Earlier this week, I shared a blog that I hoped wouldn’t spark more anger than love. Yet, in some ways, it did. It reminded me how easy it is to focus on what divides us—how fast we can react with judgment, criticism, or bitterness. I’ll be honest: I’m guilty of all of that too. I’ve said words in anger, held grudges, and sometimes failed to show the patience and compassion I hope to live by. But today, on Valentine’s Day, I want to flip the script. I want to remind myself—an

Marisol didn’t recognize herself anymore—not in the mirror, not in the quiet spaces between breaths. She had learned to move through life on instinct alone, doing what was required, surviving what was handed to her. That Sunday morning, she buttoned her coat, smoothed her hair, and kissed her daughter’s forehead before heading into church, trusting that for once, things would be handled without her. Evan had their daughter, Lily. He’d said he had “something important” to do—a

There’s a kind of loneliness that hits different. Not the “I need a night out” kind. The kind where you go from having people—texts, plans, laughter, a whole village—to suddenly having no one. And not because you did something awful, but because you finally drew boundaries that made others uncomfortable. That kind of loneliness hurts deep. It’s painful when you realize that no matter how good you were to someone, once you were wronged, you became invisible. You aren’t checked