places we wish would save us. Help us to remember that true redemption is not found beyond imaginary doors, but at Your feet. Teach us to lay down what is heavy, to stop carrying what was never ours to hold, and to trust that Your grace is enough—right here, in this life, on this day. Amen.

The Mug

I sat back in my chair, staring at my favorite coffee mug for what felt like an eternity. It was a moment of complete disassociation—lost in silence, resting in a place of nothingness—as the words Stay ROOTED stared back at me.

So many days I’ve looked at that mug and read those words. Some mornings it brought encouragement; other mornings, it brought tears. Yet never had those words pierced me the way they did in that moment of solitude.

It was a moment of revelation. A moment of awe. One that made me feel the weight of my testimony.

A testimony that declares my circumstances have not swayed my faith, my hope, or my love—because they are firmly anchored in Jesus Christ.

As PTSD wives, we tend to question our lives, our thoughts, our faith… and sometimes even our character. When the battles begin to rage, or when we find ourselves lost in a lonely place, everything can feel shaken. Our spiritual stability, trust, faith, and hope—things we often look to our spouse to provide—are the very things we were meant to seek from the Father all along.

That coffee mug is a constant reminder to shift my focus—from my circumstances to God’s unfailing mercies. Staying rooted has drawn me closer to the One who never changes. It reminds me that even when everything around me feels uncertain, He remains steady.

Scripture puts it beautifully:

“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,
whose confidence is in him.
They will be like a tree planted by the water
that sends out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes;
its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought
and never fails to bear fruit.”
— Jeremiah 17:7–8 (NIV)

Staying rooted doesn’t mean the storms stop coming. It means we are anchored deep enough to withstand them. Like a tree planted by the water, drawing life from a source far greater than the heat, the drought, or the chaos around it.

And sometimes, God uses something as simple as a coffee mug to remind us exactly where our roots belong.

Father,
Help us stay rooted in You when life feels uncertain and heavy.
When the storms come and our hearts feel weary, remind us where our strength comes from.
Teach us to draw from Your living water instead of our circumstances.
Anchor our faith deep in You—steady, unshaken, and secure.
And in the quiet moments, when we feel alone or overwhelmed, gently remind us that You are near, faithful, and unchanging.
Amen.

“A quiet moment, a favorite mug, and a powerful reminder: stay rooted in Him. 🌿 Even in the storms, His mercies never fail. #StayRooted #FaithOverFear #AnchoredInChrist”

Fight Like David

“But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing the Lord’s praise,
for he has been good to me.” – Psalm 3:5–6 (NIV)

As I sit here enjoying a hot cup of coffee on what might be the largest snowstorm of my lifetime, I find myself thinking about King David. In all of his greatness, he still reached places of abandonment, fear, and deep vulnerability in the eyes of his enemies.

Oh, how I relate to this—knowing the Almighty God walks with me through life, yet often feeling as David did: alone, doubtful, abandoned, and vulnerable to the enemy.

I keep returning to the words David poured out to his God:

“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?” – Psalm 13:1-2 (NIV)

I feel David’s cry deep within my soul—that longing to know how long the suffering will last, how long the wrestling within the mind must continue. Sorrow slowly drains joy and opens the door just enough for the enemy to creep in. In those moments, I feel David’s vulnerability at the deepest levels of my being.

Although David was facing a literal army, I am fighting a spiritual warfare far fiercer than we can imagine. Spiritual battles knock at our doors every single day. And it is often in moments of weakness or complete abandonment that I’m reminded David still drew his strength from the Lord. His hope came from the Lord.

It is easy to offer hope and God’s grace to others through my own experiences, yet often nearly impossible to accept that same hope for myself. When my hope runs thin, I write from the trenches—allowing God to use my words to shine light into the lives of others.

But what about me?

I am humbled to realize that it is okay to feel.
To question.
To doubt.
To make mistakes.

It is okay to say:
“I am carrying too much alone.”
“I don’t want to be the strong one today.”
“I don’t want to fight another battle quietly.”
“I don’t want to be the one who always understands.”

I am allowed to feel.
Allowed to be weak.
Allowed to cry out to God, just as David did, in my despair.

And you have permission to do the same.

God longs for us to want Him, need Him, cry out to Him. He doesn’t expect perfection—He expects trust, faith, and vulnerability.

Be a David. Let your true feelings be heard. Speak them out loud to the Father and trust His perfect plan and timing.

Leanna Crawford’s song “Honest” feels especially fitting when entering a posture of worship in the pit of despair—when fear surrounds us and darkness feels heavy. It captures the raw tension of witnessing God’s power, faithfulness, and miracles in others’ lives while still holding onto the promise of our own victory.

Don’t give up.
Be a David.
Remain steadfast, persistent, faithful, honest—
and wake up every day expecting.

Father,
You see the battles we fight out loud and the ones we carry quietly.
You know the weariness, the doubt, the questions we’re afraid to say.
Meet us here—in our honesty, in our weakness, in our longing.
Give us the courage to cry out like David,
and the faith to trust You even when answers feel far away.
Teach us to rest in Your unfailing love
and to believe You are still good, even here.
Amen.

When the Battle Is Over but the War Lingers

“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” — Exodus 14:14

Is the most difficult part to bear in the midst of the battle, or the silent mental prison that lingers behind? Undoubtedly, it is the aftermath—the chaos, the battle, the struggle, in whatever form it arises. It’s the adrenaline in the moment, the anxiety, the blood boiling, the heavy silence that overtakes every ounce of your being as you whisper, this is not my battle… this is not my battle.

Let’s be honest—it is incredibly difficult to exercise full surrender in the hellish heat of the battle. Every part of our body is screaming to enter fight mode. We want to defend ourselves, lash out, say the harsh words we don’t mean… or maybe the ones we do. Raise our voices louder than we should, sometimes even scream in the face of the one we love most, just to cover the pain.

But it is the self-control and complete confidence we find in our glorious Maker that tames the flesh-driven spirit inside of us. Getting through these battles by allowing God to fight them—that is what makes a true overcomer. There is a quiet sense of victory that follows, a moment where we rest in His peace and hear Him whisper, well done, my child.

The Holy Spirit living within us is what keeps the fight under submission. He restrains what our flesh longs to release. Flight mode, on the other hand, can sometimes get the best of us in the moment. While retreat may feel safer and often produces less immediate damage than fight, it can still carry lasting consequences once the heat dies down. Running doesn’t heal the wound—it only delays the reckoning. Only surrender allows God to fully step in and restore what the battle tried to destroy.

Then… the aftermath comes.
If you’ve been there, you know.

The overwhelming feeling of failure. The self-doubt. The belief that everything that transpired is somehow your fault. It feels like a million demons chasing you as you push through heavy brush, desperately trying to make it to the feet of the Father. The thoughts. The emotions. Or maybe the absence of emotion—which can be an even darker place to sit.

This season feels endless, like a million days rolled into one. We bathe in it, suffer in it, and somehow—only by the grace of God—we function in it. Every single day in this lonely place, we put on a smile and face the world with strength that comes only from our Maker.

Through my belief in the power of Jesus, I have seen time and time again that this place is only a season. Resting in the truth that He will work even this for our good is what carries us through. That belief clears the path through the heavy brush, makes the demons flee, and opens the way to the feet of the Almighty.

That is where we should always strive to be—at the feet of Jesus.

Keeping faith and holding tightly to God’s promises is what brings us through the battles. It carries us through the moments when we feel like our worst selves, reminding us that through Him, we can become the best version of ourselves—regardless of the circumstances. When we listen to that quiet whisper, this is not my battle, we invite God onto the scene to fight for us, and we allow ourselves to rest in His arms through the silent mental war that always follows the storm.

Prayer

Father God,
In the heat of the battle and in the silence that follows, remind us that this is not ours to carry alone. When every part of our body is screaming to fight or run, help us to be still and trust You to move. Quiet our minds, guard our words, and tame the storm inside us with Your Spirit. When the aftermath feels heavy, and the mental weight tries to pull us under, lead us back to Your feet. Fill our lungs with breath, our hearts with peace, and our souls with the assurance that You are fighting for us. Teach us to surrender—not out of weakness, but out of trust. We lay it all down and rest in You.
Amen.

Depths of the Sea

If I make my bed in the depths, You are there.”
— Psalm 139:8 (NIV)

That feeling. That thought. That deep emotion that instantly takes you to your secret place.

The place you go to escape — to not exist, to not feel. The place you only visit in desperate moments, when reality feels heavy, hopeless, breathless. A place that somehow feels both lifeless and powerful as you control each breath, taking in the oxygen your body so desperately craves.

It’s like sitting at the bottom of a vast body of water, drowning out everything in existence except the steady rhythm of your own breathing. Time freezes. The noise you’re escaping slowly fades into the distance while you soak in the silence, the darkness, the serenity of nothingness.

As the oxygen begins to dissipate, everything in you longs to stay there — alone, silent, suspended, lifeless.

Then, in a single moment, comes the gasp. Fresh air floods your lungs. Life rushes back in. Reality hits like a brick.

And it’s in that moment you realize something powerful: you were still in control of your chaos.

That brief glimpse of nothingness — the stillness you longed for — was given for only a moment. And as your lungs refill, you’re reminded of the gift of life… the miracle of breath.

It is in moments like this that I truly appreciate life. The awareness that tomorrow is never promised. The understanding that my time here on earth rests fully in the hands of my Master.

These moments bring clarity — a deep appreciation for breath, for choice, for life itself. Even in the darkest places, God’s mercy and grace never fail. They sustain me. They call me to choose Him. To choose life in the chaos.

And even when it feels like there is no way forward — only the deep darkness of a silent sea — He walks with me through every weary step of my journey. Even in the deepest, darkest waters.

One of my go-to encouragement songs says:

“And I’ll testify of the battles You’ve won,
How You were my portion when there wasn’t enough.
And I’ll testify of the seas that we’ve crossed,
The waters You parted, the waves that I’ve walked.”

In my deepest moments of desperation — at the bottom of what feels like an endless sea — God parts the waters. He gives breath to my lungs and strength to walk the waves once again.

It is only through complete surrender that I release control and hand my battles over to Him.

You will face battles. You will suffer moments of desperation. You may even feel as though your time on this earth should end.

Let this be your reminder: breathe. Just breathe.

There is a God who sees you, hears you, and fights for you. A God who parts waters, restores breath, and gives strength to rise again. Even when you feel buried in the depths of the sea, He fills your lungs and leads you back to the surface.

Put your faith in Him.
Allow Him to be your breath.