Healing

The Flowers I Didn’t Plant

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

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)

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)

Something Is Alive

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s been a year since I started writing here.

At the time, I wasn’t writing from clarity.
I wasn’t writing from the other side of anything.

I was writing from the middle.

And if I’m honest,
I still am.

I used to think Easter would feel like resolution.

Like the kind of moment
where everything makes sense
and everything is made right.

But I don’t think that’s what it is.

Because if I’m honest,
there are still things in my life that don’t feel resolved.

Things that didn’t turn out the way I thought they would.
Things that haven’t been restored.
Things I still don’t fully understand.

And yet…

something has changed.

Not everything.

But something.

There are parts of me that are still healing.
Still learning.
Still walking through things I never expected to carry.

But there are also parts of me
that are no longer where they used to be.

Quieter.
Stronger.
More grounded than I was before.

Not because everything got easier.

But because something in me
didn’t stay where it was.

And I think that’s what Easter is.

Not the erasing of what happened.
Not a return to what was.

But life
where there wasn’t life before.

Not loud.
Not immediate.

But real.

And maybe that’s what I’m holding onto today.

Not that everything is finished.

But that something is alive in me
that wasn’t before.

And maybe that’s what this past year has been teaching me.

Not that everything changes overnight —
but that life can begin again,
even in the middle of it.

“Just as Christ was raised from the dead… we too may live a new life.”
— Romans 6:4 (NIV)

Not Everything Gets Given Back

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I read something today about Job.

That God didn’t give him his old life back —
He gave him a new one.

That some pain isn’t explained,
it’s redeemed.

And I’ve been sitting with that.

Because if I’m honest,
I think part of me still expects life to circle back.

To return what was lost.
To restore things the way they were.
To make it all make sense in a way I recognize.

But that’s not always how it works.

Sometimes what’s gone
doesn’t come back the same way.

Sometimes there isn’t a clear explanation.
No moment where everything is tied together neatly.

And that’s the part that’s hard to sit with.

Because redemption doesn’t always look like replacement.

It doesn’t always feel like more.
It doesn’t always come in a way you can immediately recognize as good.

Sometimes it’s quieter than that.

Sometimes it looks like continuing.
Like rebuilding without having all the pieces.
Like learning to hold both what was
and what is now
at the same time.

I don’t know that I fully understand redemption yet.

But I’m starting to see
that it isn’t always about getting something back.

Sometimes it’s about becoming someone
who can keep moving forward
even without it.

“I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten…”
— Joel 2:25 (NIV)

What I Reach for Without Thinking

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been noticing something I don’t think about very often.

Not what I choose —
but what I default to.

The things I reach for
before I’ve had time to decide who I want to be in the moment.

Because there’s a difference.

There’s the version of me that is thoughtful, grounded, intentional.

And then there’s the version of me
that shows up without asking permission.

The one that reacts before I reflect.
The one that fills the silence too quickly.
The one that tries to smooth things over, explain, or carry more than I need to.

And I’m starting to see that those moments matter more than I thought.

Not because they define me —
but because they reveal what’s still unlearning itself in me.

It’s easy to focus on the big changes.
The visible growth.
The things you can point to and say, I’m different now.

But the quieter work?

It shows up in the split second
between what happens
and what I instinctively reach for.

And lately, I’ve been asking myself —

What am I reaching for there?

Control?
Understanding?
Approval?
Silence?

Or something steadier?

Something truer?

I don’t think this is about getting it right every time.

I think it’s about becoming aware enough
to notice the pattern
before it runs the whole moment.

Because maybe growth doesn’t always look like a dramatic shift.

Maybe it looks like a pause.

A breath.

A different choice —
right in the space
where the old one used to live.

“Let us test and examine our ways, and return to the Lord.”
— Lamentations 3:40 (ESV)

When You Realize You’ve Changed

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a strange moment that happens sometimes in life.

You’re in a conversation.
Or a situation.
Or maybe just a quiet moment by yourself.

And you realize something.

You’re not reacting the way you used to.

The things that once pulled you into long explanations don’t have the same grip.
The moments that once demanded your defense feel different now.
The urge to fix everything, to smooth every misunderstanding, to carry every tension — it’s just… quieter.

It’s not that life suddenly became easier.

It’s that something in you became steadier.

Change rarely arrives with an announcement.

Most of the time it shows up quietly.

In the pause before you speak.
In the decision not to chase every narrative.
In the realization that peace is worth more than being understood.

You don’t always notice growth while it’s happening.

But every once in a while, life gives you a small moment where you see it clearly.

Not because everything around you has changed.

But because you have.

And that kind of change doesn’t usually come from comfort.

It comes from the slow, unseen work of becoming someone who no longer needs to respond the way they once did.

“And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory.”
— 2 Corinthians 3:18 (NIV)

The Strength of Restraint

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

There’s a kind of strength people don’t talk about very often.

The strength of restraint.

The moments when you know exactly what you could say.
The explanation is ready.
The defense is sitting right on the edge of your tongue.

You could clarify.
You could correct the narrative.
You could make sure everyone understands your side.

And sometimes, you choose not to.

Not because you don’t have the words.
Not because you’re afraid to speak.

But because you’re learning that not every moment requires your voice.

There’s a quiet wisdom in that.

The ability to pause before reacting.
To recognize when defending yourself will only pull you deeper into something you don’t need to carry.

Restraint isn’t weakness.

It’s discipline.

It’s choosing peace over the temporary relief of saying everything you’re thinking.

It’s trusting that not every misunderstanding needs to be untangled immediately.

Some things settle in time.
Some things reveal themselves without your help.

And some things simply aren’t yours to fix.

Restraint asks for patience.
It asks for humility.

And sometimes the strongest thing you can do
is remain steady
and let silence do the work words never could.

Anchor Verse

“Better a patient person than a warrior, one with self-control than one who takes a city.”
— Proverbs 16:32 (NIV)

The Version of Me I Don’t Show

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a version of me that moves through the day just fine.

She answers texts.
She smiles at the store.
She gets things done.
She sounds steady.

And then there’s the version of me that sits in the car for an extra minute before going inside.

The one who replays conversations.
The one who wonders if she said too much — or not enough.
The one who is tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.

Both versions are real.

I think we underestimate how much energy it takes to carry yourself well when life feels heavier than usual.

Not because you’re pretending.
But because you’re choosing not to unravel in public.

And that’s not dishonesty.
That’s discernment.

Not everyone gets access to your processing.
Not everyone needs to witness the unraveling.
Some spaces are for composure.
Some are for collapse.
Some are just for you and God.

I’m learning that strength isn’t the absence of struggle.
It’s knowing where to lay it down.

Maybe that’s just what it looks like to keep going.

There’s nothing wrong with the version of you that keeps going.
And there’s nothing wrong with the version of you that needs a minute.

You’re allowed to hold both.

“You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.”
— Psalm 139:1–2 (NIV)

The Patterns That Kept Me Alive

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

I used to think healing meant becoming someone new.
Quieter. Softer. Less alert. Less intense.

What I’m learning instead is that healing often begins with naming who we became in order to survive.

I didn’t wake up one day strong.
I learned to be strong because the alternative felt dangerous.

I learned to stay alert — not because I’m anxious by nature,
but because my body learned that calm could disappear without warning.

I learned to move quickly, to adapt, to anticipate,
to read the room before the room ever spoke.

Somewhere along the way, productivity became proof that I was okay.
Stillness felt suspicious.
Rest felt like something you earn after everything is handled —
and everything was never fully handled.

There were moments when disappearing felt safer than speaking.
Moments when staying small meant staying protected.
Moments when control was the only thing that made the ground feel steady beneath my feet.

And when the weight of all of it became too much,
I learned how to leave —
into thought, into meaning, into prayer, into imagination.
Not to avoid life, but to survive it.

None of this came from weakness.
It came from intelligence.
From a nervous system that adapted brilliantly to what it was handed.

I’m not ashamed of who I became to survive.
But I am learning that I don’t have to live there forever.

Healing, for me, doesn’t look like erasing these patterns.
It looks like thanking them —
and slowly, gently, teaching my body that it is safe to soften now.

Safe to rest without collapsing.
Safe to connect without disappearing.
Safe to stand still without bracing for impact.

I am not broken.
I am tired.

And maybe that’s not something to fix —
maybe it’s something to finally listen to.

“For you, O God, have tested us; you have tried us as silver is tried.”
— Psalm 66:10 (ESV)

I’m Learning What I Can Carry

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are some things I’ve realized I carry without even noticing.

Other people’s expectations.
Their discomfort.
Their silence.
Their need for things to stay easy.

And in a lot of ways, it’s not accidental.

Sometimes, people do ask you to carry it.
Sometimes it’s implied.
Sometimes it’s expected.

Carry this so things don’t get harder.
Carry this so we don’t have to talk about it.
Carry this quietly — and preferably without complaint.

And for a long time, I did.

I told myself it was kindness.
That it was maturity.
That this was just what you do when you love people or want peace.

But there’s a difference between being generous
and being weighed down.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a quieter, braver question:
Is this something I can carry without losing myself?

Because some burdens don’t just make you tired —
they slowly teach you to disappear.

I’m learning that it’s okay to name discomfort.
That it’s okay to acknowledge the weight.
That carrying something doesn’t mean I’m required to carry it forever.

I can still be compassionate without being silent.
Faithful without being compliant.
Present without absorbing what was never mine to hold alone.

That’s the work right now.

Not rejecting responsibility —
but choosing honesty.

Learning what I can carry.
And trusting God with the rest.

“For each one should carry their own load.”
— Galatians 6:5 (NIV)