Her feet are calloused and caked in sand. The lips that used to be smooth and supple are cracked. Strands of hair whip against her cheek, gritty and tangled. She stumbles forward, wiping a bead of sweat that slips past her lashes. Her eyes begin to blur.

There was a time she knew who she was.

But not anymore. Something essential has dried up within her, leaving her brittle and worn down.

She wants out of this place–this desert where relief feels impossibly far away. Her steps slow, and for a moment she wonders what it would be like to stop trying, to let the desert hold her weight.

But then…something shifts.

A cool breeze dances over her. The scent of sweet agave and damp earth lingers in the air. Goosebumps appear. Before she fully understands why, her body leans toward it.

Her eyes scan the horizon and then she sees it:

A patch of turquoise. A ring of rich, vibrant green. Trees stretching towards the sky.

Her breath deepens. She wipes the sweat off her forehead, and her feet begin to move. She starts to run, pulled by hope.

I’m not just another weary traveler alongside her.

I was her.

The First Call to Oasis

I once wrote about how the image of an oasis first came to me. It felt like a distant mirage in the desert I was wandering. But that morning as I sat in that cold, drab clinic reeling from betrayal, oasis came with a force I couldn’t name.

And just for a moment, all of the isolation and pain that rupture had heaped upon me washed away. I saw myself standing barefooted in the fresh waters of the oasis. Other women surrounded me—women in my family line, women I knew, some I had never seen. I could picture their faces. I could hear their words. Our stories mingled there and strength rose not only from the lush refuge, but from one another.

What would it be like to gather here? To be unhurried, unscathed by the barrenness of the desert around us? To take a long sip of water and be soaked up by beauty?

The oasis could hold our healing. It could write the words that would become the next chapter of our lives. The labels and false stories could be softened by its waters. Because in the oasis, we would be safe—secluded and hidden from the harshness and exposure of the desert.

I saw it all, and made a silent declaration:

If I ever make it through this, I’m going to create an oasis for other women.

And just as quickly as it came, the feeling faded.

I was back in the waiting room again.

Share

The Oasis Within

In the six years since, the oasis returns at different times, and my body remembers the way it felt that morning.

I knew it was something I still wanted to create.

Would it be a retreat? A weekly group? A vibe? An experience?

But the more I’ve healed and grown, I’ve longed for the replenishing waters of the oasis to extend outward, towards everyone I encounter—

In my home, my family, my community, my city. In my words, both written and spoken. In the spaces of connection.

And within myself.

Last week, as I sat on a call with a group of writers and let my pen move without filtering, oasis appeared on the page again.

The more I wrote, the more I sensed its nearness—not just as a place I long to create, but as something alive within me.

Oasis isn’t only an environment lush with beauty or a gathering space for healing souls.

It’s also the quiet rush of peace—the breath I didn’t know I was holding finally released. For me, it’s the renewal that comes when I sense God’s presence.

Maybe the oasis isn’t somewhere we will reach in the distant future.

Maybe its fertile soil and life-sustaining waters are already within us, flowing outward in ways we’re learning how to trust. Not as something to manufacture or achieve. Just simply something to practice—a way of living awake to both the hope ahead and beauty already here within and around us.

Maybe the oasis is something we learn to carry with us, even through the desert.

Especially through the desert.

If you’ve been here with me—through deserts, pauses, and long stretches of silence—thank you for staying.

With you,

Rachel

“Come to me. I will refresh your life, for I am your oasis.” Matt. 11:28 TPT

We had just stepped off our patio when we stopped at the same time. On the ground lay a neon butterfly, flapping frantically. E bent down, scooped it up, and cupped it into her hands. I grabbed my phone, knowing I’d want to remember this glimmer moment where we were dazzled by creation together. She’s heard me cry out, “glimmer!” enough times now that she teases me for it.

As she turned the butterfly over, we saw it only had one wing. No wonder it struggled to leave her hands. Even so, it beat the single wing wildly. Its delicate patterns and bright yellow-orange coloring made us marvel. We cooed, “aww, poor little guy” as it tried to fly away, but it never could lift.

The video resurfaced this week while I was scrolling through old photos. I noticed the markings again, and the way the butterfly was fighting for flight. But what struck me most this time as I watched was E’s tenderness. The way her cupped hands cocooned him with care and curiosity. Her softened voice, intent on keeping him safe, almost validating his fragility.

I remember what she did next, after I stopped the video. She hunted for the perfect patch of grass and a few leaves to cushion him. She grabbed my phone and looked up what she could try to feed him.

Her tenderness didn’t stop - she kept checking on him throughout the day.

At some point, he moved on and disappeared.

But I like to think that little butterfly felt her with-ness.

That he felt her care, her attention, her touch.

Because that’s what with-ness is -

Presence.

Tenderness.

Companioning.

With-ness breaks through our shame and isolation. It loosens our urge to fix ourselves or others. It connects us with one another, even in our most fragile, vulnerable moments.

With-ness is what we need.

With-ness is what I need.

With-ness is what we can give.

with you,

Rachel

Where has tenderness met you lately?

Leave a comment

I’m writing this on Thursday, September 11, 2025.

The world feels heavy today. It’s the 24th anniversary of 9/11, and I’ve found myself remembering that day more than in years past - how I watched live as the second plane struck the World Trade Center, the numbness and shock settling in. The same numbness, I think, mirrors what so many of us feel now.

Every conversation I’ve had lately carries some trace of exhaustion - wars and rumors of wars, political fracture, families splintering. The drumbeat is relentless.

Last night, after watching the assassination that was replayed across millions of screens - including my teenage daughter’s - I turned to my husband and said, “The hatred is too much. I just want out of here.”

There’s a part of me (in IFS language) that has the energy of an untamed horse running wild across an open field. This part dreams of escape - to an island where I could live off the land, soak in creation, commune quietly with God. It shows up strongest when I’m overwhelmed, ready to flee with a peace out✌️.

I hate the hatred.
I hate the corruption.
I hate the churn of viral news, the chaos, the violence.
Some days it feels like the marrow is being drawn right out of our bones.

It all distills into grief within me. And though I long to escape, it isn’t the grief itself that I want to leave behind. Grief, I’ve found, can be beautiful: God-woven into us, a necessary part of our human experience, even a pathway into deeper connection with the Divine.

What I want out of is the weight of grief - the way it presses down, unrelenting, until it feels like there’s no air to breathe.

And that’s what so many of us are carrying: the weight of global tragedies, and the hidden griefs too - ruptures in relationships, health diagnoses, children struggling, dreams unraveling. This weight weaves itself into our very cells.

I don’t have neat answers, nor solutions tied up with a pretty little bow.

But I can name the ache, and I can sit here with you in it. For with-ness says: you don’t have to hold this alone.

To end, I want to offer this short prayer for anyone feeling the weight:

God, you are the holder of all that we carry.
You know the thoughts, emotions, and heartaches unique to each of us.
Hold us in your steady embrace. Amen.

With you in this,
Rachel 🙏🏽

What prayers or words rise up in you during times of relentless weight?

Leave a comment

But there’s one thing I’ve noticed over time: it always flares when I’m bracing for something.

What am I bracing for? I wrote in my journal one morning. Instead of listing the unknowns–something I’ll do when I’m overwhelmed and can’t order words into coherent sentences–I wrote about how the bracing showed up in my body. The stiffness in my back. The shortened breaths. The day-long gut festivals at the toilet. The tears sitting at the surface for months.

This isn’t sustainable, I thought after reading over my words.

When I voiced some of this to a friend later that morning, she reminded me I hadn’t slowed down much in recent months.

She was right. This summer carried both wonder and weight–celebration and loss braided together–and I never slowed long enough to digest it.

The truth is, this relentless pace is familiar. I’ve tried to address it more intentionally over the last few years as I heal and evolve. And yet, it’s still easy to get swept into the fervent motion that most of us contend with in our modern age.

As much as I’m used to spinning in many directions, something feels amplified now as my body braces harder against it.

Have you felt this too?

I sense the pull of motion sweeping into the corners of my home at the bookends of the day, when everyone is tired and tense. I hear it in the strained ways I plead with my daughters to eat breakfast, and in the annoyed tones we use as we pile into the car. Who’s the one who’s made us late today?

There’s a lot of doing-move…faster…go-and not as much being.

And the bracing isn’t just for my family’s pace. It’s for the hum of the world pressing in too. The realities of wars, genocides, school shootings, floods. The insidious weight of grief and loss. All of it lands more quickly in my body these days.

Even as I write this, I hear the voice that says, “How small this all seems…a fast pace of life that renders one dizzy, compared to mothers grieving children.”

But I'm not comparing one to the other.

And yet, maybe it’s precisely because the world is so heavy, and influences our pace, that we must notice the ways we brace. That our sore backs and amped up nervous systems are begging for more places to slow down, no matter how small they seem.

Share

This morning, I did something I hadn’t done in years.

It started as a fleeting thought in a dance store, where I had taken my daughter to buy her leotards and tights. As I ran my fingers across the gauzy tutus and cozy leg warmers, I surprised myself by wondering: Why not try ballet?

Are you kidding? There’s no time for that right now. I can’t invest in that.

But beneath the excuses was a longing I couldn’t quite name.

Was it my middle-age self hoping to reignite a childhood passion?

A desire for a new way to reconnect with the worn-out woman in need of a root job and a solid eight hours of sleep?

Or maybe it was an act of rebellion against the very pace I’ve lived with for so long.

I promised myself I’d try just one class. So I signed up for a Knaiseff floor ballet class, telling myself that if I got something out of it, maybe I’d buy a leotard.

I laid on the studio floor, arching my back to soften the bracing. The teacher queued up slow classical music. The room was dark, lit only by vertical lamps that traced the outlines of our bodies. I watched the women beside me, heard the fabric sliding against the floor, and followed their cues.

The instructor stood above me and whispered in a gentle tone, “Slow. Slow your arms. Now your legs. Don’t force it. Good, just like that. Do you feel that?”

I closed my eyes and allowed myself to. To listen. To touch. To let my body be held by the sturdiness of the ground.

As we moved, she’d instruct us:

Let yourself sigh and yawn (a parasympathetic response)

Let your body move like she wants to

Have a conversation with your body

Feel the weight of the floor

Glide your arms

Let your breath swim

There was no sweat. No breathlessness. No rush to pack in as much as possible. Just me and my body, reconnecting again, after months of a frantic pace.

For the first time in a while, my body wasn’t bracing. It was being held. And as the class finished up and the lights turned back on, I grinned to myself,
I’m buying the leotard.

Reflect: Where in your body do you feel the press of motion? What practices call you back home? Gardening, walking, cooking, painting, soaking in nature, what? I’d love to know!🌿

Note: I hold deep awareness of the immense suffering across the world. Writing about pace and bracing in my own body may seem small beside it, but perhaps slowing down and tending ourselves is one way we stay tender to the world, too.

I’m with you.

x Rachel

{ Hi friends, I’m trying something new today! I’ve written and recorded a guided visualization to help you create a safe place. The first couple of minutes offer some background and personal context, so if you’d prefer to jump straight into the practice, the visualization begins around 4:45. If you’d rather read than listen, I’ve included the full text below. Thank you so much for being here…I’d love to hear what you think🌿 }

Hi, I’m Rachel, and I’m really honored to share this space with you. Today, I’m guiding you through a visualization that’s been meaningful to me on my healing journey—something I return to often when I need to feel more grounded.

When I began facing my trauma head-on, I started seeing a therapist who specialized in betrayal trauma.
At the time, I felt utterly broken.
We had just made a cross-country move with our two daughters, and I’d been eager to settle in—find community…nest in our new home.

But all of that shifted the day I discovered what was taking place in my marriage.

Instead of reaching out to meet new people, which was something I’d done easily during past moves, I wanted to shrink and hide.

The life I thought I had shattered into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.

Mentally, I was ruminating, anxious, and unfocused.
Physically, a heaviness pressed across my chest, making it hard to breathe.
My jaw clenched; I ground my teeth endlessly.
I’d lose feeling in my hands, and my digestive system was a total wreck.
With two young kids at home, every sound set me on edge when I wasn’t dissociating from my body.

One of the first things my therapist did was normalize all of these sensations.
She reminded me that trauma often lives in the body—in tight shoulders, shallow breathing, gut distress.
And even though my world felt out of control, she helped me begin to create tiny pockets of safety inside myself.

So…I set out to build a toolbox of safety.
And one of those tools became a safe place in my mind, a visualized space I could return to anytime I felt triggered, overwhelmed, or in a state of panic.

Whether you're walking through betrayal trauma or another kind of rupture; whether you're living with chronic illness; carrying invisible pain; or simply overwhelmed by the pace and noise of life, I want to invite you to practice creating a safe place with me.

Before we begin, a couple of gentle notes:

First, in full transparency, I’m not a meditation expert. I’m just someone who continues to find this practice helpful and healing.

If guided visualizations are something you want to explore further, there are so many resources and wonderful guides out there. I’ll share a few of my favorites below.

And second, if quieting your mind or visualizing feels difficult, try doing this outside, preferably in a patch of nature. Let your senses support you:
feel your feet in the grass, touch a leaf, notice the colors around you, listen to the birds, inhale the scent of fresh air. Let your body anchor you in the experience.

Let’s begin.

Start by finding a comfortable position.

That might be sitting in a chair with your feet planted on the ground…
lying down with your head and back supported…
or standing outside with the breeze against your skin and the sun’s warmth on your face.

Wherever your body feels most at ease—
find that spot.
And when you’re ready,
gently close your eyes if that feels safe for you.

Take a moment to connect with your breath.
Notice the rise and fall of your belly.
Breathing in through your nose,
and letting your belly soften and expand.

You might place one hand on your stomach
and the other on your heart.
Feel the gentle rhythm of your breath.
The inhale…
and the exhale.

Allowing your body to relax—
just for a few minutes.

Now, I want to invite you to think of a place where you feel most at peace.

This could be a real place you’ve been before,
or one that lives in your imagination.

It might be a cozy room—
a cabin tucked in the middle of a snow-capped evergreen forest,
with plush sofas, warmth radiating from a crackling fireplace,
and a hearty bowl of soup waiting at the table.

Maybe it’s your grandmother’s garden—
vines heavy with tomatoes, berries, grapes—
and your bare feet standing on the cool, dark soil.

Or maybe it’s a beach—
your own private island with a tropical forest,
coconuts hanging from the trees,
waves crashing gently along the shore.
You might imagine your home right there,
a welcoming place on the sand.

Wherever this place is, remind yourself: you are safe here.

Begin to notice the details.

Look around.
What do you see?
What colors?
What shapes?
What textures?

What do you hear?
Let those sounds enhance your sense of calm and security.

What scents linger in the air?
Let those smells ground you.

What’s the temperature like?
How does your body feel in this space?

Now ask yourself:
Is there anyone or anything you’d like to invite into this space with you?

It might be God…
Jesus…
your Higher Power…

Someone in your life who is a trusted, wise guide.
A beloved pet, past or present.
Anyone who helps this place feel more like home.

See them with you now.
Maybe they’re looking at you with tenderness.
Maybe your dog is curled up beside you, her head resting gently in your lap.

Feel the peace,
the comfort,
the grounded safety that surrounds you.

Let yourself stay here for a while.
Let it fill you.

When you feel ready,
gently return to your breath.
Feel the rise and fall of your belly.

Start to bring your awareness back to the present moment.

And when it feels right,
flutter your eyes open.
Notice the space around you.
Take one more deep breath.

Know this:
You can return to this safe place whenever you need to.
It’s always here for you—
a quiet mental retreat,
a sanctuary.

If you’d like to reflect, you might ask yourself:

What did you feel?
What was your safe place like?
Were there any sights, smells, or sounds that stood out to you?

You can jot these down in a journal, in the comments below,
or just hold them in your heart.

Over time, you may find your safe place becomes more detailed.
You might even start having conversations here—
with wise figures, or with younger parts of yourself.

This space can become an oasis.

Personally, I find it easiest to visualize this place
right as I’m waking up or drifting off to sleep.

Often, I say my evening prayers while I’m there.
That in-between space—half-awake, half-asleep—
can be powerful.

So try experimenting. See what works for you.

And if this practice resonated with you, I’d love to hear what it brought up.

Thank you for being here with me today. Thank you for practicing.

I’m with you, and for you.

—Rachel

Share

*A couple of my favorite guides and places to find meditations:

Vanessa Michele

Insight Timer

The Pause App

Lectio 365

“Your healing lifts up the ocean of existence.” —Yung Pueblo

We hadn’t seen this stretch of sand in over a decade. We were finally back on the island where our family first began. And I was back on the shore where something in me had once started to crack open—long before I had language for what it was.

The world was holding its breath, nine months into the global pandemic. Flights were sparse. Travel felt complicated and strange. I hesitated to tell people we were going. But we were working, schooling, surviving—and something in us needed a new environment. So we booked a long stay, used airline miles, and planned to cook our meals in a borrowed kitchen.

The morning after we arrived, jet-lagged and with a full thermos of coffee, we chased the sunrise.

As we stepped out of the car, the darkness had just begun to lift. The roar of crashing waves echoed in the distance. A row of trees formed a loose curtain between the gravel parking lot and the wide open stretch of ocean. Tents and hammocks lay tucked beneath the canopy—everything asleep, except us and the ocean herself.

Our footsteps softened as we passed under the trees, ironwood needles and sand nudging up between our toes. We slipped off our shoes and stood where the ground gave way to sea. The mist from the surf cooled our skin. My daughters, ten and five at the time, raced the waves, squealing each time it broke against their calves. My husband stood still, his feet planted in the sand, the current swirling around his ankles.

I drew in a shallow breath. Before us, clouds stretched across the horizon. The sun rose slowly from the water, and distant islands emerged in silhouette.

I couldn’t believe we were there… that we had actually pulled this off.

A Photograph, and a Ripple

I still return to a candid photo my husband took that morning as the waves receded from the shore. It’s of me and my youngest daughter, standing just a few feet apart. She faces the ocean, her back to me. I’m turned toward her and the water, torso angled at the rising sun, one hand holding my wind-whipped hair.

When I look at it now, years later, I see layers of meaning:

Our smallness against the vastness.

The positioning of our bodies—both present, both apart.

Mother and daughter absorbing the same moment, in different ways.

The land of Oahu, holding both our beginning and our becoming.

But what pulls me in most are the ripples in the sand.
They move in all directions—forward toward the horizon, back toward dry ground. Left. Right. Reshaping under each wave.

Healing is like this.

It doesn’t move in a linear line. It flows. Recedes. Reshapes. It erodes, and rebuilds.

And sometimes, when we stand still long enough—with our feet planted in shifting sand—we begin to understand:

The healing isn’t only ours.
It’s for the ones who came before us.
And the ones who come after.

Forward and Backward Healing

“When we speak, we are afraid our words will not be heard or welcomed, but when we are silent, we are still afraid, so it is better to speak.” –Audre Lorde

Long before I had words for my own experience, stories of betrayal were already woven through the women in my family. Some were handed down in fragments, others only hinted at. I’ve traced three generations directly behind me—along with cousins, aunts, and women on the periphery—each holding their own version of this pain. And still, I wonder how many stories remain untold.

Each woman lived inside a cultural moment when naming this kind of pain wasn’t yet safe:

In the 1940s, my great-grandmother lived through wartime scarcity and carried her pain in silence. Therapy wasn’t an option. Survival was the only language she knew.
In the 1960s and 70s, my grandma lived inside a “boys will be boys” culture that normalized betrayal and discouraged naming it.
In the 1990s, when my mother faced her own reckoning, resources were scarce, and shame still wrapped tightly around the truth.

But by the time I walked through betrayal, something had shifted.

There were books. Podcasts. Partner groups.
Therapists who posted helpful resources on social media.
Words like betrayal trauma, gaslighting, and body keeps the score.
I had access to support—and I took it.

And still, even now, healing from betrayal holds a kind of silent, unacknowledged grief—a sorrow our culture still doesn’t know what to do with.

That’s why, a little over two years ago, I began dreaming of an oasis. A place where women could gather and tell the truth.

When a friend asked, “Is it for couples? For them to heal together?”
I said no.
“It’s for her. For her healing.”

I certainly don’t have all the answers, except I know with every cell in my body that we need one another.

We need soft places to land in the midst of rupture.
We need companions who will walk with us, and not rush us.

What I’ve longed for isn’t a program, but a place. A collective, and a circle.

Sometimes, I wonder what might’ve changed for my ancestors if they had had a space to speak, to be heard, to be held.

This is what I think about when I think of healing as a ripple:
Not just forward into my daughters,
But backward, into the women who came before me.

My great-grandmother, who rationed flour and her silent sorrow.
My gram, who grew outraged but stayed.
My mother, who broke, left, and mended.
And me—choosing to speak out and gather.

What Ripples in You?

Maybe betrayal isn’t part of your story. But maybe you come from a line of women who were silenced, shamed, or had to swallow their sorrow. Maybe you’ve been carrying something that was never yours to begin with.

Maybe your healing is the first ripple.

If trauma can be passed down in our bodies through generations, then so can healing.
So can softness.
So can joy.

Every time we take a step toward healing—choosing presence over shutdown, softness over silence—we’re not just healing forward into future generations... we’re healing backward into the ones who never got the chance.

We become generational disruptors.
Ripple-makers.
Let’s be them together.

What ripples are rising in you now?

“Your healing lifts up the ocean of existence.”
—Yung Pueblo

With you and for you,
Rachel 🌊

**If this piece stirred something in you—if you’re walking through betrayal trauma, or living with the long aftershocks of it—I want you to know this: you’re not alone.

Share

If you find yourself in it too, I’d be honored if you’d read along and share what your hold looks like right now.💛

Dear Traveler,
What are you holding?

When I think of that word—hold—I see my two daughters.
As young children, each of them loved to be held, but in their own distinct way.

My oldest, with a head full of ringlets and wide, wondering eyes, would plant herself in front of me, stopping me mid-step. Arms stretched upward, neck craning, she would declare in her small, certain voice,

“I carry you.”

Once she was in my arms, she’d tangle her legs tightly around my waist and press her head into the hollow of my neck.
"I carry you," she’d whisper again, her breath warm against my skin.
I’d rock her back and forth, tracing slow circles across her forehead.
We were suspended there, caught in a moment of wordless connection.

Years later, when my youngest came along, she loved the hold too—but it looked different.
She would sprint full tilt into my arms, shouting, "I carry you!"
Her arms and legs would cling fiercely around me, and she’d stay longer.
Each deep sigh from her lungs softened her body—and mine, too.

Before I had language for what it was, I simply knew:
She was grounding herself in me. And I was anchoring, too.

Even now, my body remembers—
how the hold shaped not just fleeting moments of connection,
but something essential in both of us.

Today, at ten years old, she still finds creative ways to leap into my arms.
She perches on top of the sofa and slips onto my back as I walk past. Sometimes it’s part of a new dance move, her final twirl landing her wrapped around my waist.

Her petite frame makes it tempting to pretend nothing has changed.
To hold her just as long, just as tightly.
But the truth is—the hold has changed, just as we both have.

I think back to an SOS visit to my chiropractor after throwing my lower back out doing something ordinary.

I told her about my daughter’s favorite way of connecting, and how she still wanted to be carried.
“She’s too big for you to keep holding her this way,” she said gently. “It’s throwing your whole body out of alignment.”

And still, when she runs and jumps into my arms, I can’t resist.
I stagger. I sometimes wince.
But eventually, I find my footing as we settle into a crooked hold.

At night, I lie against my heating pad as the warmth soaks through my cotton shirt and soothes the ache beneath my skin.

And I remember—
It’s not just my daughter I’ve been holding.

It’s the history of all the holding I've done.

The moving boxes stacked higher than my head. The tears and goodbyes that sealed them shut.
The autoimmune flare-ups, and nights spent chasing answers in the glow of a screen.
The ruptures. The repairs. The repeating ache of both.
The with-ness and the witness of another. The beauty in that, and the cost.
The invisible weights.
The unseen burdens.
The emotional and physical things I’ve carried….not only for myself, but for others.

The hold tells a story—not only of love, but of how even good things can misalign us if we don’t pay attention.

This past week, the question—what am I holding?—returned to me with a sharper ache.

Someone I deeply admire—a woman who has advocated for my daughter this year, and who once shared sacred pieces of her own journey with me—lost her child.

There aren’t words that can hold a loss like this.

As someone who feels things deeply, it’s familiar territory to carry others’ pain.
To sense grief not only in the mind, but in the body.
It catches in my chest.
It settles into the tender places beneath my skin.

I find myself trying to hold it—to bear this pain with her, even from afar. To bear it with all who mourn.

But beneath my natural instinct—to hold without hesitation—there’s been a quieter invitation.

Not to let go of love.
Not to detach in indifference.
Not to refuse to carry.

But to allow God to carry what I cannot.
Because I was never meant to hold it all alone.

John Eldredge mirrors this idea with something he calls benevolent detachment. It’s the daily practice of placing what we can’t carry into the hands of the One who can.

This kind of detaching is not abandonment.
It’s not coldness.
It’s not numbing, or simply moving on.

It’s the truest act of love I can offer:
to trust God to be the Holder when I cannot.

When I close my eyes, I see her—the woman I ache for.
And others whose pain I hold.

I picture Jesus reaching toward them, lifting them gently into his arms—just as my daughters once asked me to do.

And I imagine him whispering,
"I carry you."

And if I listen closely enough, I hear him whisper it to me, too.

Share

Dear Traveler,
What are you holding?
Where does the weight live in your body, in your spirit?
And what, just for today, will you do with it? 🌿

With you for you,

Rachel

This reflection is made up of bits and pieces I’ve written over the past few years—prayers, journal entries, an older essay on Grit & Grace Life—and shaped into something new. A small offering about healing, presence, and the lifelines we reach for.

Share Practicing Pono

At night, my daughter would sing to my stomach. I sang to her thyroid.

It started as a silly game, each of us sprinkling imaginary “magic dust” over these organs that cause us trouble. She’d lean her head against my torso—singing words of reason, telling my unpredictable gut to “please stop making Mommy hurt!”

I’d place my hand on her neck, and hum soft whispers to her thyroid, pleading prayers to our Creator to bring harmony within her cells.

Somewhere along the way, this nighttime ritual became something more—

A hush-filled liturgy for two bodies learning to heal.

A mother and child holding space for the unspoken.

A lifeline amid the waves.

The waves of crises came in unrelenting motion for a while. A geographical move and discovery of betrayal one week later. A global pandemic soon after, and then one health episode after another—covid, mono, pneumonia, shingles, and IBS flare-ups that rendered me fatigued with disorientation.

For her, it was a diagnosis of Graves’ Disease at age 7—a rare condition for a child her age. What’s followed since are visits to endocrinology, scans and MRIs, and vial after vial of blood. There are still no answers for why her growth is delayed.

I think back to the week she was born—her movements slowed way down, alarming my intuition that something was wrong. I can still taste all the cups of orange juice I chugged, and feel my feet pound against the ground while I jumped around, testing all my tricks to trigger movement inside my body.

We induced, and after a long labor, she came beaming into the world. Seven pounds, eleven ounces, with round eyes and olive skin.

And a tightly knotted umbilical cord.

Share

My midwife whispered to my mother as she held Cora’s slippery body close in her arms,
“Thank God we got her out when we did.”

That knot still haunts me in a quiet, sacred way. It’s a symbol I can’t shake—how something that almost took her from me was hidden until the very end, revealed only in the light.

There’s a kind of fog that surrounds parenting a child with an invisible illness.
The daily unknowns.
The disappearing benchmarks.
The vanishing expectations of what “normal” growth should look like.
You breathe through it. You learn to let it rise without choking on it.

In all of this, I found myself asking: where does joy live when nothing is certain?

And in that slow unknowing, I’ve discovered something:

Joy doesn’t arrive when the diagnosis disappears.
It doesn’t wait for the body to balance.
Joy lives in the moment she sings to me. In the lifelines she reaches for.
In the way she isn’t swayed by the waves, but searches for what floats.

And still—she sings.

She hums.

She creates entire worlds with tape and paper scraps.

She dances through the living room like her body has always known how to make joy from fragments.

I used to think healing would look like wholeness restored in some shiny, dramatic way.

But now I see—healing often comes not through resolution, but through with-ness.

Through lifelines, not cures.

In presence, not perfection.

They said the knot could’ve taken her.
Maybe it could have.

But maybe it was a different kind of cord—one not meant to sever, but to hold.
Mother. Daughter. Spirit.
Woven together in ways I’ll never fully understand.
A quiet strength, hidden in tension.
A lifeline that never snapped.

Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on her.
On me.
On this fog-laced space we’re still learning to breathe through.
Let the lifelines we reach for—
the cords that hold when everything else unravels—
be enough.

✨For You, Fellow Traveler:
What lifelines are holding you right now?
What small ritual, connection, or fragment of joy is keeping you afloat?
I’d love to know. You’re not alone.❤️‍🩹

With you and for you,

🌿Rachel

Some of what I spill in this post may feel unfiltered or uncontained. But after sitting with the question for the last few days, I’ve come to see this: the fire in me has never gone out. It has simply changed shape.

I’d be honored if you read (or skim!) what follows. But mostly, I’d love to ask you—what burns in you?

Share Practicing Pono

Where I’ve Been.

"I have been a thousand different women." —Emory Hall

I look back at the younger versions of myself with compassionate eyes. I see a girl—a young woman—who eventually became a mother and wife. She had learned to mirror who and what surrounded her. That didn’t mean she lacked her own ideas or independent thought—but she had mastered the art of observing and absorbing, of shape-shifting into someone she wasn’t at her core.

Her exterior wasn’t hardened by anger or edged with harshness. Quite the opposite—it was permeable, soaking up every word, every behavior, every sharp-edged circumstance, and well-worn notion.

I see her now, and I see myself.

Before I knew what would unfold in my marriage, what quietly burned within me was a longing for the absorption to stop. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I ached to step out of the roles I’d soaked in and begin living as the truest version of myself—whatever that even meant.

I wanted to savor freedom.

I wanted to live ablaze.

That was actually a phrase I once experimented with—savoring freedom, living ablaze—and I clung to it like a promise.

I believed living that way meant being brave and bold—putting myself out into the world, doing things that mattered. I thought fire looked like a growing social media presence, like sharing my life and words with wild abandon, like speaking up in groups and having the right words flow effortlessly every time.

But when I didn’t live up to that version of fire—when my voice faltered or my reach felt small—I began diminishing myself in quiet, cutting ways.

Dousing my own flames before anyone else could.

I spoke death over myself—softly, steadily—until I believed it.

I carried all those expectations like scripture, absorbing every idea of who I was supposed to be. At the time, I truly thought fire was supposed to look like something big—visible, articulate, bold.

And then, at 37, Rupture came.
The versions of me who had spent decades absorbing, holding, containing—could no longer do any of those things.
Instead, I burst open like a ripe tomato on the vine, the skin no longer able to contain the weight of what was inside.
What was left? The embers of an old fire, smoldering.
For a while, I thought that was the end.
But standing over the ashes, I found myself whispering:

Let it all burn then.

Where I Am Now.

“Listen. Bless them and let them be. For they are the bones of the temple you sit in now.” —Emory Hall

What my bones tell me now is this:
Maybe I was never meant to be a wildfire.
Maybe I was always meant to be a spark.
A quiet, steady one—the kind that catches when someone is finally ready to warm their hands.

When I look back, I notice how often fire has flickered in small moments—
in honest conversations, in long-held silence, in the way I’ve stood beside others while they found their own way back to themselves.
Not leading. Not pushing. Just with-ness.
That’s what lights me up—being a presence, a spark, a witness.

And maybe that’s the kind of fire I carry.
Not showy, not loud, but steady.
One that warms. One that opens space. One that holds.

I used to think I had to be bold and articulate and visible to make a difference.
Now I know: small sparks are still fire.

And sometimes, they’re the ones that last the longest.

Share

Where I’m Going.

“She started lighting fires that kept her own heart warm.” —Emory Hall

What burns within me now is not a desire to be seen, but a desire to create.
Not just for the sake of output, but for the sake of offering.
Of offering something that nourishes.
Of becoming a vessel that holds and is deeply rooted.

What burns in me is a longing to build sacred, spacious things.
Maybe not all at once. Maybe never perfectly.
They glow in the distance like lanterns lifting into the night sky—
small flames carrying quiet prayers.

I want to create:
– A haven of a home, where belonging is felt in the bones
– A community rooted in tenderness, truth, and shared humanity
– A book—or maybe many—that carry stories and sparks
– An oasis for betrayed partners, a place of rest and return
– A deep and widespread well of connection, where no one walks alone
– A regulated environment—inside and out—where peace is possible
– And above all, an inner sanctuary where I can receive the love of God,
and return it in kind

Maybe I will build these slowly.
Maybe I already am.

But this is what burns in me.
This is the ember I carry forward.

And you, my traveling companion—what burns in you? I’d love to know.

With you and for you,

Rachel 🌿

The sun lingers in hushed stillness, as if breathing in the quiet murmurs of sleep. Soon, the pasture will awaken in layers, each moment peeling back a little more darkness. The scent of damp earth and grass clings to the morning air. I lower my nose, tracing the familiar paths my hooves have worn into the ground.

Light begins to trickle through the trees, their softened edges painted in greens and yellows. Spring is coming—pink and cream blossoms flicker among the branches. Dewdrops cling to the blades of grass, bursting cool and fresh against my tongue as I take my first bite of the day. I look up and see Dreamer, her brown body laying a few yards away, still asleep.

Subscribe now

The others will gather soon, grazing together in the comfort of familiarity. But I hold back, rarely stepping into their shifting circle. I have always preferred my own company, and the quiet of my own choosing.

Hours later, the sun hangs high and steady—the shadows shrinking to near nothing. Jeff wraps a blue harness around my nose and leads me down to the gate. Lisa strides ahead, all smiles, as always.

A group of females walk towards us. After introductions are made, they begin petting me and commenting on my features.

“Oh, look how long her eyelashes are!” the little girl exclaims.

The older girl, a teenager, starts stroking my hair, while the two older women ask questions about my age and type of horse I am. One of them puts her face close to my nostrils as I sniff her skin.

The fifth woman, who is middle age, admits she doesn’t know much about horses, but she tells my owners, a little shyly, that she’s wanted one since she was a little girl.

“There’s something about them that resonates with me,” she says. “They seem so calm, so content as they graze in the pasture all day. But they’re also wild, untamed, made to move through open land—completely free. It’s magical to witness.”

“Well, that’s fitting,” Lisa says, “because her name’s Magic."

We make our way to the fenced area where the rest of the herd waits. I follow, pausing for bites of grass along the way. The sun beats down on us, warming my backside—a welcome relief to the sudden drops of temperature the day before. I slap my tail at the mosquito that keeps tickling my leg. Lisa and Jeff instruct the women to observe us and see what comes up for them. They host these gatherings often, bringing people by to spend time with us. They call it “horse whispering.” One of the horses in the group, Johnny, doesn’t care much for human visitors. He wants to play, roll around in the pasture, and hang close to his mother.

But me? I like humans, though they are funny creatures. They stroke my coat, exclaim over my lashes and markings, hold out their hands for me to sniff—always so eager to be noticed. I like their voices, even if I don’t understand their language. But I long for their gentle touch up against my skin, sensing the shifts in their energies.

The woman—“Mom” as I’ve heard the girls call her—slides up against me. I watched her standing apart from the others, as they laughed, brushed, and stroked the other horses. She moves quietly, phone in hand, snapping pictures of her family. But she hesitates between shots, lowering the screen. Her smile falters for half a second, as if she’s remembering something—or forgetting something she meant to hold onto.

“Hi, I’m Rachel,” she whispers in my ear. She pulls a brush out from the bucket and strokes my mane. For a few minutes, she’s silent. Then, she asks, “So what’s your story, Magic? Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Share

I look over at her and notice the way the sun catches the lightened ends of her brown hair, turning them gold. I stand still as the bristles comb over my coat, their grainy texture brings relief to my sun-kissed skin. As she brushes, she opens up and words start spilling out. I don’t understand what she’s saying, but I read her energy. The ground near me shifts as her feet move around me, brushing, stroking, petting.

Rachel takes my harness and leads me through the pasture, slowly. She’s catching on—how I like to pause, to graze, to move at my own rhythm. Lisa tells her, “Keep your head up—she needs you to lead.”

We approach the labyrinth, where small boulders form a rounded maze, the path between them worn smooth. As we stand at the entrance, Rachel leans towards me and whispers, “Okay girl, here’s the thing. I’m fighting a few inner battles right now…thanks for being with me as I pray them through.”

We step forward together, her steps slow and measured. One of her hands holds my harness, while the other strokes my forehead. The sun is starting to bow low, slipping toward the horizon in dripping, golden descent. A breeze rises, and Rachel shivers. I pause and lean up against her, and she rests her body up against mine. She takes her arm over my backside and lays her head on my back. She exhales, deep and unburdened. I feel the weight leave her.

We walk around and around, steady, in a meditative rhythm. Her voice softens as we turn, ceasing in the pauses. Our shadows stretch long in the fading light.

Finally, we’ve found our way into the middle of the labyrinth—a large, jagged boulder marking the center. We walk towards it and I rest my two front legs upon it as we stand still. Rachel looks up at me, her smile wide. Something in her has lifted—I don’t know what, but I feel the lightness of it, the way it dances in the air between us. I lean in and nuzzle the top of her forehead.

With my head dipped toward hers, she lifts her face to the sky, eyes closed, lips parted, as if she’s breathing the moment between us inside her. I exhale, long and low. The wind moves through my mane, carrying something away with it.

Sometimes, we don’t know what’s shifting in us until we’ve already walked through it. We don’t realize what we’ve been holding until we finally let it go. Maybe healing isn’t about forcing change, but trusting the path—one step at a time. And maybe, if we’re lucky, we find someone, or something, to walk with us.

If you’re on your own healing path, I’d love to know—who (or what) has been a steady presence for you? A companion who has walked beside you, offering quiet support when you needed it most?

With you and for you,

Rachel 🌿

And slowly, Love revealed itself to me in the simple form of a heart.

The hearts kept appearing until, finally, I laughed and said, “Okay, God, I get it… no need to complicate things here. I’ll start spotting hearts!”

But the more they showed up—shaped into leaves on the sidewalk, outlined in the clouds, even in a strand of toilet paper clinging to a tree after a storm—the more I took them as small reminders that Love saw me. That God saw me.

By the time this moment happened, I had already been seeing them for a while.

But this one—this one met me exactly where I was.

This is a story about fear, Love, and a heart found in the most unexpected place❤️

The grocery list was still in my pocket, folded—the weight of my heart creased within its edges. I had just gone in for a routine appointment, thinking it was only a UTI. Nothing too serious—just a quick visit on my way to the grocery store. But when my urine test came back normal, my doctor had asked to do an exam.

As she pressed her palm into the left side of my uterus, I winced at the pain that radiated through me.

“I feel something hard. I'm going to refer you to have a few ultrasounds. Try not to worry, okay?” she said while her hand slid across my lower belly.

Now, hours later, I was cracking eggs and watching as a bit of shell landed on top of the chocolate powder. I reached inside the metal bowl, gliding my finger across the top of the yolk. The jagged piece was playing a game of tag, hiding itself beneath the creamy substance.

I gave up and washed my hands at the sink, glancing at the ingredients littered across the kitchen counter. It was our last meal together before my mother-in-law headed back west. She had asked for filet mignon with sautéed mushrooms, risotto, and rainbow salad—a mishmash of whatever colorful vegetables were left in my crisper drawer.

It was one of my favorite meals too, but tonight, my mouth wasn’t salivating thinking about the tender cut of meat. My movements were mechanical—automatic—lifeless—dulled like the first knife I pulled off the chopping block.

I held a newly sharpened knife over a clove of garlic and smashed the palm of my hand against it. The outer layer peeled away—its sticky residue clung to my fingertips as I worked to remove the skin. I knew its pungent scent would linger on my hands for hours afterward.

A jolting thought came to me: How much longer do I get to chop garlic? A shiver ran through my spine.

I grabbed the crumpled-up list from my pocket and stared down at the words. That morning, I had jotted it down excitedly, listening to my mother-in-law’s dinner request. I had drawn tiny hearts inside the "a’s"—a mindless habit, something I’d done for years. Then, I was just making a list.

Now, with a clenched jaw, I was tracing those tiny hearts with my thumb, wondering if I’d still be here to make another one months from now.

I wasn’t always the type of person who fixated on worst-case scenarios. But after a year of battling one illness after another, my body held a different story—one that had rewritten my optimism. Covid. Mono. Shingles. Pneumonia. My mind looped through the memories, circling back to the doctor’s words. Try not to worry.

But what if it’s cancer?
What if I only had a few months left?
What if this was one of the last meals I’d ever make for my family?

I stared into the mixing bowl, watching the raw ingredients swirl together. My thoughts wouldn’t settle—the “what ifs” were relentless. I stirred the batter once, then again, distracted, numb.

Then—wait.

I frowned. Tilted the bowl. Leaned in closer.

Was that…?

A breath caught in my throat.

The fragmented shell, egg white, and chocolate had swirled together into a lopsided heart. I stared at it for a long time. Something about it made my chest ache.

The moment felt strangely familiar, like that scene in Hook—when Peter finally sees the feast in front of him, when he realizes it had been there all along.

I exhaled.

Maybe Love had been here all along too.

Hidden within ingredients tossed together, Love was reminding me of its unrelenting presence. Speaking softly to me, Love said, “I’m here with you now, in everything.”

The fear of all the unknowns still sat within me. But as I continued to breathe, staring at the lopsided heart, it grew quieter. And as it did, Love took up more space inside me.

The rest of the meal, I cooked with Love.

I picked up a wooden spoon and stirred slowly, letting the grains of arborio rice absorb the broth, softening, expanding. My shoulders loosened. My jaw unclenched. I grated the parmesan, watching the fine curls fall like snow.

Love was here.

Love had always been here.

I had just forgotten.

Share

As the five of us were about to sit down to eat, I stole a glance at the grocery list, still tossed on my counter. My eyes traced over the tiny hearts I had doodled inside the letters that morning, back when the day felt lighter. Love had already been there, scrawled in ink, long before I knew I would need it.

This meal started with Love. And now, I was choosing to let it end with Love too.

“This risotto turned out way better than mine. What did you add?” my husband asks me. It was his recipe—my first time to make it.

I smile and glance down at my plate, at the vibrant colors of the salad, the creamy swirl of risotto, the perfectly seared steak. I didn’t answer right away—I just take it in, let the moment settle over me.

Then, I pick up my fork, let the warmth of the meal sink into my chest. Love.

I take a bite. And I can taste it now.

✨A Gentle Practice✨

Today, notice Love in the ordinary. Maybe it’s in the way light filters through a window, in a small kindness from a stranger, in the aroma of something warm on the stove. Let yourself soften into the possibility that Love is always showing up, even in the mess, even in the unknown.

I’d love to hear what Love reveals to you 💛

With you and for you,

Rachel🌿

Leave a comment

—The Book of Symbols, (Taschen) p.86

Each morning this week, I lit a candle and sat with fire. As I watched the flame flicker, no longer swallowed by darkness, the words that poured onto the pages of my journal surprised me. What emerged was unexpected—a piece written during a powerful exercise in Beth Kempton’s INK + FLAME class. Though still unfinished, this practice both stretched and delighted me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I’m sharing it with you here:

She longs to write words, stories, painted pictures with prose of light dispelling the darkness,

A flick of the match, the hum of the gas, a spark is born,

The darkness she knows disguises, disfigures, disconnects. But an ember within her glows brighter as her hand moves across the page. It illuminates, penetrates, cascades.

A song from her youth springs forth in fuzzy recollection: “Light the fire…in my weary soul…”

Words of hope and beauty, woven within strands of heartache and rupture, these glimmers of light dance across shadows of dim,

A subtle cry of her heart, the song beats louder “...fan the flame…make my spirit whole…”

The glimmers twinkle around, through, and within her–like a companion who beckons her to watch and listen,

Soft figures emerge as her eyes adjust and the darkness lifts its veil ever so slightly,

They whisper a secret: the quiet co-mingling of all this life holds,

With her feet grounded on the earth, she moves towards the flame–its heat a balm that soothes and renews,

For her words invite healing and harmony with herself, others, creation, and Creator,

Fanning to life what once lay smoldering.

Share

And you, fellow traveling companion—

What light is stirring within you, waiting to rise?

What stories are glowing at the edges of your heart?

I’d love to hear—feel free to share with me.

With you and for you,

Rachel 🌿

What am I doing here?

I’m supposed to be unpacking boxes. Nesting. Settling into our new home and trying to make friends. Not dropping my kids at a play care center so I can go get poked and prodded.

Soon, the nurse will call my name and have me follow her into what I assume is another uninviting space where I’m to have my blood drawn and cervix examined. My samples will be mailed off and tested, the technicians oblivious to the stories of rupture woven into the cells under their microscopes.

Why can't they offer some reassuring setting for the brokenhearted—infused waters, soft music, aromatherapy…something? Don't they recognize the hell some people are going through? I wonder.

I'm numb, raw, and beyond terrified. It's not the clinic's fault I'm here, and they certainly don't owe me comfort or reprieve. Yet, it's comfort and reprieve that I vehemently seek. It's an ounce of understanding. It's for the pain to subside, even just for a millisecond.

Right then, I decide—if I'm ever going to be able to help women like myself in the future, I'll create an environment that feels like an oasis for their souls.

Subscribe now

I wrote these words a little over five years ago when I was deep in what I can only describe as “the desert.” In the months that followed, I kept returning to that afternoon in the clinic—the stark, sterile waiting room, the loneliness of it all. It felt as though I were drowning. But the longer my grief and pain went on, it soon felt like something worse: dehydration.

At first, water imagery made sense. Betrayal felt like being sucked into an undertow, arms flailing, struggling for air. But over time, I realized that wasn’t quite right. I wasn’t submerged—I was exposed. Disoriented, exhausted, and without familiar landmarks in sight, my experience of betrayal trauma was like being stranded in an endless desert.

Being lost in the desert is a terrifying thought—especially for someone like me, directionally challenged and accustomed to the modern luxuries of air conditioning, cold water, and the safety of a home.

But here, in this landscape? The desert is the opposite of comfortable. There’s no shelter, no protection from the elements. I’m exposed in this place. No relief. The crusted ground and grainy sands become a battleground once it co-mingles with the wind. The sun scorches down, parching my lips and skin. I am sucked dry in this place—the heat saturating any last reserves of energy I have as I scale the rugged landscape. I am thirsty, and dry from the inside out.

How do you keep going when everything around and within feels completely barren?

For the first several years after discovery, I wasn’t just lost in the desert—I was stuck there.

So I had to start searching for water.

What does it mean to search for water—comfort, nourishment, hope—when you feel like you’re barely surviving?

Everyone knows we need water for survival—it hydrates, lubricates, restores cellular function.

But more than mere drops that grace the lips, I needed a cup full. Gallon-sized, and on demand.

I longed to saturate myself in the waters of an oasis that would never turn dry.

Share

I used to wonder if the desert would swallow me whole. That I’d never escape the relentless heat, the exhaustion, the thirst.

But even in the most barren places, there are signs of life. There’s a path. An unmoving landmark. An oasis on the horizon.

If you’re in the desert now, I see you. Maybe you’re thirsty, too. Maybe you’re still searching for water.

What does ‘water’ look like for you right now? And what would it mean to let yourself seek it?

That’s where I want to go next—into the search. Into what sustains. Into the oasis that doesn’t run dry.

With you and for you,

Rachel 🌿

Leave a comment

Share

We live in a world where our bodies are constantly bombarded by chaos—both within our four walls and beyond them. With all this energy building up, we need a way to discharge it, to release and reset.

For me, this became painfully clear last week. I woke up early, with too little sleep and an overload of anxiety. After several weeks of attuning to loved ones while managing my own lingering health issues, everything finally caught up with me.

If you’ve ever navigated chronic health struggles or walked alongside someone who has, you know this kind of tension well.

As I continue my healing journey, I feel God gently inviting me into a new way of living and connecting with my body. One way I’m doing this is by intentionally chasing glimmers—small, nourishing moments that ground us in the present and invite us to notice the beauty around us.

These glimmers don’t take away the pain or struggle. But they offer a pause, a breath, a chance to reconnect with the world. I’m always amazed by how we can hold both the hard and the beautiful at once.

For anyone navigating pain or stress this season, let’s chase some glimmers together. It’s the perfect time to do it—just look at the colors in the video above!

What are some of your favorite glimmers? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!🌿✨

With you and for you,

Rachel

Leave a comment

If you’re on your own healing journey, I want to invite you to reflect upon those small moments in life that fuel us forward.🌿

The night my husband left for a trip that would change everything, my father and I sat on the front porch and meditated together.

I didn’t know then what was unfolding far from me, but I can see now how those still moments on the porch were preparing me for the weeks, months, and years ahead.

Fireflies flickered around us, their light tracing delicate paths in the cool summer evening. Above, the stars scattered across the sky like glitter. The breeze brushed our skin, and the world felt still, inviting us into the calm.

Our yellow home in North Carolina, with its tall pines standing guard along the edge, was the kind of place where time seemed to slow. There was something about that house, with its warmth and its imperfections, that made it feel like a refuge. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and fresh-cut grass, grounding me in the moment.

How often do we overlook the unplanned, unscripted moments of peace in our daily lives, unaware of how much we’ll need it later?

We were on the brink of a move to Texas, and I was juggling the final details of it all. My husband had been traveling often for work, and I found myself managing everything…alone. The exhaustion of it all was wearing me down, but in this moment on the porch, everything was still. I could almost hear the world pause around us, holding its breath.

We listened to an Ignatius meditation—a method based on the style of prayer used by the 16th century Spanish priest where one uses visualization and imagination. It was the scene where Jesus washed his disciples’ feet. We were being invited to step into that sacred moment and feel it through our senses. My father, a former Jesuit, sighed softly as the meditation deepened. The warmth of the bread we imagined, the flicker of candlelight in the room, the sounds of quiet conversation and a gentle touch—they felt so vivid, so real. In the rocking chairs, the rhythm of the motion helped me sink deeper into the quiet. And for a brief moment, I wasn’t thinking of the move, the stress, or the overwhelming uncertainty I’d been carrying.

I simply existed, fully present.

In the months leading up to this moment, the distance in my marriage had grown. In retrospect, I knew we were cracking before the rupture tore us wide open. Our connection had fragmented, like the cracks of my kitchen plates that grew deeper, more pronounced, with each soapy hand that mishandled them.

The arguments.

The silence.

The lack of intimacy.

But like many of us do, I pushed it down. I made excuses. I told myself it was just a phase.

Yet in rare moments of clarity, I knew something wasn’t right. I had dreams that felt more like premonitions, though I couldn’t fully grasp their meaning at the time. And then came a phone call—drunk and distant—a statement that shook me to my core: I don’t want to be married anymore. The next day, an apology came, but it lacked the sincerity I craved.

What happens when someone you love becomes a stranger in a single moment?

When the truth finally came to light, it shattered and broke me into a million tiny pieces. Yes, we chose to rebuild together—but I had to choose to rebuild myself too.

The countless hours I’ve spent in prayer, therapy, coaching, and reflection remind me over and over that healing is a nonlinear journey. The journey is arduous, and the pain doesn’t just disappear with a snap of the fingers, as much as I wished it would.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over these last five years, it’s that the unexpected, quiet moments—the fireflies, the breath, the pause—offer us a healing balm along the way.

I think back to that night with my dad and the meditation we shared. That practice—the act of being still, focusing on the presence—would become my lifeline in the months to come. Tucked within the quiet spaces, amid the chaos of rebuilding, I found strength to keep moving forward.

Shortly after washing the feet of his disciples, Jesus, too, was betrayed by those closest to him. Though there is no comparison to the pain he suffered, there is comfort in knowing that even in our deepest suffering, we are not alone.

We can draw strength from the understanding that our pain is seen, our healing is possible, and we are not forgotten.

Even in the darkest times, even when the road ahead feels uncertain, we can find light. We can find healing. We can rebuild. We are not alone in this journey.

Together, we move forward.

What about you, fellow traveling companion—what are your lifelines right now? I’d love to know🌿

Leave a comment

One of the things I detested most about betrayal was how my mind would spiral uncontrollably, dragging my body along for the ride.

It typically happened like this:

I’d be in the middle of a normal activity—washing dishes, folding socks—when an image of him with her would suddenly invade my mind. My heart would race as the spiraling sucked me deeper into a vortex of more ruminating thoughts and visuals. My body would tense, my breathing would quicken, and my hands would tingle with anxiety.

These moments often struck at the worst times—like in the afternoons when my daughters were home from school and needed my full attention, or when the weight of deadlines and responsibilities threatened to crush me, or most often, right before bed.

At that time, I didn’t understand the chaos unfolding within my nervous system or that my body’s physiological responses were an instinctive search for safety. In those early days following discovery—when I felt utterly lost, drowning in grief and disorientation—I was oblivious to the profound ways betrayal trauma could impact my mind, body, and spirit.

Looking back, I realize that what I was desperately seeking was stability and some form of relief from the disorientation, a way to silence the ruminating thoughts and ease the pain.

That’s when I began to rediscover glimmers.

I had noticed glimmers all throughout my life—often pausing to breathe in sunsets, snapping close-ups of dewdrops, and embracing the intoxicating effects of smiling at a stranger.

But after D-Day, I lost sight of them. My days became about survival—fighting and clawing my way toward a reality I didn’t want or ask for.

Share

Yet on that particular day—when the world was shut down, and my body had followed—I found myself yearning for something more. It was a month into the worldwide pandemic and about six months into my recovery. I don’t recall what had triggered my spiraling—

Was it something he said? The tone reverberating through me, setting off alarms and pricklings of insecurity.

Was it the overwhelm of facilitating my daughters’ education, a struggle shared by parents everywhere?

Was it the panic and fear of a virus spreading and claiming lives like nothing we had seen before?

It was all of this and more. I wanted to crawl out of my skin and escape, yet there was no place to find safety or reprieve.

So…I went on a walk.

A couple of blocks from my home stood a majestic tree, its branches sprawling like arms reaching for the sun, planted in front of our neighborhood elementary school. Before the pandemic hit, I had watched children climb its outstretched limbs as the bell rang, announcing the end of the school day.

My pace slowed as I noticed how quiet—the schoolyard eerily still—was. It was 3:15 in the afternoon, but where were the children? Tucked away inside their homes.

As I paused, a surprising thought floated through my mind:

“Climb the tree.”

“That’s ridiculous, no way.” I countered, but then a whisper nudged me again,

“Climb the tree.”

I hoisted myself, stretching my leg over the lowest limb and pulling myself up. A sharp piece of bark dug into my thigh as I settled in. My legs dangled off the side as I looked down at the ground below. I closed my eyes as a breeze danced across my skin; the leaves rustled around me, sweeping through the branches. I leaned back against the trunk, allowing its sturdiness to ground me. A purple and yellow-spotted caterpillar slithered across a leaf. A ladybug landed on my nose. I gently cupped it in my hand, watching it crawl up my arm.

Gradually, the buzzing within me started to dull. Soften. Give way to my surroundings.

I breathed in the spring air, and for the first time in a long time, I noticed that the world around me sparkled with wonder. Suddenly, I was a child again, taking it all in with amazement and fresh eyes—a shift from black and white to Technicolor, just like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

The tree held my body for only a short time. But as I climbed down, I felt like a different woman from the one who had climbed it fifteen minutes prior. There was something that felt like awakeness. Freedom. Gratitude.

I realized I had stumbled upon a glimmer, a micro-moment that drew me back to the present, inviting me to notice the beauty around me. These moments don’t erase the pain or struggle; instead, they invite us to pause, breathe, and reconnect with the world around us, offering a brief respite amid the chaos.

A glimmer could be as simple as seeing a friendly face, hearing a soothing sound, or noticing something in the environment that brings a smile.

They are personal to each of us and one person’s glimmer may be another person’s trigger. Glimmers are a cue in the day, either internal or external, that sparks a sense of wellbeing. —Deb Dana, poly-vagal clinician who coined the term glimmer.

What I love about glimmers is their simplicity. They don’t have to be grandiose events—and certainly don’t have to include climbing trees, though that’s one for me! They are common, everyday occurrences that we notice and acknowledge.

These moments feel like God’s little kisses, gentle reminders that I am loved, seen, and known by my Maker.

While glimmers don’t cure pain, they offer a gentle balm that soothes the heartache. Glimmers coexist with suffering and grief, offering a spark of safety, regulation, and connection. Our human capacity to hold both—allowing it to all co-mingle, circulate, and churn within us—is simply beautiful.

And so, I continue to chase glimmers today, five years later, searching for beauty and regulation in everyday moments. It’s a practice I plan to hold onto for the rest of my life.

I’m so grateful you’re here. As we navigate our own healing journeys, I invite you to pause and notice the glimmers in your life—those small yet significant moments that remind you of love and connection, helping us all find light in the darkness.

With you and for you,

Rachel 🌿

What about you, fellow traveling companion—how do you chase glimmers? I’d love to hear!

Leave a comment

Also…check out Deb Dana’s practices for noticing and naming glimmers here.

Whenever I see a cluster of trees, I can’t help but snap a picture, run my fingers over the bark, and watch the leaves shimmer in the breeze, as if they’re speaking some quiet, secret language. And then I’ll do what I always do—a quick google search, curious to discover what wisdom the trees might hold.

When my family and I visited Colorado last month for a long weekend, we weren't sure we'd even leave our rental after getting hit hard with altitude sickness hours after our arrival (note to self: NEVER go from sea level to Breckenridge in eight hours again). After a rough 24 hours, we felt well enough to get out, spend some time at an oxygen bar, and explore the area.

We ended up going on a mild hike that led us to a small lake surrounded by wildflowers, trees, and other people who had the same idea we did. The girls and my husband started throwing rocks, with my youngest on a wild hunt for the flat ones. She's dying to learn to skip them.

I shuffled away toward a small clearing outlined by aspen trees. As I stood there, silent, steadying myself against a wave of nausea, a breeze brushed against my skin, cooling the sweat on my forehead. The air felt lighter, and with it came the sound of a soft rustling all around me. As I glanced up toward the sky, I watched the leaves shuffle in the wind. Their back-and-forth motion made them look as though they were performing a glittering dance. The steady murmur of the leaves sounded like they were whispering secrets, carried through the air by the wind.

Nature holds reminders for us—of resilience, connection, and the quiet ways we support one another. As I stood among the aspens, I couldn’t help but feel that they had something to teach me about strength and survival.

Later that evening, I pulled out my phone and started reading more about these trees. On the surface, aspens seem like individual beings, but beneath the ground, they are all connected by a single, massive root system. This system not only makes them one of the world's largest living organisms but also holds them up through the strongest storms and wildfires.

As I read about the aspens’ vast root system, I couldn’t help but think about the invisible ways we are all connected—especially those of us healing from betrayal trauma. And how like aspens, we’re deeply connected in ways we don’t always recognize or see.

Though betrayal trauma often feels isolating, we are never truly alone. When we lean into connection with one another, we tap into a deeper current of understanding, compassion, and fierce support—one that, like the aspen grove, allows us to stand stronger together.

We are resilient when we are in each other’s corner, rooted in support, love, and connection.

Together, we heal.

Love upon love,

Rachel

I’d love to hear from you! Where do you see nature mirroring your experience of connection, resilience, and support?

If you're on your own healing journey and looking for extra support, you don't have to go through it alone. At For Her Healing, I offer resources and guidance for women navigating betrayal trauma. Whether you're seeking community, practical tools, or a compassionate companion on the path to healing, you're welcome here.

Visit www.forherhealing.com to learn more and find support as you continue your journey.

The truth is, these years of healing haven’t been just about recovering from the rupture that took place in my relationship, but also from what that rupture revealed. It unearthed wounds I didn’t even know existed within me. It exposed fears, insecurities, and patterns that no longer served me.

Confronting all of this didn’t happen overnight, and thank God for that. A healing journey is a multi-layered and nuanced process. But through it all, these years have shaped a new way of being—one rooted in resilience, awareness, and hope.

Here are five truths I’ve learned (am learning) in the five years since D-Day:

1. It wasn’t about me.

When I discovered the truth about what was happening in my marriage, my first instinct was to blame everything on him. But soon after, I turned the blame inward.

If only I were more. More desirable. Smarter. Younger. Had my life together. Didn't have all of these unresolved issues that drove him away from our relationship. If only...

The finger-pointing toward myself only led to more self-disdain, blurring the lines of responsibility. This lasted for several months until we sought help from separate professionals and support in groups. Yes, there were things I needed to take ownership of in our marriage. But his choices, his actions, were his alone.

I reached a point where I could no longer carry the weight of his actions as my own. I wish I could say this was a simple, one-and-done-ordeal of relinquishment, but it was a process. His wounds, his trauma, his stuff was all his—not mine.

2. I can only change myself.

For the year following my discovery of my husband’s betrayal, I attended therapy regularly and joined a 12-step support group. I was searching for answers, a path to healing, and clarity on how I had ended up here. But deep down, what I really wanted was for him to change. I wanted him to truly grasp the enormity of what his choices had done to my life.

The problem was, despite my hopes that his therapy, family-of-origin work, and support group would lead to the understanding and change I desired, I found myself just waiting. Waiting for more breakthrough, waiting for substantial shifts that seemed to inch along.

During this time, my sponsor often reminded me: when I change, everyone around me changes. As my responses and reactions shifted, so would his. The dynamics of our relationship would evolve, but the most important change promised to come was within me. I was given a choice—this experience would either break me or make me stronger. My recovery work was where I had agency.

And that became enough for me to keep going.

This realization shifted my focus inward. I began to see the value in my own healing journey, recognizing that my growth and resilience were not tied to his progress. This shift empowered me to take control of my own recovery and find strength in my progress, regardless of his. It was a transformative moment that allowed me to reclaim my sense of self and keep moving forward.

3. How to take better care of myself.

Before the rupture, I was well-versed in taking care of others: my kids, my husband, extended family, friends…heck, I even knew how to be really helpful to strangers. But taking care of myself? That felt foreign. I was used to placing my needs, my wants, my dreams, and my voice behind everyone else’s.

But betrayal jolted me awake. Suddenly, I could no longer ignore the fact that this pattern of overextending—of back-bending and contorting myself to make others comfortable—was depleting me. My energy, my well-being, my sanity were all sacrificed in the process.

It wasn’t an easy transition. At first, the idea of caring for myself felt selfish, even indulgent. I had spent so many years identifying with my role as a caregiver that I didn’t know where to start. But slowly, over time, I’ve been learning what my spirit, soul, and body actually need. Things like: making rest and downtime non-negotiables. Nourishing myself with foods that love me back and don’t cause my underlying gut issues to flare-up. Walking and being in nature. Being part of communities and groups that value honest, connective conversations.

I’m not sure I would have learned to care for myself in these ways if the rupture hadn’t happened. I’d like to think that I was already on a journey of learning some of this prior, but the aftereffect certainly catapulted me in new directions. And now, five years later, I see self-care not as a luxury, but as an essential part of healing.

4. Trusting my Creator with my healing journey wasn’t easy.

I am a woman of faith. And by that I mean that I believe in a Higher Power, whom I call God, Jesus + Spirit, who loves me and all of humanity with an unrelenting love. I believe we are designed to heal, that our bodies are resilient, and that our spirits yearn for connection.

Yet, even with this deep belief in my Creator’s love and plan, I found myself wrestling with how my healing should unfold. Certain beliefs held me back, keeping me from releasing my tightly wound grasp on how this whole healing journey should look. One belief, in particular, stood out: If I followed the rules and stayed quiet—keeping the mess of my pain as minimal as possible—then the healing would come swiftly, and the outcome would be neat, even polished.

I clung to the image of “beauty from ashes,” expecting that the transformation would look a certain way. There was a part of me who thought healing meant moving through the pain with some semblance of ease, without too much disruption in my life, and emerging on the other side perfectly restored. Except real healing isn’t tidy. It’s non-linear, messy, unpredictable, and takes way longer than we expect.

Trusting God meant letting go of my timeline, my expectations, and the idealized picture of what I thought my journey should be. It meant surrendering to the process, even when it didn’t look like what I had imagined. And that was hard. But in letting go, I found that grace lives in the mess. It was in the surrender that I began to see glimpses of true healing—the kind that transforms not just the pain but the person.

5. I’ve learned I want to create an oasis where others can heal.

I've been writing and sharing more about these years with prudence and introspection. It's been a slow walk, yet as I dip my toe into the proverbial waters—becoming a blog contributor for Affair Recovery, sharing aspects of my story on the Grit & Grace Life podcast, launching For Her Healing, and creating this Substack to connect with other women on a similar path—I can't silence the quiet voice within me that whispers, “It's time to reach out to her and create an oasis for her soul to heal.”

For me, an oasis represents refuge, rest, and renewal—a place where women can find peace away from the demands of the world, and where their healing can begin in earnest.

I’m still determining what this oasis will look like in full, but I know a few things for certain. I want to:

• Finish writing and publish an interactive guidebook that women can use solo or in groups.

• Start in-person process groups centered around this guidebook.

• Host small, intimate retreats in serene settings where women can grieve, connect, heal, and be known. I envision fresh, nourishing foods on the table, time in nature—under the trees and in the water—trauma-informed yoga, and other mind-body modalities. I can already picture the sunlight filtering through the trees, the laughter shared over meals, and women finding themselves again in the stillness of nature.

The full picture of this oasis is still unfolding, but I trust in the value of slower rhythms. In time, it will come together just as it’s meant to.

I invite you to be part of this journey with me—whether through connecting here, participating in future groups, or attending a retreat. Together, we can create a space where healing is nurtured, where the hard edges of our stories soften, and where new life begins. Thank you for being here with me, practicing—because healing is something we do together, one small step at a time.

In hope,

Rachel

Subscribe now

At the end of 2020, I met a word—pono—that's lingered with me since. The word has done more than linger, though. It's danced within my mind and extended a hand of invitation. It's been a North Star of sorts—a healing balm as I've sought to reconstruct my life following its demolition.

Pono is a powerful concept deeply woven and embedded in Hawaiian culture. Used as a guiding principle, living with pono means living in balance, alignment, and harmony with all things in life—with ourselves, others, God, and the world. As a non-Hawaiian, I don't pretend to fully comprehend the depth of this culturally rich principle. Yet, the picture it paints is shared by other words across various cultures: Tao (Chinese), Dharma (Sanskrit), Shalom (Hebrew), Eudaimonia (Greek), Hozho (Navajo). These words, like pono, reflect deep cultural values and philosophies aimed at achieving a balanced, righteous, and harmonious life.

While pono is an admirable and worthy goal, certain aspects of it can feel challenging or seemingly unattainable:

• Balance: Achieving a perfect balance in life can be difficult due to the constant changes and demands of daily living. Is balance even a real thing?

• Harmony with Self and Others: Maintaining harmony within oneself and with others can be complex, especially when faced with conflicting desires, misunderstandings, and interpersonal conflicts. Conflicts like navigating through betrayal, trauma, ruptures, and physical ailments.

• Holistic Well-being: Achieving comprehensive well-being that encompasses physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual health is a lifelong endeavor that often requires ongoing effort and adaptation. We are constantly evolving, aging, shifting, and changing.

Yet, as I continue to learn (and unlearn) more about my middle-aged self, I am discovering that this word offers us a valuable path in our unique journeys. The pursuit itself fosters growth, resilience, and a deeper connection to ourselves, others, God, and the world. But fully attaining it in the complete sense of the word? I'm not sure if that's possible.

That's why, for me, "practice" must be paired with a concept like pono. It's all a practice.

I'm currently reading ’s beautiful book The Way of the Fearless Writer. A few chapters in, she discusses the value of viewing writing as a practice. I extend this thought to include all of life, including living pono. She writes:

"In many Eastern traditions, the point of practice is not actually to achieve something specific, or even to become more skilled at something. That is often the result, but it is not the point. The point is to become more awake to the experience. To notice what is happening. To listen to the world unfold."

So, as I:

• practice writing on this site and learn how to share with more ease,

• practice becoming more attuned to what is happening within me as I heal,

• practice waking up to the people, experiences, and environments around me, and

• practice inviting you into this space of practicing pono,

I hope you'll travel alongside me.

My earnest hope is that you will see aspects of yourself and your experience in the stories and words I share, and that you will join by sharing parts and experiences that are yours, too. The more we share the truth of our lives with one another, the more we come alive to the hidden parts of ourselves that have been tucked away, dulled down, or snuffed out.

I’m inviting you to share this space with me, to introduce yourself and name one thing that is true for you. For we are better together.

Thank you for being here with me, practicing.

-Rachel

Subscribe now