Last week we talked about the reality that life has been a lot lately. And I walked you through three simple things that help me navigate those heavy seasons. This week we're going deeper into the first one: seeing the good.

I actually have those words on the wall behind my desk. See the good. I love that reminder every time I sit down to work because the truth is that our perspective is everything. Whatever we're focused on, that's exactly what we're going to find. If I'm looking for problems, I'll find them. If I'm looking for good, I'll find that too. It's the same reason why when you're shopping for a new car you suddenly start seeing that car everywhere.

So I want to train myself to look for the good — especially when there's so much that doesn't feel good.

But I want to be clear about something first. I am not asking you to deny that life is hard or pretend your feelings don't exist. Because gratitude becomes unhelpful when it's used to silence what hurts. When someone tells you to just be grateful or just focus on the positive, that can actually feel dismissive. It minimizes what you're going through as if there isn't room for the pain too.

What I want to invite you into is something different. Holding both at the same time.

You don't have to choose between acknowledging what's hard and noticing what's good. We can do both. We can say things like: this season is exhausting and there are still moments of beauty. I feel the grief and I'm grateful for the person walking with me. Things feel uncertain and I still see God's faithfulness. I'm struggling and I still laughed today.

Healing often happens when we stop forcing one truth to cancel out the other. The pain doesn't get the final say. It's not the entirety of the story.

Think about being on an airplane on a rainy day. The storm is real on the ground. But once you get above the clouds it's vibrant and sunny and beautiful. Seeing the good is knowing that the sun is still there even when you can't see it yet.

Here are three simple habits that help:

At the end of each day ask yourself one question: what was good today? Not amazing or spectacular. Just good. Then name three things that are also true right now. They can be as honest as: I'm tired, I'm loved, and I made it through. And then practice catching the small goodness around you. The sunlight coming through the window. A kind text. A moment of quiet. Laughter. Strength you didn't know you had.

Those three things together can be genuinely life-changing because they teach us to hold both at the same time and catch what we would otherwise miss.

And if you're in a really hard season and the good feels difficult to find, that's okay. Maybe your good today is that you got out of bed. That you asked someone for help. That you took it one breath at a time. Quiet good still counts.

Reflection questions for the week:

You don't have to deny what's hard in order to notice what's good. Hard is not the only thing here. And pain is not the end of the story.

Come back next week as we take the next step in this journey.

Maybe you've noticed it too. Life feels like a lot lately.

It might be something specific like a health concern, a relationship that's hard, or a financial stress. Or maybe it's not one big thing at all. It's just the accumulation. Six or seven little things that stack up. The news cycle. The uncertainty. The mental load of trying to keep up with everything while also trying to show up well for the people around you.

If that's where you are today, you're not alone in it. And you don't have to fix everything this week.

When life feels heavy our first instinct is to think everything needs to change. We want a major overhaul, a big plan, a breakthrough moment where it all clicks into place. But that's actually the last thing that helps. What helps is usually something much smaller and a lot kinder than what we were initially thinking.

Over the next four weeks I want to talk about three simple things that have made a real difference for me in those heavy seasons. Seeing the good, finding the fun, and hitting the reset button. Not as a checklist, but as gentle invitations back to yourself.

See the Good

When life gets heavy our brains naturally go to what's wrong, what's missing, what's uncertain. But whatever we're looking for, we're going to find more of it. So we have to gently train our eyes to notice what's still good too. Not to pretend the hard things aren't there, but to balance them with what's also real.

Start here: at the end of your day ask yourself one simple question. What was good today? Look for the small, almost ordinary thing you would have missed. That question is more powerful than it sounds.

Find the Fun

When life gets heavy, fun is usually the first thing to go. But joy doesn't work on a delay. And fun isn't frivolous, it's actually healing. Laughter lowers cortisol, reduces stress, and helps regulate our nervous system. We can't afford to keep crowding it out.

Ask yourself: what feels light right now? What would bring even a small amount of joy into your day? That thing matters more than you're giving it credit for.

Hit the Reset

A reset doesn't mean reinventing your life. It could be cleaning out one drawer, taking a walk at sunset, turning your phone off for an hour, or saying no to one thing that's been draining you. A reset is simply choosing not to keep running on autopilot.

You don't need to fix your whole life this week. Maybe you just need to notice what's still good, make a little room for joy, and find one small reset. Because healing often looks less like a breakthrough and more like a fresh start.

Questions to think about this week:

Join me next week as we go deeper into seeing the good, even when life feels heavy.

Have you ever come back from a vacation, a long weekend, or a meaningful season and felt the jarring reality of re-entry?

One minute you're cruising down the highway — rested, inspired, full of perspective. And then out of nowhere — pothole. You weren't expecting it. You weren't prepared for it. And it is jarring.

That's what the Monday after Easter can feel like.

We plan for the big moments. The celebrations, the gatherings, the meaningful experiences. But we rarely plan for the day after. And yet Monday always comes — with the laundry, the inbox, the kids who suddenly remember a project due tomorrow that requires poster board. Nothing you have on hand.

Real life has a way of rushing back in fast.

And I think the disciples knew that feeling too. After the resurrection, they didn't stay on a mountaintop moment. They went back to fishing. Back to ordinary life. The days that followed Easter weren't dramatic or public — Jesus showed up on a beach, around a fire, over breakfast, on a walk to Emmaus. Quiet moments. Ordinary places.

That's how resurrection tends to work on this side of it too.

Maybe over these past few weeks something stirred in you. A realization. A shift. A sense that something needs to change or something new wants to begin. And now that you're back in the rhythm of regular life, that feeling seems far away — hard to hold onto when everything around you is loud and busy and demanding.

But here's what I want you to know: that stirring doesn't have to fade.

It's actually an invitation. God doesn't stir something in us just to let it disappear into a Monday morning. That nudge you felt — that thing you don't want to lose — is often the very place where he's asking you to take one small step forward.

You don't need a full plan. You don't need certainty. You just need one small step.

Maybe that looks like taking a walk once a week with the sole purpose of continuing that conversation with God. Maybe it's planning your day after — setting yourself up so that re-entry doesn't derail everything you came back with. I've started doing this after vacations — keeping my first morning back a little lighter, having a meal in the freezer, doing a quick grocery pickup. Small things that protect the space I came home with.

Or maybe your one small step is simply this: write it down. Name the thing that stirred. Name what you want to be different. Give it enough space that it doesn't just get swallowed up by the chaos of a regular Tuesday.

Because we get to choose. We can embrace the peace that Christ offers — or we can push it away and embrace the chaos. That's always our choice, even when real life feels like a pothole at 65 mph.

Three questions to think about this week:

If you want to talk through what's stirring, I'd love to hear from you. Reach me at [email protected]. Come back next week as we continue to heal and walk out this road together.

Thank you for journeying through this series with me. The messages and feedback you've shared have meant so much — knowing it's landed in a meaningful way has been such a gift.

And we're ending with what might be the truth I love most: resurrection is a pattern. Not just a moment. Not just something that happened on one Sunday morning two thousand years ago. But something God does — over and over again — in each of our lives.

Here's what I've noticed though. Sometimes new life doesn't look like we expect it to.

The pattern goes like this: Friday. Saturday. Sunday.

Friday is the place of loss, pain, and endings. Saturday is the waiting — the silence, the uncertainty, the in-between. And Sunday is resurrection. New life. The thing you didn't see coming.

We want to skip straight to Sunday. But just because you're in the middle doesn't mean something is wrong. It means you're in the pattern.

Resurrection doesn't always look like restoration. Sometimes it looks like a new perspective, a deeper faith, healing in a place that once felt broken, or the courage to move forward on a different path. Even the disciples didn't recognize Jesus at first — new life doesn't always look like what we lost.

That's why resurrection can feel so subtle. We expect something dramatic and instead it shows up quietly — in the way we respond differently than we used to, or feel peace where we once knew anxiety, or finally take a step we couldn't take before.

Resurrection is often quiet before it becomes visible.

Three questions to sit with this week:

In this series we've explored: your circumstance isn't the whole story, surrender is not the same as defeat, silence does not mean absence, love stays — and resurrection is still happening. God is still bringing new life out of places that felt finished.

Come back next week — I can't wait to spend another ten minutes with you.

Pain changes us. But it doesn't have to change our hearts.

That's the truth I want to sit with today — because I think a lot of us have experienced a moment where something hurt us deeply and without even realizing it, we started to shut down. The walls went up. We became more guarded. Less open. And we told ourselves it was necessary.

And maybe it was, for a season.

But here's what I've learned: when we put up a wall to keep the pain out, it keeps everything out. It keeps people out. It keeps love out. And it keeps God out too. I know that because I've lived it.

This week I want us to step into the Easter story differently. Not from the end — not with the resurrection already in view — but scene by scene, moment by moment. Because when we read Jesus's story knowing how it ends, we can unintentionally bypass the very real pain he felt as a human being.

He was betrayed by someone close to him. Denied by one of his closest friends. Abandoned by the very people who said they would stay. Publicly mocked and crucified.

From a human perspective, those are exactly the moments where we would expect anger. Bitterness. A desire for retaliation.

Instead he said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

He didn't deny what was happening. He didn't pretend it didn't hurt. But he didn't let the pain turn into hardness either.

Love stayed.

And I think that's the invitation for us too.

Now — I want to be clear about something, because this comes up every time I talk about forgiveness. Forgiveness and boundaries are two very different things and we have to walk two very different paths with them. If you've experienced abuse or you're in a relationship that is consistently harmful, I am not asking you to keep your heart open to that person. That's not what this is about.

This is about what happens inside of us. The internal choice. Choosing not to become bitter. Releasing the offense we're holding onto. Allowing God to heal what has hurt us and keeping our hearts open to Him — even when it's His own people who caused the pain.

Because here's the truth: if love doesn't stay, the pain stays. And pain turns into bitterness. And bitterness quietly shapes who we become — until we're more defined by what hurt us than by the healing God offered us.

You can have strong boundaries and still have a soft heart.

I've walked some very painful roads. The aftermath of the Amish schoolhouse shooting. Feeling misjudged and misunderstood. Having the whole world looking on. Maybe you can find yourself somewhere in Jesus's story too — betrayed, denied, abandoned, or publicly criticized. He knows what that feels like. He sees your pain. And because he walked through pain far greater than anything I'll ever know, he has the ability to meet us right there in ours.

He came as a healer. And that's what he wants to do in those places where we know pain — bring healing so that love can stay and flow through us.

We don't have to let the things that hurt us harden us. The cross shows us that. Love doesn't disappear in the midst of suffering. It can stay. And that is the very place where healing begins.

Questions to sit with this week:

Join me next week for the final episode in our Easter series — we're going to talk about the truth that resurrection is a pattern. Not just a one-time event, but something we can see over and over again in our own lives.

Have you ever noticed that fear gets louder at night?

During the day we stay busy — moving from one task to the next, staying distracted. But at night, when the house gets quiet and the distractions fade, our thoughts get louder. The what ifs start to surface. What if something goes wrong? What if this never changes? What if I can't handle what's ahead?

I think the disciples knew that feeling too.

After Jesus died on the cross, everything went silent. There were no miracles. No signs of hope. Just that heavy, uncertain space between what had happened and whatever was coming next. And unlike us, they couldn't see ahead to Sunday. They were just living in the rawness of it.

That's the space I want to talk about today — because most of us have been there. And I believe there's a truth we can pull from the Easter story that changes everything:

Silence is not the same as absence.

God was working in that space for the disciples, and he's working in that space in our lives too. But fear thrives in uncertainty. When we don't have answers, our minds are really good at filling in the gaps — and if you're anything like me, your brain goes straight to worst case scenarios.

Here's what I've found to be true though: when we turn toward God, the situation may not change immediately, but something inside us does.

There are things we can reach for in those quiet, fearful spaces that make all the difference:

The silence might still be there. But we're no longer alone in it.

One of my favorite places to turn is the Psalms. David doesn't hold anything back — whatever he's feeling, he brings it to God. In Psalm 4, written during one of the most desperate seasons of his life, he closes with this: "In peace I will both lie down and sleep, for you alone, God, make me dwell in safety."

That's not the words of someone who has all the answers. That's someone who has learned to trust God in the silence.

So if fear tends to show up for you at night — or really any time the uncertainty gets loud — I want to encourage you to pause, take a breath, and speak honestly to God. Maybe open up to Psalm 4. Read the context. Build a practice that helps you turn toward him instead of spiraling inward.

The disciples thought the silence meant everything was over. But resurrection was already on the way.

If you're in a quiet season where God feels distant, I hope you'll hold onto this:

Silence doesn't mean absence. God is still present, even in the dark.

Questions to sit with this week:

Join me next week as we continue our Easter series and explore one more truth from the story that changes everything.

In this week’s episode of To Help You Heal, we continue our Easter series by exploring a powerful truth: surrender is not the same thing as defeat.

Last week we talked about the reminder that our circumstances do not tell the whole story. Just as the story of Easter looked very different on Friday than it did on Sunday, our lives can hold chapters that feel final but are not the end of the story.

This week we turn our attention to one of the most honest and human moments in Jesus’ journey—the Garden of Gethsemane. Knowing what was coming, Jesus prayed with deep honesty: “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup be taken from me.” In that moment we see that honesty with God is not a lack of faith. Jesus did not pretend the suffering wasn’t real, and he didn’t hide his fear. He brought the truth of what he was feeling directly to God.

But his prayer didn’t end there.

Jesus continued, “Yet not as I will, but as you will.”

This moment shows us what surrender truly looks like. Surrender is not giving up, denying pain, or pretending that something doesn’t hurt. Instead, surrender is trusting God with the outcome when we cannot control what happens next.

In our own lives, we often find ourselves praying similar prayers—asking God to change a diagnosis, repair a relationship, shift a circumstance, or answer a prayer in the way we hope. Yet sometimes the answer doesn’t come the way we expected. In those moments, we face a choice: will we continue trying to control the outcome, or will we surrender it to God?

Culturally, surrender often feels like losing. But the story of Gethsemane reveals something very different. Jesus surrendered not because he stopped caring and not because the pain disappeared, but because he trusted God beyond what he could see in that moment.

Surrender is not defeat. It is alignment with God and trust that He is still working—even in situations that look difficult or confusing to us.

Practically, surrender can look like:

Releasing the need to control every outcome

Continuing to move forward even when we lack clarity

Allowing God to shape the story instead of forcing our own ending

Surrender does not mean we stop praying or hoping. It simply means we recognize that we are not carrying the weight of the situation alone.

As you reflect on this episode, consider these questions:

Where in your life might you be resisting surrender?

What outcome are you trying to control?

What might it look like to trust God with it instead?

If you find yourself in that tension between wanting something different and learning to surrender, you’re not alone. Jesus stood in that same place in the garden. He understands the weight of that moment, and he meets us there.

Next week in our Easter series, we’ll explore another powerful truth from the story: silence does not mean absence.

This week on To Help You Heal, we begin a new series leading up to Easter by exploring one powerful truth: your circumstance isn’t the whole story.

Easter reminds us that what looks final often isn’t. Good Friday was real. The cross was brutal. It was public, humiliating, devastating. From every human perspective, it appeared finished. If the story had ended there, it would have looked like defeat.

But it didn’t.

At the same time, we don’t rush past Friday to get to Sunday. We don’t minimize the suffering. We don’t pretend the pain didn’t happen. The cross mattered. The grief was real. The silence between Friday and Sunday was heavy.

And that space — that silence — is where many of us live.

Maybe you’re in a season that feels final.

A diagnosis.

A betrayal.

A broken relationship.

Burnout.

A loss you didn’t see coming.

It’s easy in those moments to let a circumstance become your identity. To assume this chapter is the entire book. To quietly believe, “This is just how it is now.”

But resurrection teaches us something deeper: just because we can’t see movement doesn’t mean nothing is happening. Between Friday and Sunday, God was still at work — even when no one could see it.

The hope of Easter isn’t instant change. It’s the assurance that God is still writing the story.

There may not be overnight transformation. There’s no two-day shipping on redemption. But what feels permanent may not be. What looks like loss may still carry the possibility of restoration.

This week’s invitation is gentle but powerful:

Where have you labeled something as over?

What circumstance have you allowed to define you?

What would shift if you believed this isn’t the final word?

Where might God still be working, even in the silence?

We won’t skip the hard parts. We won’t deny the reality of Friday. But we also won’t stop the story too soon.

If you’re in a Friday season, the silence does not mean it’s finished.

Your circumstance is real.

But it is not the whole story.

Join us next week as we continue this Easter series and talk about why surrender is not the same thing as defeat.

In this final episode of our series on fun, we explore what happens when joy becomes intentional—not occasional. The goal was never just to add something light to your schedule. It was to help you remember something about yourself.

Fun isn’t extra. It’s fuel.

When joy is present consistently, you become less reactive. You recover from stress faster. You build emotional flexibility and resilience. It doesn’t deny that life is hard—it strengthens you for the hard things. When fun is part of your life, difficult moments don’t feel permanent. You remember there’s something on the other side.

This week invites an identity shift: what if fun isn’t a place you visit, but something you’re allowed to be? Many of us default to being serious, responsible, or driven. But you don’t have to lose your focus or determination to be light. Joy can live alongside your strength.

We also talk about the trap of turning fun into another self-improvement project—scheduling it so tightly that it feels like pressure. Instead, think small and sustainable. Micro-joy. Ten to twenty minutes if you can. Even ten to twenty seconds counts.

Fun doesn’t have to be impressive, productive, or shared online. It can be simple, imperfect, even a little ridiculous. What matters is consistency. Small moments of joy create a ripple effect in how you show up—as a parent, partner, friend, or leader.

You don’t have to wait for life to calm down. You don’t have to earn joy. Creating space for fun isn’t escaping your life—it’s living more fully inside it.

In this week’s episode of To Help You Heal, we continue our series on fun by moving beyond the question of why fun faded and into something more personal:

What actually feels fun to you now?

Because here’s the truth—fun can’t be forced.

We can schedule time on the calendar. We can tell ourselves we’re going to “have fun.” But we can’t pressure ourselves into joy. And sometimes, before we can add fun back into our lives, we have to rediscover what it even looks like in this season.

What was fun at 16 or 22 or even five years ago, might not feel the same anymore. Identity shifts. Seasons change. Responsibilities evolve. And so does fun.

This episode explores:

Why trying to “go back” to old versions of fun can create frustration

How identity shifts (motherhood, marriage, career, loss, trauma) reshape what feels enjoyable

Why curiosity—not pressure—is the starting point

How fun begins with noticing, not performing

The difference between scheduling joy and forcing it

Instead of asking, What should I do for fun?

This episode invites you to ask: What am I curious about?

Marie shares practical ways to rediscover fun through three simple categories:

1. Quiet Fun

Reading, walking without headphones, rearranging a room, baking just because you feel like it.

2. Expressive Fun

Painting, writing, dancing in your kitchen, trying a new recipe, creating something without an outcome attached.

3. Relational Fun

Coffee with a friend, a game night, sending a voice memo, playing pickleball with your kids—laughing without keeping score.

If fun feels awkward right now, that’s okay. It’s not immaturity. It’s relearning. You’re rebuilding a muscle.

This week’s invitation is simple:

Choose one thing you’re curious about.

Do it for 20 minutes.

No productivity.

No posting.

No outcome required.

Afterward, ask yourself:

Did I feel lighter?

Did time move differently?

Would I do that again?

If yes—add it to your fun list.

If not—try something else.

This isn’t about becoming someone new.

It’s about remembering there’s already fun inside of you—beneath the responsibilities.

Next week, we’ll wrap up this series by exploring how fun actually changes your brain, builds resilience, and becomes sustainable—not seasonal.

Thanks for spending these 10 minutes here.

Come back next Tuesday for another episode of To Help You Heal.