Emotional Resilience

The World Keeps Moving

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

It’s strange how life keeps going
when your world has stopped.

People still talk about the weather,
still buy coffee,
still make plans for the weekend —
while you’re standing still,
trying to make sense of how everything changed.

It’s disorienting, really.

To finally hold what you once prayed for,
and still feel like pieces of you are missing.

To carry joy in one arm
and grief in the other.

No one teaches you how to do that.

How to smile at the thing you longed for
while quietly mourning what you lost to get here.

You start to wonder —
Is the ground steady beneath me?
Or am I the only one who feels it shaking?
Is this how life works now —
a mixture of beauty and ache,
woven together like threads in the same cloth?

Sometimes, it’s hard to keep walking.
Not because you don’t want to —
but because you’re not sure which direction is forward anymore.

So I whisper to myself,
“Just one step at a time.”
On ground that feels both sacred and uncertain.

And maybe the miracle isn’t in how fast you move —
but in the fact that you keep moving at all.

If You’ve Found Yourself Here

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

It’s interesting,
how when we know about something in advance, we plan for it.
If I’d known I would someday be carrying so much heartache,
I would’ve done anything to avoid it.

We don’t ever knowingly walk straight into pain.

But somehow —
God has taken the wreckage of what tried to undo me,
and turned it into a place where others can rest.

Not because I have all the answers.
Not because everything is healed.
But because I know what it feels like to wonder if it ever will be.

I know the silence.
The shame.
The desperate searching for someone — anyone —
who’s been there too.

And now?
I get to be that voice.
That pause.
That reminder:
You’re not alone.
You’re not too broken.
You’re not behind.

This isn’t polished ministry.
It’s sacred survival.
It’s presence.
And somehow, it’s purpose.

So if you’ve found yourself here —
in this quiet corner of the internet —
I hope you know this:

You can rest for a moment.
I’ve made space for you here.
From the wreckage I never planned for… to your weary heart…
thank you, for allowing my voice to offer you comfort.
You are welcome here.

The Kind of Noise That Calms the Heart

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Sometimes the quiet comes in unexpected forms

It wasn’t a quiet weekend.
Not in the way I thought I needed.
The air was full —
of movement,
of moments overlapping,
of little feet and loud laughter
and lives brushing against each other.

But there was something in that fullness
that eased the ache.

Not by fixing it.
Not by filling it.
Just… by being louder than the thoughts
that usually linger too long.

Sometimes healing doesn’t arrive
in hushed tones and solitude.
Sometimes it’s wrapped
in the noise of other people’s joy
and making it a part of your own —
and that’s enough to steady what feels undone.

And maybe that was the grace of it all —
not silence,
but presence.
Not stillness,
but the steady rhythm of life carrying on.

When Words Don’t Come Easily

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Some days, it’s harder to show up with open hands —
especially when you still have open wounds.

Some days, things happen that don’t make sense.
Some days, the ache gets a little louder —
and the silence that follows it feels heavier than usual.

But I’m here.
Still breathing in the hope and promises of God.
Still believing that healing isn’t undone by disappointment.

Maybe you’ve had a day like that too.

So I won’t pretend tonight.
I’ll just light this small candle in the window
and whisper —
you’re not alone… and neither am I.

When You Don’t Get to Stay

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are moments when you know —
your presence brings comfort.
Not because anyone says it,
but because something in the atmosphere shifts when you’re near.

You show up.
You offer calm.
You anchor the moment with your quiet steadiness.

And for a while… that’s enough.

But then comes the shift.

A silent decision.
A subtle closing of a door you didn’t realize you were standing in.

And just like that, you’re no longer needed.

Not because the comfort changed.
Not because the ache disappeared.
But because something else spoke louder than tenderness.

You just carry it —
quietly, inwardly.

Not because you chose to let go,
but because you weren’t given the chance to hold on.

And you wonder…
if love is meant to hold,
why does it sometimes have to let go?

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.