My Open Diary

It has often been said that before someone can overcome addiction, they have to hit rock bottom.

Maybe that's true.

I certainly did.

Rock bottom isn't just where everything falls apart. It's the place where you finally stop pretending. It's where the excuses lose their power, the masks come off, and you're left with a single question:

"What kind of life do I want from here?"

Recovery doesn't begin because the pain disappears. It begins when the desire for peace becomes greater than the desire to escape.

If you've found yourself at rock bottom, I want you to know something.. it doesn't have to be the end of your story. It can become the foundation for a new one. Healing is possible, but it rarely happens all at once. It happens one honest decision, one courageous conversation, one difficult day, and one small step at a time.

I've also learned that grief isn't something you ever truly finish. It simply changes shape over time. What once felt impossible to carry gradually becomes part of who you are. The weight doesn't always disappear, but somehow you grow stronger beneath it.

Today, much of my pain has softened. I live with more peace, greater awareness, and deeper contentment than I ever imagined possible. For that, I am profoundly grateful.

Gratitude has become one of the surest paths to peace that I've ever known.

I'm deeply thankful for my husband, who loved and supported me while I found my way back to myself. His patience and steadfastness gave me the space to heal when I often couldn't see the way forward.

But this isn't a story with a perfect ending.

I still carry regrets.

I still wrestle with parenting guilt.

There are decisions I wish I could make differently.

Those feelings may always be part of me, but they no longer define me.

Instead, I'm learning to hold my regrets with compassion instead of shame, to accept life exactly as it is instead of wishing it had been different, and to trust that growth is still possible no matter my age.

It's an open diary of an imperfect woman learning that beauty and brokenness often grow side by side.

That's really what Wildflowers and Weeds has always been about.

And if I've learned anything over these last eighteen years, it's this:

Life will always have its weeds.

But with enough grace, patience and hope...

wildflowers bloom there too.


From my Open Diary.
Wildflowers and Weeds.
Enjoy the Journey.

Stepping Into the Light

When my mom was dying of pancreatic cancer in 2024, I asked her—if she could—to please send me a sign from heaven. I needed to know that her soul lived on. As a Christian, I’ve always believed in an afterlife, but watching my precious mother—my best friend—fade so quickly brought me such tenderness for her and deep anguish in my soul. It happened during an already difficult season of my life as my son and I were losing our dealership, the grief of everything felt almost too heavy to bare.

Three months after my mother passed, I received the sign I had been quietly longing for. My husband was out of town, and I’d spent several days alone. That night, as I walked into my bedroom to go to bed, something caught my eye—gently resting beside my nightstand was a photo I had searched for endlessly. It was of my mom, my sister, and me. A photo I hadn’t seen in months. I dropped to my knees, overcome with gratitude. I knew—it was her or God who had placed it there.

Today is my birthday. As I was starting a load of laundry, something unexpected happened again. At the bottom of the basket—one I’ve emptied countless times over the years—lay an earring I had been praying to find for over a year. But not just any earring. These were the earrings my mom wore to my wedding. My husband’s shirts and a few towels had just come out of that same basket, but there it was. My mom, sending her love in the most personal way—on my birthday, no less.

In my previous two blogs, I shared that I’ve been on a deep and painful journey to uncover the darkness I’ve carried for as long as I can remember. I had asked my brother, to be my guardian angel—to help me face what needed to be faced. Slowly, painfully, memories have returned. Some I already knew. Others came in like a flood. I’ve felt my mother and brother with me as I shuffled through this unfolding and understanding of the darkness I have carried, and how it carved me into the person I am.

This birthday gift—this small, shimmering sign—was her way of saying, “I’m here. I see you. I love you.” And maybe… that I’m not alone as I step into the light.