Hey friend,

The other day I was flipping through an old journal, looking for something very specific I remembered writing years ago. I had a picture in my mind of where it was, which page it might be on, so there I was, skimming through dog-eared corners and folded pages when a random pink sticky note, stuck between two entries, stopped me.

On it, in my own handwriting, were three words:

Who are you?

Whatever I was searching for in that moment faded into the background. That one little note pulled me straight back to the very beginning of my self-discovery and personal growth journey, all those years ago. I can still remember when that question first cracked me open. Someone asked me out loud, and I couldn’t answer. I could list what I did, who I took care of, what I was chasing, but if you stripped all of that away, I didn’t know who I actually was.

That simple question became the pivot point that started everything—the “I Am” journey, The Confident Woman, the podcast, the book, the journals, all of it. Everything I’ve created over the years began because I needed it first. They became the pillars and systems and tools I still lean on in my darkest, most transitional, most pivotal moments.

And here I was again, years later, sitting in my office with this little pink square tucked into my journal, and all I could think was:

How am I here, again?

I felt a mix of disappointment and discouragement because, if I’m honest, this past year and this whole last stretch of life have taken me out in ways I didn’t see coming.

The horrific and tragic death of my dad.
The grief, the loss, the betrayal, the shock.
Trying to be present for my mom, my family, my clients, my business, my brand, my community—people who still needed things from me—while my own world was quietly rearranging itself underneath me. All of that plus the parts no one sees: the collateral damage, the way the impact doesn’t fully hit until much later, when the shaking stops and you finally feel how unsteady your foundation has become.

There’s no manual for this. No one hands you a guidebook for how to walk through these life-changing seasons, how to grieve and heal and mourn when it feels like your entire inner and outer world has been turned upside down. No one warns you that one of the hardest parts will be losing yourself in the process—where you’re no longer who you were, but you’re not yet sure who you’re becoming. That in-between space, the messy middle, is where you’re forced to begin again. It’s where you learn to accept the losses, tend to the wounds, and decide what gets to come with you into the next chapter.

There were months where survival mode was the only mode.

Little by little, without anyone asking me to, I started doing that thing I swore I’d never do again: I disappeared in my own life. Not in some big dramatic way, but slowly, quietly. I started distancing and withdrawing, slipping back into my secret hiding place—the inner world that has always felt like my only form of safety and protection when life feels like too much.

I answered everyone else first.
I put my own thoughts, feelings, health, faith, on the “later” list.
I kept telling myself, “Once we get through this, then I’ll get back to myself.”

But “this” kept changing. And “later” never seemed to arrive.

So when I found that note—Who are you?—it didn’t land like a sweet little memory. It felt like a line in the sand. A question I had to face again, but this time with more clarity, more conviction, and more honesty than ever before. Because I am not the same woman I was when I first heard that question. How could I be? You don’t walk through fire and come out the same.

Fire refines.
It reveals. It purifies.
It strips away what can’t go with you.

You come out different—refined, redefined, restored, reserved, redeemed. This is my redemption era—the rebuilding, reclaiming season where I refuse to stay buried in the rubble of what happened. And here’s what I’ve been learning in real time:

You cannot keep clinging to what once was and expect to step into who you’re becoming at the same time.

What we hold on to eventually holds on to us. If I stay attached to the old story—what was done, what was lost, what should have been—I stay stuck. I become a byproduct of trauma and tragedy instead of a woman who allows God to rewrite the story with purpose. It doesn’t mean the pain isn’t real. It is. It just means I get to choose what I do with it.

I don’t want a life defined only by what hurt me. I want a life marked by healing, freedom, and fulfillment. I want to step into my God-given power, purpose, and potential—not because I muscled my way there, but because I surrendered to what He could make new.

“What the enemy intended for evil, God will use for good.”
That promise has become less of a verse on a page and more of a breath I keep returning to.

Holding onto the past robs us of tomorrow.
Fearing the future robs us of the present.

And I found myself straddling both—longing for the woman I once was and the life I thought I’d have, while also desperately wanting to move forward into what could be. The messy middle is where I realized I couldn’t do this alone anymore. I had to let go. I had to surrender. I had to admit that my own strength, grit, and “I’ve got this” mentality weren’t enough to carry the weight of everything I was holding.

I know where that old road leads. I’ve walked it. I’ve done the overachieving, perfection-chasing, success-proving thing. I’ve paid for it with my health, my peace, my sense of self. I’m not interested in another version of that story.

In the middle of the grief, caregiving, and rebuilding, I started writing again. Not content. Not social posts. Not “for the brand.” Just for me.

Little prompts. Raw questions. Scriptures I wrestled with. Honest conversations with God I wasn’t posting anywhere. Things like:

Who am I when I’m not performing?
What if I’m allowed to be held instead of holding everything together?
What do I actually believe about who He says I am when my life looks nothing like what I prayed for?

Over time, those pages began to form something more intentional. A simple, gentle way to walk through that in-between place where you are no longer who you were, and not yet who you’re becoming. A way to not lose yourself—again—as everything shifts.

Out of those pages, questions, and quiet prayers, something began to take shape.

That became I Am… Becoming.

I didn’t sit down to create a “product.” I was trying to survive without abandoning myself. I was trying to give language to a season where my identity, my faith, my body, my routines, my roles—everything—had been shaken, and I needed somewhere safe to land. Structure without pressure. Guidance without shame. Space to be honest without feeling like I had to have it all figured out.

And I realized: I’m not the only woman here.

Your story might not look like mine. Maybe it’s a divorce, a diagnosis, a cross-country move, a career shift, becoming a caregiver, an empty house, a financial hit, or just the quiet realization that somewhere along the way you handed your life over to everyone else’s needs and expectations.

But underneath all of those details is the same ache:

Who am I now?
Who am I becoming?
And how do I walk this out without abandoning myself—or God—again?

I Am… Becoming is my answer to that ache.

It’s a 6-week guided journey—part devotional, part journal, part honest heart-to-heart—to walk with you through that messy middle. It’s for the woman who is a little numb and a little tired, a little lost in her own story, and a lot ready for something deeper than “just push through.”

You don’t need more hustle. You don’t need another version of yourself who performs her way into worth. You need space—real, sacred space—to remember who you are and whose you are, and to let that truth quietly rearrange how you live.

If you feel that tug as you read this—that quiet, “this is me”—that’s who I created this for.

​You can read more and join me here.​

Everything you need to know—what it looks like, how it works, and what it costs—is there for you.

If you’re not in a place to step into something like this, that’s okay. Truly. But if you’re tired of disappearing in your own life… if you’re craving a slower, more honest way forward… if you want to stop living stuck in the in-between and start becoming again, I’d be honored to walk these six weeks with you.

I am still becoming, too.

With you in this. ♡

XO,

​
P.S. In a season where you’re expected to give and show up for everyone else, what if the greatest gift you give this year is the one you finally give yourself—the time, space, and permission to just be. Not what happened to you. Not what everyone expects from you. But the woman who has carried so much for so long and is finally allowed to come home to herself and to God.

You are worth that gift.

These are the verses I keep coming back to when I start wondering how I’ll actually walk this out:

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” – Philippians 4:13
“Humanly speaking, it is impossible. But with God everything is possible.” – Matthew 19:26

P.P.S. If emails like this speak to you and you want more of the slow, honest, journal-style letters, I’ve been quietly writing over on Create Your Own Story—my Substack. It’s where I share the in-between pages that don’t always make it to social or the podcast. You can pull up a chair and subscribe here.

​

​
​
​

​Website | Blog | Books & Journals | Podcast​

For weekly faith-fueled inspiration, wisdom, and practical tips, subscribe to The Confident Woman Weekly — delivered every Thursday morning. Subscribe Here​

​

​

​

​

​

​

Not interested in these updates? Click here to opt out of future emails for The Confident Woman®