Presence

The Strength Fear Tries to Steal

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

I’ve wasted so many todays
worrying about tomorrow.

Not intentionally.
Not because I wanted to.
But because anxiety is sneaky like that —
convincing you that if you think it through just one more time,
you’ll feel better.

Spoiler: you don’t.

I read something recently that really stuck out to me:
“What does your anxiety do? It does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows; but, ah! it empties today of its strength.”
— Alexander McLaren

And I felt it.

Because fear doesn’t just whisper worst-case scenarios —
it drains the light from moments that were meant to hold joy.
It robs us of the strength we do have for right now,
by convincing us we need to hoard it for what might come later.

But we weren’t made to live that way.
Not crouched in fear.
Not rehearsing pain that hasn’t even happened.

Today is still here.
And it still matters.

God didn’t promise we’d be fearless.
But He did promise He’d be with us.
And that is more than enough.

Maybe peace isn’t the absence of what we fear —
but the presence of the One who knows how to carry us through it.

So for today —
not tomorrow, just today —
I’m choosing presence over panic.
Trust over spirals.
And strength over fear.

What I Want to Remember About Right Now

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

If you had asked me a few months ago,
I probably would’ve said I wanted amnesia for this season of my life.

But now?

I want to remember
the way Beckett and I can make each other belly laugh —
even when all we want to do is cry.

The way we snuggle when he first wakes up,
before greeting the rest of the world.

I want to remember the time I’m getting with my parents,
and the special bond they’re building with their grandson.

How I’ve grown comfortable with my thoughts
and where they lead me.

How I trust myself now —
to know who’s safe, and who isn’t.

I want to remember
the way I’ve learned to see God in the details.
To feel His presence in every room.
To look to Him to light even the darkest of days.

This isn’t a season to forget.
It’s a season that reminds me
just how much I have to be thankful for.

So, what do I want to remember about right now?

Everything.

What Stayed Becomes the Legacy

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

I could make a list of all the things that left.
The people.
The promises.
The versions of life I thought I’d get to live.

But maybe it matters more to name what stayed.

The quiet strength I didn’t know I had.
The still, small voice that kept whispering, “Keep going.”
The arms that held my child even when mine were trembling.
The Presence that never walked out — even when everything else did.

What stayed wasn’t loud.
It didn’t demand attention.
It didn’t come with guarantees.

But it carried me.

And now?
Now I see it for what it is —
a legacy.

Because this love —
the one that stayed,
the one that steadied,
the one that kept showing up when no one was watching —
that’s what I get to pass on.

Not a perfect story.
But a faithful one.

He may not remember every hard day.
He won’t know how many battles I fought silently —
But he will carry the way I loved him.
Steady. Present. Unshaken by what tried to undo me.

This isn’t just healing.
This is inheritance.
This love — this staying —
is the legacy I leave.

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:13

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.

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.

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.