Author: Baylee Snelling

I Missed This About Being Younger

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I think one of the strangest parts of getting older
is realizing how little it takes to make a day feel full when you’re young.

A late-night drive.
A gas station drink.
A random conversation that lasts too long.
Music playing too loud in the car for no reason.

And somehow, that was enough.

Now life feels so much more structured.

Schedules.
Responsibilities.
Appointments.
Trying to remember everything all the time.

And I don’t necessarily miss being younger.

But I do think I miss the lightness of it sometimes.

The ability to be fully present somewhere
without mentally standing in three other places at once.

And maybe adulthood is partly learning
how to find that again.

Not by going backwards.

But by remembering that life is still happening
inside the ordinary moments too.

Not just inside the stressful ones.

“However many years anyone may live, let them enjoy them all…”
— Ecclesiastes 11:8 (NIV)

It Changed the Way I Saw Hardship

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I heard someone say recently,

“The devil doesn’t need to make life harder
for those who are already his.”

And while I don’t think life is always that simple,
the statement stayed with me.

Because for a long time,
I think part of me believed
that following God closely
would eventually lead to an easier life.

More peace.
More clarity.
Less resistance.

But that’s not actually what Scripture promises.

If anything,
some of the people closest to God in the Bible
walked through tremendous suffering.

Not because God abandoned them.

But because hardship and holiness
have never been mutually exclusive.

And honestly,
that changed the way I started viewing difficult seasons.

Not as proof that God is absent.
Not as punishment.
Not as failure.

But as part of living in a broken world
while still trying to remain anchored to Him inside of it.

Because faith was never about avoiding hardship.

It was about knowing Who remains beside you through it.

“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
— John 16:33 (NIV)

The Flowers I Didn’t Plant

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I’ve been thinking about the things that grow in us
that we never intentionally planted.

Not strength itself—
I’ve spent years trying to become stronger.

Physically.
Mentally.
Emotionally.

But there are other things
I didn’t realize were growing too.

Discernment.
Resilience.
Perspective.

A deeper understanding of myself.
Of people.
Of God.

Somehow, they grew quietly in the background
while I was busy just trying to make it through certain seasons.

And that’s what surprises me sometimes—

How growth can happen
simultaneously with grief.

You don’t always notice it immediately.

You’re too close to it.
Too inside of it.

But one day you look at yourself
and realize something exists in you now
that didn’t before.

Not because you chased it.

But because God was still growing things
even in seasons that felt uncertain.

Maybe that’s the strange beauty of life.

That even painful seasons
can leave something beautifully meaningful behind.

Flowers we never meant to plant.

“We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”
— Romans 5:3–4 (NIV)

Rest Isn’t Weakness

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This has been a hard week for me.

And if I’m honest,
I don’t always know what to do with that.

Because I’ve spent a long time believing
that being tired meant I wasn’t handling things well enough.

That if I were stronger,
more disciplined,
more capable—

I wouldn’t feel so worn down sometimes.

So I push through it.

I try to stay productive.
Stay positive.
Stay okay.

And most of the time,
I don’t even talk about how tired I really am.

Because somewhere along the way,
I started associating rest with weakness.

But there comes a point
where your mind, your body, even your spirit
start asking for something different.

Not more effort.

Just rest.

And I’m starting to realize
that surrendering to rest
doesn’t mean I’m giving up.

It means I’m human.

It means I was never meant
to carry everything endlessly
without stopping to breathe.

And maybe resting isn’t weakness after all.

Maybe it’s trust.

Trust that the world won’t fall apart
if I stop striving for a moment.

Trust that God can hold things together
even when I finally let myself be still.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28 (NIV)

The Version of Me I Used to Picture

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I used to picture adulthood differently.

Not in a big, dramatic way.

Just… more certain.

I thought by this point in my life,
I would feel more settled in my decisions.
More confident in where things were headed.
More sure of how everything would turn out.

And sometimes I think about that version of me—
the one I imagined years ago—
and wonder what she would think of the life I’m living now.

Not because it’s bad.

Just because it’s different.

There are parts of my life
I never would have predicted.

Parts that stretched me.
Parts that humbled me.
Parts that forced me to become someone stronger than I planned on needing to be.

And honestly?

I think the younger version of me
would be surprised by how much beauty can still exist
inside a life that didn’t go according to plan.

“In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.”
— Proverbs 16:9 (NIV)

Motherhood Isn’t a Simple Thing

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Motherhood is defined as the state or experience of being a mother.

But that feels far too small for what it actually is.

Because motherhood isn’t just a role.

It’s nurturing.
Protecting.
Guiding.
Sacrificing.
Loving someone so deeply
that their needs begin to shape the rhythm of your entire life.

But real motherhood is also contradiction.

It’s joy and grief existing at the same time.

It’s being needed constantly
while sometimes feeling invisible.

It’s loving your child more than you thought possible
while quietly grieving the parts of motherhood
you thought would look different.

And I think that’s the part people don’t talk about enough.

That you can deeply love being a mother
and still mourn what motherhood was supposed to look like.

Those things can exist together.

Because motherhood changes everything.

Not just your schedule or your responsibilities—

you.

The way you think.
The way you carry stress.
The way you move through the world.
The way your heart exists outside of your own body now.

And good mothers carry so much of that quietly.

The mental weight.
The emotional weight.
The constant awareness of someone else’s needs.

Showing up over and over again,
even when they’re exhausted.

Even when they feel stretched thin.

Even when it doesn’t look the way they once imagined.

And maybe that’s why motherhood is so sacred.

Because at its core,
it’s love in its most selfless form.

Not perfect.

Not easy.

But steadfast.

Again and again.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you…”
— Isaiah 66:13 (NIV)

I Think I’m Learning to Slow Down

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I think I’m learning to slow down a little.

Not in a dramatic, life-changing way.

Just in the small moments.

Not rushing through every silence.
Not feeling like every second needs to be filled.
Not needing every day to feel productive to feel worthwhile.

And honestly, I didn’t realize how uncomfortable that was for me before.

How quickly I move from one thing to the next.
How easily I convince myself that resting has to be earned.

But lately, I’ve been noticing the difference.

How much calmer life feels
when I stop trying to outrun it.

Not everything needs my immediate attention.
Not every quiet moment needs to be interrupted.

Some things can just be still.

And maybe I can too.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10 (NIV)

He’s Been Good to Me

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I’ve been thinking about this lately.

How He’s been good to me.

Not in a loud, obvious way.
Not in a way that makes everything easy
or ties everything together the way I would choose—
because it hasn’t been easy.

But in the ways that matter.

In the way I’ve been carried
through things I couldn’t have carried alone.

In the way I’ve been steadied
when I didn’t feel steady on my own.

In the way I’ve been protected
in places I didn’t even realize I needed it.

And I don’t think I always noticed it at the time.

Because I was looking for something different.

Something clearer.
Something that made more sense.

But looking back, I can see it.

Not everything turned out the way I thought it would.

Not everything was restored the way I hoped.

But even in that—

He’s been good to me.

And I think that’s what I’m learning.

That His goodness isn’t always measured
by how things turn out.

Sometimes it’s measured
by how He holds you through it.

“Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life…”
— Psalm 23:6 (NIV)

I Said It Out Loud

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I said it out loud for the first time.

“I sometimes feel like I don’t fully trust God.”

I had never said those words before.

Not because I didn’t feel them.
But because I was afraid to.

Afraid that saying it out loud
would make it more real.
Afraid it would mean something about my faith
that I didn’t want to be true.

So I kept it quiet.

But when I finally said it—
just plainly, without trying to soften it—

something unexpected happened.

I felt relief.

Not because I suddenly had all the answers.
Not because everything shifted in that moment.

But because I wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

And I started to understand something.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust God.

It was that I didn’t trust myself
to let go.

To release the things I’ve been holding so tightly—
the hurt,
the worry,
the fear,
the need to understand what will happen next.

Because letting go feels like losing control.

But the truth is,
I was never holding control to begin with.

And maybe that’s what I’m learning.

That honesty doesn’t weaken my faith.

It brings it into the light.

And when it’s there—
it doesn’t hold the same weight it did in the dark.

“I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”
— Mark 9:24 (NIV)

More Than Noise

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“If I do not have love,
I am just a clanging cymbal.”

I’ve read that before.

I’ve heard it explained.
Heard it applied to how we treat people.
How we speak.
How we show up.

But I don’t think I’ve ever felt it
the way I do now.

Because it’s one thing to read about love
when life feels steady.

It’s another thing
to hold onto it
when it would be easier not to.

After everything I’ve walked through—
the moments that tested me,
the things that could have hardened me—

I understand it differently.

Because I can still speak well.
Still show up.
Still do the right things on the surface.

But if love isn’t there—
if it’s been replaced with bitterness,
guardedness,
or just going through the motions—

then it’s just noise.

And that’s the part that stays with me.

Not whether I get everything right.

But whether I let what I’ve been through
change the way I love.

Because that’s the real cost.

Not what happened.

But what it takes from you
if you let it.

So I’m learning to pay attention to that.

To protect it.

To choose it, even when it’s quieter
and harder to hold onto.

Because without it—

nothing else really matters.

“If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:1 (NIV)