Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Raspbe-Google

    I need someone – anyone – to volunteer to delete my browser history in the event of my untimely death. If someone reviewed my Google searches right now, he/she would think that I’m either (1) writing a strange novel; or (2) not allowed unsupervised access to the internet.

    Either way, these are some things I Googled this week so that you don’t have to.

    You’re welcome.

    1. Do penguins have knees? Answer – yes. Apparently penguins have knees. They’re just hidden inside their bodies, which really feels like cheating to be honest. That means every penguin I’ve ever seen waddling around has a whole pair of knees, and not bending their legs when walking is just…choosing chaos.
    2. How much sleep does the average adult need? Answer – 7 to 9 hours. Fascinating, since my brain all-too-often wakes me up at 3 a.m. to replay conversations from 2007. So…I’m not really sure how this is supposed to work.
    3. Why does my brain remember embarrassing things from 15 years ago? Answer – Because your memory prioritizes emotionally intense moments. Oh. So the time I walked into a [very clean] glass door will live with me forever. Excellent.
    4. Can you actually “overthink” something? Answer – yes. And that just seems unfair because overthinking is also the only hobby I’ve truly mastered.
    5. How many decisions does the average person make per day? Answer – about 35,000. Ironic, since I am not emotionally capable of deciding what to have for dinner, like, ever.
    6. Do dogs understand apologies? Answer – they don’t understand the words, but they respond to tone and body language. So when I apologize to my sweet Ozzy after accidentally stepping on his paw and promise him a better life moving forward, he’s mostly just hearing the word “treat.”
    7. What illness contains symptoms of headache in each temple, loss of appetite, mild stomach cramping, and a runny nose? Answer – you’re dying. Seek medical attention immediately.
    8. Is it normal to talk to yourself? Answer – yes. Apparently it helps with problem-solving and focus. And that’s good news, because I’ve been conducting full staff meetings for years.
    9. Why does time go by faster as we age? Answer – because familiar routines make time feel compressed. So in order to slow time down, I have to do new things? Ick. My preferred activity is sitting in my house. So this presents somewhat of a problem.
    10. Is it normal to Google random questions all the time? Answer – yes. Curiosity and random questioning are normal cognitive behavior, which is a relief, because at this point, Google and I are basically co-workers.

    If nothing else, the internet has taught me something really important: Humans are deeply curious creatures. And sometimes that curiosity leads to groundbreaking discoveries. Other times I just need to know at 4:30 a.m. if penguins have knees. I’m grateful that Google is available to answer all of my questions, even if the answer is, “Yes. And maybe you should get some sleep.”

  • Wrong Raspberry

    One of the strange (but comical) things about growing into myself has been realizing how many things I used to believe – with absolute confidence – that turned out to be completely wrong.

    Not a little bit wrong. Not only technically incorrect. Just wildly, enthusiastically erroneous. See below.

    1. I used to think that if I explained myself clearly enough, my point would be well taken. If I could just provide enough context, enough examples, enough emotional PowerPoint slides, people would go, “Oh! That makes sense now!” As it turns out, people don’t change their opinions just because I can deliver a compelling TED Talk. As dead set as I used to be in my own views, I should’ve understood this. I didn’t.
    2. I thought closure came from getting the last word. Old Me believed that a polished final argument would close a case. But life isn’t a courtroom drama. It doesn’t come with mic drops or closed files. Now it’s just me, learning the reality that closure actually comes from something a lot less satisfying – silence.
    3. I assumed that being emotionally intense made me “deep.” I thought that feeling everything at full volume meant I was profound. But really it just made me exhausted. And occasionally dramatic. My strength for the last few months has been brushing things off with the following internal dialogue: “That has more to do with them than me.”
    4. I viewed all exciting things as good ideas. The not-so-reliable decision-making process of (1) Feel something intensely; (2) Immediately act on it; and (3) Deal with consequences later – well, it’s been more costly than beneficial. I’m not mad at myself for making those decisions anymore, but I have learned from them. Sometimes that sense of excitement was just adrenaline wearing a disguise. Excitement isn’t always wisdom.
    5. I perceived that other people were “the problem” in my life. This one took an embarrassingly long time to figure out. When the same problems kept appearing in different places – jobs, friendships, relationships – it definitely wasn’t the universe conspiring against me. The common denominator was me.
    6. I trusted that people who really loved me could/would stomach my chaos. Unconditional tolerance. Like, “Her choices are questionable, but she’s interesting!” As it turns out, most people just want stability. Weird, right?
    7. The motive for self reinvention was the disappearance of my past. New house. New job. New dog. New clothes. New anti-depressant (cough). Surely that would solve everything…except there was one small logistical issue. I came with me.
    8. Stability sounded boring, and there was a time when routine felt like stagnation and complacency. The dullness of predictability wasn’t my vibe. But now that my life is calmer, the shocker is that peace is extremely underrated. Nowadays, if “boring” is the worst way someone can describe me, it’s a win.
    9. I figured that apologies fixed everything. In fairness, apologies fix A LOT for me. So I assumed other people felt the same way. I thought that if I said “I’m sorry” sincerely enough, relationships would reset. I know now that’s not the case. Apologies are important, but trust isn’t rebuilt with words.
    10. I surmised that one day I would snap my fingers and magically become a fully formed adult. And then 38 years went by and I found myself thinking, “What in the world am I doing?!” The moment I wake up and have my life together hasn’t happened yet, and at this point, I think it’s a myth. Perfect judgment, complete emotional regulation, flawless decision-making…regrettably, it’s all impossible. The best I can hope for is baby steps of effort and lots of learning based on the mistakes I have already made and the ones I’ll make in the future, and in the meantime, occasionally Googling things I should probably already know.

    If there is one thing I have learned it’s that growth is basically the process of realizing that Past Me was wrong about pretty much everything. Past Me wasn’t stupid, but Past Me didn’t have the experience that Current Me does. And if everything goes well, Future Me will probably look back at this list and laugh, too.

    That’s both humbling and strangely comforting.

  • Raspberry on the Rocks

    There’s a rock in my pocket.

    It isn’t special.

    It’s not smooth enough to be called a keepsake…not sharp enough to be called dangerous. It’s just…a rock. Ordinary in every way except for the fact that I carry it with me.

    I don’t remember when I picked it up, and if you ask me why I keep it, my answer wouldn’t satisfy you. It doesn’t serve a purpose. It doesn’t improve anything. It doesn’t even belong in a pocket meant for keys and chapstick and things that make life easier.

    And yet it’s there.

    Some days I forget about it entirely.

    I move through my day without adjusting for its weight. I laugh easily. I walk with no consideration of balance. I reach into my pocket for something else and never notice the extra roundness resting against my palm.

    On those days, the rock might as well not exist.

    Other days, though, I remember.

    Not because it hurts – technically – but because my fingers brush against it. I roll it absentmindedly between my thumb and forefinger, tracing its edges like it might soften if I give it enough attention.

    And I hold it there – just for a second.

    Not trying to get rid of it. Not even questioning why it’s still with me.

    Just…acknowledging it.

    On those days, I make small accommodations.

    I shift it to the other side of my pocket. I walk a little differently. I carry on, but with awareness – a quiet understanding that something is there, even if it isn’t causing harm in that moment.

    And then there are even more “other days.”

    The days when the rock announces itself.

    It knocks against my hip when I move too quickly. It rattles when I sit down. It crowds out the keys and chapstick and other practical things I need.

    On these types of days, I can’t ignore it.

    The weight feels disproportionate, somehow heavier than it should be for something so small. It throws off my rhythm. It slows me down. It makes normal, simple tasks feel complicated.

    I reach into my pocket, close my hand around it, and think, “Why am I still carrying this?“

    It would be easy enough to take it out, set it down on a table, leave it on a curb, or toss it somewhere it couldn’t follow me.

    There’s nothing physically stopping me.

    And yet – I don’t.

    Because the rock is not just a rock.

    It’s something I picked up along the way. Something that meant something once. Something tied to a moment, a mistake, a memory I haven’t fully sorted through.

    It isn’t good or bad. It just…is.

    And some days I wish I could walk without it. Other days I don’t notice it enough to care. But on days when it presses hard enough to leave a bruise, I wonder if I’ve mistaken “carrying” for “holding on” – if I’ve confused endurance with necessity.

    The rock does not encompass the lesson. The rock does not decide how I move. It doesn’t get to dictate my direction or define my pace. It can make things heavier, and it can shift my balance if I allow it.

    But it is still something I choose to carry.

    And maybe one day, I’ll choose differently. Not in anger. Not in shame. Just in understanding.

    Maybe someday, I’ll take it out of the home it has made in my pocket, feel its weight one last time, and set it down somewhere that doesn’t require me to adjust around it.

    Not because the rock was bad.

    Not because it didn’t matter.

    But because I have hope that I will not always have to carry the things I am carrying now.

    Until then, it stays. A quiet weight. A familiar shape. And a reminder that some things don’t have to be heavy forever…

    …even if, for now, they still are.

  • Raspberry Labels

    At different points in life, we are assigned labels. Sometimes complimentary. Sometimes critical.

    Sometimes people label us based on conclusions they’ve drawn after watching a pattern in your life long enough to feel confident about it. And to be fair, sometimes those labels are accurate for a season.

    My therapist tells me that we are all made up of parts. Parts of our childhood, parts of our early adulthood, parts of parenthood, and parts of our present selves. She suggests that’s why we are always evolving – because the present us handles things differently than we might have yesterday. By that logic, labels often outlive the versions of us that created said label in the first place.

    People tend to remember the pattern even after we’ve disrupted it.

    I present to you a set of labels that have been specifically assigned and curated to me by people who thought they knew me well, at least during certain seasons of my life.

    1. Impulsive. So many of my past decisions were driven by emotion in the moment. If something felt exciting, urgent, or emotionally intense, I move toward it quickly. Intention doesn’t matter to most, but there were times in my life when I just wanted to feel better. And that’s not an excuse. But at the time, reflection came after the impulse. These days, I pause more. Not perfectly, but more often than before.
    2. Avoidant. I was an instinctive “runner.” When life became uncomfortable, I would move away from the discomfort rather than sit in it. New distractions. New environments. New circumstances. Anything that helped me avoid the deeper issue. Now I’m practicing the art of staying. I’m examining things instead of escaping.
    3. Chaotic. There were seasons in my life where chaos seemed to follow me, or rather, I created chaos by making those aforementioned emotion-driven decisions. Those types of choices tend to produce complicated outcomes, but I was blind to consequences in those moments. For the last several months, my life, circumstantially, is quieter. More routine. Less dramatic. Boring, really. I am learning to sit in that healthy stability instead of the chaos.
    4. People-pleaser. I tried so hard for so many years to be the version of myself I thought other people could stomach. At times, I eliminated pieces of myself that people didn’t accept, and other times, I highlighted aspects of my personality from which people benefitted. I wanted to maintain approval. And even though I don’t wholeheartedly believe it yet, I tell myself now that authenticity matters more than universal acceptance, and the truth is that shrinking myself to suit others proved to be a pointless effort anyway. Not everyone has to understand me.
    5. Defensive. When questioned in the past, my gut reaction was to explain, justify and defend. I wasn’t always trying to deceive people, but it just seemed easier at the time to clarify, as opposed to facing the whole truth about my choices. Now I do my best to be accountable. That’s scary because it requires brutal honesty. But Present Me won’t let me skate by on technicalities. I have to do the work necessary to become someone I can tolerate.
    6. Reactive. When emotions ran high, my responses used to follow immediately. Thoughtfulness sometimes arrived later. Today I try to slow down. Emotions aren’t wrong, but words said in the middle of emotional storms rarely lead to a peaceful place.
    7. Defined by my mistakes. This one has lingered the longest, and it’s been the most difficult to slough off. There is evidence to support others’ position – that I have a pattern of failing. Failing family. Failing friendships, failing faithfulness, failing at honesty. So it’s up to us, as a society, to decide how to look at mistakes. This label has been slapped onto my forehead by people who had expectations for me that I could not meet. I can see those mistakes in one of two ways. Those mistakes are either evidence of incompetency, or they’re an opportunity for growth. I am doing my best, now, to not let those repeated missteps permanently anchor me.
    8. Selfish. It is not required of others to accept my intentions. People see me from a point of view that aligns most closely with their narratives. That’s why you could put my boss, my pastor, and one of my siblings in a room together, and none of them would offer even similar descriptions of who I am. In fact, it might not even seem like they were all describing the same person. Some of the mistakes I have made were incredibly surface-level selfish. To others, it does not matter if I was breaking. It only matters that I chose the wrong way to breathe in the middle of breaking. And I understand that. So now the goal is to keep trying to do the next right thing – by my standards – not by anyone else’s. Doing that doesn’t take away the sting of the label, but it does give me a little autonomy.
    9. Dishonest. Since so many of my past choices did not align with my core values, I often tried to hide or keep secret the not-so-desirable parts of my life. Other times, I performed completely, just trying to earn a seat at others’ tables, and in doing so, it has been difficult to draw a line between who I pretended to be and who I actually am. Combine that confusion with these labels, and I can only serve a sour, bitter cocktail of emptiness. I combat that now by analyzing each thought and each opinion with intentionality. I can’t be myself if I don’t know where others’ expectations stop and I begin.
    10. Careless. I guess this is the most important one. People think that the mistakes I made were with total disregard, like I somehow thought – mistake after mistake – that I could avoid the feelings I am dealing with today. I think what most people fail to realize is that the mistakes I made came from a places of deeply-rooted pain, and again, that doesn’t excuse the things I’ve done, but it does offer some context. It’s easy to look at someone else’s situation and firmly announce what he or she “should” do. To actually do it, though? So much harder. I do accept this label, because it has been assigned by people who wholeheartedly believe that the mistakes I have made are a direct reflection of how I feel about them. I can see how it looks that way. After so much analysis, though, I can say with full conviction that my decisions had absolutely nothing to do with them at all, but rather, I made them based on how I felt about myself, my own capabilities, and my own insecurities.

    The individuals who have assigned one of these labels to me don’t communicate with me anymore. If TikTok therapy spreads truth, then my entire existence can be dwindled down to a very specific pattern of harmful tendencies that now make up my entire character. And for those individuals who choose not to see past my mistakes, or the deeper reasons behind them, I can meet those people where they are, and even agree with them to a certain extent.

    But maybe my energy is best placed in the determination to change my mind about myself instead of the minds of others. And every day that I choose to live a little differently provides just as much evidence to refute all of those labels. I’m 38 years old. And I’m late. But I am capable of change – even if it takes time, even if the work is torturous, and even if it takes the rest of world a very long time to see it.

  • Raspberry Progress

    I do not know if I’ll share this or if this will become a write-and-save. At any rate, since I’ve been talking about growth, I thought I should draft a memorandum with a list of noticeable changes I have made so far so that said list is available to me the next time I feel stunted.

    In no way am I finished. In fact, I don’t think we ever “finish.” But as I have battled people in my life who were set in their ways, it has become very clear to me that growth matters more to me than acceptance. Well…most of the time anyway.

    1. My mindset shifted from explanation to accountability. Seven months ago, the questions I’d ask myself revolved around why things happened – patterns, diagnoses, motivations, dynamics. But over time, I started asking myself questions that prompted true change. What does this shift actually look like? How do I move forward even if…? How do I press on given the consequences of my past choices? That is a noticeable shift from analysis to ownership, and just the reframing of my internal interrogatives has manifested into outward softness.
    2. I reset my focus from external validation to internal integrity. I used to base how I felt about myself completely on what others thought/said, whether other people forgave me, and how other people interpreted my words and actions. In doing so, I became incredibly insecure. Now, I just try to do the next right thing, no matter how small, and regardless of who congratulates me or notices. While I used to be consumed with reputation management, what I focus on now is character development. And I’ll admit that being rejected still hurts, and there are still days when I crumble into a ball of loneliness. To be honest, I do not know if that will ever completely go away. But the fact that I am crumbling less now than I did last year is noteworthy progress.
    3. I have stopped romanticizing intensity. So many of my past decisions were driven by emotion, intensity or escape, which is why my nervous system was out of whack for the first 20 years of my adult life. My life now is not what other people would consider “glamorous.” My routine is calm. Steady. Sustainable. Peace can feel boring compared to the dynamic I used to think I needed. But this way is healthier.
    4. I have slowly incorporated self-examination into my way of thinking, without allowing it to grow into self-destruction. Until about September of last year, I accepted negative energy from others as “truth.” I even took pride in saying that I was my own worst critic. When identifying behavior, I dramatized my mistakes, and then added them all up just to assign myself a certain value. And it really dragged me down. It is difficult on hard days, but now, I try to take responsibility for the choices I’ve made, while also reminding myself that I’m doing the work, I’m not finished, and growth requires discipline. The balance between self-condemnation and self-respect, while still in progress, has reworked my entire emotional compass.
    5. I now think in longer timelines. To be fair to myself, several circumstantial-type things loomed over my head until about 6 months ago, and it has helped that I’ve been able to make plans without certain logistics remaining in limbo. Most of it was money-related, and not only did I fight the good fight, but I won. Those logistics aside, I used to live my life on the edge of my own seat, anticipating the next fight, holding my breath for the next emergency. I made decisions reactively and emotionally in hopes of resolving pain quickly. These days I try to think about things from a different perspective – longevity. It’s been a nice change of pace – from once living in survival mode to making my own 10 year plan.

    I still struggle. My instincts used to rule my life, and now, I process things much more slowly. But in doing so, I’ve created a mindset that will actually take me places. And it’s been a refreshing thing to track.

  • Raspberry Hurt

    I used to believe that my struggle to forgive certain people had to do with the depth of the hurt they caused me.

    And to be fair, the hurt was real.

    Some things that have happened in my life have genuinely wounded me. Words have been spoken over me that crushed my spirit. Trust has been broken by people with whom I believed I was very close. Situations have unfolded that have left marks on me that I carry to this day.

    But being the overthinker that I am, I have started sitting with discomfort of my hurt. And I realized that it isn’t just the pain that keeps me hanging on. It’s what the pain represents.

    Unintentionally, and as years have passed and more hurt has piled on, I began wearing my hurt like a badge.

    Not in a dramatic or obvious way, but in a quiet way that announced, “Look what I have survived.”

    And that story gave me something. Validation. A testimony. Justification for my anger. And a clear explanation for certain behaviors and reactions. As long as the hurt remains central to my story, I haven’t had to look too closely at anything else.

    There is a strange power in being the person who was wronged. I felt like it gave me moral high ground. I have been allowed to say, with complete accuracy, “What happened to me wasn’t fair.”

    And at some point that truth became the foundation of how I have seen myself: The survivor. The wounded one. The person who endured something difficult.

    Over time, though, that identity has become limiting – because the story always circles back to the offense.

    Forgiveness is not just about letting someone off the hook, at least not in the way we often imagine. Forgiveness requires releasing the offenses that have shaped our identity. And that’s hard, because once the hurt is no longer the defining story, something has to take its place.

    Slow but surely, I have started releasing the role of “the one who was wronged,” and the spotlight has quietly shifted. It’s moved inward. So instead of focusing on what someone else did, I have had to start asking myself different questions:

    What patterns did I develop because of my hurt? What reactions became automatic? Where have I used my wounds to explain my own behavior?

    That kind of examination has been uncomfortable for me, because the moral high ground sometimes feels safer than a mirror.

    The hurt I’ve experienced has become a crutch, not because I’m weak, but because it offers an explanation as to how I have handled circumstances that have surfaced throughout my adult life. If I’m struggling in a relationship or if I’m guarded or if I react too strongly, all of that hurt explains why.

    And even though those explanations are often valid, they have become long-standing, which has stunted my growth. When my pain became part of my identity, I started protecting it, revisiting it, reinforcing it, and using it to interpret new experiences. I don’t enjoy suffering, but the story had become familiar, and familiar things are surprisingly hard to release.

    Forgiveness does not erase what happened. It doesn’t pretend the offense didn’t matter. But it does remove the offense from the center of my life story, which then allows the narrative to change.

    So instead of “This is what was done to me,” my story becomes, “This is what I learned. This is who I’m becoming. This is how I’m moving forward.” And then forgiveness isn’t the end of the work – it’s the beginning.

    I have released so many offenses, truly and wholeheartedly, in the last 7 months. With or without an actual apology, others’ debt has been canceled. All grace. No blame. And lots of conviction. And since those offenses no longer define me, the responsibility I have to grow has become entirely mine. And that requires a level of courage I never thought I had.

    The testimony I once had – the one that helped me explain myself – is no longer rehashed in my mind. I have realized that the most meaningful healing comes when that testimony is no longer the headline.

    It’s not that the hurt never mattered. It’s just that who I am becoming matters more. And I’m taking credit for that – without giving those offenses as much as a sidebar.

  • Raspberry Goals

    When people talk about change, they often imagine dramatic transformation.

    A big moment. A life overhaul. A completely new version of themselves. I’m just as guilty as the next person. “Okay, today, I’m going to declutter my entire house, walk 5 miles on the treadmill, write a novel, cook breakfast, lunch and dinner from scratch, fold and put away 8 loads of laundry, potty train my dog, quit vaping, drink an entire gallon of water, and read the Old Testament.“

    But real progress doesn’t really work that way, and I know, because I learned. Most meaningful change happens quietly, through small decisions repeated over time, not overnight.

    And as I’ve thought about the next year of my life, I have realized something important: I don’t need to reinvent myself. I simply need to keep moving forward.

    So I put some small practical steps in place so that I can accomplish my goals.

    1. I started with brutal honesty. In order to progress, I have to tell myself the truth. I asked myself questions. What patterns have been hurting my life? What decisions keep leading me somewhere I don’t want to go? I can’t change something I refuse to see clearly.
    2. I am opting to focus on one or two areas at a time. Trying to fix everything at once usually leads to fixing nothing at all. I made a list of my goals, and then prioritized them, choosing one or two areas where growth would matter the most. Slow improvement in the right direction is better than half-finished projects sitting all over my house waiting to be touched again.
    3. I have built routines that support the version I want to become. My willpower fades quickly. So I changed my routine to become more disciplined, calmer, healthier, and more honest with myself. So now my daily habits reinforce that identity.
    4. I have replaced avoidance with reflection. It boils down to one simple question – what can I learn from this? Reflection turns mistakes into information.
    5. I have accepted that genuine growth will feel boring most of the time. Doing the same healthy things repeatedly, making steady decisions, and living more quietly than before, the kind of progress I want to make is private and permanent. It’s not dramatic, but stability is often a sign that progress is happening.
    6. I pay attention to my triggers. Patterns repeat in my life because something triggers said patterns. Stress. Loneliness. Frustration. So instead of waiting for the behavior to present itself, I have started noticing what happens immediately beforehand. Understanding my triggers has helped me interrupt the pattern earlier.
    7. I have surrounded myself with honesty. Growth is easier when you’re around people who value truth. I can’t expect to grow if I’m looking for immediate validation from social media or fake friends. My circle, now, is incredibly small, but it contains people who challenge me when I need it, people who aren’t interested in maintaining comfortable illusions. Honest environments create room for real progress.
    8. I have learned to tolerate discomfort. When something happens in my life that causes me discomfort, my knee-jerk reaction is to move on quickly, distract myself, assign blame, or push the situation aside. Many of my own destructive habits exist because they offer quick relief. But I am not interested in quick fixes anymore. So I am sitting with discomfort long enough now to choose a better response. Sometimes it’s waiting to respond to a text. Sometimes it’s completing a task that I hate (you thought of laundry, didn’t you?) before my feelings about it get a say. Discomfort isn’t the enemy. Avoidance is.
    9. I measure progress by consistency, not perfection. I have already made so many mistakes during this process. But it’s not about never slipping. It’s about how quickly I return to the right path after I do slip. Consistency builds character better than perfection ever could.
    10. I keep choosing the next right thing. I cannot solve the entire future. I cannot anticipate every emergency or difficult emotion. But anticipation isn’t necessary. I only have to make the next decision well. The next conversation. The next moment of honesty. The next responsible choice. And over time, those choices accumulate. So that 12 months from now, my life will look very different from the one I’m living today.

    Real progress doesn’t require dramatic leaps. In order to make things “stick,” I need to be making small decisions, repeatedly, through honesty, reflection, and discipline. Most of my steps feel ordinary in the moment – refilling my Stanley with water instead of Dr. Pepper, reading for 20 minutes before bed instead of scrolling, talking to Jesus in the shower about my worries instead of internalizing them, putting the shopping cart back after weekly grocery pick ups, taking 10 seconds to send a text to a friend. Those are the small things that have the power to reshape an entire year, and when repeated enough, they can reshape an entire life.

  • Hardworking Raspberry

    About seven months ago, achieving peace felt impossible.

    It was impossible. Ingestion of a sedative was the only way to ensure sleep.

    My mind replayed everything – every decision, every mistake, every relationship I had damaged. The realization that prolonged dishonesty – with myself and with others – had cost more than I ever anticipated – sent me spiraling.

    I hated some things I had done. I hated the version of myself who had made those wretched choices. And for a while, it felt like my entire life had collapsed inward. And I just couldn’t bounce back.

    In previous seasons of my life, I had a pattern. When things got uncomfortable, I moved. Ran. Sprinted. To a new friend group, or a new job, or a new distraction. I would deflect just long enough to quiet that discomfort and put a metaphorical “band-aid” on a much bigger wound, all the while convincing myself that recovery was the solution.

    But doing all of that didn’t shift me forward. I had only shifted sideways, which became clear when the same issues and same bad decisions and same cycles repeated themselves throughout various stages of my life.

    The root problem – me – came along every time.

    So when that happened again seven months ago, I stayed. No running. No deflection. No band-aids.

    I didn’t outrun the discomfort. I sat in it. Like a whole new definition of “feel your feelings.” What I didn’t realize in all the times I’ve said that phrase is that sometimes the act of feeling your feelings includes feelings of guilt. Shame. Remorse. Regret. Grief.

    So I sat. And sat some more. I felt those darn feelings. Additionally, I found a therapist, too. I did the homework. I read the books. I researched patterns and behavior, not because I’m a scholar by any stretch, but because I could not acknowledge what I could not define.

    And most importantly, I didn’t stop at understanding why I did those things or why I repeated those cycles. Yes, self-awareness is helpful. But self-awareness alone does not change anything.

    Work does. Daily decisions do. Forward movement does. Climbing, pushing, digging. And it’s all done slowly and often painfully, and with more discipline that I ever thought I had.

    It wasn’t the loss of relationships that induced my need to change, because I’d lost people before, and still repeated the same mistakes. But or the first time in my life, on the heels of all of those repeated cycles, I was legitimately fearful. I realized that I had become someone even I couldn’t tolerate anymore. And the idea that I might stay that way permanently – that I might continue to live inside a version of myself that I couldn’t stand – scared me more than any external consequence. I simply did not want to be who I was.

    Peace, right now, looks nothing like I once imagined. As it turns out, I am just as incapable as the next person, and I couldn’t do a complete overhaul of my emotions, habits, or coping mechanisms overnight. So my day-to-day is not dramatic or exciting. My life is currently pretty boring. Quiet. Uneventful. Routine.

    But it’s also calm. Stable.

    And the decisions I make no longer send me into a spiral of self-loathing. I can finally rest. Even when considering all I’ve lost, I can actually lay down at night and rest. Not because everything in my life is perfect or because I know something crucial that I didn’t know before.

    I’m just being honest. Honest with myself. Honest with others. Honest, even when the day doesn’t go exactly as planned. Honest, even when I don’t complete every task I assign myself. Honest, even when regrets from the past try to creep back into my headspace.

    I know that I am still actively choosing the next right thing. And that matters. To me.

    I’m not finished. I’m nowhere close to having everything resolved. I’m not even sure I’ve reached self-acceptance yet, much less self-love.

    But I am doing the work. Consistently, imperfectly, and daily. That is a kind of integrity I didn’t have before, and it’s that integrity that keeps me in forward motion.

    There are moments, still, when grief overtakes me. Those moments bring waves of guilt.

    But something has shifted. And now, instead of running from that grief and guilt, I can sit for a little bit.

    I can, and do, acknowledge what I have lost without abandoning the work that is slowly rebuilding who I am.

    So peace, right now, is not happiness. It’s just steadiness. It’s the quiet confidence that comes from doing the right thing repeatedly – even when no ones sees it. It’s the ability to tolerate hard emotions without abandoning my goals. It’s knowing that I cannot undo the past, but I can choose not to add to it. And slowly, seven months of choosing the next right thing – one decision at a time – has recalibrated something in my spirit. And now, even while carrying the weight of what I’ve lost, I can still rest in myself.

  • Raspberry Acceptance

    Personal growth is often discussed like it’s a renovation project.

    Identify the flaw. Fix the behavior. Become the improved version of yourself.

    And some things in life really do change that way. But in my own journey, I’ve realized something different.

    Some traits aren’t habits.

    They’re wiring.

    I’m talking about tendencies that show up for me, repeatedly, even after I’ve put this much work into myself. I’m not failing, despite my initial reaction toward that belief. But those tendencies are just how I am built.

    Learning to live with those things with honesty has been one of the harder parts of re-educating myself. I have had to adjust my expectations of change to include things I really thought were flaws.

    1. I have a strong need for control. I like knowing what’s happening. I like having influence over my environment, my routines, and my plans. It’s almost stubbornness. In some areas of my life, that instinct helps me stay organized and responsible. But in other areas, it can create tension, especially when circumstances refuse to cooperate with my desire to manage outcomes. I am learning that control is not something to wish away or white-knuckle. It’s something to steward carefully.
    2. Anxiety will likely always be part of my internal landscape. Some people seem naturally relaxed. But I’m not wired that way. My brain scans for problems, possibilities, and potential consequences automatically. And if I can’t eliminate anxiety completely, I need to expound my energy learning how to keep that anxiety from running the entire show. I can accept anxiety, as long as it knows its place.
    3. I overthink almost everything. My mind likes to examine things from multiple angles. All. The. Time. That can be helpful when making thoughtful decisions. It can also mean replaying conversations, analyzing tone, and considering possibilities long after everyone else has moved on. So I am learning how to balance reflection with letting things go.
    4. I feel things deeply. Sometimes I envy those who can brush things off with ease. I don’t seem to have that setting. Joy, regret, guilt, empathy, disappointment – everything lands with a little more intensity that I sometimes wish it did. But to counter those, the same depth that makes hard feelings heavy also makes love, compassion, and meaningful connection. I think the trick might be to focus on what is deep and positive, instead of generalizing deep emotion as “all-bad-never-good.”
    5. I may never feel completely satisfied with my appearance. This is a quieter struggle. No matter what stage of life I’m in, some part of me seems to find a mirror and evaluate how I look..and find room for improvement. So I am learning now that acceptance might not mean embracing every detail, but instead, refusing to let those pessimistic thoughts dominate my sense of self-worth.
    6. I’m an introvert, even when I try not to be. I can socialize. I can even be a little outgoing when the situation calls for it. But at the end of the day, my energy restores itself in quiet places. Large groups suck the life out of me. Solitude steadies me. But I’m leaning into it. Needing space doesn’t mean something is wrong with me.
    7. I can become micromanagerial about things that matter to me. If something feels important, my attention to detail intensifies. I notice small things. I care about how they’re handled. And sometimes that means I step in more than I probably should. This is something I am trying to balance – holding standards without needing to hover over every step along the way.
    8. I have a tendency toward perfectionism. Not the productive kind. The kind that quietly whispers that things should have been done better. The way it works for me can make my accomplishments feel smaller and my mistakes seem larger than they actually are. Learning to accept “good enough” is still a work in progress.
    9. I can be incredibly hard on myself. If I make a mistake, my instinct isn’t usually compassion. It’s analysis. Correction. Criticism. In that order. The upside is accountability. But the downside is remembering that growth doesn’t require constant self-punishment.
    10. I will probably always want more clarity than life can provide. I think when I began this journey, my goal was to understand – why certain things happened, how other people think, and what the right decisions are. But life rarely gives us complete explanations, itineraries or peeks into the future. And I’m learning that sometimes the healthiest response isn’t finding the perfect answer. It’s learning to find small peaceful moments in the middle of uncertainty.

    Accepting all of these doesn’t mean I am giving up on growth. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

    Now I’m recognizing the difference between changing behavior and changing wiring.

    I may always think deeply. Feel deeply. Seek clarity. Prefer control. But understanding those tendencies allows me to work with them instead of pretending that they don’t exist.

    And strangely, that kind of honesty makes this process feel steadier and more realistic.

    Not perfect. Just genuine.

  • Raspberry Endings

    Today I caught myself saying, in the middle of tearful prayer, “Lord, I don’t want to be here anymore.”

    There was no plan. But today has been one of those days when the weight of my circumstances has been unbearable.

    I said, “Lord, I’m going to do [the work] because You told me to. But I don’t want to do it. This hurts. And I don’t want to do it.”

    And then I took my truck keys out of the ignition, grabbed my purse, and walked into my house with crusty eyes, convincing myself all the way up the porch steps that the people in my home would never know I was falling apart in that moment.

    Having faith is hard. Hoping is hard. Breaking my flesh and interrupting those desperate, ruminating thoughts…hard.

    I want this blog site to be a positive contribution to the world – even if posts inside it only resonate with a few people.

    But today I can’t put on a typographical smile and pretend I’m okay. Because I’m not.

    I’m falling apart over here.

    I’m tired in a way that sleep won’t resolve. It’s the kind of tired that comes from carrying regret. From replaying the past. From wishing I had made better choices in the last 38 years.

    It’s the kind of tired that whispers, “Maybe the world would be better without me in it.”

    No drama. Just genuine ponderance.

    While peering out the window of my truck after therapy this morning, scanning my big front yard and watching the tree leaves flutter in the breeze, I prayed:

    “Lord, I do not feel like my life has purpose or meaning anymore. I have no friends, and almost all of my relationships are strained. Everything I touch falls apart. And I don’t understand – if I make everything worse, if I’m not making any progress or positive impact, if I’m isolated and lonely – why You won’t just come get me. It’s not just that I don’t improve people’s lives – that’s bad enough. But what I do is actively make people’s lives worse. Please end the suffering of my loved ones that exists because of me – and just come get me. I can’t do this anymore.“

    Sometimes when people talk about despair, it becomes a dramatic display of crying, breaking down, and losing control.

    Not me. Not today. What I prayed was just an outward display of quiet exhaustion, because pounding away at my goals every day, just to make a hair’s width of progress…well…it hardly seems worth it sometimes. And today, during that moment, I had honestly concluded that the world would be an easier place for others to live if I wasn’t in it.

    Objectively, I know that my life has value, because the Lord’s Word says so. But the choices I have made that have not been ordained by Him? Those are the ones I worry about. And in a state of hopelessness, I worry if the damage I’ve done is permanent.

    I sat in silence after that prayer, half expecting no response at all, or at most, His correction. Instead, what I got back wasn’t a voice. It was a realization: The Lord does not ask for permission. If He wanted me removed from this world, I wouldn’t still be here.

    I woke up this morning. I’m breathing. And my story isn’t finished.

    Regret can feel like a life sentence sometimes. I replay the same moments over and over. I think about the things I wish I had said or the choices I wish I hadn’t made or the people I wish I hadn’t hurt. Today I allowed that regret to bury me.

    But regret can do something more positive, too. It can wake us up.

    The truth is that immediate healing/deliverance doesn’t always come after a single prayer. It can. But that’s not how it always happens. And in my case, the quiet, tender voice of the Holy Spirit reminded me today that sometimes the miracle lies within the hard work.

    Therapy sessions. Honest conversations. The discipline it takes for me to look at myself in the mirror every day. The unnoticed but constant dilemma and subsequent inner turmoil that exist when choosing the next right thing over the next easy thing.

    It is uncomfortable, tedious, and at times agonizing work. And I don’t want to do it.

    But I’m doing it. Because He said so.

    He hasn’t removed me from this world. He’s left me here to do something harder – grow. Become more honest. More accountable. More grounded. And He won’t honor or answer a prayer where I give myself permission to escape or give up just because of regret. He has denied my request, as if to remind me that I don’t need escape. I need strength to endure. Discipline and wisdom to make better choices. And courage to sit with my pain.

    If you are in a season of regret or shame, please remember that He will not give you a task without also providing every tool you need to complete it.