Reflections

When Showing Up Is the Bravest Thing You Do

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Whispers from the wreckage and the rising

I almost didn’t go.
Not because anything was wrong — but because something in me felt tender.

There are moments when I walk into a room, and everything in it is good.

Kindness. Laughter. Familiar faces.

But even in the goodness… something aches.
It’s not because anyone has done anything wrong — it’s just that some seasons carry a kind of quiet grief that follows you into even the warmest spaces.

The ache of being in a different rhythm.
The awareness that what used to feel like “yours” now lives in a chapter you wouldn’t have wanted to close, had things been different.

I’ve learned to show up anyway.
Not because the ache disappears…
but because there’s still something sacred about choosing presence — even with a tender heart.

Later in the week, I found myself in another quiet space —
one where I’ve been slowly, gently untangling some deeper things.

Not everything made sense.
But something softened.
Like maybe I don’t have to keep carrying the weight of it all.
Like maybe presence, not perfection, is what healing actually looks like.

I keep thinking of all the ways I’ve shown up this week.
Not just in rooms or appointments,
but to my own pain.
To my faith.
To the voice inside me that keeps whispering, keep going.

Sometimes, the bravest thing we do isn’t rising.
It’s returning.
It’s staying present in the ache.
It’s listening for God when all we hear is our own heart beating loud with fear and hope and something in between.

I think that’s where healing begins.
Not in fixing it all —
but in being willing to stay in the room with our own story.

So here I am again.
Still showing up.
Still listening.

And maybe that’s the whisper I needed this week most of all:

Maybe showing up is the rising.

When It’s Both

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

When It’s Both

Sometimes the ache and the beauty show up at the same time.

A smile while your chest still feels tight.
A moment of peace — and a lump in your throat right behind it.
A baby laughing in your arms, while part of your mind drifts to all that you’ve lost.

We talk about “letting go” and “moving on” like healing is a clean break.
But what if it’s not?

What if healing is the moment you can finally hold joy and sorrow in the same hand —
and not feel like one cancels out the other?

I’m learning that I don’t have to wait until everything feels light to receive joy.
And I don’t have to push joy away just because something still hurts.

They can sit together.
They can belong together.
And maybe that’s what it means to be honest with our hearts —
making space beside the ache.

If your heart is holding both today —
joy and ache, hope and heaviness —
you are not alone.

Closing Prayer:

God,
For the one holding both joy and ache in her heart tonight —
would You remind her she doesn’t have to choose?

Help her feel Your nearness in the tension,
Your tenderness in the in-between,
and Your comfort in the spaces where sorrow and beauty sit side by side.

Thank You for being the kind of God who stays —
not just in the celebration,
but in the quiet, complicated middle, too.

Let her know she is not alone.
Let her rest in the truth that You see it all —
and You’re holding her through every bit of it.

Amen.

Rest — You Don’t Have to Run Anymore

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Rest — You Don’t Have to Run Anymore

I didn’t know how heavy shame could feel —
until it sat across my shoulders like a weight I couldn’t name.

Today in therapy, I tried to describe it.
What came out wasn’t polished. It wasn’t pretty.
It was real.

It felt like I was fully submerged in sinking sand,
trying to run.
Not walk — run.
As if urgency could save me from the pressure pressing down.

And then —
once my hands found a rhythm,
once the tapping steadied something inside me,
I saw myself.

Running.
But not forward.

Running from myself.

Running from the pressure I’ve placed on my own shoulders.
From the expectations I’ve created in my own mind.
From the shame I’ve added to my own story
because I keep measuring myself against a version of me I can’t seem to become.

And here’s what surprised me:
Saying it out loud didn’t make me feel weaker.
It made me feel awake.

I’ve been adding weight to the load — not because I’m wrong or bad —
but because I’ve been afraid that naming the pain would mean I’ve failed.

But what if it means I’m healing?

What if seeing the running is the first step to slowing down?

What if the girl I’ve been running from —
the one still buried in the sinking sand —
is the one who needs me to stop,
kneel,
and softly say:

Rest—
You don’t have to run anymore.

The Story I’m Still Learning to Tell

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

On Saturday, I sat among a room full of women carrying stories of their own.
Stories still unfolding.
Stories still healing.
Stories still being written by a faithful God.

The theme for the day was simple but powerful:
The Story — Everyone Has One.

As I listened, I thought about the lies I’ve believed over the years — about who I am and what my story says about me.

The voice that whispers:
You’re unworthy.
You’re not enough.
You’re too much.
You’re too broken to be used.

And yet — God’s truth answers back, quiet and steady:
You are worthy.
You are more than enough.
You are held, not disqualified.
You are Mine.

I thought about the parts of my story I’m still handing over to Him —
things I cannot really share right now,
the pieces of my life that feel uncertain, unfinished, still tender in His hands.

It’s easy to believe that the broken chapters disqualify me.
But God reminds me: the broken places are where He ministers most tenderly.

There was a moment Saturday when the speaker said,
“We learn the most in the valleys.”
And something inside me just… stilled.

I’m learning to stop asking why the valley exists —
and instead start asking what God wants to grow in me while I’m here.

I’m learning that:

  • Rest doesn’t have to be earned.
  • Joy doesn’t have to be postponed until everything is fixed.
  • Healing doesn’t erase the story — it reclaims it.

I’m learning — slowly, quietly — that my circumstances don’t get to decide who I am.
God already did.

I am not the valley.
I am not the lie.
I am not the wreckage.
I am the one He is still writing — tenderly, patiently, faithfully.

And so are you.

Closing Prayer:

God,
For the woman who feels like her story is too broken, too messy, too painful to be worth telling —
remind her today that her story is not over.
Remind her that You are still writing in the margins.
Still weaving beauty out of the pages she wanted to tear out.
Still calling her by her real name: beloved, chosen, held.

Give her courage to hand You every chapter.
Even the ones still stained with tears.
Even the ones still waiting for redemption.

Thank You for not wasting a single line of our stories.

Amen.

Why I Started Writing Here

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s only been a week since I started this blog — but already, it feels like more than a project.
It feels like a place.
A quiet room I keep returning to.
A space I didn’t know I needed until I was finally inside it.

And somewhere in the middle of reflecting, this thought came to me:

Not a spotlight,
but a candle.
Not “look at this,”
but “if you need this, it’s here.”
Not “I wrote something,”
but “I lived something —
and I found words for it.”

That’s what this is.

Not performance.
Not perfection.
Just presence.

I asked myself:

  • Do I want someone to read this and feel less alone?
  • Would it help me to know that someone else might be quietly held by it?

The answer was yes —
so I know this isn’t self-promotion.
It’s shared presence.

That’s what I hope this place becomes.
Not a platform.
But a light.
Small and steady.
Soft enough to breathe by.
Strong enough to keep going.

So thank you —
for showing up here.
For holding space with me.
For reminding me that even in the quiet,
our voices matter.

Closing Prayer:

God,
For the one who’s quietly carrying more than she’s said out loud —
may she find peace in stillness, and comfort in words that feel like home.
Remind her that she doesn’t need to have it all figured out to be faithful.
Let this space — and these stories — remind her that she’s not alone.
Not in the silence.
Not in the stretch.
Not in the sacred becoming.

Thank You for meeting us here — softly, steadily, and always.

Amen.