Someone told me today, “We all grow at different times.” And though my lips said yes, my heart whispered, But what comfort is that? Should I be consoled that my growth has lagged behind others’ springtimes—that at thirty-eight, though I cradle children of my own, my soul still fumbles like a fledgling just stepping into the hush of young adulthood They say this ought to inspire self-compassion. But if I am honest, it feels more like self-pity dressed in softer clothes. A polite way of saying: You’re behind, but at least you’re trying. And it is hard—so hard—not to judge myself for this.

Yesterday, I was intrigued. Today, I am undone—both by the same simple, soul-stirring thought. I sat by the riverbank, where the Mayo spills its song through Mayodan, North Carolina. The sand curled cool around my toes, the current whispered softly, and beside me, my church sisters leaned into the moment—pondering eternity in the shape of water and time. What could be more spiritual than life itself?

In the hush of that hour, the old phrase rose again like mist: Life is short. "YOLO," laughed a friend, a flicker of mirth in her eyes—but also something more fragile beneath. "You Only Live Once," she explained, and I nodded—but inwardly, I winced. I’ve wrestled with that phrase before.

I have never believed that suffering was optional. I have never thought myself unique in pain. I have always assumed that suffering was simply the nature of this world—a place fractured by sin, where grief is woven into the dust. And, tonight, that was made even more clear as I read: “Grace is activated by the Cross and demands a cross… as the Hebrews in the desert were saved from the poisonous snakes when they looked at the bronze serpent, so we escape from temptations and find salvation if we fix our eyes on the Cross in every situation.” —Archimandrite Zacharias Zacharou

"Honey, you are trying to put together a puzzle without having the picture." The words of my aunt echo in my ears, a truth so piercing it leaves me breathless. Because there is a picture—there is always a picture. A vision of a whole and healthy life, of a family rooted in love, of a world where pieces fit together to form something beautiful. But my puzzle? It came fractured.

I am a terrible mother. Oh, what a terrible mother I am. The words aren’t just knocking today. They are pounding, they are relentless, they are deafening. And I am angry. Not just sad, not just struggling, but angry—furious that I am here again. I am sick of this. Sick of the voices, sick of the lies, sick of this endless cycle. And yet here I am, standing at the door of my own mind, listening to their demands, knowing I should refuse them, but feeling too exhausted to fight.

Today, I came across the words of a fellow sojourner—
a cry from the depths, raw and aching, heavy with the weight of sin, burdened by the fear that he was growing worse, not better, drifting from the Light rather than walking toward it. I felt his sorrow. I have known that ache, the whisper in the soul that says:

"No matter how hard you try, you will never be holy."
"You will never get this right."
"You are only becoming worse."

Perhaps you have heard it, too.

Today was a good day. Not extraordinary, not triumphant. Just good. And for that, I am grateful.

The past week has been heavy. Sickness swept through our home, and with it came exhaustion, weakness, and the creeping voices of despair. My body ached…

It is no easy thing to do what is good for me. To reach for the very skills that would steady my hands, clear the fog, and set my feet upon the middle path—the one that leads me back to God. Especially when the shadows of sorrow settle in, when my heart is heavy with grief and weariness, when anger hisses, “To heck with skills.”

Great Lent is coming, and I do not feel prepared. I want this season to be one where my heart, my mind, my soul are immersed in all that the Lord has for me. I have all the books, the prayers, the traditions at my fingertips, but I wonder—will I truly experience Lent?

I have spent my life wondering what it means to be good or bad. For so long, I could not imagine myself as anything but bad. The echoes of my past, the weight of my sins, the struggles of mental illness—they all conspired to convince me that something about me was fundamentally wrong. That my very being was flawed in a way that others were not.

As the Lenten season draws near, I find myself standing at the crossroads of pain and renewal, gazing at the horizon where darkness surrenders to dawn. My path has been long, my burdens heavy—but today, I sense the whisper of hope stirring within me.