It’s not often that I as a professional writer can say this, but I don’t know exactly what this is supposed to look like. I don’t have the perfect words. But something inside me is stirring. So here I am.
For most of my life, I kept my thoughts about God and the spirit world quiet. Private. Just between me and Him. And while part of me still holds tight to that belief, lately, something’s been shifting. I can feel it — an undeniable pull I can no longer ignore.
Let me be clear: I will never force my beliefs on anyone. That’s not who I am. Everyone walks their own road, finds their own truth, and discovers who they are in their own time. But today, for reasons I don’t fully understand, I feel ready to share a piece of my journey.
I’ve written before about my falling out with God — how, 22 years ago, I turned away from Him. I was angry. I was broken. I truly believed He hated me.
It began with my uncle — a man who fought hard to rebuild his life. He was in recovery. He was in a committed relationship. He was loved. But God took him anyway.
My uncle was also openly gay.
While we held a celebration of life in South Florida for his community where he was living, we also wanted to hold a memorial for him in his hometown in Southeast Alabama. Since the South Florida funeral home handled the arrangements, my poor Dad was tasked to make these arrangements for the service. Mom was practically comatose with grief. We were unable to find a clergy member to speak at the service.
He approached a local pastor to ask him to speak. My dad asked for a simple kindness: honor a man we cherished. Instead, that so-called man of faith said, “I’d be happy to speak, but I won’t be able to preach him into heaven.”
That uncle was my mother’s brother. A deeply flawed human being like we all are. And though Mom’s body stayed here for seven more years, her spirit left with him. She was never the same.
Speaking of my mom — God, she was brilliant. One of the sharpest minds I’ve ever known. But self-hatred and destructive patterns took her from us long before her body gave out. When she finally passed, I carried that loss like an open wound. And I blamed God for every inch of it.
Then He almost took me, too.
Less than six months after losing my mom, my gallbladder ruptured. Emergency surgery, a week hovering between life and death. Statistically, 60% of people don’t survive that. But somehow — I did.
And yet, the losses didn’t stop.
My dad — another genius, another light dimmed too soon by depression and addiction. I truly there was musical magic he kept hidden.
My sister — battling cancer from a thousand miles away, and me, powerless to help.
And most recently there’s Pete. I’m not ready to fully go there yet. Losing him broke me in ways I’m still trying to understand. Why would God take the best thing that ever happened to me?
To say I was angry was a giant understatement. Furious. I screamed at God, cursed Him, called Him everything I could think of. I wanted nothing to do with Him.
But here’s the thing:
The more I let myself breathe, the more I sit with it all, the more I realize — God was never against me. He was fighting for me all along.
I’m still here.
I survived that gallbladder rupture! My health today? Better than it was back in 2009. Sure, I could stand to lose a few pounds, but honestly? I’m doing well.
I’m about to release my fifth solo book. Written during the middle of one of the darkest seasons I’ve had in a very long time.
Even as I climbed through that dark season, God kept me moving forward. I found a good job. I started rebuilding. And little by little, I’m learning to thrive again.
Here’s what I’ve learned: it gets better.
It always gets better.
Be still.
Where have I heard that before?
I’ve always admired people who, when faced with storms, lean deeper into their faith. Whatever their belief system, I’ve always respected that.
That’s never been me. I wish it were.
But maybe… maybe this is exactly where I was meant to be.
Because when I walk into a room and feel sure of myself? That’s something working inside me.
When I sit down and write a book a year — and still have stories left to tell? That’s something working inside me.
When I survive the loss of my four-legged son and find my way back to joy? That’s something working inside me.
Now, I can say it without hesitation: He was working for me all along.
Sometimes, you have to clear out the mess to let the gold flow.
So here I am. Ready.
Tell me more.
It’s incredible, the miracles that unfold when you finally trust.
