It’s hard to believe it’s already the first of the month. Honestly, I’m still in awe; not just because time moved fast, but because I did too. This time last year, I was in a completely different space, a place I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I found myself overwhelmed by feelings of betrayal, confusion, and silent grief. Although I was separated at that time, my marriage had already ended long before the separation. The paperwork caught up later. Even then, the situation was still excruciating. For nearly two years before we went our separate ways, the emotional connection had already unraveled thread by thread. We had detached from one another long before the final goodbye.

And yet, when the reality hit that it was truly over, it still cut deep. Even when your heart has accepted what your mind already knows, the final realization can be intense. It feels like a death of something you once prayed would last forever. I remember lying awake, clutching my phone like a lifeline, calling my mother, my sister, or a friend at two in the morning, just trying to breathe through the pain. My prayers weren’t poetic; they were desperate cries whispered through tears. My days were a blur of survival. My nights were long, heavy, and hollow. But even in that darkness, I kept holding on. I kept praying. I kept showing up in church every Wednesday and every Sunday, clinging to hope like it was oxygen. And now, standing here a year later, I realize something beautiful… pain does not last forever.

One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned is that you can’t heal what you refuse to feel. The pain you try to outrun will follow you into every new season until you sit still long enough to face it. Don’t drink it away. Don’t smoke it away. Don’t work it away. Don’t date it away. Don’t distract yourself from it. Sit in it. Sit in your sorrow. Sit in your silence. Sit in your solitude. Because in that stillness, that sacred pause… God meets you. He doesn’t meet you in the noise; He meets you in the quiet. He waits until you have no one left to call, until your soul finally whispers, “Lord, I surrender.” That’s when He begins to rebuild you, piece by piece, until you no longer recognize the woman or man you were before the storm. For me, solitude became my sanctuary. I used to think being alone was a punishment, but it was actually protection. God separated me to strengthen me. I realized I didn’t need a crowd; just a few solid people and a whole lot of faith. And if you have children, like I do, you’ll understand how healing can ripple through generations. My kids have been the heartbeat of my recovery. Since my divorce, our bond has deepened in ways I didn’t even know were possible. My teenagers and I talk more. We laugh more. We see each other more. My younger two have become my daily dose of joy. Together, we’ve learned that even when life shifts, love can still stay steady. And yes, I’ve faced challenges with co-parenting. There are days when things don’t go as planned: missed visits, broken promises, silence that speaks volumes. But I no longer let those moments pull me back into bitterness. I’ve learned to let go with grace. I’ve learned to have backup plans and peace plans. Because no one, and I mean no one, is worth losing your peace over. This blog isn’t about my ex; it’s about my evolution.

If I’m honest, that relationship should’ve never made it past the introduction. It was built on brokenness and bandaged with good intentions. I stepped into it out of loneliness, trying to save someone who wasn’t mine to save. But God allowed it; not to break me, but to build me. To show me the power of discernment and the danger of desperation. Today, I’m not chasing love; I’m becoming it. I’m celibate, not because I’m waiting on perfection, but because I finally understand the power of preserving my peace. I feel whole. I feel light. My thoughts are clear, my spirit is full, and my energy is protected. And when my kingdom husband does find me, he’ll meet me healed; not half-empty, not in survival mode. He’ll meet me standing tall, grounded in God, and glowing in purpose. Our connection will be built on faith, not fear. Peace, not pain. Partnership, not dependency.

But until then, I’m over here becoming everything I prayed for. This year, I’ve grown more than I imagined. I’m finishing a book that will reveal the depth of that growth. It is a project that reflects my healing, my maturity, and my voice like never before. When you read it, you’ll feel the difference. I was in a different place in 2020 when I began to write my first book, The Healing Journey. You will see who I’ve become now. Because a lot can happen in a five years.

Even a year can take you from broken to blessed. From crying on your bathroom floor to dancing in your kitchen. From survival mode to sacred peace. From questioning your worth to walking in your purpose. And if you’re in that dark space right now; please, hold on. The rain has to stop. The clouds have to clear. The sun will rise again. Forgive often. Love freely. Rest when you need to. And don’t ever let someone else’s darkness dim your light. Your story isn’t over. It’s just unfolding. And if God can do it for me…

He can do it for you, too.

The verse I was meditating on when I wrote this blog:

“For his anger is but for a moment, his favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may stay for the night, but JOY comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5