From the Middle

I’m Not Who I Was — And That’s a Good Thing

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I used to think healing would bring me back to who I was before.
Before the breaking.
Before the questions.
Before the silence.

But I’ve learned —
healing doesn’t take you back.
It walks you forward, slowly,
into someone new.

And the woman I’m becoming
is softer than she used to be —
but she’s also steadier.
She still feels things deeply,
but she no longer apologizes for that.

She pays attention now.
To what feels safe.
To what feels like peace.
To what feels like home.

There was a time I thought becoming meant performing —
trying to prove I was strong, unshaken, “okay.”

Now, I know better.

Becoming looks like knowing when to speak
and when to stay quiet.
It looks like grace for the in-between.
It looks like choosing truth,
even when it’s tender.

And while I wouldn’t have chosen this path,
I’m learning to see beauty in who I’m becoming along the way.

No, I’m not who I was —
and maybe that’s not something to grieve.
Maybe that’s something to honor.

It’s the quiet strength that speaks the loudest.
Can you hear it in yourself, too?

Not Because I Could Handle It

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve never believed that saying —
“God won’t give you more than you can handle.”
If that were true, I’d have to be made of steel.
And I’m not.

I’m soft.
I’m tired sometimes.
I break open more often than I’d like to admit.

But recently, I found myself reflecting on everything these past few years have held —
and it caught up with me.
Not just the ache,
but the weight of what I’ve carried.

And in that quiet moment, a truth settled over me:

God didn’t choose me for this life
because I could “handle it.”
He chose me for this life
because He knew I’d use it.

Not right away.
Not perfectly.
But eventually — when the time was right —
I’d let what broke me open someone else’s heart to healing.
I’d let what I survived draw someone else closer to Him.

That changes everything.

This isn’t a punishment.
It’s not proof that I’m weak.
It’s a story — one He’s still writing.

And maybe that’s the real miracle:
Not that I’ve handled it,
but that I’m still here,
still open,
still willing to let my life mean something more.

And for that,
I’m thankful.

The Lullaby Still Lingers

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Written from a moment I didn’t want to let go.

Last night, I rocked Beckett a little longer.
Not because he needed it —
but because I did.
It was Thursday.
The end of the week’s stretch.
The end of my energy.

I held him close and sang our song.
The one I’ve been singing since he was in my belly —
and the one I always return to when the world feels loud.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…

I sang it slowly.
Letting the words settle in the quiet between us.

I knew the house would be still today.
And I guess I just wanted to carry the sound a little longer.

I’ve been thinking about how much I try to earn rest —
like I have to finish everything first.
Like I can only stop once I’ve proven I’m doing enough.

But last night reminded me…
rest doesn’t wait for everything to be finished.
It waits for me to say enough for now.

And maybe that’s what that moment was —
me choosing stillness.
Choosing to breathe.

Just me, my baby, and the soft sound of a song
that feels like home.

And now, the house is quiet.
The lullaby has faded.
But the love —
it lingers.

And maybe…
that’s all I need to rest today.

When the Past Shows Up Without Warning

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

From one anonymous woman to another

I saw a face today— not in person — but I didn’t expect to see it.
And something in me froze.

I thought I had moved past it — or at least moved far enough away from it.
But some memories don’t knock before they come rushing in.

They don’t care if you were having a good morning.

They don’t care if you were feeling strong, or grounded, or even just okay.

One photo. One name. One echo.
And suddenly, you’re back in a moment you never wanted in the first place — much less to revisit.

It didn’t last forever. The wave passed.
But I felt it — the weight in my chest, the lump in my throat, the questions I’ve already answered a hundred times:
“Was it really that bad?”
“Should I have done more to protect the future women who meet him?”
“Why am I still shaken by this?”

And then I did what I could.
I shared what was safe.
I used my voice — anonymously — to protect someone who might not know what they’re walking into.
Not out of anger.
But out of care.
Because I would’ve wanted someone to do the same for me back then.

And now… I’m looking down at this perfect little face, as I rock my baby for a nap.

His breath slows against my shoulder.
One hand curled against my chest, the other on my back.
The room quiet.

And just like that — I am back in this moment.

One that’s steady.
One that’s safe.
One that’s mine.

I don’t owe the past my silence.
And I don’t owe it my presence either.

I’m here now — in this soft, still place where healing is allowed to happen.
Where I have found my voice.