Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Stuck Raspberry

    There are parts of my story I can change.

    The way I live now.
    The choices I make today.
    The direction I’m headed.

    Those things are still in motion.

    But there are other parts that are fixed. Already written. Already lived. And no amount of wishing, regretting, explaining, or replaying can make them different.

    1. My past decisions cannot be undone. Words I said. Choices I made. Ways I hurt people. Ways I hurt myself. I can learn from them and take responsibility for them, but I can’t go back into those moments and choose differently. That door only opens one way.
    2. I can’t change how other people remember me. I can’t rewrite the version of me they experienced. If I was careless, they remember carelessness. If I was dishonest, they remember my lies. If I hurt them, they remember pain. And even if I’ve changed since then, their memories are valid. They belong to them.
    3. I can’t alter the consequences that remain. Some consequences don’t disappear just because growth begins. Some relationships stay distant. Some trust never fully returns. Some opportunities are gone for good. And that used to feel unbearably unfair, but I understand it differently now. Consequences are not always punishment. Sometimes they’re simply reality continuing forward.
    4. I can’t change time that has passed. There are seasons I spent asleep to myself. Years I could have been wiser. Kinder. More honest. I can’t reclaim those years. I can’t retroactively become the person I should’ve been then. All I can do is become her now.
    5. I cannot control the choices other people make. There are people I love whose choices have hurt me. But I can’t change it. Their boundaries. Their distance. Their healing process. Their willingness to reconnect. I grieve those things. But I can’t control them.
    6. I can’t change what acceptance isn’t. It’s not approval. It’s not saying the painful parts were good. It’s not pretending that loss doesn’t hurt. Acceptance is simply refusing to spend the rest of my life arguing with what already happened.

    But I can change how I carry the story now.

    Whether I use it as an excuse or a lesson.
    Whether I let regret define me or refine me.
    Whether pain makes me bitter or wiser.

    I can change what the next chapter looks like…even if that chapter is one written in solitude.

    There is a strange peace in admitting that some things will never be different, because once I stop trying to move immovable parts, I have more energy to build what is still possible.

    There are real, painful, permanent parts of my story I cannot change. But those parts are not the only parts of my story. And while I can’t edit old chapters, I can still rewrite ones that remain.

  • Sitting Raspberry

    I want to try to explain something that I have only recently understood. Something I had to learn the hard way.

    What most people think they know about trauma, about abandonment, about narcissism, about people pleasing? It’s usually not correct.

    And I know that because I’ve worn every one of those badges – not because I was a bad person (despite the attempts of many to convince me otherwise), but because something inside of me didn’t feel safe.

    When we are children, we start gathering information about ourselves, and drawing conclusions based on that information.

    When we’re young, and before our brains are even fully developed, we experiment with different qualities – inside the expectations of our superiors – to try to see what fits. What feels right. What makes us most comfortable. What earns us the most acceptance.

    And based on a lack of acceptance and lack of comfortability in certain situations, I learned that something was wrong with me. I learned that I wasn’t like everyone else. So I tried it all. I developed strategies to deal with the wounds that lack of acceptance and discomfort created.

    Very early, I developed the skill of observation. I read every room. I was obnoxious and outgoing around some. Reserved and a profound thinker around others. I learned what was appropriate based on the situation and based on the needs of others. And I attempted to master every performance in various social settings.

    And eventually it all landed in a dishonest place. Not because I intended to be wholly dishonest, but because the approval of others mattered more – in isolated moments – than being completely truthful.

    That’s where it started. And I figured out that masking my genuine self – before I even learned who I really was – earned me more friends, more recognition, and more support.

    It was relief, even if only temporary.

    And as my dishonesty was exposed and that relief turned into something internally chaotic…as I lost those friends and that acceptance and that comfort, shame snatched me by my head.

    And that’s the way it’s been ever since. That cycle. Because the strategy I developed long ago to acquire approval didn’t go away as I matured. It followed me. And it began showing up across my adult relationships.

    First the need for acceptance. Dishonesty and masking and performance to earn that acceptance. Relief. Then exposure. Chaos. Shame, and the desire to escape it…which perpetuated my need for more acceptance…thus prompting more dishonesty and masking and performance.

    For the better part of two decades, as that cycle has repeated itself, it’s always been somewhere between the “steps” of exposure and shame that I decide I am going to submit to truth and commit to interrupting that cycle.

    Fake the smile. Swallow your own needs. Straighten up.

    That need for acceptance didn’t disappear. In fact, it still exists.

    But in order to combat that need, I stopped expressing myself outwardly. Instead, I learned how to shrink. I became very self-conscious. I learned to hide and protect myself because I didn’t want to feel even more like I didn’t fit in. I learned to ignore my own boundaries, my own values, and my own worth just to hold onto people that never intended to stay in the first place.

    If being outgoing won’t get me there, maybe becoming a doormat will.

    I abandoned myself. It’s just that simple.

    I was so focused on not being left that I left myself.

    And what I’ve come to terms with is that all of this served a purpose at certain points in my life. As a child, those patterns and that cycle protected me. They helped me cope. They helped me navigate situations where I didn’t feel seen or loved. And as an adult, I felt like I only belonged if I was needed.

    None of this meant something was wrong with me. It only meant that something inside of me adapted so that I could access acceptance.

    But I’m not a child anymore. I’m not young anymore. I’m self-aware. Finally. And what once protected me eventually became a huge problem for me and the people around me, because as I continued to repeat that cycle, and as people were negatively affected by it, the subsequent result was destruction.

    Narcissism. People-pleasing. Those aren’t personality traits. They’re just disregulated nervous systems without containment.

    Something feels unsafe, so your system reacts.

    But the reaction isn’t always truth. It’s an alarm.

    And here’s the shift…

    I was not the alarm. I was the one hearing it go off. I’m not the voices in my head trying to negotiate my worth. I am the person receiving those voices.

    I have spent most of my life in fear. Fear of rejection.

    But fear isn’t real danger. Fear cannot hurt me.

    So I stopped trying to fix the wound. And instead, I started observing the pattern. And what I’ve seen so far isn’t rejection. I’ve seen reality.

    Nothing stays the same. Everything changes. People. Roles. Rules. Scenery. Circumstances. Even the stars, which look like they’re fixed in the sky, move. And since everything evolves, so do other people. Including people we love.

    For the better part of a year, I have forced myself to sit in the discomfort I used to try to unhealthily and dishonestly escape. I’ve resisted the habitual urge to fix relationships. I’ve let go of any false sense of control that I used to desire and I’ve allowed people to reject me. I’ve allowed unforgiveness. I’ve allowed accusations. And gossip. And assumptions.

    What I have realized in the middle of this season of isolation is that none of it matters. Whoever stays, stays. Whoever leaves, leaves. Whoever talks, talks. Defending a destructive pattern, justifying my own boundaries, apologizing over and over, working for acceptance – none of it makes a difference. It is counterproductive to want to learn who I really am if I give other people the keys to my worth.

    So while losing people used to terrify me – so much so that I altered my personality to suit their needs – now I’m just here – still sitting in discomfort and fear. I’m not defending what I’ve done. I’m not working to fix any relationship. I am not apologizing anymore than I already have. I am not anchored in external acceptance. I’m not clinging to a desire to be understood. And slowly but surely, the discomfort and fear that used to be unbearable isn’t so scary anymore.

    There is freedom in letting go. In not chasing. In being misunderstood.

    You’re okay. Just rest.

  • Giving Up Raspberry

    I am not a person who has ever been allowed to not know how to handle things.

    I’m a person who – of her own choosing – grew up too fast, and then acted upon every urge to escape responsibilities I was not emotionally prepared to handle.

    I am not someone who has ever been able to learn from a single mistake, but instead, I put the Mistake Playlist on shuffle and/or repeat, so that a series of the same mistake became a noticeable destructive pattern that many, many of my former friends and family members define as my character.

    hurt → seek relief → act against values → shame → self-loathing → need comfort → seek relief again

    I am someone whose decisions have negatively impacted many, but none as much as myself.

    I am a person whose mind attributes production with love, and because other people, who are aware of my destructive patterns, assume that someone with my “character” is not capable of love, I have worked extra hard to prove those people wrong, which has turned my love into something transactional.

    I brought tiny human beings into this world before I became whole, and I sacrificed and showed up and put my own healing on pause, so that now, all my children see when they look at me is a mess.

    I have unintentionally wrecked lives because I was trying to “feel better.”

    But intention doesn’t matter. Not to them.

    And there are a dozens of people who watch me from afar now. No contact. No communication. No engagement. Just observation and a hope that whatever narrative they have written about me doesn’t change by my making better choices – because if I ever straighten myself out…if I ever do anything correctly…if I ever finally learn…their hatred for me no longer makes sense. Those are the same people who couldn’t be bothered to support me or show me kindness or give me grace, but were also standing over me to laugh when I fell down.

    Early on, self-loathing became self-soothing. I convinced myself that being overly loud, overly obnoxious, and overly funny would hide my hurt and my insecurities. And I have been dishonest, off and on, my entire life, morphing myself into someone I’m not, just to feel like I belonged…because the Real Me? She doesn’t belong anywhere, except maybe a grave.

    And when being outgoing and extraverted and hilarious didn’t attract the acceptance I sought, I tried the opposite – shrinking. Their needs > mine. I became low maintenance. Tiny. A doormat. I had no boundaries. And I ate crumbs with gratitude.

    But when the crumbs didn’t satisfy my hunger for being chosen, or prioritized, or even considered, I sprinted to new crowds. New people. New men…whose interests I adopted as my own, whose needs I tried to meet so that a space in their lives was reserved just for me. But eventually, their attitudes about me ultimately became how I felt about myself.

    Not once. Not twice.

    Over…and over…and over. Not constantly. But intermittently.

    And thus a destructive pattern. A metaphorical stamp of brokenness that has left spectators satisfied with their own opinions of me. My very own Scarlet Letter, forever reminding me that I was born into messy, I stayed messy, and now I am consequentially doomed to carry messy. Alone and without the support I have tried a hundred ways to earn.

    Temporary relief is not relief at all, but that is a difficult observation to make when the relief is happening. So the first 20 years of my adult life were spent in irony as I ran directly toward a pattern I tried so hard to white-knuckle. The problem is that not once did that pattern ever scratch my itch. It only perpetuated the self-hatred I thought I was running away from.

    There is no one to blame except myself for the people I’ve lost.

    And that loss has presented itself in a similar, ironic way, because I once ate their crumbs. The discomfort I now force myself to sit in has created space for me to see that losing people who only offer crumbs may not be loss at all.

    And now I keep my mouth shut. But I don’t hide. Now I reflect without white-knuckling. Now I accept abandonment and rejection instead of trying to fight it.

    And I also understand.

    For the first time in 20 years.

    I understand.

    That’s not important to anyone but me. Other people don’t care if I understand, much less care, themselves, to understand. And that is okay.

    What I have done is wrong. Morally repugnant. Spiritually stifling.

    I knew it the first time. And then second. And on and on…

    But knowing that something is wrong and having the inner capacity to stop doing it are not always the same thing.

    The people who left? They assume that my repeated betrayals mean I am evil, I am immoral, and that I didn’t care if I hurt people. And while that narrative holds a certain amount of water, human beings are so much more complicated than that type of categorization.

    Something drove that destructive pattern. I merely attempted to solve pain.

    1. I tried to meet a legitimate need in an illegitimate way. I wanted to feel validated, chosen, excited. I wanted to escape loneliness. I wanted a distraction from grief and my own emptiness. Real needs. Damaging methods.
    2. What I have generalized as a destructive pattern started and ended, initially, as a coping mechanism. Instead of grieving rejection, I sought attention elsewhere. Instead of speaking honestly about how unseen I felt, I sought intensity in other forms. That’s not my character’s destiny. It’s just conditioning.
    3. My shame for one decision fueled the fire for the next round. A vicious cycle with a detrimental outcome.
    4. I was emotionally starving. It is natural for other people to judge a final act while ignoring the years I spent with unmet needs. I picked the scabs of every wound – loneliness, resentment, numbness…until I finally realized that vulnerability wasn’t an option.
    5. As I’ve already established, I firmly believed that attention equaled worth. If someone needed/wanted me, I mattered. Each new pursuit felt like medicine. Only recently have I realized how expensive that medicine really was.
    6. I was at war with myself. I knew it was wrong. But desperation overrode conviction.

    I don’t ask myself why I was bad anymore. I get it now.

    And I don’t seek support or acceptance like I once did. I have just realized that it’s probably not something I’ll ever have.

    Instead I’ve answered questions so that I can identify my triggers.

    What pain was I medicating? What need felt unbearable the longer it went unmet? What belief about myself kept seeking outside proof? What emotion was I not able to sit with? What was I trying to feel each time?

    Knowing right from wrong increases responsibility. But it hasn’t put me in a place beyond redemption, even if that redemption does not come from those crumbs I mentioned.

    Now healing looks like radical honesty without self-crucifixion. Identifying the unmet need beneath the reactive behavior. And learning how to meet that need myself.

    I have made amends where possible. I have built boundaries against the old cycle.

    And I am trying my best to accept that my past behavior is data, not my identity.

    But convincing other people that I’m worth more than crumbs…that I’m worth a second (or third or fourth) glance…that I’m safe…is an unachievable goal.

    So I quit trying.

  • Raspberry Hats

    Like most people, I wear many hats.

    I am different things to different people.

    A wife.
    A mom.
    A paralegal.
    A daughter.

    For other people, I’m someone worse.

    The root of their trauma.
    Someone to discuss at the next coffee klatch.
    A deceiver.
    The cause of so much hurt.

    Those roles matter. They shape my days and carry responsibilities. They require things of me. Even the negative parts I’ve played in other people’s lives have weight, prompting me to work against my own decisions to prove myself “worthy.”

    But lately I’ve wondered who I am when all the hats come off.

    I have always measured myself by how well I performed my roles. Was I useful enough? Needed enough? Successful enough? Defensive enough? Good enough for people connected to me?

    And circling that drain seems productive on paper, but slowly, over the last 20 years, I have become so disconnected from myself.

    Roles are what I do. They are not always who I am.

    There are not many moments when no one is asking anything from me. Big asks, like shrinking myself to suit someone else’s agenda. And little asks, like managing a schedule, or attending an event, or folding laundry.

    But in those few-and-far-between moments when no one is asking anything from me – no tasks or titles or immediate responsibilities – I have had to ask myself, “Who is still here?”

    Who remains when I am not producing, helping, fixing, managing or proving?

    Underneath the hats, I am someone who feels deeply. Someone who notices things. Someone who reflects privately.

    I’ve become someone who values truth over comfort – which is a change from a former version of me.

    I’m someone who has made many mistakes but is still willing to grow. Someone who values quiet. And peace. Not chaos anymore. Someone who still hopes, even after disappointment. Someone who is softer than she looks and stronger than she once knew.

    I don’t know what unconditional love looks like, and I’ve always “proven” love in the work I’ve done.

    But I am not just what I provide. I am not only valuable when I’m useful. I’m not only worthy when I am needed. I’m not only lovable when I am performing well.

    My worth doesn’t begin and end with what I can do for others.

    I do not have myself figured out in full. And I don’t think we ever reach the finish line of that journey. We are all made up of parts. Of different seasons in our lives. And since the present eventually becomes the past, and the past becomes part of who we are – eventually – what I do now will become part of my story.

    I am still learning what matters to me. I am still unlearning destructive patterns. I am still growing into integrity.

    At my core, I am not willing to accept that my mistakes have become the finish line for growth. I am willing to do the work, willing to tell the truth, and will to become different…

    …and I have to pray that counts for something.

    No title fully captures my private resilience, the battles I’ve fought internally (even if I have lost those battles), the compassion and empathy I carry (a side effect of my mistakes), the grief I’ve survived, the discipline I’m building, and the faith that continues to transform me.

    Those things don’t always show up on paper. But they’re real.

    I fill a role in several people’s lives. And I’ll keep filling those roles. I’ll keep showing up in the hats that my decisions and my life and my family ask of me.

    But when those hats come off, I’m still here. A whole person. Still growing. Still valuable. Still becoming.

    And that person matters, too.

  • Disposable Raspberry

    On the heels of my post about abandonment, I felt it necessary to clarify a few things.

    There’s a particular kind of pain associated with feeling disposable.

    Like I was useful for a season.
    I was important until something changed.
    I was wanted until it became inconvenient.

    It’s almost as if some people can set me down and keep walking.

    That’s a painful feeling, and if I am honest, it touches something old inside me.

    Feeling disposable prompts thoughts I probably wouldn’t otherwise have.

    They moved on so easily.
    I guess I didn’t matter much.
    If I were valuable, they’d have stayed.
    I was replaceable.

    And for a long time, I was thoroughly convinced of all of those things.

    What I am learning about myself, though, is that I have all too often accepted feelings as facts.

    It hurts because the realization that I have been disposed of by people I love incites fear. Fear of abandonment. Fear that I’ll never be enough. Fear that love will always be predicated on a condition I cannot maintain. And fear that my value depends on being chosen.

    So when someone leaves, withdraws, replaces, ignores, or changes, it can feel bigger than the current moment. And sometimes it can feel like confirmation of every insecurity I carried.

    But I am not unintelligent. And while I used to equate feelings with facts, now I am trying to be more objective. I have made it my mission to challenge my own emotions. So even though it can be difficult to remember in the middle of fear, the truth is that someone’s choice is not my value. Another person’s decision does not define my worth.

    Those who have left me feel 100% justified in doing so. I have made some decisions that have not flattered who I am at my core, and those people confuse that pattern of poor choices with character.

    (That’s a post for another day.)

    People leave us for lots of reasons. Immaturity. Avoidance. Selfishness. Their inability to sustain connection. Their own wounds. Circumstances their own lives have handed them.

    So, yes, it could be that my bad decisions played a part in their choosing to leave. But their own decisions are a reflection on them, too.

    The last year or so of my life has been a war. Not a battle – a war with myself and my feelings. Challenging every single one. So when I feel disposable…

    1. I name the feeling honestly. Instead of pretending I’m okay, or rushing out to replace the person who cast me aside, I tell myself the truth. I feel discarded. I feel forgotten. I feel replaceable. Naming the wound helps me tend to it.
    2. I separate feeling from fact. This is still incredibly challenging for me. But feeling disposable is not proof that I am. So I ask myself: What are the facts here? Did one person choose differently, or am I assigning global meaning to it? Loss trickled down can feel like a verdict, when it is really just one event at a time. And the funny thing is that each loss has made me wiser and more prepared for the next.
    3. I stop using one person as the judge of my worth. When someone leaves, I used to hand them entirely too much authority. Their choice became my identity. But I am working on taking back that authority. No one – NO ONE – gets to decide my value anymore.
    4. I am rebuilding through action. Worth can seem abstract when we’re hurting. So I have started grounding myself in tangible things. I keep routines. I care for my body by eating whole meals and resting, or even by showering and throwing on clean leggings when I don’t “feel” like it. I do meaningful work – both for pay and voluntarily. I keep commitments to myself (which I haven’t mastered completely, but I try to prioritize three things to accomplish every day). I create things. I have started new traditions. I help other people. Action restores dignity.
    5. I notice now where I feel “used” repeatedly. I have realized over the last year or so that feeling disposable points to patterns. Times I gave more than was probably within my capacity. Times when I accepted crumbs on the off chance that gathering enough crumbs would one day equal a whole cookie. Times when I performed or betrayed a core value so that I could “earn” someone’s love or attention or time or affection. Times when I actively chased people who were unavailable. Pain doesn’t have to be wasted. It can become insight if we let it.
    6. I choose reciprocal spaces. I go where I am consistently valued – and I’ll be frank – that’s not a lot of places. But I don’t want to be somewhere when I’m convenient. Friendships, communities, my church, my job – I look for places where I am not merely useful, but seen. And when I can’t find places like that, I stay home. I’m always welcome at home.
    7. I allow grief to be grief. I am mastering the art of naming my emotions correctly. And feeling like I’m disposable is real. But sometimes it’s grief. Grief that someone mattered to me more than I did to them. That hurts. And grief deserves an honest look, too.
    8. I do not chase. To be honest, there is a part of me that still knows that if I don’t reach out first, I’ll be forgotten. And that used to scare me. I rationalized this in my head, over and over – if I wanted to be loved, I needed to be available. And I still think that is mostly true. But I am not the type of person who “half does” anything. It drives me crazy to do 80% of a project and leave the other 20% hanging. So why would I allow that in my relationships? If I’m really that terrible…if I’m not worth inviting or including or talking to…if I am truly only worth someone’s time if I shrink myself into a doormat…I don’t want it. So I let my absence speak for itself. And the truth is that they probably don’t even feel it, and they may be happier without my involvement in their lives. And now I think that’s a good thing. If I have made someone else so miserable that they cannot tolerate me, they deserve peace without me.
    9. My boundaries remain intact. Other people are well within their human rights to walk away from me. I no longer try to control that. But when they do, I hope they’re prepared to stand on that decision, because I no longer accept those aforementioned crumbs.
    10. I pray. Fervently. I told the Lord last week that I felt so lonely and isolated. And I asked Him if being lonely is a consequence of my bad decisions, or if there’s a reason why I am stuck in this season. He let me know it’s both. Yes, people have walked away from me because I have hurt them. People have also walked away from me because they do not possess the capacity to empathize with someone like me. But more than that, because I am the type of person who does perform for relationships, I have forgotten who I am at my core. He has allowed people to leave for two reasons – one, they are not necessary to complete the purpose He has set for me, and two, He knows I am distracted too easily by the attention I get from other people. He wants me to focus right now. Focus on Him. Focus on myself. Focus on keeping the mask off long enough to know what I need to change/fix. And focus on how every bit of this has become part of a testimony that will help someone else. If He can accept me…if He can transform me…then He can do it for anybody.

    So I’m learning that being left does not mean I am worthless. Being replaced does not equal being forgettable. And being misunderstood does not equal being disposable, even if it all seems that way at first glance. Sometimes all of those things just mean that people don’t have the capacity to hold what I give. And that is okay.

    If you feel disposable right now, be gentle with yourself. That feeling can be loud. But it’s not who you are. You’re not a jacket someone outgrew. You’re not trash someone threw away. You’re a whole person whose value existed before the relationship(s) you lost. And that value remains now that the relationship(s) are gone.

  • Raspberry Cycles

    My life used to feel repetitive in ways I didn’t fully understand.
    Ways I couldn’t see were my decisions.

    Different people.
    Different circumstances.
    But same outcomes.
    Same emotions.
    Same mistakes.
    Same pain wearing different clothes.

    And I thought changing those patterns meant having one big breakthrough.
    An epiphany that opened my eyes to who I am supposed to be, who people needed. One dramatic moment when everything suddenly became different.

    But that hasn’t been my experience. And breaking patterns has looked much more subtle.

    1. It started with awareness. The first sign wasn’t changed behavior, like so many times before. I figured out that trying to white-knuckle myself into submission left me feeling deprived. Instead, it was recognition. I started noticing things sooner. Thought patterns. Emotional triggers. The familiar pull toward choices that have never served me well. I used to move automatically. Now I notice. And awareness is what prompted that change.
    2. I pause. There was a time when I acted on every emotion. Immediately. If I felt hurt, I reacted. If I was lonely, I reacted. If I felt restless, I moved. Now there’s space. And it’s not always a lot. But enough to pause. Think. And choose differently. That space is where I realize change is happening.
    3. I am less interested in temporary relief. Patterns survive because they offer something. Comfort. Escape. Validation. Distraction. The feeling of being chosen. Even destructive patterns often meet a real need, even if temporarily. But that quick relief doesn’t appeal to me like it once did. And it took me too long to figure out that temporary comfort can create long-term damage. I’m less willing to trade that now.
    4. I recover faster. I still have hard moments. I can still be triggered. And I still think in ways that belong to an older version of me. But I don’t hang out there. What used to derail me for days now only affects me for an hour or two. What used to send me spiraling is now noticed and managed. That shorter recovery time is progress.
    5. I am more honest with myself. I used to explain things away. Minimize. Justify. Shift blame. Now I see myself more clearly. Not cruelly, but truthfully. And honesty has changed what circumstances never could.
    6. I care more about peace than excitement. Chaos used to make me feel alive. Intensity felt meaningful. Drama felt important. These days, though, routine, stability, well-thought decisions, and peace matter to me more. That shift in what I value signifies to me that the pattern is losing its power.
    7. I’m willing to be misunderstood while I change. Sometimes patterns are tied to image. Needing approval. Needing to be seen a certain way. Now I’m more willing to let people think what they want while I do the work in private. That’s definitely new. And it feels healthier.
    8. I keep choosing the next right thing. Breaking these patterns has not happened in one, giant leap. It’s happened in small moments. One honest decision. One restrained reaction. One day of consistency. One uncomfortable but healthy choice at a time. Those moments add up. And they will continue to add up.

    I know I’m breaking the patterns not because life is perfect. Not because temptation disappeared. Not because I never struggle. Not because I don’t hurt.

    I know I’m changing because I no longer move through life unconsciously. I notice. I pause. I choose.

    And every time I do that, I reinforce something new. Not perfection. But freedom.

  • Raspberry Control

    There’s a particular kind of helplessness that comes when someone you love leaves.

    Whether they walk away suddenly. Or slowly. Emotionally, physically, or relationally…

    The impact is the same.

    A pattern in my life – abandonment. And I really have no one to blame by myself.

    People choose distance for a reason. And as I have gotten older, I’ve come to understand that whether I agree with the reason or not, the result is the same – I end up alone. And I’m left standing in a life that exists, but is altered.

    And that’s okay. That part I cannot control.

    When someone leaves, it awakens a hundred painful thoughts.

    Was I really that awful?
    Why can’t I just be enough?
    Is it fixable?
    Will they come back?
    How do I move forward now?

    The mind searches for answers because answers feel like control.

    But most times, those answers aren’t clear. At least not immediately.

    I cannot control someone else’s choices, their timing, their willingness to communicate, the ability to love well, whether or not they regret leaving, whether or not they understand my pain…

    …and all of that hurts.

    But it also clears the ground for something important.

    Control does not come from getting those people back. It comes from returning to myself.

    I can take back control of my routines. I choose to get up. Eat. Move my body. Keep structure in my days.

    Pain loves empty space.

    I do not have to spend every waking hour replaying what happened.

    Wondering what they’re all doing.
    Checking my phone.
    Living in a loop of mental conversations.

    My mind deserves better use than endless replays.

    I am deeply affected when people leave.

    But it doesn’t define what I am worth.

    I do not accept the label of “the one who gets left.”

    I am still a full person with value outside of others’ decisions.

    And while those chapters include loss, they do not make up my entire book.

    Healing, for me, has not been two or three dramatic breakthroughs.

    There hasn’t been instant peace.

    Currently it looks like crying but still logging in for work. Hurting and still paying bills. Missing them and making dinner. Grieving and still showing up.

    That quiet functioning is often healing in disguise.

    At first, all I wanted was control over other people’s choices. Their return. The conversation. The aftermath. Their explanation.

    But eventually, real healing asks for control over my own next steps. How I live now. How I care for myself now. How I grow now.

    And the cold, hard truth is perhaps the hardest to swallow – some of those people will never come back. Sometimes closure doesn’t come through reunion. Instead, it comes through rebuilding and becoming stable without the person who left, thereby destabilizing my world.

    When someone I love leaves me, sometimes it feels like they take my peace with them.

    But peace that can be carried away by another person wasn’t secure to begin with.

    Real peace gets rebuilt. Inside routines. Boundaries. Self-respect. And inside the version of me that has learned that I didn’t control their leaving…

    …but I can absolutely control what I build next.

  • Farsighted Raspberry

    There are seasons where the things God is doing can be seen clearly.

    Doors open. Things fall into place. Answers come. The path is clear.

    And then there are other seasons when I can’t see a thing.

    Right now, nothing looks like it’s changing. The situation I am has stayed the same for 8 months. My prayers haven’t been answered yet, and the outcome is unclear.

    And the human part of me has so many questions. Is anything happening? Can He hear me? Is He moving at all?

    But the truth is that some of the most significant moments in the Bible happened quietly.

    And slowly.

    Joseph sat in prison for 13 years before he was elevated.
    David lived in obscurity for years before he became king.
    The Israelites spent 40 years wandering around a desert.
    The birth of Jesus was announced way before He was actually born.

    There were long stretches where nothing visible was happening…

    …but that didn’t mean nothing was happening.

    Just because I can’t see movement doesn’t mean there isn’t progress.

    I can only see things through a human lens. But God may be working in places I cannot access. In people. In timing. In circumstances that haven’t been pieced together yet.

    But also…in me. Shifting my perspective. Strengthening my patience. Refining my character. Internally preparing me for the prayers He is going to answer…when I’m ready.

    That doesn’t fix the part of me that wants answers right now. I want resolution. A timeline. A miracle.

    Trust God without visible proof, or progress I can measure, or reassurance I can point to is not easy. But I am choosing to believe that He’s still working, even when I cannot see how. His work isn’t always obvious to the human eye. And it doesn’t always happen on my timeline or immediately upon my request. And it doesn’t always look the way I anticipate.

    But that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.

    Things have unfolded in the last several months that I do not understand. And even though I don’t have clarity, I’m choosing to believe that He is working, even in the parts of my life that look like they may never change.

  • Integrous Raspberry

    Lately I’ve been working on ways to track the internal work I’ve been doing.

    When trying to lose weight, for example, it can be difficult to notice changes in your body, especially if they’re not directly related to the number on the scale. Statistics say it usually takes about 12 weeks to recognize differences in our body.

    That’s 12 weeks of consistent effort without seeing whether or not that effort is actually going to pay off.

    And after 12 weeks, doesn’t your salad taste like you’d rather be fat?

    What I am doing, though, has no deadline, and there is no finish line. Which is pretty awful for the “immediate gratification” compartment that still exists in my brain.

    To that end, and as a reminder that the decision I’ve made to do the next right thing is worth my best effort, I have started noting the good choices I’ve made. This helps me focus on the positive, for one thing, and it serves as a tangible diagram by which to track my progress.

    Nothing I’ve done has been overly dramatic or noteworthy. But it’s just enough to affix my eyes on the right priorities. Nothing for applause. Nothing for congratulations or recognition or rewards. Just something for me. And since this blog is also for me, below is what I have recorded in the past week.

    1. On Sunday, I received a Snap from a grown woman who called me names by which I have never been called (to my face). And instead of defending myself or explaining myself, I handled her attack with grace that only the Holy Spirit could’ve given me in that moment.
    2. If I saw something overly filled with ugly language or inappropriate in some way, I scrolled and/or clicked off.
    3. I gave someone I do not even really “like” a compliment.
    4. I allowed my son to drive my vehicle to attend a gathering I didn’t necessarily agree with. Nothing harmful. In fact, he asked to go to the church he attends with his dad. And even though it was my custody, and even though I could’ve asked him to please go to our church instead, I ate it. He’s not property, and my way is not the only right way.
    5. I made a decision with regard to the kids’ health insurance that was the right thing to do. It has cost me. Money. Control. And any chance of sooner-rather-than-later reconciliation with my daughter. But it was the right thing – not the easy thing, not the most convenient thing, and not even the “best” thing for any involved party. But it was the integrous thing.
    6. Several times this past week, I’ve prayed before my thoughts overtook me. Not every time. But enough times that it will hopefully become a habit.
    7. I shared something very private in our small group at Bible study last night, thereby challenging my own introversion.
    8. My husband and I had a pretty terrible experience at a restaurant last night. More him than me. Our server dumped several ramekins of honey mustard on my husband’s lap. And in his work scrubs, he was actually late getting to work because he had to come home and change after dinner. On top of that, he ordered a side item he never received. But we paid for our meal anyway – without complaining. We gave grace. Because we recognize how often we need grace.
    9. When a $640.00 prescription sunglasses online order hadn’t arrived on time, I inquired, but did not complain.
    10. I’ve been reading my Bible to understand it, and not just to “get it done.” My relationship with Jesus is not a chore. He is not a box to check off. He’s my friend. And really…the only one I’ve got.

    I’m never going to get it right all the time. But – perhaps – the next right things – small ones – add up to a sum of change.

    Here’s to consistency…

  • Raspberry the Wrong Way

    If I am honest, I can trace most of my bad decisions back to one thing.

    Not recklessness, even though that is how it all ended.
    Not even rebellion, even though it looked like it.

    I was trying to satisfy a need I thought I had.

    I wanted to be chosen.

    Not just liked. Not just accepted. Not just allowed to tag along.

    Chosen. Prioritized. Wanted. Picked clearly, intentionally, and without hesitation.

    That need drove more of my behavior than I realized, especially while I was making those decisions.

    And the problem wasn’t the desire itself. Wanting to be chosen is human nature.

    The problem lied in how I tried to meet that need.

    I looked for it in the wrong places. I accepted it in forms that were not healthy. I pursued it in ways that were dishonest and in ways that compromised who I believe I am at my core. And sometimes I made decisions that created temporary feelings of being chosen at the cost of long-term stability, trust, and integrity.

    And I didn’t understand that while I was doing it. I knew I wasn’t being honest with myself (and others), but the conviction I felt did not outweigh the euphoria that came with *finally* being seen and valued.

    When something fills a need that deep – even temporarily – it’s easy to ignore how expensive your choices will eventually become.

    Looking back, I can see the pattern more clearly. Hindsight is always 20/20. If something made me feel chosen, I moved toward it. Even if it was complicated. Even if it wasn’t right. Even if it required me to overlook things I shouldn’t have or change certain aspects of my own personality.

    That’s where the mistakes came from.
    Not from not knowing better.
    But from wanting something so badly that I justified the wrong way of getting it.

    And over time, those decisions added up. The bill arrived, past due, and trust was broken. Relationships were damaged. And I was at that point a version of myself I no longer fully recognized. And eventually, the very thing I was chasing – being chosen – felt further away than ever.

    Wanting to be chosen didn’t make me wrong.
    My methods did.
    And no amount of explanation changes the impact of those methods.

    I am learning that being chosen – the right way – looks different than I thought. It doesn’t come from chasing or proving or compromising. It comes from alignment. From being someone who lives with integrity. From making decisions I can stand behind. And from building a life that doesn’t require self-abandonment to feel wanted.

    So the discomfort I sit in now is the realization that I may never be “chosen” in full by other people. The incorrect methods I used to achieve that goal had the opposite effect, and I am lonelier than I’ve ever been.

    Phone’s dry.
    Lunch and coffee outings are non-existent.
    It’s just me…well…and the dog I got…who doesn’t understand a word I say, but at least I’m not talking to “myself.”

    But I still firmly believe that the Lord works all things out for good. I believe He takes our stupidity into consideration when designing His plan for our lives. The Bible says so.

    So instead of disappearing into that discomfort, or wallowing in that loneliness, I’m enduring it under the hope and assumption that it is what He thinks is best right now.

    Not having friends has almost completely eliminated my desire to be chosen by other people.

    Now I choose honesty. Restraint. And a version of me that isn’t driven by the urgency to present myself as someone completely different from who I am called to be.

    I am choosing myself. I am choosing God’s affirmations. Because He knows I’m not perfect. And He chooses me anyway. Intentionally. I am not an afterthought or a tag-along. He doesn’t tell me I need to change in order to be accepted. And He has never – and will never – leave, no matter how many times I’ve broken His heart.

    He’s not just my Father.

    He’s my Friend.