Reclaiming Motherhood

I’m learning a motherhood that was never taught to me.
It’s one I’ve only experienced in glimpses: brief, fleeting moments that felt like home. I’ve consumed plenty contrived versions of it; filtered through the glow of a phone screen, or splashed across glossy magazine pages. The kind of motherhood I long for feels sacred and familiar, yet somehow new. It’s not the kind I inherited, but the kind God is patiently teaching me to build, one small obedient step at a time.

I’m not exactly here to write about this for myself. I have plenty of journals, notebooks, and half-filled pages tucked into every crevice of my home. Evidence of all my hopes, strivings, and the quiet conversations I carry with God.
This space is something different.
It’s a message of hope, of renewal, and spiritual growth. It’s an invitation into your heart space, into a deeper place than you may have been before.
It’s not a place that can be known by study or achievement, but one that must be shown—slowly, by grace, through surrender.

This process isn’t something I’ve already mastered. It’s something I’m living, here and now. I’m learning as I go, trusting God to author through me: in my words, in my home, in the hidden rhythms of motherhood, and in my heart and mind. I have continually been left in awe and gratitude as I witness his teaching and spirit flowing through me.

The space I hope to allow Him to build through me is one of His order and beauty.
There is such perfection in the design of His ways. His ask of us is simple, though not always easy: Obedience. Through our willingness to yield and follow, He allows us to experience glimpses of Heaven on earth.

We are His children, learning and growing painstakingly—sometimes painfully—each day. He waits for us there, not in frustration or impatience, but with compassion, patience, and joy. He delights in guiding us, in watching us become.

Sometimes I think that part, His tenderness, is missing from how Scripture reads. Women were not able to write at the time of Jesus, so the men who wrote the Bible did so faithfully and reverently, but with the honest mistake of not being whole; missing what a woman lends: Feeling. Warmth. Beauty. The half of God’s image that is a woman’s to bear.

The small, human details of Jesus: His laughter, His gentleness, the way His presence felt when He looked into someone’s eyes.
That, I believe, is where women’s hearts and voices help complete the picture: by filling in the feeling of faith, the nurturing from the Lord, and the sacred ordinary that breathes between the verses.

That’s what I long to do here.
To light a path for other young women, journeying alongside them into the art and beauty of homemaking.
To rediscover what it means to love our husbands and children above ourselves, to order our homes as though preparing them for eternal everlasting within the Kingdom—because, truly, that is exactly what we are doing.

It’s not about perfection, or performance, or the illusion of a spotless home. It’s about creating spaces where love dwells freely. It’s about establishing rhythms of work and rest, tending to the sacredness of daily tasks, and through business, trade, and creative affairs, finding ways to strengthen the well-being of our families.

I’m still in the thick of it.
I’ve never succeeded in these things by my own strength. But through the Lord’s gentle guidance and the quiet strengthening that comes as I have finally learned to ask Him for help, new clarity and action are beginning to take hold. The effects are subtle yet immediate: a softened heart, a renewed focus, a peace that lingers even in the undone places. In the literal sense, clutter is finally clearing, organization is beginning to feel effortless, and beauty and respite is settling into every corner of our home.

I want to share what I’m learning along the way. Not once I’ve “arrived,” but right here: in the middle of becoming. I want to show the process, the vulnerability, the mess, the heartbreak. The moments of feeling utterly lost, forgotten, or even forsaken — and the light that still comes in the morning.
Because it always comes.

Not just for you, but for me too.

I want to learn everything from the space of a fresh heart. From the most practical things, like the best way to scrub a toilet, to the most tender, like creating an atmosphere of peace, openness, and quiet joy.
The kind that makes a home hum with love.
The kind of home you walk into and never want to leave.
The kind of family that feels like a once-in-a-lifetime grace.

I know that’s what God wants to build in all of us, if we let Him.
One small, faithful act of homemaking, motherhood, and surrender at a time.

I would love for you to join me.

The Light That Stayed

By the age of 30, I’d already lived more lives than anyone I’ve met around my age. Married with 2 kids (another shortly on the way), working on the purchase of our 3rd home; We had already lived in 3 major cities, started multiple successful businesses, and lived through charged historical events that showed us who we are. That all came after the years of domestic violence I lived through as an adult. After a turbulent childhood that left me with deep scars and an uneven playing hand.

My story began shrouded in darkness. For five years now I’ve been uncovering pieces of it I didn’t even remember: memories beginning before I was three, ones that shaped far more of me than I ever understood. To receive them now completely rearranged my spirit. I’m only now beginning to take the pieces and make something with it of my own choosing.

My life has been a long becoming. My innocence was stolen very early. I grew up fast, weathered chaos and pain, and learned early how to survive. As a young woman, I walked through abuse, through motherhood before I was ready, through the exhaustion of building and proving and performing. But I already knew well the verses of survival: Smile, poise, be quiet, don’t speak. Ignore the bad, look for the good.

I became a single mom, a nurse, a poster child online for the single do-it-all woman. The world watched as I met the boy I’d grown up with down the street. We were immediately inseparable and my trajectory was forever changed. His love deserves no small credit in the story of my revival. We were so happy, so innocent, aiming for the moon with everything we wanted at our fingertips.

Then the world split into two deafening world views, and the bottom of my world dropped out.

I learned the values and beliefs I was raised on, and held quietly to my chest, like the winning hand no one knew I had—The beliefs that fueled me on every hopeless, heartbroken night, informed my kindness, gave me my love for beauty—were not tolerated by the group I thought I belonged to. The freedom and expression I experienced online was suddenly being weaponized against me. I was confused, and afraid. I thought I was on the good side, the kind one?

I became afraid of who I was, what I believed in. I was told, never directly, what kind of person I was: Hateful, intolerant, crazy. The world of mental and emotional abuse I’d been raised in had found me again. This time, it was asking me to rise. It asked of me to journey to my center, question everything, and come back again embracing my core.

What followed was a different kind of becoming: the slow, tender healing of my soft girl, housewife (my husband calls it queen) era. The season where I’ve learned to let gentleness do what force never could.

The one where I began to make a home not just around me, but within me. Where I finally began to notice life unfolding from my perspective, not the perspective of how others perceived me. The one where I finally began to see my own worth and trust in my own voice. The one where God is taking all of my loss and my pain and my missteps, and gathering them up for redemption.

This space is where I’ll begin to tell my story, slowly, softly, and with care; Of course, that will be but a small part. The core of this space is for finding the beauty and joy in the every day.

But I’ve learned how silence and confusion can shape a life. Shame breeds in the dark, but I’ve learned how remembering can begin to set you free. So I will also share what is true, not for sympathy, but so as to set my lamp upon a hill for any young woman journeying one of the harrowing roads I have: alone, stumbling through the dark. May she find here a flicker of light, of hope, of truth; that she is not her mistakes, nor the mistreatment of others.

She is worthy, wanted, chosen—and healing and redemption belongs to her, too.

The Bluefield House

“I'm going to make everything around me beautiful—that will be my life.” —Elsie de Wolf

I remember seeing this quote for the first time at sixteen, scrolling Pinterest in my high school library. Something in me lit up: Yes, I breathed, that is my purpose, too.

My creativity and my longing for beauty are what keep me alive and when I neglect them, my spirit begins to dim. As a mom with young children, it’s easy to do. So here, I honor both: the yearning for beauty and the acceptance of limits. 

My life, like so many others, has known both beauty and ache. Some of my earliest memories are shadows I couldn’t see for years. Things I now understand reached across time and shaped every facet of my life. Until I remembered. 

Remembering and healing have taught me what it really means to bring light to darkness, and joy into dim places. I’ve learned surrender, and how to be vulnerable enough to truly be seen, and held, just as I am. 

This space was born from that journey. A dream I’ve held as long as I can remember, now being shaped by my experiences. Here I’ve created a place for the honest and the beautiful, the raw and the redeemed. For the wrestlings of motherhood, womanhood, faith, and home. Not for poised perfection, nor for resignation to chaos; but for the tender tension that lives between the two.

Here, I will explore the marriage of opposites: the pull between what we imagine and what is real; between perfection and humanity; between resting in grace and reaching for excellence.

Each day, I’m learning to surrender my best-laid plans to the unfolding of real life, and to God’s will. For too long, I lived in extremes, swinging between high performance and quiet apathy. Now, I’m learning the art of balance: of holding my ideals while still being gentle with myself when the day goes differently than I hoped.

I long to craft a home that is beautiful and peaceful. Yet with early mornings, long days, and little sleep, I have to remind myself that my family needs my calm far more than my perfection. Some days that means letting the mess wait so I can rest; other days it means rallying my tired bones to create a little more order for tomorrow. 

I believe homemaking is memory-making, that rhythms can root us, and that faith can steady us.

This space isn’t about arriving, but about living fully—honestly, presently, and open-heartedly—while still reaching toward what is good, true, and beautiful. It is my love letter to the divine. 

If you find yourself caught in these same tensions, this space is for you, too. Together, we can restore our homes and shape the world within our walls. Mothers rule the world. When we guard our hearts, order our homes, and live with grace, we gift something lasting to generations to come.

So come as you are. Stand tall in your motherhood. Embrace the quiet power of your daily work. Believe—deeply—that the way you create life within your walls is a world-shaping force. 

And may this space remind you that even in mess and ache, beauty can still be made.