Marriage, Marriage, Mental Health

Mental Health and Marriage: An Introduction

A couple holding hands in a field of tall grass at sun set.
Photo by Joe Yates on Unsplash

He held my face between his warm hands and looked me inventively in the eyes.

“I’m not going to leave you.”, he said as he leaned in and gently kissed my forehead.

Hot tears ran down my face as the snow flurries kissed the windshield. The heater was on, but I was chilled. I wanted to fling the door open and run as fast and far as I could, but I knew that even then I would still hurt. I looked down at my sparkling wedding band and up at my husband. Anger rose in my chest and I sobbed.

“You deserve better! You had no idea you would have to put up with all of this. I hurt! I hurt so bad because I can’t be better for you.”

I looked up from my ring and at his face which held a weight of sorrow that I wasn’t sure I had seen before. His eyes were filling with tears, but they didn’t pour over onto his cheeks.

This time he took my hand and held it to his cheeks.

“There’s nobody I’d rather spend my life with.”

Then, slowly and steadily his tears created small nearly invisible streaks down his cheeks.

The snow flurried outside and a Christmas song came on the radio. The world was bustling around us in the mall parking lot, but our universe had come to a standstill just long enough for us to catch our breath.

A couple standing closely about to kiss. The sun blurs out the faces.
Photo by Joe Yates on Unsplash

May ushers in Mental Health Awareness Month and with that I felt such a strong desire to share something of value. I have shared my own story in bits and pieces, but I have noticed that there isn’t a lot of energy given to discussing how mental health so intimately affects marriage.

I came up with an idea.

This month, my husband and I will share candidly about our own mental health struggles, the immensely difficult journey we have endured, the things we wish we would have known, and how struggle has both broken and ironically mended our marriage along the way.

We’re just two people that want you to realize that you’re not alone.

You’re invited to come as you are.

Nikki xx

depression, mental health

Depression and Self Help: A Mini Series

Woman with auburn hair holding pink tulips behind her back. She is standing in a grassy area and the sky is overcast.
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Depression holds people under water just long enough to make their lungs sparkle with water, but not long enough that they disappear. I believe that’s the aspect of it that makes it so painful. Suffering for long periods of time gasping for air, but unable to articulate your needs.

There is a bittersweet emotional tension between depression and the desire to be immersed in efforts of self-help.

Can I cure my depression by eating a vegan diet?

Maybe I can go through years of intensive therapy and learn to fix myself.

I’m not trying hard enough.

The meds aren’t working and I’m more tired than I’ve ever been.

Maybe more podcasts, encouraging books, exercise, time with friends, and sleep will help me to get my head above water.

All of those things are wonderful, but when you overload yourself with the best of intentions when you’re in survival mode you will fall.

Maybe you cycle through self blame, self help, and self sabotage. The truth is that depression isn’t a destiny at all. It’s a journey. It may not be one that you set out for, but you are on the road with a painful yet magnificent teaching tool.

The truth is that the best effort you can put forth in dark times of depression is the effort of not giving up on yourself.

Focus on the fact that your lungs are filled with air. It doesn’t make the pain evaporate, but it will be enough to get you through one day at a time.

You aren’t failing. As a matter of fact, you can and will thrive.

Nikki xx

Bipolar Disorder, depression, mental health, motherhood, women's health

5 Mental Health Confessions and Why I’m Coming Clean

Photo by Skyla Design on Unsplash

I began a kindness initiative nearly one year ago. Little Hope Notes was born from compassion, creativity, and the desire to make a small difference. I remember how easily the words came to me when I would sit down and write a little hope note. The opportunities ahead seemed limitless and I’d smile at the thought of someone discovering a note and it being an encouragement to them.

Instagram seems to be a place to present polished versions of people. Those people share their victories and at times they share their struggles. I didn’t know where I fit in and I didn’t know how to make Little Hope Notes an encouraging platform when I was struggling so desperately with my own mental health.

I began to avoid all social media for my own well being. It felt impossible to be positive when I was comparing myself against every account I scrolled past. I hid.

I didn’t just hide on screen, but off screen too. My own depression gripped me so tightly that I stopped writing little hope notes. I stopped sharing about it. I stopped showing up for myself. Under I went into a place that I can only refer to as the darkness.

Photo by Art Lasovsky on Unsplash

When I was down there I thought about how desperately I wanted to feel alive. I wanted to feel peace and have a deep understanding of myself. Then, a moment came when I realized that all of the Little Hope Notes I had written for others really spoke to me as well.

Was it possible that I had been writing what my own heart needed the whole time?

That depression clung to me for a long time, but as the sun began to thaw the outer edges of my heart I began to see. I saw those that were struggling and I knew right then and there that it wasn’t just enough to share encouraging words with others. I had to show hope. Sometimes hope doesn’t look promising at all. As a matter of fact, hope tends to push us out of the soil when we are at rock bottom.

There are 5 mental health confessions that I need to share. These things occur when I am at my worst and I am realizing that isolating myself in a confessional booth isn’t what hope looks like. It’s coming out into the open and sharing it with you because maybe you’re hurting, too.

  1. I distance myself from the people I love most. I never feel guilty about it because my trauma response of wanting to self preserve is stronger.
  2. I have been in therapy for 5 years and I only started telling my therapist the truth two weeks ago. I wasn’t blatantly lying, but was so defensive that I didn’t even know what my truth was. Years of self sufficiency can make it hard for vulnerability to move in.
  3. Suicidal thoughts come into my mind often. Although I have a strong support system and a safety plan, it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
  4. I’m learning slowly that I deserve love and peace. I am in this strange place of showing myself tenderness and grace. Sometimes that’s too uncomfortable to sit with so I keep running.
  5. I’m a peacemaker. I always have been. That quality has led to a lot of pain in my life–trusting too much too quickly. When I feel that people aren’t trustworthy I enter a place of self sufficiency and swear them off before they even had a fighting chance.

Show Up

If there’s anything that I can say I know about you for sure it is this.

You are safe to confess what you struggle with. You’re loved simply because you exist and there’s nothing that can extinguish that light inside of you. Hope is always there. See if you can find her the next time a storm rolls in. She’ll be the one waiting on the shore for you.

Nikki xx

mental health, motherhood, women's health

3 Truths to Live By

Photo by Freshh Connection on Unsplash

Our inner dialogue can become exhausting to live with if we are constantly hearing and believing the worst about ourselves. When those times of discouragement come take time to replace those thoughts with the three truths to live by.

1. I am not alone

When we face hardships the first thing that can pop into our mind is Nobody understands me. Then, our emotions kick in and we feel isolated and alone. Regardless of what you are going through, you are not alone. There is someone in the world that is facing something that is breaking their heart as much as your trial is breaking yours. We hear so often about what makes us different. Whether it’s the color of our skin, the place we grew up, or the education we have received–we’re constantly bombarded with our differences.

The truth is that we’re all more alike than we realize–especially in our suffering. Nearly everyone knows what grief feels like. There aren’t many people that don’t know what sadness or fear feel like. 

It’s so vital that you remind yourself of the community, friends, and family around you. If you don’t feel like you have any people to love and care for you in those areas then keep your eyes open for encouragement. It isn’t far fetched to think that we find the hope we need just when we need it. Most of the time it’s in the most unexpected places. 

2. I matter 

You matter. Your life matters. Your opinions, hopes, fears, and dreams matter. This is a truth to keep close to your heart today and always. Why? Because sometimes we all feel like we are in a robotic mode through life. We can feel that life is happening to us and not for us. Our opinions become buried deep because we think that they aren’t important. Dreams collect dust because we’re not confident enough to make them a reality. We hold our fears with a tight fist afraid that someone may see them and push us aside. 

Our hope is that you will always know that you matter. On hard days, you matter. When you make mistakes, you matter. Those times that you’d rather not share your heart, you matter. There isn’t anything that you can comprehend that is as vast as your importance. The galaxies themselves pale in comparison to the beauty that is within you–simply because you are

I’m imperfect

This is not giving you a mirror to hold up to yourself and count what you perceive as flaws. This isn’t a lesson on humility or an encouraging piece on how to embrace your quirks.

Perfection is fleeting. We accomplish something and the feeling of victory and encouragement fades as quickly as the setting sun. Trying to attain perfection is like trying to catch the morning fog in your hands. It’s impossible. Girl, this is your chance to lay all of that down. The need for control is deeply rooted in many of us. Many of us carry that burden because we felt unsafe and insecure in our childhoods. You are weary and you’re going to fall to pieces if you keep chasing after perfect. She’s an illusion and will always be ten steps ahead of you in your mind. Being imperfect means you’re human. Being imperfect means you’re breathing. Being imperfect means that there’s cause for celebration. You do not need to fix, become, or salvage yourself. You are imperfectly perfect.

Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, depression, mental health, rest, women's health

Tennessee and Me

Photo by Sean Stratton on Unsplash

The Story the Mountains Tell

Every morning the mountains would stand strong and silent against the dark sky. Then, the sun would slowly illuminate the treetops and the birds would begin to sing against a golden canvas. Those mountains would stand with their smooth scoops dipping into the valley below and greet me each morning. I would play with my cousins until the summer sun melted behind the ridge and the sky was left a cotton candy pink. Later, with my pajamas on and blankets resting on my cheek, the moon would light the tallest trees and the mountains and I would fall asleep together.

It was under that cotton candy sky and between those mountains–like bookends holding my life upright–that I began to hide. My temperament, childhood trauma, and desire to make others happy caused me to press on and act as if I was not affected by difficult times.

Photo by Sean Stratton on Unsplash

The Safest Place

“Please, help me. I don’t know what I need, but I need help.”, I begged with tears in my eyes.

I wiped my sweatshirt sleeve across my running nose and anxiously crossed my ankles.

“I can do that.” she said as she leaned in closer.

I was 28-years-old and was seeing a therapist for the first time. I looked around her home office and tried to count the books on her shelf to distract myself.

“I can see that you’re anxious right now. I want you to think of somewhere that brings you peace.”

I shifted in my seat and nodded my head in agreement.

“Where is that place for you?”

“The mountains.”, I said just above a whisper.

“What about the mountains makes you feel at peace?”

“Everything. I called them home for the first 19 years of my life. They’re so much bigger than I am and make me feel so small in the best way. I’m never alone when I’m in the mountains.”

“That’s beautiful. I want you to think of the mountains any time that you’re feeling overwhelmed during our sessions.”

“I will.”

Photo by Sean Stratton on Unsplash

Between Then and Now

I have used that technique in many sessions with my therapist since.

Maybe you’re on the edge of seeking treatment to work through past trauma, a new mental health diagnosis, or a combination of the two. It’s not going to be easy. As a matter of fact, it may be one of the most difficult things that you’ll ever do.

In all of my imperfection, I want to step forward and tell you that it will be worth it.

I’m holding space for you in the mountains. The sun is setting now; the sky turning golden pink. Soon, the moon will settle in for the night and the crickets will chirp by the creek. Then, lovely soul, the sun will rise and warm your face again.

Nikki xx

Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Chronic illness, depression, mental health, motherhood

Bipolar and My Middle Name

Nicole means Victory for the People. I remember sitting on a green upholstered church pew when I was little and reading that on a bookmark that I owned. I’d twist the burgundy tassel top around my fingers and imagine myself helping people that needed help. I never realized that victory was meant for me, too.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Bipolar Disorder

To date I have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder three times.

I have lived in denial for about two years and have avoided being medicated like the plague. I couldn’t reconcile that I was being diagnosed with the same illness that my father had, even though he had bipolar type 1 and I have been diagnosed with bipolar type 2. If you’re curious about the difference between the two types, I encourage you to read about it here.

Over time, the depressive episodes have gotten worse and lasted longer. The hypo-manic episodes have surfaced as severe anxiety and paranoia. Just this week, I hit rock bottom and realized that my misery outweighed my actual fear of going on medication. I saw the psychiatrist on Wednesday and began medication immediately.

I’ve lost too many precious days with my family to postpone treatment any longer.

I’m ready to redefine my normal and to discover facets of the “real” me again.

Victory Redefined

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

All those years ago when I was imagining myself being a helper, healer, and victor for those in need on a church pew in East Tennessee, I think I had it all wrong. I’m learning that victory isn’t always what we imagine.

Maybe I’m not running into a physical battle like I imagined as a kid. I’m not advocating for justice in a courtroom or championing for the rights of the oppressed.

I’m advocating for myself and because I’m doing that, I am fighting along some of the bravest people I’ll ever know. That’s you, by the way!

I believe victory isn’t about what you accomplish, but instead how you persist.

My middle name is Nicole.

I hope I can help you you acknowledge the victories you have every day.

Keep going. xx

Addiction, Bipolar Disorder, depression, faith, mental health, Parenting, writing

An Addict’s Lesson of Love

This is Ricky’s story.

Ten Novembers ago Ricky died of pneumonia at the age of 43 which was ironic since he had battled addiction for most of his life and attempted suicide eight times.

Ricky was my father.

Photo by Ar Meftah on Unsplash

The Early Years

His childhood ran parallel to my childhood experience. A young kid raised in East Tennessee, a love for art, and an alcoholic father.

I was held by my 17 year old mother when I was born. Ricky looked down into the incubator at me soon after with a huge smile on his face. There’s a picture to prove that he was there and that he cared. I looked at that picture a lot growing up. I needed the reminder. He was 22 and I imagine he was hopeful. That’s what I get from the photo–hope and pure pride.

Ricky was gone by the time I was 4. He sped away one morning in his car and squealed the tires around the curve at the bottom of the road near the treeline. I went back inside and went about my day. I think I played with Barbies while Mama cried in her bedroom.

I saw him on the occasional Christmas and Birthday where he’d shower me with gifts that his mom had paid for and wrapped herself. Nobody told me that, but I knew early on. There was no way he would have known what I wanted for Christmas, my favorite color, or that I loved my presents to be wrapped individually, but stacked and tied together with a large bow on top.

When I was 9 years old I told him I never wanted to speak to him again. The anger had caught up to me. Besides, Mama had remarried and I had a real dad that knew my favorite color and took time to play Frisbee with me outside.

Photo by Julia Engel on Unsplash

Forgiveness

I stewed in my resentment for a long time which I still believe is perfectly reasonable for any girl that’s been abandoned by her father.

When I was fourteen, I saw Ricky sitting outside of the assisted living home where he’d been living for a year, smoking a cigarette in his wheelchair. I had mom stop the car and as soon as she shifted the car into park, I opened the door without hesitating. I knew if I hesitated that I wouldn’t be able to muster up the courage. I had to do this on impulse. He spotted me almost instantly and said, “Hey baby!” I hated when he called me baby. I kept walking until I was by his side.

“I forgive you.”, I blurted out. “You left me and I forgive you.”

His blue-green eyes filled with tears and he exhaled the last of his cigarette.

I don’t remember what he said or if I went back to the car immediately.

Cigarettes and Cassette Tapes

When I think of Ricky, I think of three things: cassette tapes of 80’s rock n’ roll, cigarettes, and fudge Pop Tarts.

I’d love to say that my forgiving my dad changed everything and that we grew to become best friends. The truth is that I still cringed when he hugged me when I was leaving from our weekly visits. I hated when he said I reminded him of himself. It made me incredibly sad when he talked about his alcoholism and pleaded with me to always choose my future family over anything else. Even though it made me sad, I changed the subject or made an excuse to get off of the phone. I couldn’t comfort him because I didn’t know how.

He would stay up late in manic episodes recording cassette tapes for me.

Side A: Kiss, Metallica, Guns N’ Roses / Side B: more Kiss, U2, and AC/DC

He would meticulously write out the lyrics in tiny perfect hand writing on the cassette cover. He’d give them to me almost every visit and I’d end up throwing them away during my next visit to the car wash. I still don’t know why I did that. Maybe it was to keep myself from loving him too much. In case things didn’t work out then I wouldn’t have remnants of him around my car.

The Last Chapter

I did grow to love him, though. It turned out that I always had. The little girl that had refused to care for so long had actually cared all along. I began to notice that Ricky’s mood was always unpredictable. Some of my visits he would spend laughing and cracking jokes. Other days, he would go back to sleep while I watched TV. He’d wake back up to smoke a cigarette and then go back to bed. I’d let myself out without waking him and would drive the long way home to sort through the feelings of abandonment that would resurface.

He was sick. I knew that the bipolar moods were not his fault and that the depression had a strong hold on him. Still, I felt like a little girl yearning for her dad to pay attention to her.

The last time I saw Ricky was at my wedding. He had saved large portions of his disability check so that he could buy my wedding dress. After the ceremony, I gave him a quick hug on my way to have photos taken. He said he wasn’t feeling well and needed to go home. The hug felt awkward as always and I found myself pulling away before he was ready.

Two months later I was watching his casket get lowered into the heart of the earth. He was only 43 years-old. He had left me again. This time, I couldn’t reconcile. I wanted to dig through the landfill and find the cassette tapes. I craved an awkward hug and all I wanted was to hear him snore while I watched the same infomercials again and again.

More than anything, I wanted to know his favorite color. I never got to ask.

Lessons in Love

I have Ricky to thank for teaching me what love is.

Love is complicated. It isn’t always pristine and comfortable. Love is putting in the hard work. Love is forgiveness. Love is apologizing for the past and doing your best to be present in the moment. Love is allowing people to be imperfect and realizing that we too are imperfect.

Love is more than knowing someone’s favorite color. It’s knowing that you’d give your very life for them if you had to. It’s sacrificial and it’s ultimately the only thing we will die remembering.

Ricky, I know your life was really hard.

I know you tried your best.

Me forgiving you changed everything for you. Realizing you loved me changed everything for me.

Rock on xx

Anxiety, Chronic illness, depression, mental health, motherhood, parenting, women's health

Mental Health and Motherhood

Dear Stranger,

Mama, I see you. I see beyond your pajama pants and messy bun in the school drop off line. Two panes of glass separate us–yours tinted darker than mine. There, in the shadow that the morning sun is casting on your face, I see the dark circles under your eyes and the taut thin line that your lips create just above your chin.

I look in the rear view mirror at my daughter.

She’s talking about how she doesn’t need her coat because the sun is out. It’s 34-degrees outside. I catch a glimpse of myself in that rear view mirror then I look back over at you. I see myself in you. We’re tired, aren’t we? Being a Mama is hard.

Nobody told me how hard it would be to navigate motherhood. No one took me by the hand and showed me that I can live with Major Depressive Disorder and still be a good mom.

Maybe you’re reading this as you’re rocking your newborn to sleep. Maybe this is reaching you as you’re sitting on your bathroom floor crying while your toddler throws a tantrum just outside the door.

I am writing this to you wherever you are, Mama.

I am writing this to me.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

I know what it’s like to be full of enthusiasm and greet the day and your child with wide eyes and sweet kisses. The day ahead like a blank canvas–yours to fill with color and memories. Breathing in the scent of your kid as they lean in for a tired afternoon hug feels like magic.

Then there are the other days. Those days.

I know what it’s like to be full of dread and greet the day and your child with a hurried pace and tired eyes. The day ahead like a burden–yours to crawl through. Catching your breath at the end of the day as you lay your head on your pillow feels like magic. The regretful rush, lack of patience, and short temper sit heavily on your chest. Hot tears form in your eyes, but you never feel them fall because you’ve already fallen asleep.

Most Mamas can fully relate to both scenarios.

There’s the other days. The days when everything in the external world is just as it should be, but the storm rages inward. There’s a cloud so dark and heavy hanging above you and you can feel yourself fading–becoming it.

Then, there are the times adjusting to a new psychiatric medication. There’s the initial hope followed by the deep fatigue and other symptoms that creep in and take over for the weeks following. Finally, the medications sync with your system and you feel some sort of relief from depression’s weight and anxiety’s grip. You’re left wondering if the weeks of investment are going to pay off–the torture of adjusting to new chemicals swimming in your body.

The stigma associated with medication seems to find you on a cellular level and although you’re happy to feel more like yourself, you’re also struggling with feeling like a failure for having to need help.

All of this is so difficult. Yet, only the faithful few–sometimes the faithful one–check to see how you’re doing.

Motherhood is an all encompassing, invigorating, and absolute “play it by ear” song and dance. For those living with a mental illness it feels impossible to care for yourself–not to mention the tiny human that God has entrusted you with.

So, we prioritize those we love and let whatever treatments that may or can be wait on the horizon for another day.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Mama, this Little Hope Note isn’t a list of things you can or should do to make your mental illness more manageable. Thankfully and also ironically unfortunate, there are enough of those blogs awaiting you in your next Google search.

What can I give?

I just want to acknowledge you. I want you to know that you’re lovely and you are loved–as you are.

You aren’t broken.

There isn’t a day that I don’t think of you. In fact, acknowledging that you exist means that I’m not merely existing, but am part of a community–a tribe of Mamas suffering, but loving deeply despite it all.

You?

You’re a beautiful Mama.

The best that your child could ask for.

Be her.

Anxiety, art, Chronic illness, faith, mental health, parenting, rest, slow living, women's health, writing

Dear Stranger, it’s time to rest

This guest post is by my dear friend Kiersten. She’s a nurturer, a soul filler-upper (that’s a word, right?), and hysterical breath of fresh air. She loves deeply and creates art with all of her soul over at all.from.home. Kiersten offers virtual yoga retreats a few times a year where she invites you into a safe slow yoga flow, a meditation on scripture, and a corresponding craft. Follow her on Instagram to stay in the loop and join us in her next retreat. She has been a huge influence in my own journey in true self-care and honoring my body by seeking regular rest.

Photo by Ellieelien on Unsplash

I’m currently sitting in bed eating Ben and Jerry’s as I write this. I think that’s pretty appropriate with this topic.

The relationship between rest and me has always been a murky one. What is laziness, and what is this so called “self-care?” Where is the line? What is “rest,” and am I even allowed to have it?

As far back as I can remember, I’ve worked for rest. I’ve worked myself to the bone so that I could be deserving of a nap. I’ve pushed myself to the point of being sick, so then I could rest guilt-free, because “doctor’s orders!” I’ve spiraled in anxiety and depression over and over, because I didn’t give my body a voice. And why?

Photo by Ellieelien on Unsplash

I grew up as a minister’s kid in a Christian home, and would still say of myself that my faith in Jesus is the biggest part of who I am. While I am so grateful for my upbringing, I think that this has often been my downfall. Growing up in the church, and constantly being involved in ministry has more often than not left me feeling that I am not enough. I don’t bring enough, I could never help enough people, I don’t donate enough money, I don’t give enough hours, I don’t fast enough, I don’t pray enough, I don’t care about the “headed straight to hell” souls enough, etc. etc.

I do want to note that this is MY experience. My experience has been in the area of religion. Maybe yours is in a career path, a relationship, or a family situation. I don’t know. But what I do know is that this seems to be a huge part of the human condition, no matter what or who you believe in. This overall dreadful feeling of “never enough.”

What if the reason we feel this way isn’t because we aren’t enough? Because we are completely drained? Will you do something for me?

Close your eyes, and picture a house plant.

Photo by Ellieelien on Unsplash

Imagine the leaves are brown, dry, and droopy.

Visualize the soil pulling away from the side of the planter due to how dry it is.

Now, see yourself getting a glass, and filling it 1/8th of the way with water.

See yourself walking over to the plant, and trying to water the plant with that amount of water.

Can you see the water barely wetting the soil at all?

Imagine that you are that water glass. Trying to nurture and create life, hoping to make some sort of difference, but totally and completely empty from the start. It was never going to be enough, because you started with a near empty glass.

I believe that God created the world in seven days, and on the seventh day, He rested. Now, he made man on the sixth day, right? Why not on the first day, so that man could help God do all the work? No, the very first day of man being a living creature, he woke up, and God said, “Today, we rest.” He started him off with rest. God knew that to give anything, there has to be something received first.

What if instead of living for rest, we lived from rest?

What would our lives, or marriages, our homes, our communities, and our world look like? The truth is that we’d all be pouring from glasses that are always full, not trying to squeeze out every last drop, and failing miserably.

I know I’ve asked a lot of questions here today, but I think that true rest to me is taking the time to notice. Rest can look like so many things, from naps, to creative time, to movie nights, to journaling.

But “true rest” to me is being present wherever I am, and living from the peace I have on the inside. It is asking myself questions all throughout the day.

Things like:

Mind, how are you today? Is there anything you need to lay down?

Body, how are you feeling? What do you need? If it’s a nap instead of a walk, that’s okay.

Soul, how are you? If you’re overwhelmed, it’s okay. Or if you’re hopeful, you have permission to be excited!

And then not judging myself for anything I feel, but answering myself in kindness, and taking the time to fill up my own cup. Because if I don’t, I am doing the world around me an injustice, because I will have nothing to pour out.

So, take some time today to find true, honest, real rest! Maybe it’s an hour, or maybe it’s 5 minutes. I just want to invite you to take some time to close your eyes, and listen. And hopefully be inspired to take a rest.

So much love, friends!

Kiersten

art, mental health, slow living, small business, writing

Dear Writer,

White coffee mug with the word Begin on it sitting on a wooden table.
Photo by Danielle MacInnes on Unsplash

This post is dedicated to all of the writers attending the hope*writers conference in Charlotte, NC this week. My hope is that you leave inspired and with an ache to write for the hopeless.

The words within you are just as much a part of you as the blood in your veins and run as deeply as your bone marrow. Perhaps those words flow through you with each beating of your heart.

Fear often tries to put you in your place–reminding you that you should stay silent. Fear tells you there isn’t a soul that would find healing in your words.

You’ve been silent for too long.

A new season is beginning.

Do you hear it?

Can you see it?

It’s a season of audacity and hope–one where your words heal you and then, the world. Push through the soil and bloom with your face toward the sun. If you do not write your words then nobody will–they’ll come to a slow halt with the last beat of your heart.

The time is now.

Write.

Write because you were born to do so.

Write because people need hope.

Write and never stop.

You matter—your words matter.

Nikki xx

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