emotional healing

Washing the Mirror

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

When someone blames you for the impact of their own behavior, it’s like watching them look into a mirror, see the dirt on their face — and start scrubbing the glass instead.

They don’t want to face what’s there.
They don’t want to acknowledge what’s theirs.
So they blame the reflection. They blame you.

But you are not the problem just because they don’t like what they see.

You can’t heal someone who’s more committed to avoiding the truth than confronting it.
And you can’t carry the weight of someone else’s refusal to grow.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is step away from the mirror they’re trying to clean — and tend to your own heart instead.

Anchor Verse:
“A person’s own folly leads to their ruin, yet their heart rages against the Lord.”
— Proverbs 19:3 (NIV)

The Prayer I Was Afraid to Pray

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Lament.

A word I recently wrote about.
A word I’ve been seeing almost every day since then.

To lament is to feel, show, or express grief, sorrow, or regret.
Biblically, lament is a form of prayer that expresses deep sorrow, grief, or pain to God.

So that’s what I’ve been doing.

It’s unprocessed and messy.
I’m saying things to Him that I didn’t even know I had in me —
emotions that have been long hidden.

I hesitate to start,
afraid that voicing it might somehow pull me away from God.

But it’s been quite the opposite.

I’m being drawn closer to Him —
as if He’s surrounding me in the quiet.

I see Him in the daily, the mundane.
I feel Him in the ache and the uncovering.
He is the wisest Counselor —
helping me name the lies I’ve carried too long,
gently exposing what needs healing,
and holding every part of my heart while He restores it.

Maybe This Is the Post

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I didn’t plan a post tonight.
I didn’t come with a title or a theme or a tidy truth to wrap everything together.

I sat down to write —
and nothing came.
Just a tired kind of quiet,
the kind that doesn’t ask to be explained.

But maybe this is the post.
The one that doesn’t offer clarity or closure,
but simply shows up.

Maybe this is the kind of honesty we all need sometimes —
to admit we don’t always have the words,
or the answers,
or the strength to keep unpacking what still hurts.

Maybe the miracle isn’t always in what we say.
Maybe it’s in the showing up anyway.
In being present to the moment — even when the moment feels like not enough.
Even when you feel like not enough.

And maybe
this is the kind of space
where we quietly remember
that even when the words won’t come,
He still does.

That He doesn’t need eloquence
to meet us.

He just needs us.

So if you’ve arrived here —
empty-handed, weary, unsure of what you’re even looking for —
you’re not alone.

Let’s sit here for a while.
Not searching for the right thing to say.
Just resting in the comfort that we’re seen anyway.

“…for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.”
— Matthew 6:8

A Quiet Turning

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There are moments
when I feel it rising —
a quiet tug toward old thoughts,
familiar patterns that once promised safety
but only ever gave me silence and shame.

It doesn’t shout.
It whispers.
You’re too much.
You’re not enough.
You’ll never get it right.

And for a moment,
I believe it again.
Not because it’s true —
but because it’s been loud for so long.

I carry those echoes
into rooms where I smile.
Into the spaces where I show up,
even when I feel unsteady.

But lately, I’m learning
to pause before the story runs away with me.
To ask:
What am I feeling?
Where is this coming from?
And what’s the truth I know beneath the noise?

I remember:
I am loved.
I am not a burden.
I am not the sum of my worst days.

And from that place —
even if it’s just a small step forward —
I respond differently.
More gently.
More freely.

This is what healing sounds like sometimes.
Not loud or linear —
just a quiet turning toward peace
when the pull of the past returns.

And I carry this quiet work of healing into the way I love — gently, intentionally, even on the hardest days.

The Mother Made of Mosaic

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The Mother Made of Mosaic

I want you to close your eyes for a moment.
Picture mosaic tiles —
in every shade of blue.
Soft cerulean. Deep navy. Hints of sky and sea.
All broken, all different.
Light and dark, side by side.

Now imagine building a mother from those tiles.
She’s tired —
on her knees —
cradling her baby close.

She’s fragile.
She’s breathtaking.
She’s made of sorrow and strength,
held together in a way that almost doesn’t make sense.

But look closer…

What’s holding her together?
What keeps all those tiny pieces from falling apart?

The grout.
The in-between.
The part no one pays attention to.

That’s her village.
The hands that check in.
The arms that hold her when she’s too tired to stand.
The voices that speak truth when the sadness tries to steal her name.

Without that —
without the grout —
she wouldn’t hold.

And yet…
because of it,
she becomes art.

A living mosaic.
A mother made of grief and beauty,
of breaking and belonging.

And in the quiet moments —
when the light hits just right —
she glows.

 

Something is shifting.

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

I don’t know how to explain it —
only that I’m not where I used to be.
And maybe I’m not yet where I’m going.
But I can feel it…
somewhere between the breaking and the becoming —
something is different.

It’s not loud.
Not sudden.
Not a big breakthrough I can wrap words around.

It’s just… a soft settling.
Like peace showing up in places that used to feel hollow.
Like trust being rebuilt quietly in the background.
Like I don’t flinch as hard at the old triggers.
Like maybe I’m becoming someone I can trust again.

And I don’t have answers.
I still cry.
I still wonder if I’m doing it right.

But I know this much:
God is moving in ways I can’t always name —
and healing is happening
even when I can’t measure it.

So I’ll stay here.
In the in-between.
With open hands.
And just enough hope to believe that what’s shifting
is sacred.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:11

Motherhood Is the Mirror

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“The most profound thing we can offer our children is our own healing.”— Anne Lamott

They say motherhood changes you —
and it does.
But not always in the ways you expect.

It doesn’t just stretch your body.
It stretches your heart.
Your limits.
Your sense of self.
And some days, it stretches your faith.

Motherhood has become a mirror I didn’t know I was standing in front of.
It reflects everything back to me:
my tenderness,
my triggers,
my hope,
my hurt.

There are moments that undo me —
not because they’re hard,
but because they’re holy.
Because he looks at me with eyes full of trust,
and it makes me wonder if I’ve ever looked at myself that way.

He doesn’t care if I got everything done.
He doesn’t care if I cried in the shower.
He just wants my presence — not my perfection.

And somehow, that’s healing me.

Because in showing up for him,
I’ve had to learn how to show up for me, too.
To hold space for the version of myself I’ve tried to outrun.
To mother the child I used to be,
even as I mother the one God placed in my arms.

It’s not easy.
But it’s sacred.

Motherhood hasn’t made me flawless.
It’s made me honest.

It’s revealed the cracks —
and the grace that holds them together.

And maybe that’s the point.
Not to raise a perfect child…
but to love them so well
that they never question if they were worth it.

Just like God is doing with me.

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

Still Working for My Good (Romans 8:28)

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The other day, I asked God to speak to me.
I told Him I’d be paying attention. That I didn’t want to miss it.
I wasn’t asking for a burning bush — just a whisper. A moment. Something only He could orchestrate.

And then, He did.

My daily devotional that morning opened with a verse I’ve always loved — Romans 8:28.
And later that day, without knowing, my counselor brought up the same exact verse.
“It reminds me of Romans 8:28,” she said.
I smiled — not because it was new, but because it was confirmation.
God saw me listening. And He answered.

That verse has been anchoring me lately:
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”
Not just in the easy things. Not just in the visible ones.
In all things.

This season hasn’t felt good.
It’s felt raw and heavy and filled with waiting.
But He keeps reminding me — He’s not wasting any of it.
He’s still writing the story.
And He’s still working for my good.

Today, I read something else that hit me straight in the chest.
It said:
“Don’t settle for Ishmael when God has Isaac for you.”
That’s what I’ve been trying to hold onto — that God’s timing,
His ways, His purposes — are always worth the wait.
Even when I don’t understand.
Even when I’m tempted to reach for something just to feel in control again.

I don’t want to rush what God is still preparing.
I don’t want to interrupt what He’s still unfolding.

Because what He has for me — for us —
isn’t second best.
It’s the very thing I’ve been trusting Him for.

No Room for the Lies

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

“You will keep in perfect peace…” — Isaiah 26:3

There was a time
when I believed things that were never true.
Not because I was weak,
but because I needed to survive.

The lies came wrapped in voices I trusted.
They sounded like love.
Like protection.
Like truth.

But they weren’t.
They were cages.
They were chains.
And I didn’t even know I was choking.

It felt like living inside a story someone else wrote for me —
a version where I was always the problem,
always too much,
and never enough.

It was suffocation by lies.

But now?

Now, there’s no room for them.
Not here.
Not anymore.

Truth is quieter than shame,
but stronger.
And when it finally speaks,
it doesn’t argue — it frees.

The peace I feel now isn’t loud.
It doesn’t shout to be heard.
It just is.

Strength in the Tenderness

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

That ache in your chest?
It’s not weakness.
It’s your heart being honest.
It’s the weight of loving deeply
while walking through something impossibly unfair.

You’re not bitter —
you care.
You’ve carried so much,
stayed soft when life begged you to go hard.
You’ve loved well,
even when you weren’t loved back the same way.
You’re human —
and this hurts.

So if the tears fall tonight —
let them.
If the ache stirs —
let it speak.
It means your heart is still open.
Still tender.
Still beautifully alive.

That’s not a weakness.
That’s your strength —
whispering through the ache
that love still lives here.