I am a disciple. A follower. A believer. I am after God’s own heart. I am a wife to a wildly devoted husband. A mama to two beautiful girls who are becoming young women. I am writer. And I am a fighter.
I’ve struggled with identity—with defining who I am. Maybe if I’m honest, I still wrestle with it. Just when I thought I had it figured out, once I was comfortable with it, it changed. Something happened. Life happened. Some things, I chose. Other things I didn’t choose—things I never even asked for and still don’t want. Like becoming a fighter.
This war has waged for more than 20 years. And it is nowhere near over—it may never be on this side of heaven. That sounds defeatist. But it’s not. Really. Because I know that acceptance is not resignation. I know that this is what it is, and I am finding my way through it. I am living in the in-between. Between diagnosis and healing. Between the life I knew—the one I thought I wanted. And the one I never saw coming—the one that I was given. Not by choice but by force. But it’s the life that I am taking. One day at a time—even one moment at a time—creating balance, seeking holy perspective. Building resilience. Learning moderation, regaining control. Witnessing my soul being restored. Standing. Fighting. Taking back life that chronic illness has stolen. All by faith. So, yeah. I am a fighter. And this is my story. This is me not missing the more God has to offer me. Because this is Him mending my unraveled life.