At 30, I

One of my biggest fears, 

is that there’s nothing new to say. 

Hence my significant lack of writing in 2019. 


Granted, 2019 kicked my butt

And to my knowledge, when one’s butt is being kicked, writing is a challenge. It’s difficult to know what to share and not share, 

what to groan about, 

what to shut up about, 

what to confess, 

what to keep close, 

what to protest, 

what to accept. 

In the muck and mire of seasons not preferred, my mind takes over my mouth and fingers. I stop talking, stop writing. All the while, my mind buzzes with burning questions, overplayed scenarios, nightly nightmares, deeply felt doubts. 

And whenever I feel this way, I feel dramatic. Like an actor in a soap or cavity-ridden Hallmark film. A big sister-friend tells me I enter a room like a ball of sunshine, and I wear that compliment as a badge of honor. I like being a ball of sunshine for you, for me. Because it’s too easy to look left or right and find darkness. Somebody’s got to spread a little light, and I don’t mind doing it when I can. 

But eclipses happen. 



A night before my 31st birthday, around 3 a.m., I woke up to my mind writing out a post for you. It went something like this:

At 30, I fell and scraped both knees, and refused to get up for six months. 

At 30, I discovered the beauty in pebbles, sheep grazed-grass, sore muscles, and mountain air. 

At 30, I sought security outside of my safe place. 

At 30, a big sister-friend told me I did the scariest thing she could think of. 

Because at 30, I took a long, hard look at the Lord. Then I turned around, and I walked away. 

At 30, my sunlight dimmed, my battery ran low. 

At 30, my children inspired laughter and produced weariness. 

The hardest year of motherhood yet. 

At 30, my journals gathered dust. 

At 30, I gazed out at a sparkling ocean and didn’t smile with my eyes. 

At 30, I read Ecclesiastes and felt understood. 

At 30, I listened to a foreign language, and felt understood. 

At 30, I dreamed about a yellow house and the shearing of sheep, and felt understood. 

For the Lord remains ever-present.


At 30, I popped my knuckles and threw away my tissues.

At 30, I stood up one leg at a time.

    And allowed my knees to heal. 

At 30, I muscled up, buttercup.

    I did things scared. 

At 30, I inhaled resilience and exhaled stress. 

    My sides no longer ache. 

At 30, the eclipse made way for shine. 


And at 31, 

I found something new to say. 


  1. An amazing, beautiful, honest post. You put words to things that many of us cannot. Thank you for sharing.

    1. Author

      I’m touched you said what you did, because most of the time I feel like I don’t have any words left! Thank you for your precious comment, Robin!

  2. Beautifully written, thank you for this! 🙂

    1. Author

      Your are welcome! Glad you enjoyed it.

  3. Your writing is tender yet honest. Feelings jumped off the page and smacked me in the face. A gift of sharing that readers can relate to and take moments to mull and digest. Honesty, perspective and vulnerability are mingled in with the dichotomy of opposites. My hat is off to you and your well placed words. The adventure you take us on leaves some questions answered but many more left to conjure. It is with utmost humility that you shared a piece of your soul. Thank you for being you, a unique individual with a heart of gold. Please continue to share because you will either touch a vein or make us pause. Without your thoughts put into sentences the world seems a lonelier more barren place. Fill us with your goodness.

  4. You are one of the best bloggers/writers that I read.
    Just be yourself.
    Tell us about life.
    Tell us what you are thinking.
    Press on. Few have it figured it out.
    Don’t stop writing.
    Be yourself.
    Lots of people love you.


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