Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Selective Raspberry

    I am honest about myself these days to recognize that, sometimes, I was the problem.

    I wasn’t trying to be. But in the middle of chaos, there used to be this deep need/impulse to address everything. Every disagreement. Every accusation. Every misunderstanding. Every perceived slight.

    If something bothered me, I reacted. If something hurt me, I confronted. If someone misunderstood me, I explained.

    And I thought that made me strong. But looking back, I think a lot of it was just anxiety.

    Not everything requires a response. That’s been hard for me to learn. Because when you’re emotional, sensitive, and deeply self-aware, everything “feels” important – every shift in tone, every indirect comment, every rumor. And if you’re not careful, you can spend your entire life emotionally responding to things that were never meant to have authority over you.

    As I’ve slowly but surely increased my focus, I understand now that addressing everything creates more chaos, not less. Not every thought needs to be spoken. Not every offense needs confrontation. Not every misunderstanding needs clarification. Picking every battle keeps conflict alive longer than it was meant to live. Sometimes peace requires restraint.

    There was a time that I thought silence was weakness. I had difficulty learning the differences between shrinkage and intentional unresponsiveness, because I know what it feels like to shrink, too.

    I’m a strange raspberry.

    Often times, the battles I fought were based upon principle, a need to be right, or, at its root, an overwhelming urge to justify my decisions.

    On the other hand, when I was intimidated, or ashamed, or afraid, I ducked. I silenced my needs, I suppressed my feelings, I cried in private, and I made myself smaller so as not to inconvenience anyone else.

    So while shrinking was a decision made out of fear of rejection or conflict or being “too much,” over-explaining and over-defending occurred when I felt harshly, outwardly criticized.

    The obstacle still remains – learning the difference between suppressing myself and regulating myself. Between abandoning my voice and choosing peace intentionally.

    The trick is rooted in one word: discernment.

    Silence is not always weakness, and in fact, taking the high road – while it doesn’t have the same immediate effect as a quick verbal jab or a stabbing shift in blame – reveals a level of self-control I didn’t think I had. To take a step back and look at a situation and recognize, “This doesn’t deserve my energy.”

    And that’s exactly what I try to do now. I’ve learned to ask different questions.

    Will addressing this actually help? Will it create understanding or more noise? Am I responding from wisdom or emotion? Do I want peace or do I want the last word?

    There is a motive behind every response. And when I learned to identify the motive, my responses – or lack thereof – evolved.

    Some things don’t need to be fixed in real time. It’s easy to give into the urgency that is associated with discomfort. But some things settle on their own. Some misunderstandings fade. Some emotions calm down. And some answers reveal themselves with time. Not everything requires immediate intervention.

    I do not subscribe to the majority view of “protecting my peace.” I don’t think most people even know what that really means. It’s not about cutting people off, blocking socials, and then posting quotes that suit your agenda or match your opinion. That’s not “protecting” anything. That’s justification. Protection does not necessarily mean “shut out everyone who disagrees with you.”

    I protect my peace a little differently. Not by avoiding life. And not by shutting people out. I’m simply more selective about what I engage with emotionally.

    I no longer feel obligated to defend myself constantly or explain every decision or respond to every opinion. Some things – some people – simply do not deserve access to my nervous system anymore.

    I still believe in communication. I believe in healthy confrontation when necessary. And I am learning to set boundaries in a productive way. But I don’t confuse emotional urgency with wisdom anymore, because maturity is learning what actually deserves my attention. And sometimes growth looks less like speaking and more like being grounded enough, in myself, to walk away.

    I don’t address everything anymore. Not because I don’t notice. Not because I don’t care. Not because I’m emotionally detached. But because peace – the right kind – has become more important to me than constant reaction. And it’s changed my life more than I initially anticipated.

  • Get to Know Raspberry

    My son got a book for me for Mother’s Day called, “Mom, I want to hear your Story.”

    He knows me well. I love “homework.”

    I thought it would be a fun idea to blog some of the answers to the questions in the book, maybe as a way to reveal more about myself without having to come up with my own rhetoric.

    1. What is your birthdate? July 10, 1987.
    2. What was your name at birth? Megan LeAnne Smith.
    3. Were you named after a relative or someone else of significance? I never could tell if my Daddy was joking, but he said that I was named after a little girl that my Gran (his mom) used to babysit. Whether or not that was true, my middle name is made up of two names – Lee, after my great grandmother on Mom’s side and my Uncle Dan on Daddy’s side – and Anne. Ann is my mom’s middle name.
    4. In what city were you born? Somerset, Kentucky.
    5. How old were you when you started walking? My baby book says I was 10 months.
    6. How old were your parents when you were born? My dad was 21 (almost 22), and my mom was 19 (almost 20).
    7. What notable events occurred in the year you were born? I know the stock market crashed in October of that year. Aretha Franklin was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame – the first ever female to do so. And the world population reached 5 billion.
    8. What song was at the top of the Billboard charts? “Alone” by Heart.
    9. What were the prices of:
      • A loaf of bread – 55 cents.
      • A gallon of milk – $2.28.
      • A cup of coffee – at a diner or store, between 50 and 75 cents.
      • A dozen eggs – 65 cents.
      • A new home, on average – $92,000.00.
      • A stamp – 24 cents.
      • A new car – $10,300.00.
      • A gallon of gas – $1.00, on average.
      • A movie ticket – $3.42, again, on average.
    10. What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream? Chocolate. Butter pecan is a close second.
    11. How do you like your coffee? With just sweetened creamer.
    12. If you could live anywhere in the world for a year with all expenses paid, where would you choose? A cabin in the mountains of Tennessee, away from everybody.
    13. How do you like your eggs? Over medium – I like runny yolk but NOT runny white. Ewe.
    14. What is your shoe size? Between a 7 and 8, depending on the shoe.
    15. What superpower would you choose for yourself? Invisibility.
    16. Do you have any allergies? Nope.
    17. What is your biggest fear? Dying alone.
    18. What would you order as your last meal? A filet, medium rare.
    19. Have you ever broken a bone? I broke my ankle in 2016 by tripping over a microphone cord at a karaoke bar.
    20. What is your favorite flower or plant? White lilies.
    21. How would you describe yourself as a teenager? Sad. But I hid it well. Insecure. Smart-mouthed. A little lost. But also relatively popular and book smart.
    22. How did you dress and style your hair during your teens? I spent the early 2000s in high school, so…low rise flare jeans, American Eagle shirts, Old Navy flip flops. I wore my hair down and curled and parted on the side.
    23. Did you hang out with a group or just a few close friends? Are you still close with any of them? I think a lot of people knew me, or knew of me, in high school. My friend “group” consisted of about 4 people – Christina, Scott, Tate, and Kristin. I am friends with Christina and Scott on Facebook, but I haven’t seen or talked to Take or Kristin since high school.
    24. Describe a typical Friday or Saturday night during your high school years. I was in marching band. So Friday nights in the fall were for football games, and Saturday nights in the fall were for marching competitions. If it wasn’t marching season, I spend those nights working. I didn’t really go out much – I wasn’t allowed. When I turned 16, Daddy let me “car date” one night a week, and that was usually on a Friday.
    25. Did you have a curfew? On date nights, I had to be home by 10. Otherwise, I had to be home right after work, and the restaurant closed at 9.
    26. What were your grades like? Always honor roll. It was expected.
    27. Did you have a favorite subject and a least favorite? I enjoyed English and history. I loathed biology and calculus.

    I’ll stop there. I may do more of these as I complete pages in the book.

  • Raspberry Trigger Warnings

    Mother’s Day came.

    And instead of feeling celebrated, I felt heavy.

    And that’s not the version of a holiday that most people post about. You know, the pictures that contain flowers and brunch and smiles and gratitude.

    Don’t get me wrong – I put on the happy face and took some of those, too.

    But there’s another version of this day that doesn’t make the highlight reels. Because it’s not glamorous or happy. In this version, moms sit with their thoughts longer than we want. And we realize that everything we’ve lost is also emphasized on this holiday.

    I spent most of last weekend sitting on the couch, crying. I didn’t feel proud or accomplished. I thougth about all the things I wish I could change. All the things I should’ve done differently. I didn’t feel like celebrating. I was reflecting. And reflection can hurt.

    There was about half a day when I thought, “It might be easier if I just wasn’t here.”

    I didn’t want to feel the way that I felt. The regret. The loneliness. The distance. The heaviness. It was a lot to sit in.

    But I promised myself, under deep conviction, that I wouldn’t run from discomfort.

    So I stayed. It hurt. But at least it was honest.

    Sometimes motherhood isn’t what we imagine. It doesn’t look like closeness or celebration. Sometimes we just show up quietly, love from a distance, and hold space for things we can’t fix.

    And that version deserves acknowledgement, too.

    But even in the middle of those emotions, I know that nothing is permanent. The sadness, while intense, shifts eventually. And the fact that I feel so deeply means I still care deeply.

    I put on a smile and went to church with my boys. I cried during the service. I took pictures afterwards. My family went to lunch. And I didn’t fall apart, even though I didn’t “feel” much like honoring myself.

    But maybe the fact that I got through it without following through on those thoughts that tried to convince me to disappear is progress in some way. To sit in grief is brave. And to not allow that grief to ruin a day that can be made good for other people is even braver.

  • Raspberry Won’t

    “It’s the way I won’t…”

    That’s how I know I”m changing.

    My life doesn’t look dramatically different, and I haven’t suddenly become perfect. I still struggle.

    But there are things in my life I will not do anymore.

    1. I will not match your energy. The snark. The bad-mouthing. The gossip and other ugly language. The tug of war over minutiae. You can keep all of that to yourself. Over there.
    2. I won’t run. If it creates relief instead of reflection, I probably won’t do it. I’m sitting in my emotions and letting the Lord use them to stabilize me. It’s not easy. But escaping pain and healing it are not the same thing.
    3. I won’t react. I still feel all of it. The urge is still there. But I don’t make decisions anymore without seeking His guidance first. I will respond to you when I hear from Him.
    4. I won’t abandon or erase myself. No matter what I have done, I am still here because I am valuable. Somewhere. Some way. My voice matters, too. The Lord requires us to live in peace insofar as it is possible, but if the only way I can avoid an argument is to shrink, then the foundation of that relationship wasn’t healthy in the first place. I will calmly, strategically, and politely, speak my mind when it is necessary.
    5. I won’t chase. Confusion isn’t chemistry. If you don’t want me to be a part of your life, that is okay, and I totally get it. If my absence brings you peace, I will absolutely stay away and wish you well. But do not expect that I will follow. Those days are over. No graveling, no begging, no tentativeness. If you’d like to leave me, you have my blessing. And you can also live with that decision, because if you ever return – of your own free will – you will not find the same version of me. She won’t be cruel or unforgiving. But she also won’t depend on you to define her purpose.
    6. I won’t hold grudges. There is nothing you can do to me that is more important what what He did FOR me. Our Creator holds our destinies. Do what you feel like you need to do, and then see how it plays out. I’ll be over here – sitting, worshipping, and growing.

    I thought once that growth meant becoming someone completely new.

    Now it feels more like restraint. Wisdom. Awareness. Like intentionally choosing a path that does not repeat what was once automatic. Not because temptation disappeared, but because my response to that temptation has been combative.

  • Raspberry Endurance

    Sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I wasn’t always enduring.

    If my choices had been better.
    If my circumstances had been lighter.
    Simpler.
    Less complicated.

    If I hadn’t spent so much time navigating consequences, emotions, relationships, and the weight of my own decisions.

    Who would I be if I wasn’t always in the middle of something?

    Sometimes I picture her.

    The version of me who made better choices earlier.
    Who didn’t have to learn everything the hard way.
    Who didn’t carry so much history.

    She seems…

    …more confident…
    …more stable…
    …more free…
    …less burdened…
    …less exhausted…
    …less ashamed.

    And I had to stop. Because as much as I can imagine her, I don’t actually know her.

    I only know this version of me. The one who has had to endure.

    And that’s not glamorous. It hasn’t felt like strength. It has looked like sitting in consequence, living in regret, processing things I haven’t wanted to face, and choosing not to run when running has been easy for so many years.

    It’s been slow. Ugly. Uncomfortable.

    But it has changed me. Not in ways that are obvious to everyone else, but in ways I can feel.

    I think more carefully now. I intentionally decide not to react to people who want to see me break. And I understand things I didn’t understand before.

    Awareness changes everything.

    I didn’t set out to become this version of myself. I didn’t want to learn everything this way. But here I am…not escaping, not numbing, not pretending. And I don’t know if a less complicated version of me would be wiser, or more grounded, or more honest. But I do know that endurance has shaped me in ways that comfort never could.

    So I’m learning to stop comparing myself to someone who never existed, and instead, I have started trying to understand the one who does. And hopefully, someday, I won’t still wonder who I’d be if I wasn’t always enduring, because eventually, I will see who I ultimately fought to become intentionally.

  • Raspberry Chutes

    I spiraled yesterday.

    I received two notifications on my phone.

    Not back-to-back, but congruently enough that I was affected.

    And I don’t even know why.

    The first notification was essentially an assertion of blame. I was made aware of a couple of things that were, apparently, my “fault.”

    My reflexes caused me to trip. Over accusation. Over what read as judgment. “Look how much harm you’ve caused.” And then a couple of details about someone I try not to think about anymore.

    As if my entire identity was wrapped up in this one or two line correspondence.

    I didn’t outwardly react. I didn’t respond. I didn’t defend. I didn’t even cry.

    Not at first.

    But I also didn’t block the sender, or mute future notifications. And that was my first mistake.

    Not long after that – because I didn’t react to the first, I suppose – I received another.

    No blame this time. Instead, a boastful haiku, of sorts, about how that very same person – who was so destitute and broken in the first notification – is simultaneously much better off without me. Circumstantially. Financially.

    And that second notification is what sent me over the edge.

    For the past 9 months, I have sort of felt like the living embodiment of a game piece on a board of Chutes and Ladders. I slowly press ahead – one dice roll and one block at a time – occasionally favored with a ladder on my landing space.

    I have relied on those ladders. Epiphanies. Clarification. Noticeable advancement. Something that catches my eye when I scan for evidence of worthiness, after all this time and energy.

    But there were no ladders yesterday. Just one long, devastating chute, swirling in mockery, to remind me of my mistakes, of my inferiority, of the hopelessness I am destined to find if I ever actually reach the finish line of this game.

    Here’s an interesting factoid: Just because we commit to change doesn’t mean that change is linear, and it certainly doesn’t mean that circumstances don’t interrupt the adjustments we are trying to make.

    So I want to be the type of person that isn’t offended when other people throw my past in my face. I want to be so settled in who I am, now, that I am unbothered by the opinions of other people.

    So far, no luck. Only chutes.

    I can resist the urge to outwardly react. I can ignore “in theory.” But my thoughts still straddle the fence between the knee-jerk reactions of Old Me and what I am trying to make those thoughts do now – which is basically dissolve with intention.

    “And be renewed in the spirit of your mind; And that ye put on the new man, which after God is created in righteousness and true holiness.” Ephesians 4:23-24

    Nine months. Nine excruciating months of trying to take my thoughts captive. Nine months of honest, daily surrender. Forcing myself into exposure therapy. Sitting in sadness, loneliness, overthinking. Crying while folding laundry, because responsibilities don’t pause for breakdowns. Consistently and fervently praying, worshipping, reading…

    …all to land on a chute.

    Upon receipt of that second notification – which was received while I was still processing the first – my brain immediately switched back to autopilot.

    I am a terrible person. Everyone leaves me because I’m not worth a stay. And when they leave, they are all blessed. I am broken. I am the problem. I am irreversibly doomed.

    And as my thoughts gave in to the urge to berate me, I froze. No reading. No praying. No journaling. No chores. I didn’t even take a shower yesterday. Instead, I just accepted the fate I’d decided was inevitable in my mind. Because if notifications like that still wreck me after nine months of work, I am obviously not fixable.

    I think I made a list, a couple of months ago, of tangible, trackable changes I have made that “prove” that the work I am doing is paying off.

    But there was no such proof yesterday. Just reflexes and rumination and regret. I tossed and turned in bed until 1 a.m., reminding myself that I had wasted the day, until my own insults prompted exhaustion.

    And I woke up this morning, early, because I had a doctor’s appointment, still settled on last night’s offenses. I showered, almost involuntarily, and then applied just enough face and hair product to, while in public, avoid the comment, “You look tired.”

    As I left the house, I made a silent vow to myself: You will get through this day without falling apart.

    My 6 a.m. doctor’s appointment ended at 7. I grabbed an iced coffee before returning home, where I spent about an hour straightening up the house. I started a load of laundry, scrubbed the kitchen counters, washed the coffee pot, fluffed the living room pillows, and unboxed some packages I received in the mail yesterday. I placed an online grocery order. And I purchased for myself a Kindle for “Mother’s Day,” although I’d have probably ordered it regardless.

    I sipped my iced coffee while I worked. I made small talk with my husband. I snuggled the puppy.

    And as I received supplemental phone alerts this afternoon, I deleted them and blocked the sender – without overthinking the idea of a block button, and without clicking on the contents of the information that was sent to me. And while I do not generally equate “blocking” to boundaries, I felt it necessary this time, because I do not trust that I can “will” the restraint necessary to reject additional invitations to take a very low, very avoided-for-the-last-nine-months road…

    …because if yesterday provided any data, at all, as to my progress, there is obviously still evidence that certain areas of my past are still sensitive subjects.

    But today? Today I didn’t settle into that sensitivity. I paused…just long enough to make a better choice.

    And perhaps that’s exactly where growth happens…somewhere in the space between “thinking” and “doing.”

  • 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.