MANE.....Jesus tore that place up!!!!!!

THE SANCTUARY: I'M LITE BECAUSE THE LIGHT NEVER LEFT

Everybody Can't Come in This House, and Everybody Ain't Qualified to Tell Me How to Live in It

P.S. Before you start reading, understand that this is a grown-woman conversation about emotional intelligence, trauma, grief, faith, boundaries, and the work required to heal. There will be scripture. There will be accountability. There will be some profanity. There will be some uncomfortable truths. And there will be no apologies for the delivery. If you are looking for meek, mild, and silent, baby, you might want to find another blog tonight.

Because this shit is BLAZING.

And before somebody decides to make that statement about themselves, let me help you.

Everything ain't about you.

But if the shoe fits, you are more than welcome to walk around in it.

Now, let's get into it.

I. EMOTIONAL MATURITY IS EXPENSIVE, AND BABY, I PAID THE BILL.

I want to have a conversation about emotional maturity.

Not the emotional maturity that people claim because they reached a certain age.

Not the emotional maturity that comes with having grandchildren, gray hair, a title, a degree, a position in the church, or being somebody's mama or daddy.

I'm talking about the kind of emotional maturity that comes from doing the WORK.

The kind that requires you to sit in a room with a therapist and confront some things about yourself that you didn't even know were there.

The kind that makes you examine your childhood, your relationships, your parenting, your marriage, your friendships, your trauma responses, your coping mechanisms, your triggers, and the patterns you've spent years calling normal.

The kind that makes you realize that two things can be true at the same time.

You can love somebody and not like their behavior.

You can respect somebody's position in your life without accepting their mistreatment.

You can understand somebody's trauma and still refuse to become another casualty of it.

You can forgive somebody and never speak to them again.

You can forgive somebody and reconcile.

You can accept an apology and move forward.

And you can accept an apology and still decide that the relationship will never look the same.

Because forgiveness, reconciliation, and restored access are three different things.

And baby, that's emotional intelligence.

That's discernment.

That's growth.

That's the work.

And the work ain't free.

Let me tell you something about my investment in myself.

I paid copays.

I paid when there wasn't a copay.

I paid out of pocket.

I went to therapy three, four, five times a week.

I used my LUNCH BREAK to go to therapy.

Do you understand what I'm saying?

While some people were sitting down enjoying their lunch, I was sitting somewhere trying to make sense of a life that had become almost unrecognizable.

While people were calling me, texting me, needing something, asking for advice, looking for answers, I was doing the work required to keep myself emotionally and mentally present.

And sometimes those calls weren't answered.

Sometimes I wasn't available.

Sometimes I couldn't pick up the phone because I was sitting with a professional unpacking something that had nearly broken me.

I told people I was in therapy.

I told people what I was doing.

But perhaps they didn't understand what it meant.

Perhaps they heard the words without comprehending the weight.

Because when you see somebody functioning, you can mistake their ability to function for their ability to keep absorbing pain.

AND THAT, BABY, IS WHERE Y'ALL DONE LOST YOUR DAMN MIND.

You watched me survive the unimaginable and assumed I could survive whatever else you decided to bring to my doorstep.

You watched me carry extraordinary responsibilities and decided that meant I had room for yours.

You watched me make difficult decisions and assumed making them didn't cost me anything.

You watched me keep showing up and decided I must not need anybody to show up for me.

And you know what?

I have to take accountability for my participation in that pattern.

Because I gave the illusion that it was easy.

I did.

I kept moving.

I kept showing up.

I kept solving problems.

I kept being the one who knew what to do.

I kept being the emotional crutch.

I kept being the wise counsel.

And sometimes I made it look so effortless that people forgot there was a whole human being underneath the capability.

But understand this:

Taking accountability for the illusion I created does not mean accepting responsibility for the lack of compassion somebody else demonstrated.

Those are two different things.

And I have spent too much money and too many hours in therapy not to know the difference.

II. JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE OLDER DOESN'T MEAN YOU'RE WISER.

Now let's talk about something that might make a few people uncomfortable.

Age does not automatically produce emotional maturity.

Neither does parenthood.

Neither does being somebody's grandparent.

Neither does raising somebody.

And neither does loving somebody.

You can love a person deeply and still lack the emotional intelligence required to maintain a healthy relationship with them.

You can raise a child and still have unresolved issues that affect the way you communicate with that child when they become an adult.

You can be seventy years old and still respond to conflict with the emotional tools you developed at seventeen.

And you can be forty years old, have gone through intensive therapy, and recognize a pattern that somebody twice your age has never examined.

That doesn't make the younger person superior.

It makes the work relevant.

Wisdom is not automatically bestowed upon you because you've been alive longer.

And respect does not require intellectual or emotional surrender.

Let's go to scripture.

Proverbs 4:7 tells us that wisdom is the principal thing and encourages us to pursue understanding.

Notice that wisdom is something to pursue.

Not something you automatically possess because you have birthdays.

And James 1:5 tells us to ask God for wisdom.

Why would we need to ask if age alone guaranteed it?

Now, I honor my elders.

I understand the sacrifices of previous generations.

I understand that our grandmothers and great-grandmothers raised families under circumstances many of us will never fully comprehend.

But the grandmothers who raised us are not necessarily the grandmothers present today.

The great-grandmothers who raised us lived in different times, with different resources, expectations, survival strategies, and responsibilities.

And every generation has an opportunity to examine what it inherited.

Some things deserve to be preserved.

Some things deserve to be celebrated.

And some things need to stop right here.

Because just because something was done to you doesn't mean it should be done to somebody else.

Just because you weren't allowed to express your emotions doesn't mean my child won't be allowed to express his.

Just because nobody apologized to you doesn't mean I won't apologize to my child.

Just because you were taught that children should be seen and not heard doesn't mean I am raising a child who cannot advocate for himself.

And just because I was expected to accept something when I was younger does not mean I am obligated to continue accepting it at forty.

I can honor what you gave me without reproducing everything you taught me.

Let that sit.

III. I HAVE BEEN THE WISE COUNSEL, THE EMOTIONAL CRUTCH, AND THE DAMN EMERGENCY RESPONSE TEAM.

Now let's talk about what happens when you're the one in your circle who understands that behavior has underlying causes.

Because I don't just hear what people say.

I listen.

I observe.

I examine patterns.

I consider context.

I recognize that sometimes the argument isn't about the argument.

Sometimes somebody is reacting to an old wound.

Sometimes somebody is afraid.

Sometimes somebody is ashamed.

Sometimes somebody is operating from something they learned in childhood.

Sometimes somebody has experienced trauma they never processed.

And sometimes?

Sometimes people are simply making choices they need to take accountability for.

Everything is not trauma.

Everything is not a trigger.

And everybody does not need a diagnosis to explain why they keep acting a damn fool.

But being emotionally aware means I can consider the underlying cause without excusing the resulting behavior.

And that awareness can be exhausting.

Because when you're the person everybody comes to for wisdom, you spend an extraordinary amount of time understanding people who have not invested nearly as much time understanding you.

You become the counselor.

The fixer.

The advocate.

The mediator.

The person who knows what to say.

The person who can make the call.

The person who knows somebody.

The person who can solve the problem.

The person who can pray somebody through.

The person who can walk into a hospital and ask the right questions.

The person who can organize the chaos.

The person who can make a plan when everybody else is panicking.

And eventually people stop asking whether you have the capacity to do those things.

They just assume you do.

Because you've always done them.

And that's how a gift can become a burden.

Not because the gift is bad.

But because the people benefiting from it forget that the person carrying it has limitations.

I am not an unlimited resource simply because God gave me gifts that have helped other people.

And I'm not everybody's therapist.

I have therapists.

Professionals.

People trained to help me process the things I've experienced.

So why in the world would I spend all this money learning to establish healthy boundaries just to come home and become the unpaid emotional rehabilitation center for people who refuse to examine themselves?

Make it make sense.

Galatians 6:2 tells us to bear one another's burdens.

But Galatians 6:5 reminds us that each person has their own load to carry.

BOTH.

In the same chapter.

Read for understanding.

Not just to find a scripture that supports whatever you already wanted to do.

Because I can help carry your burden without becoming responsible for your entire existence.

And I can love you without agreeing to carry what belongs to you.

IV. PTSD, TRAUMA, AND THE NERVOUS SYSTEM THAT REMEMBERS.

Now, let's talk about trauma.

Because this is where I need people to understand that trauma is not just a word somebody uses when they're having a difficult day.

Post-traumatic stress disorder is a real clinical condition.

It can develop after exposure to certain traumatic events, and its symptoms can be reactivated by reminders of those experiences.

New traumatic events can also occur.

At work.

In families.

In intimate relationships.

In hospitals.

In situations involving danger, loss, and profound fear.

Not every painful interaction creates PTSD, and not every difficult experience meets the clinical definition of trauma required for that diagnosis.

But experiences do affect people.

And repeated exposure to distress can change the way a person responds to conflict, uncertainty, authority, and perceived danger.

Sometimes your mind understands that you're in a different place, but your body is still responding to something familiar.

And that's why the work matters.

Because I don't want to spend the rest of my life reacting to every situation as though I'm still standing in the worst moment I've ever experienced.

I want to recognize my triggers.

I want to understand my responses.

I want to know when I'm activated.

I want to know when I need to remove myself.

I want to know when something is truly dangerous and when something is reminding me of a danger I've already survived.

That's part of emotional maturity.

That's part of healing.

And when somebody repeatedly disregards a boundary that I've established to protect my well-being, that matters.

Because I am not simply saying, "You hurt my feelings."

Sometimes I am saying, "This interaction is affecting my ability to feel safe, regulated, and at peace."

And those are not small things.

I have done too much work to casually surrender that progress.

I am not going to keep absorbing pain I didn't cause, participating in conflicts I didn't create, and managing emotional consequences that belong to somebody else.

If you are in conflict with yourself, I can have compassion for that.

But I cannot resolve that conflict for you.

And I will not allow your internal struggle to become the governing authority over my external peace.

V. THE DEATHS THAT DON'T COME WITH FUNERALS.

I need people to understand something else.

I have experienced death in more ways than I ever imagined possible.

And I'm not talking only about physical death.

I'm talking about the death of dreams.

The death of expectations.

The death of relationships.

The death of the marriage I once knew.

The death of friendships I thought would last a lifetime.

The death of family connections I believed were permanent.

The death of professional dreams I worked years to achieve.

The death of versions of myself I will never get back.

And then there are the actual deaths.

Darren.

Jaxon.

My brother.

People I loved.

People I helped usher toward eternity.

And a miscarriage.

And the loss of a father figure.

And the accumulation of grief that comes when life does not give you enough time to process one devastating event before another arrives.

I lost my brother and my son in the same year.

Do you understand the magnitude of that?

Do you understand what it means to keep functioning while your heart is trying to comprehend losses that have fundamentally changed the shape of your life?

Do you understand the decisions I've had to make over the last decade?

No.

And I pray you never have to understand them through personal experience.

Because that shit is HARD.

Hard in ways I cannot adequately explain.

Hard in ways that do not disappear because I am educated.

Hard in ways that do not disappear because I have money.

Hard in ways that do not disappear because I have faith.

Hard in ways that do not disappear because I know how to advocate.

Hard in ways that do not disappear because I am strong.

Faith does not mean grief doesn't hurt.

And functioning does not mean I'm finished grieving.

The world kept moving after my losses.

People went back to work.

People went on vacations.

People celebrated birthdays.

People made plans.

People continued living their lives.

And I am still here, learning how to live inside a reality I never would have chosen.

I am still somebody's mama.

I am still Darren's mama.

I am still Jaxon's mama.

And I am still here raising Nolin.

But the life I imagined is not the life I'm living.

And sometimes I need space to acknowledge that without somebody showing up and making my grief about them.

Because my heart has been broken multiple times.

And heartbreak takes up space.

It takes up emotional space.

Mental space.

Physical space.

Spiritual space.

And sometimes there simply isn't room for another person's unnecessary conflict.

Not because I don't care about people.

But because I have to care about myself, too.

VI. MOTHERHOOD AT FORTY: I'M NOT THE SAME MAMA, AND THIS IS NOT THE SAME SEASON.

Now let's talk about my baby.

Because raising a toddler in my forties is an entirely different experience.

And before somebody starts telling me how to parent, understand that I have been a mother through circumstances that required extraordinary levels of caregiving, medical advocacy, emotional endurance, and decision-making.

I am Darren's mama.

I am Jaxon's mama.

And I am Nolin's mama.

But the parenting experiences are different.

With Darren and Jaxon, so much of my motherhood involved protecting, advocating, caring, responding, and fighting for their needs.

And now I have this little boy with opinions.

Feelings.

Preferences.

A personality.

And baby, 2.0 is BUCKING THE SYSTEM!

He has some things to say.

And I have some things to say, too.

We're figuring this thing out together.

Because I want him to understand emotions.

I want him to know that being angry doesn't make him bad.

Being sad doesn't make him weak.

Being frustrated doesn't mean he's disrespectful.

And having a boundary doesn't mean he doesn't love somebody.

I want him to understand that he can say no.

That his voice matters.

That other people's boundaries matter, too.

That an apology is not a magic word that erases every consequence.

That accountability is not humiliation.

That love should not require him to abandon himself.

And I want to model those things.

Not simply lecture him about them.

Because children learn from what we demonstrate.

And I cannot teach my child that boundaries matter while allowing everybody around me to violate mine.

I cannot teach him emotional regulation while pretending I never experience difficult emotions.

I cannot teach him accountability while refusing to acknowledge my own mistakes.

And I cannot teach him that his peace matters while treating mine as disposable.

I am raising a child who deserves an emotionally present mother, not a mother who has exhausted herself managing every adult around her.

And that means I have to make some decisions differently.

Even when other people don't understand.

Even when they don't approve.

Even when they insist that's not how things were done when they were raising children.

Baby, I understand.

But I'm raising mine now.

And I am responsible for the environment I create.

VII. I'M IN DECISION OVERLOAD, AND I DON'T NEED ANOTHER COMMITTEE.

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from making too many high-stakes decisions for too many years.

And I know it intimately.

I have made decisions about medical care.

Decisions about treatment.

Decisions about my children.

Decisions about work.

Decisions about my marriage.

Decisions about finances.

Decisions about housing.

Decisions about relationships.

Decisions about my own health.

Decisions about what I can continue doing and what I can no longer do.

And some of those decisions carried consequences that would change my life forever.

So when I tell you that I have made a decision about my boundaries, understand something.

I am informing you. I am not opening the floor for debate.

I have considered it.

I have prayed about it.

I have talked through things.

I have done the work.

I have examined myself.

I have considered what is healthy for me.

And I have made a decision.

That does not mean I am incapable of being wrong.

That does not mean I am above accountability.

That does not mean I will never reconsider anything.

It means I am the person responsible for my life.

And I do not have to convene a family meeting every time I decide something is no longer acceptable.

I do not need permission to rest.

I do not need permission to grieve.

I do not need permission to protect my child.

I do not need permission to decline a conversation.

I do not need permission to leave a relationship.

And I do not need permission to stop explaining myself.

Matthew 5:37 teaches us to let our yes be yes and our no be no.

Sometimes no is the entire explanation.

And sometimes my silence is not avoidance.

It's me choosing not to participate.

VIII. WHEN THE PERSON WHO ALWAYS UNDERSTANDS EVERYBODY FINALLY SAYS ENOUGH.

Now, this is where some of y'all are really struggling.

Because you're accustomed to me understanding.

I understand why you said it.

I understand why you reacted.

I understand what happened in your childhood.

I understand why certain things trigger you.

I understand why you struggle to communicate.

I understand why you have difficulty apologizing.

I understand why you avoid accountability.

I understand why you feel rejected when somebody establishes a boundary.

I understand.

I UNDERSTAND.

But baby, understanding has never meant unlimited acceptance.

I can understand the reason and still reject the behavior.

And sometimes I have been too understanding.

Sometimes I gave grace when accountability was needed.

Sometimes I let things go because I didn't have the energy to address them.

Sometimes I knew something was wrong, but it wasn't the fire I needed to put out that day.

Because when you've spent years in survival mode, you learn to prioritize emergencies.

And not everything gets your immediate attention.

But just because I didn't address it doesn't mean I didn't see it.

Just because I didn't respond doesn't mean I agreed.

Just because I forgave it doesn't mean I forgot the pattern.

And just because I allowed something yesterday doesn't mean it gets to continue tomorrow.

I give grace.

A LOT of grace.

But grace does not require the abandonment of discernment.

And some of the grace I used to extend in the form of unlimited access is no longer available.

Because I am not God.

I am not Jesus.

I am not Job.

I am not Elijah.

I am not Abraham.

I am not Ruth.

I am ME.

And I am not walking on water.

I am not required to demonstrate divine patience while neglecting my very human limitations.

I can be slow to anger.

I can be the quietest person in the room.

I can listen longer than I speak.

I can choose my words carefully.

But when I finally speak, don't confuse the firmness of my words with emotional instability.

Sometimes the person who has said the least has considered the most.

And sometimes what sounds like rebellion is simply a person refusing to abandon her own values.

I'm not bucking the system. I'm honoring the system of values, boundaries, and accountability I've worked to build.

And that may be unfamiliar to people who benefited from the absence of those boundaries.

But unfamiliar doesn't mean wrong.

IX. STOP CONFUSING YOUR COMFORT WITH MY PEACE.

This is the part that really gets me.

After everything I've given to certain relationships, some people still expect me to sacrifice my peace to maintain theirs.

And I have a question.

How in the hell am I responsible for maintaining a peace you ain't never had?

Because what some people call peace is really avoidance.

It's everybody pretending nothing happened.

It's nobody addressing the elephant in the room.

It's the person who was hurt being expected to move on without an apology.

It's the person who establishes a boundary being labeled difficult because the boundary creates discomfort.

It's silence dressed up as harmony.

And baby, that's not peace.

That's an arrangement.

An arrangement where one person absorbs the discomfort so everybody else can remain comfortable.

And I'm no longer participating in that arrangement.

If you hurt my feelings, we can talk about it.

If you apologize sincerely and change the behavior, we may be able to move forward.

If you disagree with me respectfully, we can still have a relationship.

If we need distance, we can have distance.

But what we're not going to do is pretend that my responsibility is to maintain the appearance of harmony while repeatedly experiencing harm.

Romans 12:18 says, in essence, to live peaceably with others as far as it depends on you.

AS FAR AS IT DEPENDS ON YOU.

That means peace is not solely my assignment.

I cannot manufacture mutual respect by myself.

I cannot create accountability for somebody who refuses to participate.

I cannot reconcile a relationship alone.

And I cannot keep sacrificing my nervous system to preserve somebody else's comfort.

That is not the fruit of the Spirit.

That is exhaustion.

And I have had enough of it.

X. IF YOUR WING DON'T WORK, I CAN'T KEEP FLYING FOR YOU.

Now let's talk about the people who have been flying with me for years.

The people I supported.

The people I encouraged.

The people I advised.

The people I showed up for.

The people I gave resources to.

The people I modeled things for.

The people I helped navigate situations they didn't know how to handle.

And now, when I need to step away, some of those people act as though they cannot move without me.

Baby.

I gave you the blueprint.

I told you what to do.

I modeled what to do.

I supported you while you learned.

And at some point, you have to use your own wings.

I understand that everybody's capacity is different.

I understand that some people need more support than others.

I understand that life can be difficult.

But understanding those things does not mean I have to remain responsible for every step of your journey.

You cannot keep requiring me to be your wings while refusing to exercise your own.

Especially when you've witnessed what I've carried.

Especially when you've seen the losses.

Especially when you've watched me navigate circumstances that fundamentally changed my life.

And now you're coming to me with another crisis, another demand, another emotional emergency, without even considering whether I have the capacity to participate.

I am not comparing suffering to decide whose pain matters.

Pain is not a competition.

But capacity is real.

And mine has limits.

So if you're coming into my space because you want me to heal something you have refused to address, please turn around.

I have already given what I could.

I have already shown up.

I have already tried.

And now I need that energy for my own life.

I am not abandoning you by refusing to abandon myself.

XI. JESUS WAS NOT A DOORMAT, AND SCRIPTURE REQUIRES UNDERSTANDING.

Now let's get into the Word.

Because some people love to tell you to be meek and mild.

Be quiet.

Be forgiving.

Be patient.

Be the bigger person.

Keep the peace.

Turn the other cheek.

And those same people will overlook every scripture about wisdom, discernment, accountability, correction, and guarding your heart.

Baby, READ.

And read for understanding.

I have been reading since I was young.

And when I say young, I'm talking middle school.

I was reading Omar Tyree.

Flyy Girl.

Eric Jerome Dickey.

Milk in My Coffee.

Sister Souljah.

Kiki Swinson, whom I recently had the opportunity to meet.

All the things.

Some books were beyond what people might expect a middle-schooler to be reading.

But I was reading.

Thinking.

Questioning.

Trying to understand people, relationships, motives, choices, consequences, and the world around me.

And that carried into the way I approach scripture.

I don't believe in simply reading words without trying to understand their meaning.

I believe in studying.

Considering context.

Understanding translation.

Recognizing that people may approach a passage from different experiences and reach different applications.

And recognizing that disagreement does not automatically make somebody spiritually inferior.

My relationship with God is personal.

Your relationship with God is yours.

And I don't have to use scripture as a weapon against somebody simply because they understand a passage differently.

But don't use scripture to demand that I tolerate mistreatment either.

Let's talk about Jesus overturning the tables.

Matthew 21:12–13.

Jesus confronted wrongdoing in the temple.

Now, let's understand the context. That passage is about the misuse of a sacred place, not permission for us to become violent every time somebody irritates us.

But it absolutely challenges the idea that righteousness always looks like silence.

Jesus confronted.

Jesus corrected.

Jesus withdrew.

Jesus prayed.

Jesus loved.

And Jesus did not make Himself endlessly available to every demand.

So when I say I'm flipping tables, understand the metaphor.

I'm overturning unhealthy patterns.

I'm challenging the expectation that I should remain silent.

I'm rejecting the idea that maintaining appearances matters more than addressing wrongdoing.

And I'm refusing to let somebody use my faith as a reason I should surrender my boundaries.

Proverbs 4:23 tells us to guard our hearts.

Guard.

Not abandon.

Not harden.

GUARD.

And Matthew 10:14 reminds us that there are circumstances where leaving is appropriate.

Sometimes you have to shake the dust off your feet.

Not because you hate somebody.

But because you have said what needed to be said, and continuing the same conversation is no longer productive.

I can leave with love in my heart and still mean every word of my goodbye.

XII. THE SANCTUARY: EVERYBODY CAN'T COME IN THIS HOUSE.

Now.

Here is where everything comes together.

Because I have a new house.

A LITERAL new house.

And I have decided to call it something.

THE SANCTUARY.

Let that sit.

THE. SANCTUARY.

Not simply a place where I sleep.

Not simply a place where I keep furniture.

Not simply a place where I receive mail.

Not simply a new address.

The sanctuary.

A place of peace.

A place of prayer.

A place of restoration.

A place where my child can be a child.

A place where I can be a mother without constantly being somebody else's crisis manager.

A place where I can grieve Darren and Jaxon without having to explain why a particular day is difficult.

A place where I can laugh without guilt.

Cry without interruption.

Rest without obligation.

Pray without performance.

And simply EXIST.

Do you understand how much that means to somebody who has spent years living in survival mode?

I have spent so much of my life being responsible for things that required immediate attention.

Medical emergencies.

Caregiving.

Work.

Family.

Loss.

Grief.

Decisions.

And now I have somewhere that belongs to this chapter of my life.

Somewhere I can close the door.

Somewhere I can breathe.

Somewhere I can protect the atmosphere.

And everybody cannot come inside.

Let me say it again.

EVERYBODY CANNOT COME INTO THE SANCTUARY.

Not because I think I'm better than anybody.

Not because I don't love people.

Not because I have become cold.

Not because I have forgotten my faith.

But because I understand what it cost me to establish this peace.

And I refuse to treat it casually.

Some people will be welcomed.

Some people will be loved from a distance.

Some people will have limited access.

And some people will not be invited at all.

That's not punishment.

That's discernment.

And if you are invited into the sanctuary, understand that the invitation comes with responsibility.

Respect the space.

Respect the people who live there.

Respect the boundaries.

Respect the peace.

Because this house is not an extension of your emotional needs.

It is a home.

My home.

Our sanctuary.

And I am responsible for what I allow to continue within it.

XIII. SOME PEOPLE CAME INTO THE SANCTUARY AND HAD TO BE REBUKED RIGHT BACK OUT.

Now, here's where it gets good.

Because some people have already experienced the sanctuary.

They came in.

They sat down.

They enjoyed the atmosphere.

They experienced the peace.

And then they brought behavior that disrupted what I had worked so hard to create.

And I had to address it.

I had to say, no.

Not here.

Not in this house.

Not in this season.

Not after everything it took to get here.

And sometimes that meant asking somebody to leave.

Sometimes it meant changing access.

Sometimes it meant deciding that a person would not be invited back.

And then?

I went through my house and anointed it again.

Because that's part of my faith.

That's part of how I dedicate my space to God.

That's part of how I intentionally restore my focus to what this home represents.

Not because every person who behaves badly is carrying something supernatural.

Sometimes disrespect is just disrespect.

Sometimes immaturity is just immaturity.

Sometimes people simply don't understand or respect the expectations of a space.

But the act of anointing my home is meaningful to me.

It is a declaration.

As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. — Joshua 24:15.

And I don't need everybody to understand what that looks like for me.

I know what this house represents.

I know what I prayed for.

I know what I've survived.

I know what it took to get here.

And I know what kind of environment I want to create for myself and my child.

The sanctuary is sacred.

And access to sacred space is intentional.

XIV. I'M LITE BECAUSE THE LIGHT WAS ALWAYS THERE.

Now, this is the part that I need you to read carefully.

Because there are two different words.

LITE. L-I-T-E.

And

LIGHT. L-I-G-H-T.

I'm LITE now.

Lighter.

Because I've put some things down.

I've put down the obligation to explain myself to people who have already heard me.

I've put down the responsibility for everybody else's emotional comfort.

I've put down relationships that required me to keep sacrificing my well-being.

I've put down the belief that I have to answer every call.

I've put down the expectation that I have to solve every problem.

I've put down the need to prove that I'm a good person by allowing unlimited access.

I've put down the weight of being everybody's emergency contact when I am experiencing emergencies of my own.

And the more I put down what doesn't belong to me, the more room I create for what does.

But the LIGHT?

Baby, the LIGHT has always been there.

Even when I couldn't feel it.

Even when I couldn't see what was ahead.

Even when I was exhausted.

Even when I was angry.

Even when I was grieving.

Even when I was sitting in hospitals.

Even when I was making decisions that would forever change my life.

Even when I was mourning the future I thought I would have.

The LIGHT was there.

John 1:5 reminds us that the light shines in darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

And that brings me to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

He said:

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

Now, that's a WORD.

Because I have spent years trying to bring light into difficult situations.

Trying to help.

Trying to love.

Trying to understand.

Trying to support.

Trying to be present.

And I still believe in love.

I still believe in grace.

I still believe in compassion.

I still believe in humanity.

But I have learned something.

I can be a light without becoming responsible for illuminating every dark place somebody refuses to leave.

I can love somebody without participating in their dysfunction.

I can pray for somebody without allowing them to disrupt my home.

I can extend grace without offering unlimited access.

And I can remain kind without being endlessly available.

The LIGHT didn't leave.

The burden got LITE.

That's the difference.

And baby, that difference is changing my life.

XV. THE HOUSE WAS BUILT ON THE ROCK, NOT ON EVERYBODY'S APPROVAL.

Matthew 7:24–27.

The wise man built his house upon the rock.

And the rain descended.

And the floods came.

And the winds blew.

And they beat upon that house.

But it did not fall.

Because it was founded upon the rock.

Now, let's talk about that.

The foundation did not prevent the storm.

The foundation did not stop the rain.

The foundation did not make the wind disappear.

The foundation held.

And that's what my faith has done.

It has held me through things I never imagined I would experience.

Through the loss of Darren.

Through the loss of Jaxon.

Through the loss of my brother.

Through the loss of people who helped shape my life.

Through changes in my marriage.

Through disappointment.

Through illness.

Through professional uncertainty.

Through grief that has changed my understanding of time itself.

Through moments when the world kept moving and I felt like I was still standing in the exact place where my life changed.

And I'm still here.

Not because it was easy.

Not because I never struggled.

Not because I never questioned.

Not because I never cried.

Not because I never needed help.

But because the foundation held.

My foundation is not built on the approval of people who don't understand my journey.

It is not built on whether somebody agrees with my boundaries.

It is not built on whether a friendship survives.

It is not built on whether everybody in my family understands my decisions.

It is not built on whether somebody likes the way I communicate.

My foundation is my faith.

And my faith has carried me through circumstances that required far more than a motivational quote.

So when I say I shall not be moved, understand what I mean.

I do not mean I will never change my mind.

I do not mean I am incapable of growth.

I do not mean I will never apologize.

I do not mean I am always right.

I mean that I will not abandon the values and spiritual foundation that have sustained me simply because somebody is uncomfortable with the boundaries those values now require.

And there's another thing.

Being firmly rooted doesn't mean I have to remain rigid.

A tree can bend in the wind without surrendering its roots.

I can learn.

I can evolve.

I can receive correction.

I can change.

But I will not allow somebody else's discomfort to become the authority over my life.

XVI. THE LONELINESS OF BEING THE ONE WHO DID THE WORK.

Now, let's talk about something people don't discuss enough.

Healing can be lonely.

Especially when you've been the person who kept everybody connected.

The person who understood everybody's perspective.

The person who mediated the arguments.

The person who extended the grace.

The person who made the excuses.

The person who kept showing up.

And then one day, you stop doing all of that automatically.

You establish a boundary.

You ask for reciprocity.

You request accountability.

You say you're unavailable.

You decide not to participate.

And suddenly?

You're the problem.

People start having conversations about how you've changed.

How you're different.

How you're difficult.

How you're too sensitive.

How you're not the person you used to be.

And sometimes people who disagree with your boundaries find comfort in one another's agreement.

That can feel isolating.

But here's what I know.

Being outnumbered does not automatically make you wrong. And being the only person who sees something differently does not automatically make you right.

That's why discernment matters.

That's why therapy matters.

That's why accountability matters.

Because I don't want to become so convinced of my own growth that I stop examining myself.

But I also refuse to abandon what I've learned simply because other people haven't reached the same conclusions.

And I am no longer willing to confuse belonging with self-abandonment.

If the price of remaining in a relationship is pretending something doesn't hurt, ignoring repeated disrespect, or surrendering my boundaries, then I have to reconsider the relationship.

Because I am not required to betray myself to prove my love for somebody else.

And the loneliness of growth, while painful, does not have to become permanent isolation.

There are people capable of reciprocity.

People capable of accountability.

People who can disagree respectfully.

People who can apologize.

People who can sit with grief without trying to fix it.

People who can celebrate your joy without resenting it.

People who can hear no without turning it into a war.

And those are the kinds of connections I want to cultivate.

Not because they're perfect.

But because they're willing.

XVII. YOU DON'T GET TO DEMAND ACCESS JUST BECAUSE YOU ONCE HAD IT.

Now let's address something else.

When I tell you I need space, I mean it.

When I tell you not to contact me, I mean it.

When I tell you I am unavailable, I mean it.

And when I explain that I am protecting my peace, that is not an invitation to send me six more paragraphs explaining why you believe you should be the exception.

Some of you reached out knowing good and well I had asked for space.

And then the message was still about you.

Your feelings.

Your intentions.

Your discomfort.

Your need to explain.

Your need to be understood.

And I'm sitting here wondering whether you heard anything I said.

Because sometimes the most respectful thing you can do for somebody is leave them alone when they've asked to be left alone.

Not forever necessarily.

Not because you don't care.

But because they have communicated a need.

And love should be capable of respecting that need.

I don't need a message full of words that never acknowledge the actual issue.

I don't need another explanation that centers your intentions while ignoring the impact.

I don't need another conversation where I'm required to reassure the person who hurt me that they're still a good person.

I don't need another apology that never leads to change.

And I certainly don't need somebody demanding emotional access because they're uncomfortable with the distance I established.

You can be sorry and still have to respect the consequences of what happened.

You can love me and still not have access.

You can miss me and still need to leave me alone.

And you can believe the relationship should continue while I believe it should end.

Two things can be true.

That's emotional maturity.

Not everybody gets the same access.

Not every relationship gets restored.

And not every ending requires a villain.

Sometimes people grow apart.

Sometimes the relationship has been damaged beyond what both parties are willing or able to repair.

Sometimes somebody has repeatedly demonstrated a pattern that the other person can no longer accept.

And sometimes you simply reach the end of your capacity.

That doesn't mean you have no love left.

It means you have made a decision about where that love can safely live.

XVIII. MY PEACE IS NOT AN INVITATION FOR YOU TO BRING YOUR CHAOS.

This sanctuary is not a waiting room for everybody else's emotional emergencies.

It is not a place where people can arrive, unload their problems, disregard my boundaries, and leave feeling better while I am left carrying the residue of the interaction.

It is not a place where somebody gets to turn my grief into a competition.

It is not a place where I am expected to make everybody comfortable while ignoring my own needs.

It is not a place where people get to demand access to my time, my energy, my resources, my relationships, or my wisdom.

And it is certainly not a place where I have to pretend I'm okay to make somebody else feel better.

Because here's the thing.

I am still grieving.

I am still healing.

I am still learning.

I am still parenting.

I am still making decisions.

I am still navigating a life that has changed in ways I never anticipated.

And I am allowed to do all of those things without making my journey publicly available for everybody's commentary.

I am allowed to have a difficult day.

I am allowed to be angry.

I am allowed to cry.

I am allowed to laugh.

I am allowed to feel joy.

I am allowed to feel exhausted.

I am allowed to need support.

I am allowed to decline support that doesn't feel helpful.

I am allowed to change my mind.

I am allowed to rest.

And I am allowed to enjoy my own home without feeling obligated to open the door every time somebody knocks.

My peace is not selfishness. It is part of the life I am intentionally building.

And that life matters.

Not just because I'm a mother.

Not just because I'm a professional.

Not just because I help people.

Not just because I have businesses.

Not just because I have a ministry.

My life matters because I am here.

I am valuable because God said so.

Not because of what I can do for somebody.

Not because of what I can give somebody.

Not because of who I know.

Not because of how much money I have.

Not because of how many problems I can solve.

I have value even when I am doing absolutely nothing.

And that's a truth I want to live in.

Not just preach about.

XIX. I'M NOT ASKING YOU TO HOLD SPACE YOU DON'T HAVE. I'M ASKING YOU TO RESPECT MINE.

This is another distinction.

I understand that everybody cannot hold space for grief.

Everybody cannot sit with difficult emotions.

Everybody cannot understand the complexity of losing children.

Everybody cannot understand the exhaustion of caregiving.

Everybody cannot understand the weight of making life-altering medical decisions.

Everybody cannot understand what it means to watch the life you imagined disappear.

And I am not demanding that everybody understand.

I'm not demanding that everybody become a therapist.

I'm not demanding that everybody have the emotional capacity I have developed.

I'm not demanding that everybody respond perfectly.

But I am asking people to respect what I've communicated.

If you cannot hold space for me, be honest.

If you don't know what to say, say that.

If you don't understand my grief, acknowledge that.

If you need boundaries of your own, establish them.

But do not make promises you cannot keep.

Do not demand access you cannot responsibly handle.

Do not ask me to carry you while ignoring the fact that I am carrying things you may never fully understand.

And do not mistake my ability to articulate my experience for evidence that I am no longer hurting.

I can explain my pain eloquently and still be in pain.

I can understand my trauma and still experience symptoms.

I can have faith and still feel devastated.

I can be emotionally mature and still have moments when I am overwhelmed.

And I can establish boundaries without needing to convince everybody that those boundaries are justified.

I am not asking you to become me.

I am asking you to recognize that I am a human being, too.

XX. THE VERDICT: THE SANCTUARY IS SACRED, THE LIGHT IS STILL ON, AND THE LOAD IS GETTING LITE.

So here we are.

After everything.

After the therapy.

After the losses.

After the funerals.

After the relationships that changed.

After the friendships that ended.

After the dreams that had to be reimagined.

After the decisions that exhausted me.

After the prayers.

After the tears.

After the moments when I didn't know how I was going to keep going.

I am here.

In a new house.

In a new season.

With a new understanding of what peace requires.

And I have decided that this home is the sanctuary.

Not because life will suddenly become perfect.

Not because nobody will ever hurt my feelings again.

Not because there will never be another difficult day.

Not because I have completed every part of my healing.

But because I am intentionally creating a place where peace is practiced, boundaries are respected, faith is nurtured, and love does not require self-abandonment.

And I am making room for the people who can participate in that kind of environment.

People who understand that boundaries are for protection and connection.

People who can hear no.

People who can apologize.

People who can take accountability.

People who can give grace.

People who can receive grace.

People who understand that two things can be true.

People who don't require me to become smaller so they can feel bigger.

People who don't mistake my silence for weakness.

People who don't confuse my kindness with permission.

People who understand that my grief is not an inconvenience.

People who can love me as a person, not simply as a resource.

And for the people who cannot?

I wish you well.

I pray for you.

I release the responsibility of fixing you.

And I reserve the right to love you from a distance.

Because everybody can't come in this house.

Everybody can't sit at this table.

Everybody can't have access to this version of me.

And everybody doesn't need to understand why.

THE SANCTUARY IS SACRED.

The foundation is firm.

The boundaries are established.

The doors are intentional.

The prayers are personal.

The peace is being protected.

And the LIGHT?

Baby, the LIGHT never left.

What changed was the weight I was willing to carry.

I have been heavy with grief.

Heavy with responsibility.

Heavy with decisions.

Heavy with other people's expectations.

Heavy with losses that will remain part of my story for the rest of my life.

But I am learning that I do not have to carry everything at once.

I can honor my children without living every moment in survival mode.

I can remember the people I've lost without abandoning the life that remains.

I can love people without making myself endlessly available.

I can have compassion without accepting repeated harm.

I can have faith without pretending I'm never tired.

And I can be strong without having to demonstrate that strength through another season of unnecessary suffering.

So yes.

I'm LITE.

L-I-T-E.

Because the LIGHT—

L-I-G-H-T—

was always there.

And I am no longer going to dim it trying to convince people who have grown comfortable in darkness that I deserve to live in peace.

Dr. King reminded us that darkness cannot drive out darkness.

Only light can do that.

And I intend to keep living in that light.

Not with hatred.

Not with vengeance.

Not with bitterness as my foundation.

But with wisdom.

With boundaries.

With accountability.

With compassion.

With faith.

And with the freedom to decide what belongs in my life.

Because after everything I've experienced, I am not merely trying to survive another storm.

I AM BUILDING A LIFE I ACTUALLY GET TO LIVE.

And that life begins right here.

In the sanctuary.

Where Darren is remembered.

Where Jaxon is remembered.

Where Nolin is loved, heard, and allowed to grow.

Where their mama is allowed to be human.

Where the memories are sacred.

Where the grief has room.

Where joy is welcome.

Where prayer is practiced.

Where the doors are intentional.

And where the foundation is built upon the ROCK.

I SHALL NOT BE MOVED.

Not from my faith.

Not from my values.

Not from the commitment I've made to my healing.

Not from the responsibility I have to myself and my child.

And certainly not because somebody is upset that the woman who once carried everybody has finally decided to put some things down.

Baby, I'm still here.

I'm still standing.

I'm still loving.

I'm still learning.

I'm still healing.

I'm still praying.

And I'm still shining.

But the load is getting LITE.

COURT IS ADJOURNED.

THE SANCTUARY IS PROTECTED.

THE LIGHT IS STILL ON.

AND GOD IS STILL GOD.

Scripture for continued reflection: Matthew 7:24–27; Proverbs 4:7, 4:23; James 1:5, 1:19; Galatians 6:2–5; Philippians 4:7; John 1:5; Romans 12:18; Ecclesiastes 3:1–8; Matthew 5:37; Matthew 10:14; Matthew 21:12–13; Luke 5:16; Joshua 24:15; 2 Corinthians 4:8–9; Psalm 46:10.

(Grief) Grace + Mercy = LOVE.

And sometimes love means closing the door, blessing the house, and finally allowing yourself to rest inside it.

~ST