when it was time for help...

 {when it started...here}

2015 brought us our highest high (Emmerson being born after 4 years of trying) 

and our lowest low (leaving Tennessee and the best friends we've ever had.)

The move to Kentucky was far from easy.

I handled it with the grace of a gorilla on ice skates.

Kicking and screaming, Brandon drug us with him to a new city, new house, new church.

I knew in the deepest part of my soul that we we're NOT supposed to be there.

I physically felt the darkness come over me as we crossed the city line.

And yet, we were there.

Youth pastor, wife, and 9 month old baby.

Fake smiles.

Fake promises.

Fake friends.

I became someone else completely.

There was no joy to be found.

No song in my heart.

Our marriage was on the rockiest of rocks.

Husband had to hide medications and guns.

I called upon him almost everyday, unable to do the simplest of chores.

We knew something had to change.

When searching for help, I would usually suggest starting with your primary care doctor.

Unfortunately, mine wasn't very good at his job and prescribed 3 medications at once.

I wasn't down anymore, but I wasn't happy, sad, mad, joyful, either.

I was a robot.

A zombie.

Thankfully, my Husband (always need someone to advocate for you when you can't!) noticed what was happening and we stopped all medicines.

I eventually found a "Christian" therapist.

But, like everything else in Kentucky, that didn't work out either.

She didn't listen to me and didn't understand why I followed my Husband (suggesting I divorce him) so I fell back to square one.

It wasn't until Husband came home one day and told me we were moving that I finally felt TRUE help was just around the corner...


tuesday letters {on a wednesday}

My project during the 13 hour bus trip.

Dear Tennessee, 

You were so perfect for our high school camp. You'll always have a special place in my heart!

Dear High Schoolers,

You guys are awesome and make me realize just how uncool and old I really am. But I love it!

Dear Sarcastic Embroidery,

Thanks for the new obsession.

Dear Hair,

Grow. Grow. Grow. 

Dear House, 

Clean yourself.


friday joys {and a photo dump}

"Mommy, can we match today?"

Date night! Bowling with 40 teenagers!

Painted the fireplace black!

Fourth of July fun with friends!

Ready for the fireworks!

Always performing.

Mamaw and Papaw!

Emmerson and her Uncle Chris, Aunt Meri, and Baby Jack!

Librarian humor.

empty libraries on rainy days. fish tacos. when you find that perfect nude colored nail polish. teenagers that love my babies. road trips. cult podcasts. good hair days. large leather purses. words. the weight of my Remy girl's head on my knee.


why "friday joys"

About 6 or 7 years ago, I was given a book called, "One Thousand Gifts" by Ann Voscamp.

I had no idea the impact it would have on me.

I had no idea I'd get a tattoo with the word introduced to me by Ann.


It's a Greek word used many times in the Bible.


The act of giving thanks.

"One Thousand Gifts" challenges you to start a journal, regularly adding to it new things that you are thankful for. 

Open windows. Hardwood floors. Chunky baby thighs.

It's an exercise to constantly set our mind on what we've been given and in turn, give Him thanks.

Though, when it's harder to see through the dark mess, my list has faltered.

But then, you can look within the word "eucharisteo" and see "charis."


Another Greek word, which simply means: grace.

When I don't feel like I have anything to be thankful for, there's grace.

God has given me grace, even when/especially when I didn't/don't deserve it.

That's something to be grateful for.

One step deeper and you find a form of "chara"



What have I been given to be thankful for?



And every silly, wonderful thing in between.


hutch says {part three}


{part one here}  {part two here}

To better understand my Hutchy boy, think of a Sour Patch Kid. 

You know, first they're sour, then they're sweet. 

When Hutch is sour...STAY AWAY. He's grouchy and grumpy and wants nothing to do with anyone. (Usually when he wakes up...he gets that from me, I guess.) 

But when Hutch is sweet...OHMYLANTA. There is no sweeter thing in the world. He gushes his love for Mama and Daddy (and even sister!) You cannot leave his room or the house without a million kisses, hugs, and the "I love you" signal in sign language. He will play all day, but always comes over to tell me he loves me. He will be out in the tball field, screaming at me, just so he can throw up the "I love you" sign.


He's funny. Like, he knows when and how a joke will land. The timing, the voice, he's got it all.

Basically, we're in trouble. And I'm in love.

As I walked out in my no-shame-yes-I'm-a-grandma-house-dress....

"Cutie! I love that! I want to snuggle with you on that!"

"Don't step on craps!" (cracks)

Husband: "Hutch, why don't you pray?"

Hutch: "Hmmmmmmmm...How 'bout no."

"Hey! My heart is happy!"

Hutch: "I wanna pee in the trashcan!"

Husband: (as he's lifting him up to the toilet) "No, we pee in the potty."

Hutch: (muttering and pouty, totally devastated) "I wanna pee in the trashcan."

Hutch: "My bottom hurts." 

Me: "I know, let's go fix it."

Hutch: (terrified) "NO! I don't want hammers and screwdrivers on my bottom!"


when it started...


...it didn't have a name.

A reason or explanation.

It just was.

What probably seemed like teenage angst was actually something deeper.

Something harder to shake.

Harder to push through.

It came uninvited, in the middle of a sleepover.

It came quicker, latching to previous pains.

I don't blame my parents for not catching it sooner.

It was sneaky, and deceitful.

It hadn't been publicly talked about.

It was still a well kept, ugly secret.

Especially in Christian circles.

But my depression story started over 15 years ago.

And it wasn't until 5 years ago that it had a name.