So here we are: blogging about my blog. A reflection on the reflections. I know—it’s a bit meta. But I think there’s something fitting about pausing to ask, What am I really talking about, underneath all this talking?
Because the truth is, I like to write. And in all these stories and afterthoughts, there are patterns—recurring rhythms that surface without me always meaning to. Turns out, there are a few things I just can’t stop coming back to.
I write about faith—not the polished kind with tidy answers, but the sort that shows up in the middle of a mess. Faith that stumbles, wrestles, hopes, and continues to find Jesus compelling. The kind that leans into grace when things break, and still believes that love is the last word. I don’t write to explain God. I write to trace the shape of something holy in the ordinary and the unfinished.
I write about courage—mostly the quiet kind. The small, unglamorous choices to speak up when staying silent feels safer. The stubborn decision to act with integrity even when it’s inconvenient. I’ve learned (and keep learning) that bravery isn’t always bold. Sometimes it’s a trembling no or a whispered yes that costs more than it seems. But those are the moments that change us.
I write about purpose—not as a five-year plan or a productivity hack, but as something deeper and slower. A way of living that values meaning over performance. Curiosity over certainty. Contentment over ambition. I’m drawn to stories of people who choose the risky, beautiful path of doing what matters most, even when it doesn’t look impressive on paper.
I write about belonging—those quiet moments of connection that remind us we’re not alone. Sometimes it’s found in the expected places: church, family, long friendships. Other times, it sneaks up in the presence of strangers, in a shared silence, in music, in a room where no one is pretending. Home isn’t always a place. Sometimes it’s just being with people who make room for your whole, unedited self.
And I write in a particular way. I like to tell stories. To start small and end somewhere deeper. To take time. To reflect, not react. There’s usually a bit of poetry at the edges. A willingness to sit with tension, contradiction, mystery. I don’t write to be right. I write to be real.
Which brings us back here. To this post. A strange summary of the things I care about.
Is it odd to reflect on your own reflections? Probably. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from writing, it’s that the oddities often hold the truth. So I’ll keep writing. Keep wondering. Keep saying the same kinds of things, in different ways, until they land just right.
Because some things are worth circling back to—faith, courage, meaning, connection—and because maybe, just maybe, someone else is circling too.
somewhere between
the question and the quiet,
between what I meant to say
and what I actually wrote,
there’s a thread—
not straight,
but steady.
it pulls through
a story told in fragments,
a prayer without punctuation,
a laugh, a scar,
a risk I almost didn’t take.
and somehow
the thread holds.
so I keep stitching—
with words, with wonder—
not for answers,
but for meaning,
for home,
for something true
that fits in the palm
of an ordinary day.
The Afterword 
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