Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Judean Raspberry

    Before I start, I’d like to give a quick shout-out to my handsome husband, who purchased the Spiral Bible for me for Christmas. I’m a note-taking girly, and I put this particular version on my wish list, in hopes that I would engage with the Word like it is something to study.

    And his gift to me has done just that. Consider my expectations exceeded.

    I used to read the Bible like it was a chore. A box to check off of my task list.

    And since I thought of it as a chore, I treated it as such. Barely paying attention, assigning literal meaning to its contents, even skimming over names I couldn’t pronounce or things I didn’t understand.

    I’m happy to say that’s not the case anymore. For those of you seeking answers to your prayers/questions/complaints, I urge you to start reading. God doesn’t want us to be spoiled. I believe, sometimes, He wants us to work for the answers we seek.

    So I finished the book of Jeremiah last week, and it spoke into the deepest parts of my heart.

    For those who haven’t read it yet, I’ll summarize.

    A quick history lesson – in Genesis, God gives Jacob (Isaac’s son and Abraham’s grandson) a new name – Israel. Israel = one person. And Jacob/Israel had 12 sons. Those sons became the heads of the 12 tribes of Israel. Still one nation…Israel.

    But after the reign of Solomon, the nation of Israel split into two different kingdoms.

    So…in the North, you’ve got Israel, which included those 10 out of 12 tribes. Capital? Samaria. Israel was conquered by Assyria (before Jeremiah’s ministry).

    And in the South, you’ve got the other two tribes, Judah and Benjamin, which are known under one name, Judah. Capital? Jerusalem. It’s where the temple was located.

    So the Book of Jeremiah was written by the prophet Jeremiah (was that condescending?), who was native to Anathoth in the territory of Benjamin (which became part of the southern kingdom of Judah).

    All caught up? Okay.

    So Jeremiah’s message to Judah is basically this: God has warned you again and again and again, and yet you still worship idols, have prideful hearts, and are unjust and stubborn. You hide behind the fact that you’re God’s people, and you think you’re untouchable. But God will not warn you anymore. Instead, you will face the consequences of your actions.

    Judah knew better. God had already rescued these people over and over, and if that wasn’t enough, He provided to them truth, instructions, and like I said, * so many * warnings. Through Jeremiah, God spoke clearly. “This is not the way. Turn back. This will cost you.”

    And still…they didn’t listen. In fact, in Jeremiah 18, Judah essentially says, “We will follow our own plans.” Judah didn’t collapse overnight, but it drifted, gradually and consistently, until things that once felt wrong – like worshipping other gods, exploiting the vulnerable, and being dishonest and corrupt in business practices – started to feel normal. Judah kept turning toward things that could not actually sustain it as a nation. Its people replaced what was good with what was satisfying in the moment.

    Since Judah refused correction, even after being warned by God through Jeremiah, God allows a war, and Judah was overtaken by Babylon, and then exiled.

    But even as things unraveled, God was still speaking. He didn’t disappear. He called them back, over and over. “Return to me. Turn now, every one of you, from your evil ways…” The invitation was longstanding, even in the middle of consequence. And the irony is that, yes, God allowed Babylon to capture Judah, but God also vowed to punish Babylon and its king for hurting Judah. After all, Judah belonged to God.

    So I closed that Book thinking, “Am I…am I JUDAH?!?”

    I have made so many decisions out of panic or heartache or anger or pride or just sheer brokenness. Even though I knew better. And even though His instructions were very clear. I wasn’t confused. I was resistant. And I put hope and effort into things and people that could not sustain me forever. Heads up – “quick fixes” are rarely the right answer.

    Over time, like Judah, as I continued to resist God’s instruction, those irrational, overreactive, emotional decisions became patterns. Destructive ones. I began looking for fulfillment in places that were never meant to provide it. Yes, I was trying to meet needs, but I was doing it in unhealthy ways. And God didn’t ordain any of that.

    And as my feelings turned into decisions, and decisions into patterns, the Lord began stripping me of things (and people) I valued. Picture a father trying to get a toddler’s attention by snapping his fingers.

    Enter the consequences of loneliness, shame, heartbreak. And what’s funny is that I’ve caught myself praying that the Lord remove those things from my life, even though I’m the one that created those feelings, and even though, in hindsight, I recognize that God may be allowing those things now because (1) they keep me closer to and dependent upon Him; and (2) there’s a lesson that lies in consequence.

    But what I am learning is that consequences are not rejection. He’s still with me. Being confronted with truth does not mean I am abandoned. And in the same way He extended an invitation to Judah to change, I am invited to turn, to rebuild, and to stop repeating what I now understand.

    My former 38 years looked a little like Judah. Not because I am beyond hope, but because I know what it is to hear truth and resist it, to drift slowly, to choose what feels good instead of what is right, and then face the reality of those choices.

    But if the Book of Jeremiah showed me anything, it’s this: God does not stop calling His people back. Even when they’ve ignored Him. Even in the middle of consequences. Even when distance feels real.

    And maybe the fact that I can see it now is evidence that I will come, full circle, from the bitterness of consequence, to endurance, and finally to redemption.

  • Raspberry Productivity

    I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t get a lot of sleep Sunday night.

    On Sunday morning, I woke up and my family and I went to church. Then we went to lunch, where something occurred that kind of creamed my corn. Then a movie.

    Then we came home and I did what I like to call a “Sunday reset,” which is just a routine house clean, complete with giving the dog a bath and folding laundry. Yesterday was somewhat different and more tedious because I changed the bedding and curtains in the bedroom, which is something I’d put off for weeks.

    And while I was working, I was also stewing over the situation that arose at lunch. So by the time my duties were complete and my body was exhausted, my mind wouldn’t shut off.

    And I was up most of the night. Anxious. Worried. Problem-solving in my own head.

    There are days when my emotions don’t just sit quietly in the background. They take over, like they did on Sunday. My thoughts get loud. My energy drops. Everything feels so heavy. And on days like that even simple tasks feel impossible.

    We think that productivity requires a clear mind, but it doesn’t. I have had to learn how to move forward with the weight.

    That’s just real life.

    Responsibilities don’t pause just because I’m overwhelmed.

    So I’ve had to learn how to function even when I don’t feel like myself. And the process of getting there is very intentional.

    1. I lower the standard without quitting. On hard days, I don’t aim for excellence. I aim for completion. Sometimes, 60% is my 100%. Sometimes showing up at all is enough. Lowering the standard keeps me moving without shutting down completely.
    2. I focus on one thing at a time. When my head is loud, everything feels like too much. So I simplify. One task. One step. One decision. I zoom way in – from the whole day to just the next thing.
    3. I create structure when I feel unsteady. Emotions make everything seem chaotic. So I rely on structure. A routine. A checklist. A schedule. Even if I don’t feel grounded internally, I can follow something external.
    4. I move my body. Sitting still for too long makes things worse for me. I’ve learned that I can think while I am working or I can think while I am rotting. So I vacuum. Or I scrub the counters in the kitchen. Or I give the dog a bath. It doesn’t fix everything. But it helps shift some of the intensity.
    5. I don’t trust every thought. On emotional days, my thoughts are not always reliable. They are loud and extreme and convincing. So I remind myself that just because I’m thinking it doesn’t mean it’s true. And sometimes that helps me recenter and creates a little space.
    6. I give myself contained time to feel. Ignoring my emotions doesn’t work for me. But letting them take over my day doesn’t help either. So I allow space for them with boundaries. A few minutes to sit, feel, process. And then I return to what I need to do.
    7. I choose something that feels manageable. If a task feels overwhelming, I make it smaller. Instead of “cleaning the bathroom,” I might just organize my nail collection. Or instead of folding 6 loads of laundry, I might just prep my husband’s scrubs for the week. Momentum matters more than difficulty.
    8. I remind myself that all of this is temporary. For me, hard emotions feel permanent in the moment. And I’ve been in a cycle for the last 9 months of caring too much, surrendering, internalizing, and then not caring at all. Sometimes I even overthink about my overthinking. But that’s what emotions do. They rise. They peak. They pass. Even if slowly. I don’t have to solve everything all at once. I just have to get through one day at a time.

    Productivity does not mean I am unaffected. It doesn’t mean I’m okay. It means I’m continuing anyway. It is a choice. Even when it’s harder than usual. Even when I don’t feel like it. Even when my emotions are louder than my motivation. And some of the most meaningful progress I’ve made hasn’t happened on my “best” days. It’s happened on days when I didn’t think I was capable…but showed up anyway.

    Sometimes strength isn’t just how much we can handle. It’s more about what we do when we feel weak.

  • Raspberry Biography

    Born on a full moon, Raspberry made her grand appearance already exhausted and mildly inconvenienced. Witnesses say she emerged already carrying responsibilities, unresolved infant insight, and a to-do list.

    By age seven, she had mastered the ancient arts of overthinking, reading a room instantly, and apologizing for things that were not her fault.

    As she matured, she became a rare and powerful contradiction: deeply loving, dangerously competent, emotionally perceptive, and one minor setback away from totally forgetting who she was.

    And that’s exactly what happened.

    Today, she is known by few. But she can:

    • manage a household crisis while dissociating politely;
    • cook dinner while solving three other people’s problems;
    • detect passive aggression from six streets away;
    • survive heartbreak, betrayal, bureaucracy, and group texts;
    • romanticize a fresh notebook like it holds the key to finding herself again.

    Experts remain baffled by her ability to function on stress, sarcasm, and sheer divine intervention.

    Though pursued relentlessly by nonsense, Raspberry continues her journey armed only with a Bible, intuition, dry humor, and a suspiciously strong sense that there has to be more to life than carrying everyone else’s emotional baggage.

    She has been described as “too much” by people offering too little. Strong by those who benefit from it. Intimidating by the underqualified. “Fine” when she is absolutely not fine. And “the one who always figures it out” – against her will.

    Her hobbies include healing dramatically, starting over internally without announcing it, imagining alternate lives in aesthetically pleasing cities, buying pens, wanting peace but attracting plot twists, and saying “it’s okay” when it is, in fact, not okay.

    Scholars predict that in her next era, Raspberry will become harder to manipulate, easier to love, and significantly less available for absurdity.

    When asked what drives her, she reportedly stared into the middle distance and said:

    “Honestly? Jesus. A little spite. And curiosity.”

    A legend.
    A warning.
    A woman with tabs open.

  • Thirsty Raspberry

    There are certain people in Scripture I admire.

    Leah. Hannah. Stephen. Jeremiah. Joseph.

    And there are others I recognize.

    Not because our lives are seamlessly identical. But because something in those kinds of stories feel painfully familiar. I can relate to the woman at the well in more ways than one.

    When Jesus meets her in John 4, we learn she has 5 husbands and her current “boo thang” is not her husband.

    People read that detail through a moral lens, more often than not.

    I see something different. I see a woman who kept reaching. Who was continually placed in situations that didn’t satisfy. Who may have been looking for security, belonging, love, identity – and never finding it.

    I’ve been there.

    Some people don’t make repeated relational mistakes because they love chaos. Sometimes the chaos – while there – is an afterthought. Sometimes people are trying – again and again – to feel chosen. Wanted. Kept. Valued. Enough.

    And when that need is deep enough, they can accept crumbs and call it a meal. They can mistake attention for love. And they can repeat painful patterns while hoping for eventual satisfaction.

    And I understand that more than I wish I did.

    Additionally, notice that she came to the well at noon – the hottest part of the day. When she was sure no one else would be there.

    She was avoiding. The whispers. The looks. The judgment.

    I know a thing or two about how shame makes us withdraw. About carrying labels. About feeling like people know your failures before they know your name.

    So Jesus started with thirst.

    He could’ve started with condemnation. But He didn’t.

    “Whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst.” (John 4:14)

    He addressed the deeper need underneath the visible mess. Not just the relationships. Not just the emptiness. Not just the choices.

    But the longing.

    Sometimes what looks like sin on the outside is sorry underneath.

    And Jesus told the truth without humiliating her. He named her reality clearly. “You have had five husbands…”

    No denial. No pretending. No minimizing.

    But also no public shaming.

    Truth and mercy. In the same conversation.

    The kind of honesty that heals.

    The town may have known her story one way, but Jesus saw it another. Not as a scandal. As a soul. Not as a label. As someone worth revealing Himself to.

    That matters to anyone who has ever been reduced to his/her worst chapter.

    So the woman who came to the well, in shame, went back in boldness. She told people, “Come see a man who told me everything I ever did.” (John 4:29)

    Not everything she ever was. Everything she ever did.

    There is a difference. And that difference changes lives.

    I know what it is to thirst in the wrong places. To repeat patterns. To want to be chosen. To carry shame.

    But I also relate to her because I know Jesus still meets people there. At the well. In the mess. In the middle of consequences. And He still offers something better than what we’ve been chasing.

    The woman at the well was not disqualified by her history. She was met in it.

    And maybe that’s the hope that still exists for people like me.

    Not that the past didn’t happen. But that it is not where the story has to end.

  • Raspberry Undone

    I used to think that growth required additions.

    More peace.
    More discipline.
    More blessings.
    More clarity.
    More friends.
    More love.
    More kindness.

    And sometimes it does.

    But lately, God has been undoing some things.

    Undoing. Not punishment. Not abandonment. But subtraction. Slowly unraveling things in me that were never meant to stay.

    1. The need to be chosen. We’ve talked about this one many times. I confused being selected with being valuable. But as I study His Word and as I pray and seek guidance from the Holy Spirit, the Lord is revealing to me that my worth is not assigned by human approval. In fact, He thought I was so worthy, and so special, and so valuable, that He paid for me with His Son’s life. And it’s as complicated, but uncomplicated, as that.
    2. My dependence on chaos. Intensity used to make me feel alive. I confused drama with meaning, urgency with passion, and uncertainty with excitement. And peace was so unfamiliar. But God is teaching me that steadiness is a gift. And He has directed me to stop mistaking chaos for life.
    3. The need to control everything. The human in me likes outcomes I can predict. Clarity. Plans. Order. But control is not achievable, and it becomes a false source of safety. I believe He is allowing this seasons, where I cannot control anything, to teach me how to trust Him.
    4. Lies with which I once agreed. I believed some things, for so long, that they felt like truth. That I was only lovable if I performed. That I was only valuable if I was wanted. That my mistakes are my identity. But He’s been challenging those mindsets – ones where I replaced truth with accusation.
    5. My habit of escape. I have always been a runner. More distractions. More noise. More people. Anything that numbed what I didn’t want to face. Now, though, God has invited me to stay, so that I heal instead of hide.
    6. My pride. To be fair, I am not proud in a loud way. It’s subtle. It’s in the way I need to be right, in the way I need to be seen correctly, and in the need to defend myself constantly. I once couldn’t stomach the thought of someone questioning my motives or misunderstanding something I’d done. But in a way, taking that step back is a practice of humility.
    7. My timeline. I wanted quick fixes, quick healing, quick answers, quick restoration. Even a couple of months ago, I gave God an ultimatum. Deliver me or take me from this world. But in my situation, because I have asked Him to change my heart, His hand in my life has moved more slowly. And more intentionally. He might know that He can’t band-aid my issues if my prayer is to be answered in full.

    Undoing…subtraction…it doesn’t feel good. It feels like loss, more often than not. I’ve been confused and in a state of grief for almost a year. But maybe that means that something unhealthy is loosening its grip.

    He’s not only building me – He’s freeing me. And sometimes before adding something new, He removes what would sabotage it. Sometimes before He heals outwardly, He dismantles interiorly.

    It’s not always visible to others, but I feel it.

    I feel it when I talk to Him about why I’m angry instead of blowing up at the person who made me angry.
    I feel it when I am crying myself to sleep and there’s no one to listen except Him.
    I feel it when I open my Bible every night and His words jump off of the page, as if they were meant for me…for my story.
    I feel it when I ask Him to bless my enemies and those who hate my guts.
    I feel it when I make a choice not to speak up for myself.

    Old cravings are slowly but surely losing power. Old lies don’t scream anymore – they whisper. And old patterns aren’t instinctive anymore.

    Undoing is messy. I am torn up on the inside.

    But I see now that it is also mercy…

    …because some of the things that are leaving me needed to go a long time ago.

  • Raspberry Avoidance

    I used to stay busy. Not always “productive,” but occupied. Distracted. Entertained. Emotionally entangled.

    Anything that kept me from being alone with my thoughts. And because so much of my distractions had a purpose – work, travel, etc. – I didn’t have to face that the fact that it was avoidance. I just called it “life.”

    It isn’t always obvious. Sometimes avoiding yourself doesn’t look like running away. For me, it looked like needing noise. Needing company. Fixating on something dramatic. Doing a project. Doom scrolling. Even positive things, like tending to others’ needs. Anything that would not expose what was underneath.

    And I think I did it because being alone felt uncomfortable. I didn’t want to sit in loneliness or regret or insecurity or emptiness. I didn’t want to ask questions for which there were no answers. So instead of sitting, I moved around them. Repeatedly.

    But only as I’ve looked back have I realized how expensive it was to avoid myself. It cost me clarity, because not slowing down to examine my life caused me to repeat patterns I didn’t understand. It cost me peace, because distraction can numb discomfort, it can’t create stability. It cost me relationships, because unresolved pain leaks into how we love and how we attach. And it cost me time, because years and years passed while I was busy outrunning something that lived inside me.

    And alongside all of that is the realization that the biggest disadvantages lie in the fact that I do not know myself. Almost four decades of constant movement, and I have no idea who I am.

    I know my preferences. My roles. My routines.

    But not my motives. I didn’t know what drove me, what wounded me, what I feared, what I was trying to prove, or what I was using people to soothe.

    And that kind of ignorance is dangerous.

    So eventually, I do what most almost-40 year old people do. I got tired. Tired of pointlessly trying to fill a void. Tired of running, juggling, crying.

    It was almost an “aha” moment. Distractions lost their power. The patterns became too obvious to ignore. And the consequences became real. And I was left to face the very person I kept postponing – myself.

    That’s a brutal meeting. But it was also a holy one.

    A few weeks ago, after explaining to my therapist how I felt about something, she asked me a very pointed question: “What if you just sat in that feeling for a little while?”

    No dismissal. No reaction. And no running.

    Observation only.

    I couldn’t answer that question, but I noticed a fear welling up inside me. She wanted me to just allow a feeling to exist? That’d be a first for me.

    So I tried it. And I hated it. But I tried it again. And again. And again.

    And these days, facing myself isn’t so noisy or complicated.

    I sit in silence sometimes. I notice my reactions. I tell the truth – to myself and others – about my choices. And I just feel. I feel emotions without immediately escaping them.

    I ask myself questions like, “Why did I do that? What am I seeking? What am I afraid of? What needs healing?” And those questions are uncomfortable, but they’re also freeing.

    Avoiding myself for so long delayed growth more than any outside circumstance ever did. The problem didn’t lie solely in what once “happened” to me. It was how long I refused to meet myself honestly.

    But the only thing more expensive than wasting the last 39 years on searching for an unachievable comfort is the continuation of my search.

    So now, I stay. I sit. I notice. And try to get to know myself truthfully. Because the person from whom I kept running is the only person I need to learn to live with.

  • Raspberry Consequences

    There was a time when I only thought of God working through blessings.

    Open doors.
    Answered prayers.
    Unexpected favor.
    Fresh starts.

    As long as I had buttoned myself up enough to call upon Him. As long as what I was asking for “felt” Christian.

    Those moments are easy to recognize.

    But life has taught me something deeper.

    Sometimes God also works through consequences.

    Let me be clear. Not every painful situation is a consequence. Not every hardship is discipline. Not every struggle means something sinful occurred.

    Sometimes life it just hard. Sometimes people suffer unfairly. And sometimes pain comes when there is no one to blame.

    But there are also times when what we experience is the natural result of choices we made. And even there, God can still work.

    1. Consequences are a fantastic teacher. Some lessons only became clear to me after the cost became real. When trust was broken. When relationships changed. When I had to sit with outcomes I created. What advice wouldn’t teach me, consequences did. They expose patterns. They identified my blind spots. They forced honesty.
    2. Consequences can produce humility. Nothing humbles like seeing the ripple effects of our own decisions. It’s clarifying sometimes and shameful others. But we stop feeling superior. We stop pretending that we’re exempt from cause and effect. We become softer toward others who struggle. Humility grows where denial once lived.
    3. Consequences can redirect us. Sometimes the path we’re on feels sustainable – until it doesn’t. Consequences can become the moment we stop. The wake up call. The turning point. The place where we finally say, “I can’t live like this anymore.” And that moment – even as painful as it is – can become mercy in disguise.

    I back my argument with Scripture.

    David faced consequences after he committed adultery with Bathsheba.
    Jonah was swallowed by a whole sea creature after running from God.
    The prodigal son came to clarity in the famine after reckless living.

    In each story, consequence was not the end of grace. It became part of the path back to grace.

    Grace and consequences can coexist, and that’s been important for me to learn. God can forgive me…and has…and consequences can still remain. Those two things don’t contradict each other.

    Grace doesn’t always erase outcomes. But it can give us the strength to walk through them.

    In this season of my life, I think it’s been very important for me to learn to not waste pain only by resenting it. Sometimes the very thing I wish had never happened is the thing that exposes what needs to change. Not because God delights in our pain, but because He can redeem even painful realities.

    God works through blessings. But He also works through boundaries, losses, wake-up calls, and consequences. Not every consequence is condemnation.

    Sometimes it’s correction.
    Sometimes it’s protection.
    Sometimes it’s the doorway to transformation.

    And sometimes the hardest seasons become holy ones…because they finally tell us the truth.

  • Raspberry Approved

    I didn’t realize how much of my identity was tied to other people’s approval…until very recently.

    It wasn’t obvious. But how I felt about myself used to depend on how I was treated, whether I was chosen, whether I was understood, whether I was wanted.

    And when those things were present, I felt okay. When they weren’t, I didn’t.

    Approval feels like safety. Like I’m doing something right. I’m enough. I belong. And when you’ve spent a long time wanting to feel chosen, approval can feel like confirmation. Like proof that you matter.

    But the problem is that approval is unstable. It changes. People change their minds. They see you differently based on their own experiences. People respond based on their capacity – not your worth. And if your value is tied to something that is unstable, your sense of self will always be fragile.

    So I had to face a hard truth – there are people who will never approve of me. Not because I’m not trying. Not because I’m not growing. But because of what they’ve experienced, what they believe, and what they’re not ready to revisit.

    I cannot control that.

    And that used to undo me. So I’d combat it by explaining more. Doing more. Being “better” – whatever that means. Proving myself. I wanted to earn back something I never truly had in the first place. And in the process, I lost myself.

    So in the last few months I’ve started asking a totally different question. Instead of, “Do they approve of me?” it’s, “Am I living in a way I can stand behind?”

    That question grounded me into something much more stable. It has required deep dives into my own life and my own habits. Not for others to see. But so that I can become someone I can tolerate.

    Worth is not determined by who stays or leaves, who understand or who approves. It exists ahead of all of that. Worth is not something that is assigned by our peers. It is something we carry.

    We have to separate our worth from caring what people think, because the two are mutually exclusive.

    I care what people think about me. I probably always will. I still feel it when I’m misunderstood. I still notice when I’m not chosen.

    But I don’t let it define me anymore. And I certainly don’t chase it or build my identity around it. The gift I get in return is peace. The quiet kind that isn’t dependent on feedback or reassurance. Just a steady grounding in knowing who I am, what I’m working on, and the direction I’m moving.

    And that’s enough.

    The approval of others feels so good. But it wasn’t meant to define us. Because if our worth rises and falls based upon how others see us, we will always be at the mercy of something we cannot control.

    So I am learning to build something steadier than that. Something rooted in truth, not perception. Something that doesn’t disappear when someone else looks away.

    That, Friends, is real stability.

  • Maternal Raspberry

    Love looks different in every season. And there were seasons in my life when love was louder.

    Big emotions.
    Big efforts.
    Big attempts to fix everything.

    But right now, love in my life is quieter. It’s less dramatic and more consistent.

    1. It looks like showing up. Getting up and doing what needs to be done. Earning a paycheck. Keeping things moving. Handling responsibilities. Making sure the bills are paid. Figuring out what to do with ground beef or chicken every night of the week and then getting bored and deciding to order pizza instead.
    2. It looks like caring in ordinary ways. Love isn’t always some sweeping grand gesture. These days, it’s remembering appointments. Making sure people have their wallets and their lunches. Keeping track of details that two boys can’t be bothered to remember. All of that – because invisible things count, too.
    3. It looks like being steady. Love isn’t always intense. Sometimes it’s being dependable. Being present. Being someone my boys can count on. Not perfect. Just consistent.
    4. It looks like wasting money. “Wasting” may not be the right word. But I certainly spend. And spend and spend. Computer upgrades. Three guitars in 8 months. Prescription sunglasses. Nintendo switch games. Cash app transfers. Headphones. And I’m so happy they’re happy, but wow.
    5. It looks like letting go of control. Accepting that I cannot control everyone’s choices, or moods, or timelines, or outcomes. I can care deeply without managing everything.
    6. It looks like restraint. Sometimes love looks like what I don’t do. And I don’t say everything I think. I don’t react to every feeling. I don’t turn every frustration into conflict. Because most times I think peace matters more than my feelings. That’s new. And refreshing.
    7. It looks like making space. My family members are their own persons. They have their own thoughts, their own seasons, and their own ways of processing life. Loving them right now means allowing room for that, without needing everyone to be in exactly the same place I am.
    8. It looks like continuing through uncertainty. Some seasons of family life are clear, while others are more complicated. Right now there are things for which I do not have answers. But I love anyway. Even in uncertainty. Even when relationships feel layered. Even when outcomes are unclear.
    9. It looks like growth. One of the most loving things I can do for my family right now is continue growing myself. To become calmer, healthier, more honest, and more grounded. Sometimes love is less about changing others, and more about changing what I bring to the room.

    Nothing I’m doing right now is flashy. It’s not dramatic.

    But it’s daily.

    It’s in the meals, the laundry, the patience, the restraint, the showing up, and the trying again.

    And maybe that is what mature love often becomes – less performance and more presence.

  • Raspberry Character

    I want to write today about something that has been racking my brain for the last several months.

    There is a belief that many people hold that is basically generalized as follows:

    If someone repeats the same mistake often enough, that mistake becomes their character.

    I can understand why people think that. Patterns matter. Repeated behavior creates damage. It affects trust. It shapes how others experience us.

    So I am not arguing that repeated mistakes are harmless. They aren’t.

    But I will challenge the idea that repetition automatically equals permanent identity.

    I am that girl. The one that has repeated the same mistakes, over and over again. They say the definition of insanity is to try the same thing over and over again, hoping eventually for a different outcome.

    It is very possible that I was not the most “sane” when messing up.

    The same cycle…over and over again…for 20 years or more.

    I experienced an emotion. Overwhelm. Anger. Loneliness. Boredom. Intense sadness/depression.
    I sought immediate relief. And I always found it – in the most temporary of places.
    I realized the relief was temporary, and did some of the most dishonest, disingenuous things to hold onto that relief just a little bit longer.
    That dishonesty and disingenuousness was discovered, exposed, and defined.
    The relief I once had disappeared, as did those who were hurt by my dishonesty and disingenuousness.
    I bed-rotted and grieved the loss of those people and that feeling of relief. I pitied myself.
    Enter shame. I kept my thumb over top of myself to ensure that I would never again make those mistakes.
    I avoided people. Mirrors. And ultimately accountability.

    When we repeat the same mistake over and over, it usually reveals something real.

    A wound that hasn’t healed.
    A need we don’t know how to meet in a healthy way.
    Lack of discipline.
    A coping mechanism.
    Emotional immaturity.
    Unaddressed pain.
    Selfishness.
    Sometimes, all of the above.

    Patterns shouldn’t be ignored. But they should be understood accurately.

    So the one or two mistakes it usually takes for other people to learn their lesson, for me, it was the opposite. I compartmentalized each mistake in a way that made the pattern disappear, in a sense. If I could rationalize, in my own mind, why each mistake was made, I could shirk responsibility, and redirect each bad decision toward a circumstance.

    But in the last 9 months or so, I’ve started to realize how futile that was.

    Of course I am responsible. I’m the one who made those choices.
    Of course it’s a pattern. I ran from each hard situation in search of relief.
    And of course I hurt people. I was dishonest about myself, about my circumstances, about what I really needed.

    The last mistake that falls into the cycle of this pattern lasted about 3 years, off and on. And when the mistake was corrected, I instinctively developed tunnel vision. My brain didn’t have the capacity necessary to grieve and take accountability.

    So over the last 9 months or so, I have had to adjust my own thought processes. I realized that’s it’s not enough, anymore, to grieve and compartmentalize. Real change requires internal labor. And recognizing my patterns was the first step in the work I am still doing. In fact, I will probably never be “done” working.

    There is a difference between saying, “This person has a destructive pattern,” and saying, “This is who she is, forever.”

    One statement turns repeated struggle into a life sentence. the other leaves room for accountability and growth.

    I had to stop globally defining myself and fundamentally defective. I didn’t repeat those painful mistakes because I enjoyed destruction. I repeated them because the behavior served something.

    Validation.
    Escape.
    Control.
    Being chosen.
    Avoiding discomfort.

    The choices were wrong. But the root of those choices travel deeper than “bad character.”

    Character is not what someone does repeatedly in one season, or what someone does when met with a specific feeling.

    Character is what I do when I wake up. What I have chosen since I’ve become aware. It’s the fact that I have taken responsibility. That I’ve accepted consequences. That I finally know better. And that I’m putting in the work necessary to pivot from what I know.

    Character includes response to failure. Not just failure itself.

    There is danger in assigning permanent labels. When we reduce people to their worst repeated mistake, two things happen. One, we feel morally superior. Two, we stop believing change is possible. Those things might feel satisfying, but it’s not the truth. And the irony is that I am able to look at those who have permanently labeled me and written me off and define their own destructive patterns. Gossiping. Avoiding. Judging. Remaining too immature to hold space for change.

    Some people stay in patterns. Some people don’t. I’m determined to leave this world having broken my own.

    Accountability still matters. I don’t get a free pass. Those repeated mistakes have cost me relationships. They’ve destroyed trust. They’ve had lasting consequences. Of course, other people are allowed to protect themselves. They’re allowed to remember what happened.

    But accountability and hopeless labeling are not synonymous.

    I am not how I once behaved. Public opinion does not tell the truth. Time and consistency tell the truth, even if other people believe it is “too late.” I spent 20 or more years in a destructive cycle, attempting to meet a need I wasn’t even interested in understanding until about a year ago. And with that understanding comes implementation of new patterns – healthy ones that are uncomfortable but necessary to achieve the integrous life I want to live.

    I don’t have to resolve to the fact that I am forever broken just because other people believe that. I don’t have to continue this repetitive destructive cycle just because it’s what I’ve done for a long time. I don’t have to cling to my mistakes just because I spent a long time making them. And I don’t have to embrace being branded as a failure forever just because this particular pattern has revealed brokenness in one area of my life.

    I am more complicated than my worst loop. And my strongest character was not formed before the pattern…but in the process of breaking it.