Healing

Love Letters in Black-Edged Envelopes

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Finding grace in what once felt like grief

There are days I wonder how I ever make it through.
Not because I’m prideful —
but because I’m constantly reminded of how deeply I ache,
how lost I feel,
how certain I am, at times, that the pain will never ease.

But it does.
Slowly. Quietly.
And in ways I still have yet to fully see.

I came across this quote by Charles Spurgeon, and it stopped me:

“I bear my witness that the worst days I have ever had have turned out to be my best days.
And when God has seemed most cruel to me He has then been most kind…
Our Father’s wagons rumble most heavily when they are bringing us the richest freight of the bullion of His grace…
Love letters from heaven are often sent in black-edged envelopes.”

It’s a hard truth to hold —
that some of the most tender mercies arrive dressed as heartache.
That the pain that almost unravels me
is also what softens me,
what refines me,
what keeps making room for something deeper.

There were nights I cried out to God with no reply.
Moments I felt abandoned.
Parts of my story that felt unfair — even unredeemable.

But He is here.
In the silence.
In the stretch.
In the storm.

And the very things I begged to be taken away
are slowly becoming the places where I see Him most clearly.
Not always in answers —
but in presence.

I don’t say this lightly:
I wouldn’t have chosen this pain.
But I also wouldn’t trade what I’ve found in the wreckage.

Because it’s here —
in the rebuilding,
in the quiet grace of a still-standing soul —
that I’ve seen the truth of Spurgeon’s words:

This storm isn’t breaking me.
It’s bringing me home.

Nothing Is Wasted

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Even the broken pieces can grow something beautiful

I used to look back at the hard things and wonder what the point of it all was.
Why the pain, the waiting, the silence.
Why the breaking.

But slowly, in the quiet work of healing,
I’ve come to believe this —
that nothing is wasted in the hands of a God who sees the whole story.

Not the quiet tears I tried to hide.
Not the long, quiet stretches of uncertainty.
Not the prayers I barely had words for.
Not even the things I’d rather forget.

Because somehow,
the soil that held the most sorrow
is the same soil where something sacred began to grow.

No, I wouldn’t choose to walk through it again.
But I also wouldn’t trade what I’ve found on the other side:

A deeper strength.
A quieter kind of hope.
A faith that doesn’t need the full picture to trust the Painter.

So if you’re in the middle of it —
wondering if anything good could come from what’s been lost —
hold on.

What feels broken today
may one day bloom with beauty
you couldn’t imagine from here.

Nothing is wasted.
Not in His hands.

A Letter to the Present Moment

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I used to think healing meant moving forward —
quickly, cleanly, clearly.
But I’ve come to realize,
some of the most important parts of healing
happen when I’m not going anywhere at all.

Just here.
Still.
Sitting in the slow stretch of the present moment.

It’s not always comfortable.
I find myself reaching for distractions,
searching for answers,
wishing for resolution.

But I’m learning not to rush this season.
Not to escape it,
fix it,
or numb it.

Just…
to be in it.
To breathe through it.
To let it shape me
without stealing me.

There’s something sacred here —
in the pause,
in the waiting,
in the not-yet-knowing.

So tonight, I’m practicing presence.
Letting today be enough.
Letting now be holy.

They say, “the most beautiful skies come after the worst storms.”
Who they are, I’ll never know.
But I do know this —
it’s true.
And I can’t wait to see just how beautiful the sky is.

When You’ve Already Prayed for This

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

There’s a prayer I’ve whispered so many times,
I don’t even need the words anymore.
It lives in my breath —
in the pause between heartbeats,
in the tears that come without warning.

Sometimes, I feel embarrassed to bring it up again.
Like I should’ve moved on by now.
Like maybe God is tired of hearing the same request
from the same voice
with the same ache.

But then I remember:
God is not like us.
He doesn’t grow weary of repetition.
He doesn’t keep score.
He just keeps listening.

So I bring it again.
Not because I don’t trust —
but because I do.

Because when you keep praying for the same thing,
you’re not being weak.
You’re being brave.

You’re believing
that even silence can be holy
and that maybe, just maybe,
this prayer is forming something in you, too.

He still hears you.
Even now. Even again.

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.

Motherhood: The Gift and the Grief

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

There are days when I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be —
rocking him in the quiet,
kissing his forehead,
hearing “mama” and knowing it means me.

And then there are days when motherhood feels like something I’m still learning how to hold —
not because I’m absent from it,
but because some parts look different than I imagined.

No one tells you how much letting go is wrapped up in loving.
How much loss lives inside of even the most beautiful things.

And yet, this is what I know:

I am his mother.
Fully. Deeply. Undeniably.
Whether I’m holding him or waiting for him.
Whether it’s loud laughter or quiet ache.
Whether the world understands it or not — I know it in my bones.

This isn’t just a Hallmark holiday.
It’s a sacred tension.
It’s a joy and a heartbreak.
It’s both.

And somehow, I get to live in that middle space —
the one where gratitude and grief sit at the same table,
and I’m learning not to rush either of them away.

Because maybe this, too, is motherhood:
Not picture-perfect.
Not easy to explain.
But honest. Holy. Still mine.

When It’s Both

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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

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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.