Through the years of my life I have been like everyone else in that I have gone through peeks and valleys. Some very high high’s and some very low low’s. And through those peeks and valleys I have changed the way I measure strength. I used  to measure strength by speed and stamina and raw power. Then came the surgeries, the setbacks, the silence. Now I measure it by grace, by faith, by the quiet courage to keep showing up.

Back fusions. Open heart surgery. A traumatic brain injury. Neuropathy. 

Each one slowed me down, reshaped my body, and rewired my mind. And yet—through every procedure, every pause, every painful recalibration—I’ve found something deeper than recovery. I’ve found hope. Not the kind that depends on good news or perfect outcomes. But the kind that stands firm in the storm. The kind that whispers, “You’re not alone,” when everything else feels broken.The kind that comes from God—steady, unshaken, eternal.

I’ve had to relearn what it means to be strong.

To walk slowly. To think differently. To rest without guilt.

And in that slowness, I’ve discovered a sacred rhythm.

A grace that meets me where I am, not where I used to be. The grace that emerges when life slows you down—whether by illness, injury, or deep emotional shifts. It’s not something the world teaches us to value, but it’s sacred nonetheless. You stop measuring your worth by productivity. You start embracing grace—unearned, unconditional, and ever-present. You realize that being is enough.

So if you’re facing your own valley—physical, emotional, spiritual—be assured, You are not less and you are not forgotten.

There is hope, even here. Especially here, there is HOPE

 

May you find strength not in speed, but in stillness. Not in perfection, but in presence. And may grace meet you exactly where you are.

 

John 1;16: For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.