I wanted to take some time to share a bit of my story — to give you a clearer picture of why I am so deeply passionate about our calling to be warm, open, soft, and gentle in a world that so often rewards hardness.

I am the youngest of six siblings, born and raised in Middle Tennessee. From a very early age, my life was marked by chaos and pain. My parents separated when I was a toddler, and I was raised by a strong, fiercely independent single mother. Growing up, I watched my mom and older sister work tirelessly at everything they did. There was nothing they couldn’t accomplish through grit and determination. They were steady, immovable — like boulders weathering every storm.

Where they were strong and steadfast, I felt like a roaring river — constantly shifting, often overwhelmed by emotion, pulled by every current. I struggled to find my voice. I struggled to feel strong. I was deeply consumed by how others perceived me. People-pleasing became second nature. Fear and anxiety plagued me, often spiraling into seasons of deep depression. I had no stable sense of identity. Many parts of who I was, I suppressed in an effort to be more acceptable, more likable.

That lack of identity and self-worth led to deeply self-destructive choices. I had numbed myself to the gift of conviction. I was empty. Yet outwardly, I was doing all the “right” things. I was in church often — serving in children’s ministry, singing on the worship team, active in youth group. The answers were all in front of me, but nothing truly transformed me.

I also had no real understanding of the character of God — let alone who He says I am. I lived in confusion, which slowly hardened into bitterness. Mostly toward myself. If I’m honest, I hated myself. As a teenager, I was angry nearly every day for years. I was miserable.

I would have moments where I begged God to change me — to make me feel better. But I didn’t understand that the “better” I wanted wasn’t necessarily what was best for me. I defined better as the absence of pain. No anxiety. No depression. No struggle. When those things didn’t disappear, I assumed nothing had changed. But I didn’t yet understand that real change isn’t circumstantial — it’s internal. It’s surrender.

Eventually, this unresolved emptiness led me into a five-year relationship with an alcoholic. We lived together for most of that time. By then, I had largely given up on God. I convinced myself that if He were real — if He were good — He wouldn’t allow me to experience so much pain. Surely a loving God would shield me from suffering.

During those five years, I experienced profound heartbreak: a miscarriage, fractured relationships, and the daily ache of loving someone in active addiction. I carried everything alone. I didn’t trust anyone — especially not God. Over time, I grew calloused. I let the harshness of the world make me hard.

And then, slowly but suddenly, God softened my heart.

He used the tender desires I’d carried since childhood — the longing to be a wife and mother — to remind me that softness was not weakness. That it was okay to want something. That I could speak that desire aloud without abandoning it to please someone else. For the first time, I felt free to want what I wanted. Free to allow myself to hope. To rest in the desires that God placed in my heart.

I prayed a dangerous prayer in those early weeks of surrender: “God, refine me.”

In His kindness, He answered.

I knew I needed to leave the relationship, but I didn’t believe I was strong enough. For months, I prayed that my partner would be the one to walk away. Instead, God began changing me. My fear shifted into compassion. Where – by the standards of the world – I would have been well within my rights to be angry, bitter, to slam the doors shut. God softened my heart. God moved me to keep my heart and my doors open. Despite the incredible pain I was feeling. Despite the suffering. I prayed fervently for his salvation. And by God’s grace, I saw the day he met Jesus for the first time.

I thought that meant restoration. That now we would build the life I believed God was calling me to.

But, about 2.5 years ago, God woke me up at 5 a.m. with a single word: “Go.”

So I went.

No plan. No clarity. Just obedience.

I packed my belongings and drove back to my mom’s house, heart shattered, pride stripped. I had asked God to rebuild me from the studs, and He was doing exactly that.

The next two years were some of the hardest of my life. My mental health deteriorated in ways I had never experienced. I struggled to eat, to sleep, to function. Panic attacks and nightmares were frequent. Every day felt like a fight to stay alive.

And perhaps the hardest part was the humility. Admitting weakness. Letting people see me unravel. Asking a friend to make me eat when I hadn’t in days. Allowing myself to be loved without earning it.

I hit rock bottom.

But there is something sacred about reaching the end of yourself. It is there — in surrender — that you see God move mountains.

Each day, I woke up with breath in my lungs and that was more than enough. That showed me that God still had more for me. That there were things to come that I couldn’t see, but I had faith that God was working.

When I finally released control, I began to see His faithfulness everywhere. In my darkest moments, there was still an unexplainable peace. In suffering, there were flashes of profound joy. I found contentment not in my circumstances, but in the One who holds them.

My life looked nothing like I thought it should. But it was exactly what I needed.

I began doing small, hard things every day — even when I didn’t feel like it. I went to counseling. I told the truth about my struggles. I let people in. I chose forgiveness when anger felt justified. I practiced gratitude when despair felt easier. I remained soft when everything in me wanted to become bitter.

And somewhere along the way, my heart caught up with what my mind already knew.

I began waking up lighter. Joy returned — not because life was easy, but because I had learned endurance. One of my favorite books of the Bible is James, where we are told to consider it pure joy when we face trials, because perseverance refines us. Through endurance, we are made whole. Not always blessed materially — but strengthened in character, deepened in faith, expanded in love.

In being broken down and rebuilt, I gained something I never had before: identity. Not rooted in performance. Not rooted in approval. But rooted in Christ.

And in that identity, I found something unexpected — strength in gentleness.

Softness is not weakness. It is courage under control. It is choosing love when bitterness feels justified. It is staying open in a world that tells you to close off. It is serving when you could self-protect.

I don’t have all the answers. I am still being refined. But I now understand why I care so deeply about living with warmth, openness, and compassion.

Because I know what it costs to become hard.

And I know the miracle of being made soft again.

If any part of my story encourages you, I pray it reminds you of this: your trials are not wasted. There is purpose in the refining. And on the other side of surrender, there is a strength more powerful than striving — the strength of a gentle, surrendered heart.