The story begins with an ordinary day, a simple act of showing up. I walked into a speech therapy session, my mind preoccupied with the familiar routine. But that day, the routine was interrupted.

A beautiful foster mom sat in the foyer of her warm, life-filled home. Her children ran and played nearby, their laughter filling the room. As I stepped in, I was welcomed into their family’s village, embraced by their kindness and warmth. As I settled in, she asked a question that would change the course of our lives forever:

“Do you know anyone that might be able to adopt?”

It felt like time stopped. The words echoed in my heart, touching a place I hadn’t dared to let hope visit for years. It was as if a seed of possibility was being planted. Little did I know, the answer to her question would become the answer to a prayer written years before, tucked away in my husband’s gratitude journal since 2016. Yet, this happened on November 17, 2020.

Four years earlier, he had written, “Lord, if it’s Your will, bring forth a son.” I had no idea he’d written that prayer—not just once, but on every single page of his gratitude journal. And unbeknownst to him, he didn’t know how many nights I had spent crying out to God, aching for the child we had yet to hold.

The journey began quietly, like the unfolding of a miracle too big to see all at once. Over the next nine months, we walked a path full of hope, paperwork, and prayer, not realizing how beautifully orchestrated it all was. The moment finally came on a day already heavy with meaning—a day tied to both sorrow and healing.

It was a due date I had carried in my heart for years, tied to a miscarriage that had once left me shattered. But it was also the very same day we stood before a judge, holding hands, and became the parents of the most beautiful boy—our son.

God had taken the broken pieces of my story and made something beautiful. What once was a date of mourning became a day of indescribable joy. He had turned my sorrow into joy in a way I never imagined possible.

Fifteen years of tears fell in that virtual courtroom, but they were no longer tears of grief. They were tears of gratitude, awe, and love for the child we were finally able to call our own.

For anyone who knows the void of infertility, who feels the ache of unfulfilled longing, I want you to know this: your story isn’t over. There is still hope. The journey may not look the way you imagined, and it may take longer than your heart feels it can bear, but miracles have a way of finding us when we least expect them.

Sometimes, they come through a foster family asking a question. Sometimes, they come through a prayer written quietly in a journal. And sometimes, they come on the very day you thought joy was impossible.

Hold on. There is still hope. YOUR STORY IS NOT OVER!

Question
“If the deepest pain you’ve experienced was meant to prepare you for a purpose greater than you imagined, how might that change the way you view your journey?”

There’s no handbook for dealing with people who feel like thorns in your side—those who cut deep when you least expect it, prick at your insecurities, and seem determined to make life harder. We all meet them, and if we’re honest, some of them are planted right in our daily lives, rooted in relationships we can’t always avoid.

For me, the thorns came wrapped in familiar faces. Some were colleagues, others were friends, and, hardest of all, a few were family. They didn’t wear their sharp edges openly. No, these were subtle thorns—the kind that poked at my boundaries and quietly undermined my worth. The sly comments, the dismissive tones, the constant undercurrent of comparison. At first, I told myself I was overreacting. “Maybe they didn’t mean it that way,” I’d think. But the more I brushed it off, the deeper the thorns sank.

I remember one particular moment like it happened yesterday. A family gathering. I was sharing a small victory—something I’d worked so hard for—when someone cut me off mid-sentence with a sarcastic, “Well, that’s not that impressive. Some people do that every day.” Everyone laughed. Except me. I sat there, my cheeks burning, my heart shrinking. It wasn’t just about the comment; it was the weight of years of similar moments piling up, crushing any joy I had in my accomplishments.

The hardest part of dealing with thorny people is the self-doubt they plant. I started to wonder if I was being too sensitive, too needy, or maybe just not good enough. I replayed their words over and over, trying to figure out what I did to deserve their barbs. The truth is, you don’t have to do anything. Some people operate from their own pain, insecurity, or inability to see past themselves—and that has nothing to do with you.

But knowing that doesn’t make it easier. I tried everything. I fought back, trying to “prune” their thorns by calling them out, only to end up exhausted and frustrated. I tried being overly kind, hoping my softness would dull their edges. It didn’t. It felt like no matter what I did, their thorns kept finding their mark.

And then one day, I stopped trying to fix them. I realized I’d spent so much time trying to change them that I was losing myself in the process. It wasn’t my job to soften their edges or avoid their pricks. My job was to protect my peace and heal the wounds they’d left behind.

So, I started setting boundaries—real boundaries, not just the ones I whispered to myself in moments of hurt. When a thorny comment came my way, I responded with calmness and clarity: “That’s not okay to say to me.” When their presence drained me, I gave myself permission to step away, to leave early, or to say no altogether. And when their voices echoed in my mind, I replaced them with my own—louder, kinder, and full of the truth of who I really am.

Dealing with thorns taught me something about myself, too. They taught me where my wounds were and where I needed to grow stronger. They forced me to find my voice, to stand firm in my worth, and to stop looking to others for validation. But they also taught me grace—not for the thorns themselves, but for the reality that everyone carries some pain. Some people just don’t know how to carry theirs without hurting others.

I still face thorny people. They’re unavoidable. But now I see them for what they are—not obstacles to fix, but reminders to protect what’s precious. To let the thorns stay where they are, while I grow and bloom despite them.

What if the most challenging person or experience in your life that was actually your greatest teacher—what do you think they’ve been sent to teach you?

There was a time when she felt completely lost, like a stranger to her own reflection. The weight of pain, fear, and self-doubt had buried her true self so deeply that she didn’t realize how much of herself she had been hiding. The healing process wasn’t something she sought out intentionally—it began as a means of survival, her life suddenly impacted by a single event that forced her to step into the depths of the unknown.

At first, healing felt like unraveling the shredded pieces of her life. She was forced to confront parts of herself she didn’t want to face: the hurt, the anger, and the pieces she believed were irreparably broken, including her passion for changing lives with the sound of her voice. It was messy and uncomfortable, but it was also a raw and honest journey. Slowly, she began to understand that those broken pieces weren’t something to be ashamed of—they were stepping stones to rediscovering who she truly was and who she was becoming as she waded into the deep.

What surprised her most was realizing the strength she already carried within her soul. She found her healing in the most difficult spaces. For so long, she thought she needed to be “fixed,” but the truth was, she simply needed to reconnect with herself. Each moment of reflection, forgiveness, and growth became a step toward reclaiming the person she was always meant to be.

She was undefined by a diagnosis. Her worth, identity, and potential were not confined or limited by any medical diagnosis or label attached to her spiritual garments. She found the strength to whisper to her reflection, “I am more than my condition, and it does not define who I am.”

It was about rejecting labels that boxed her in and instead embracing the complexity and depth of who she was beyond what any diagnosis might suggest. She declared to the world a powerful affirmation: “Thank you for the medical jargon, but this time, I’ll write my own story—one that mandates new ABILITIES!”

There were days when it all felt overwhelming, but those were the moments she learned to lean into kindness—especially toward herself. She found joy in the smallest things: the warmth of sunlight, the sound of her own laughter, the feeling of her breath grounding her in the present. Each small step brought her closer to herself. She demanded that her healing be louder than the silence.

Looking back now, she can see how far she’s come. The healing process wasn’t about erasing her pain; it was about transforming it into something meaningful. It taught her that she wasn’t defined by what had happened to her but by how she chose to move forward and help heal others.

Finding herself wasn’t a single, dramatic moment. It was a series of small, quiet realizations that she was enough, just as she was, and that she was still learning to grow. Healing didn’t make her perfect—it made her whole. And for that, she will always feel a deep sense of gratitude for stepping away from the shallows and into the deep. Her transformation is a reflection of the courage it took to walk into the depths and rediscover her true self.

For me, there is a grief when you lose part of yourself, the loss of my ability to project my voice. Using my voice to bring healing to others through speech therapy and the tightrope walk when my voice is silenced. I am more than the diagnosis and greater than silence. Vocal loss is a level of grief that leaves you in the shadow. The loss is grave and when you lose a part of yourself or someone the pain is indescribable.
This is my song in the grieving.
I’ve walked through shadows, searching for light,
Lost in the echoes, in the quiet of night.
Once I could speak, help others stand tall,
Now I’m here learning to rise from the fall.
But there’s strength in the silence, beauty in pain,
A voice that whispers like soft summer rain.
I’m finding my way, one breath at a time,
And I’ll sing again, in my own rhyme.
The dreams I once held, they’re still by my side,
In every heartbeat, where memories hide.
Though words might be gone, my heart’s still the same, With courage enough to carry my name.
In the stillness, I hear a melody clear,
Of hope and healing drawing me near.
I am more than this silence, more than I knew,
And I’m finding my voice, calling out true.
There’s strength in the silence, beauty in pain,
Yes, I’ll sing again, in my own rhyme.
And one day, I’ll be just fine learning to live alongside of the balance between silence and rhyme.
Although the grief is hard, the comeback is greater and my voice will resonate like a trumpet.

As you rise from the ashes, something remarkable happens. You begin to see the masterpiece that you are. Every scar, every tear, every step forward becomes a brushstroke on the canvas of your life.

You are no longer the person you were before the trauma endured—but that’s not a loss. The person you are becoming is stronger, wiser, and more compassionate. You have walked through fire and emerged with a strength that cannot be taken from you.

This masterpiece you are creating is not perfect, nor should it be. It is real, raw, and breathtakingly human. It is a testament to your resilience, your ability to heal, and your refusal to let darkness define your story.

Your journey of rising from the ashes is not just for you. When you are ready, your story becomes a beacon for others still trapped in their pain. By sharing your truth and redemption, you remind them that healing is possible, that they are not alone, and that they too can rise. There is beauty from the ashes if you allow yourself to rise up and over the trauma inflicted.

Your courage becomes a light that pierces through the darkness, a reminder that beauty can emerge even from the deepest pain. No longer defined by a life sentence; rather a beautiful masterpiece refined by the inferno.

Rising from the ashes of trauma is not about erasing the past; it’s about transforming it. It’s about taking the pain and using it to create something extraordinary—a life lived boldly, authentically, and fully.

You are not what happened to you. You are the masterpiece you have become, a testimony and alive to guide others out of the inferno.

So, rise. Paint your life with every color of your journey. Embrace your strength, honor your scars, and stand tall in the knowledge that you are whole, worthy, radiant, beautiful and YOU-uniquely YOU.

Because you, dear survivor, are a masterpiece—and the world is brighter because of you.