The Prayer I Keep Whispering: A Quiet Breath for the Week Ahead

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

God,
You already know —
but I’ll say it anyway.

Because something in me
needs to say it out loud.
To bring the ache to You
instead of just carrying it around inside me.

I don’t have anything profound today.
No bold declarations.
No polished prayers.
Just a quiet whisper
from a tired heart.

Hold me steady.
Keep us safe.
Help me trust what I can’t yet see.
Remind me that I’m not lost in this.

Some days I feel brave.
Other days, I feel like I’m barely holding on.
But You’ve never needed my strength to stay close.

So I’ll stay here.
Soft.
Honest.
Open.

Still whispering —
and still believing
that You’re listening.

Amen.

In the Stretch Between

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a certain kind of quiet
that lives in the in-between.
After what’s been planned —
before what makes sense.

It’s not quite peace.
Not quite panic.
Just… waiting.
A stretch of time
where clarity feels far away,
and trust becomes a choice
you keep making in the dark.

That’s where I am right now.

And I don’t have anything polished to say.
No deep revelation.
No strength to spare.
Just this: I’m here.

Still praying.
Still breathing.
Still trusting the One who sees what I can’t.

Because I don’t know what’s next —
but I know who’s holding me.
And sometimes that has to be enough.

So if you’re in the stretch too —
between the ache and the answer,
between the weight and the relief —
you’re not alone.

This space might not feel holy,
but I believe it is.

And even here,
you are still held.

I’m Not Who I Was — And That’s a Good Thing

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I used to think healing would bring me back to who I was before.
Before the breaking.
Before the questions.
Before the silence.

But I’ve learned —
healing doesn’t take you back.
It walks you forward, slowly,
into someone new.

And the woman I’m becoming
is softer than she used to be —
but she’s also steadier.
She still feels things deeply,
but she no longer apologizes for that.

She pays attention now.
To what feels safe.
To what feels like peace.
To what feels like home.

There was a time I thought becoming meant performing —
trying to prove I was strong, unshaken, “okay.”

Now, I know better.

Becoming looks like knowing when to speak
and when to stay quiet.
It looks like grace for the in-between.
It looks like choosing truth,
even when it’s tender.

And while I wouldn’t have chosen this path,
I’m learning to see beauty in who I’m becoming along the way.

No, I’m not who I was —
and maybe that’s not something to grieve.
Maybe that’s something to honor.

It’s the quiet strength that speaks the loudest.
Can you hear it in yourself, too?

God, Are You Listening?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

God,
are You listening?

I know You are.
But some days, I still ask the question.

Not because I think You’ve left —
but because I am both —
the steady believer
and the human heart that aches for response.

I still pray.
Still trust.
Still believe You are near.
But there are moments when I wonder
why it feels like I’m the only one speaking.

The silence is heavy when I’m carrying so much.

And then I remember:
sometimes,
it’s in the silence
that we hear You the loudest.

So I keep praying —
not to fill the quiet,
but to stay close to You inside it.

Because maybe faith isn’t always loud.
Maybe it’s this:
still believing You hear me —
even when You don’t say a word.

So yes, I’ll keep asking:
God, are You listening?

And I’ll keep trusting —
because something in me knows
You always are.

The House Still Echoes

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been sorting through drawers and closets,
moving quietly from room to room —
making space.
Letting go.

There’s something holy about the quiet work of cleaning out a life.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just one decision at a time:
keep this, release that.

I keep picking up remnants —
things that once made sense in this space,
but now feel like they belonged to someone else’s story.

Things left behind —
as if they still believe they have a place here.

I realize,
I’ve been walking through the outline of a life
that was never fully mine.

And it hits me:
starting over and letting go aren’t the same thing.
You can do both at once —
but they don’t always move at the same pace.

Some moments feel freeing.
Others feel like loss in disguise.

But I keep going.
Because even if the room still echoes right now,
it won’t always.

Maybe what feels empty today
is just waiting to be filled with something new.
Something better.
Something mine.

Not Because I Could Handle It

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve never believed that saying —
“God won’t give you more than you can handle.”
If that were true, I’d have to be made of steel.
And I’m not.

I’m soft.
I’m tired sometimes.
I break open more often than I’d like to admit.

But recently, I found myself reflecting on everything these past few years have held —
and it caught up with me.
Not just the ache,
but the weight of what I’ve carried.

And in that quiet moment, a truth settled over me:

God didn’t choose me for this life
because I could “handle it.”
He chose me for this life
because He knew I’d use it.

Not right away.
Not perfectly.
But eventually — when the time was right —
I’d let what broke me open someone else’s heart to healing.
I’d let what I survived draw someone else closer to Him.

That changes everything.

This isn’t a punishment.
It’s not proof that I’m weak.
It’s a story — one He’s still writing.

And maybe that’s the real miracle:
Not that I’ve handled it,
but that I’m still here,
still open,
still willing to let my life mean something more.

And for that,
I’m thankful.

Motherhood: The Gift and the Grief

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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 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?

Choosing Peace

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Bitterness waits for an invitation.
It’s always close —
easy to reach for, easy to justify.

It promises protection,
but slowly poisons what’s tender.
It hardens what still longs to feel.

Peace… peace is quieter.
It doesn’t shout.
It doesn’t demand.
It simply stands in the corner, patient —
waiting for you to turn toward it.

And turning isn’t easy.
Sometimes it feels like betrayal —
like letting go means it didn’t matter.
Like choosing peace means you weren’t hurt in the first place.

But peace doesn’t deny the pain.
It just refuses to let the pain decide who you’ll be.

It doesn’t ask you to forget.
It just asks you to breathe.

To soften.
To stay open.
To carry your story with gentleness, not armor.

And maybe today, that’s the only choice that matters —
not what happened,
not what could’ve been,
but what you carry forward from here.

Let it be peace.

When Showing Up Is the Bravest Thing You Do

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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.