life

When the Past Shows Up Without Warning

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

From one anonymous woman to another

I saw a face today— not in person — but I didn’t expect to see it.
And something in me froze.

I thought I had moved past it — or at least moved far enough away from it.
But some memories don’t knock before they come rushing in.

They don’t care if you were having a good morning.

They don’t care if you were feeling strong, or grounded, or even just okay.

One photo. One name. One echo.
And suddenly, you’re back in a moment you never wanted in the first place — much less to revisit.

It didn’t last forever. The wave passed.
But I felt it — the weight in my chest, the lump in my throat, the questions I’ve already answered a hundred times:
“Was it really that bad?”
“Should I have done more to protect the future women who meet him?”
“Why am I still shaken by this?”

And then I did what I could.
I shared what was safe.
I used my voice — anonymously — to protect someone who might not know what they’re walking into.
Not out of anger.
But out of care.
Because I would’ve wanted someone to do the same for me back then.

And now… I’m looking down at this perfect little face, as I rock my baby for a nap.

His breath slows against my shoulder.
One hand curled against my chest, the other on my back.
The room quiet.

And just like that — I am back in this moment.

One that’s steady.
One that’s safe.
One that’s mine.

I don’t owe the past my silence.
And I don’t owe it my presence either.

I’m here now — in this soft, still place where healing is allowed to happen.
Where I have found my voice.

Leaving the Service, Finding the Stillness

/ Baylee Snelling / 5 Comments

A reflection on the Easter Sunday I stepped out — and still found grace.

I could feel the sensory overload pulsing through both of us.
The lights, the noise, the crowd.
The pressure to keep him calm.
The unspoken fear that everyone around us might be thinking, “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

My dad took him for a moment. Then my mom.
He always wanted to come back to me — and I wanted him too.
But even in my arms, he wouldn’t settle.
I knew he was tired. I knew he was overstimulated.
And truthfully, so was I.

He didn’t have the words for it,
but somehow I think Beckett knew I needed something too —
a break, a breath, a quieter place to hold him without the weight of so many eyes.

We both needed out. So we left.

I stepped into the quiet lobby with him pressed against my chest, and I felt a mix of relief and shame.
I had wanted so badly to stay in the service, to worship, to feel present in the message of resurrection and hope.
But instead, I found myself holding my toddler in a hallway, wondering if people saw a mom who didn’t have it together.
Wondering if they thought, “She doesn’t know how to handle him. She doesn’t have him every Sunday. She doesn’t know what he needs.”

That thought stung more than I wanted to admit.

But as I swayed with him in the stillness, something shifted.
He was restless — but I was still his safest place.
Even when I felt unsure. Even when I didn’t have all the answers.
He kept coming back to me.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe being a good mom isn’t about having flawless moments in the pews.
Maybe it’s about leaving the room when your child needs quiet — and letting that be holy too.
Maybe it’s about knowing you’re doing your best with what you have.
About whispering “you’re okay” to your baby while learning to whisper it to yourself, too.

I’m still learning how to mother through the insecurity.
Still learning that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.
Still learning to trust that love isn’t always soft and settled — sometimes, it’s messy and loud and stretching and real.

And maybe that’s the kind of grace we need most —
the kind that meets us in the hallway, not just at the altar.