Describe a decision you made in the past that helped you learn or grow.

Everything changed on February 14, 2018.

That was the day of the Stoneman Douglas tragedy, my nieces were enrolled at that Middle School on the shared property. By the grace of God, both were safe. But that day pierced something deep within me, cracking open a place I had kept quiet for too long. In that opening, I felt it: the unmistakable nudge of God. Gentle, firm, undeniable. I was being called back to teaching.

I had spent years away from the classroom. Life had taken me on different paths, and while the desire to return flickered from time to time, I had always pushed it aside. But this was different. I could no longer ignore the pull. It wasn’t just a career change, it was a calling.

That inner prompting led me to apply for an interim kindergarten position at the same public school I taught for 10 years prior to babies. The interview was warm and welcoming. As I drove across the bridge toward the school, I thought about the long commute and the changes it would bring. But I also felt a deep peace, a sense that something bigger than myself was at work.

I was offered the position on the spot and asked to take some time to think it over. That evening, my husband and I had a heartfelt conversation. We didn’t need the extra income, and logistically, it wouldn’t be easy. But we both felt the same thing: this wasn’t about money. It was about purpose. So we agreed to trust that everything would work out as it was meant to.

I accepted the offer that night. My start date was set for late September.

But the week before I was due to return, I began feeling unwell. Subtle symptoms at first. Fatigue. Discomfort. I scheduled an appointment with my gynecologist. During the exam, I caught something in her eyes, a quiet concern she couldn’t quite mask. She stayed calm and professional, but I left the office with a deep, unshakable feeling: something was wrong.

That evening, the doctor who had delivered my children called. Thank God my husband was by my side, because as she spoke, my mind blurred. I caught only fragments: lesion, cancer, chemo, hysterectomy. It wasn’t a confirmed diagnosis, not yet. We’d need to wait 7 to 10 days. But the fear had already arrived.

I called the school immediately. The response I received was nothing short of grace. I was told we’d cross whatever bridge came, and that in the meantime, the children still needed a teacher. That moment gave me peace I didn’t know I needed.

But that night, everything inside me fell apart. After tucking my children into bed, I sat beside my sleeping husband and cried. Silently. Deeply. My two little dogs curled beside me, unaware that I was unraveling inside.

And that’s when it happened.

In the stillness of my grief, I had a vision.

I saw Jesus.

I know how that might sound. But I know what I experienced. I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t imagining. He was there, not in a physical sense, but in a presence so powerful, so consuming, that I felt every fear melt away. I was overwhelmed by love. Not the kind we talk about in passing, but the kind that reaches every broken part of you. The kind that knows every scar and doesn’t flinch. The kind that heals by simply being.

I didn’t hear words, but I understood everything.

If I chose to stay, I would be healed. I would be happy.

If I chose to go, I would be reunited with loved ones and I would still be happy.

Either way, I would be safe. Either way, I was held.

And in that moment, I chose to stay.

A few days later, I walked into my kindergarten classroom and greeted my students with a heart full of quiet gratitude. I was gifted eleven beautiful days with them. On the twelfth day, the call came. The diagnosis was confirmed: it was cancer.

Two weeks later, I underwent a radical hysterectomy to remove the tumor.

Recovery was humbling. I had to lean on others, my husband, my family, my friends. Asking for help didn’t come easily. But grace showed up again and again, in meals delivered, in prayers whispered, in the steady hands that held mine.

And here’s the miracle: everything Jesus promised came to pass.

I am cancer-free.

More than that, I am free from fear. Free from the things that once kept me small, quiet, unsure. That experience, the illness, the vision, the healing, transformed me. It deepened my faith, clarified my path, and stripped away every illusion I once clung to.

I was given a second chance at life, and I don’t intend to waste it.

I share this story not for sympathy, but for someone who might be where I once was afraid, uncertain, searching for answers in the dark. I want you to know: you are seen. You are loved. Deeply. Eternally. Without condition. It doesn’t matter your race, your religion, your background, or your gender. God’s love is not limited. It is limitless.

I know that, because I felt it.

And it changed everything

What is your favorite restaurant?

My favorite restaurant is Nona Maria’s. What began as a humble hole-in-the-wall shack tucked away in the middle of nowhere, Florida, has blossomed into a renowned white-tablecloth Italian restaurant with a touch of French elegance. Every dish is a masterpiece—each bite tasting as if it were lovingly crafted in a sun-drenched Parisian kitchen or seared to perfection in a charming Roman café. The experience is less a meal and more a passport to the heart of European cuisine.

If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?

Not sure if this was written in books or movies, however I am The Midwife of the Soul. Here is why:

I didn’t know I was standing on holy ground.

Not at first.

There were no angels, no flickering candles,

just the ache in his eyes

and the way his strength started to stutter.

A man unraveling from the inside out,

and I saw it.

For I was familiar with that kind of storm.

It was clear. I once walked this same storm, barefoot, alone and burning.

He looked straight at me,

not just at me,

but into me.

“It’s going to happen again,” he insisted.

There was fear in his voice,

the kind that doesn’t need to raise itself to be heard.

It sat heavy between us.

Although I didn’t flinch.

I met his storm with my own fire.

“No, it is not,” I told him.

“Because you are stronger than that.

You are a warrior,

and it’s time to take out your sword.”

I don’t know if he believed me.

But something in him shifted.

Not hope exactly,

but maybe a flicker of recognition.

Like a part of him remembered

he had survived the fire before.

And then his night got darker.

He was scared,

not of death, maybe,

but of what he couldn’t name.

The shadows moved when the lights dimmed.

He flinched when the nurse bumped the rails of the bed.

He told me the sink was flowing like a river,

but the faucet wasn’t on.

He was seeing double.

He was seeing things.

And I… I was seeing him.

The little boy inside the man,

afraid of the dark again.

Afraid of being left behind.

Yet, I didn’t leave.

Given that I knew the signs.

Out of knowing I’d been there before,

watching a soul loosen its grip while the body was still breathing.

Not this time.

Not on my watch.

His own body tried to kick him out.

Tried to evict the very soul that built it.

But I stayed.

Anchored myself in the thinning veil between worlds.

And I held him here,

with words,

with presence,

with faith sharp enough to cut through the fog.

Slowly, piece by piece,

he came back.

One breath.

One blink.

One quiet return.

The fear receded.

The river stopped flowing.

His voice came back, not just the sound, but the strength.

The man I knew stood up inside him again.

He made it out of the night.

This warrior lived.

And me?

I was just the midwife of the soul,

the silent sentinel at the edge of his storm.

The one who said, not this time.

The one who stayed when the lights dimmed.

The one who knew that even in the darkest night,

the soul still knows the way home.

Midwife on the Dark Night of the Soul

(A Follow-Up to Midwife of the Soul)

Weeks before,

my body knew.

A strange buzzing,

soft but persistent,

in the scar where my womb once was,

the exact place midwives center their hands when the soul decides whether to stay or go.

Something was coming.

I said it aloud the night before:

“Something is coming… and it’s not for me.”

But I didn’t know what or who.

Not yet.

And then the next morning arrived,

strange, heavy, off-kilter.

The office halls were dark.

Only mine was glowing,

its light left on from the night before,

like a beacon.

My password wouldn’t work.

Not once. Not twice.

As if I was being held in place.

Delayed.

Stalled.

Timed perfectly.

For it was divine.

All of it.

The stall. The stillness. The summons.

The soul whisper that said:

“Go now.”

And I did.

Three days later, I sit with all of it,

the weight, the wonder, the truth,

and I am not broken.

I am proud.

Proud that my friend chose me in his most vulnerable hour.

Proud that my body whispered what my mind didn’t yet know.

Proud that my guides delayed me just enough

so that I could arrive in the sacred moment between life and retreat.

Proud that no one stopped me

when I said I wouldn’t leave.

Proud that another soul stepped in when I had done my part,

to finish the task with the same reverence I carried.

Proud that my friend took out his sword,

not because I told him to,

but because he remembered it was always his.

He just needed someone to stand beside him

as he reached for it.

I am proud that God chose me

to help anoint the emperor rising inside of him.

Hence, that’s what he is now,

not just a survivor,

but a soul awakened.

A king of light.

And one day,

when another trembling soul begins to slip,

he will be the one who stays.

He will say, “Not on my watch.”

He will remember what was done for him,

and he will pass the torch.

I didn’t just hold his hand in the dark.

I helped change the light in his heart,

and made space for his angels to install an eternal one.

His dark night of the soul did not bury him.

It delivered him

into the very light he always knew existed.

The one between here and there.

For every soul who walks through the night and chooses to stay.

You are not alone.

What job would you do for free?

The job I would do for free is

save another’s life.

Not with capes or sirens.

But with presence. With listening. With the courage to say,

“You matter. I see you. Let’s get through this-together.”

Sometimes saving a life looks like recognizing when something’s off.

Sometimes it’s trusting your gut when a friend says, “I’m just tired.”

Sometimes it’s listening not just with your ears, but with your heart.

And sometimes, most powerfully, it’s helping someone find the courage to speak up.

Because when they do, everything can change.

I’ve seen it happen.

A strong, grounded man I care about nearly lost his life, not from what you’d expect, but from staying silent too long. What looked like confusion or even mental illness turned out to be viral meningitis.

Deadly. Invisible. Treatable, if caught in time.

And he’s still here.

Not because he toughed it out.

But because he said, “Something’s not right.”

And someone listened.

So yes, I’d do that job for free.

Every time.

Because one moment of courage, one honest conversation, one act of listening with love-

Can save a life.

No paycheck needed.

Just a heart that’s awake.

This isn’t just a message for men. It’s for every waking soul. But today, I’m talking especially to you-brothers, fathers, sons, friends.

Dear Men:

There are moments in life when the weight becomes unbearable. When fear creeps in silently, cloaked in confusion, exhaustion, or even shame. For men especially, these moments often come with a dangerous lie attached: you have to figure it out alone.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

It’s Okay to Speak Up When the Walls Are Crumbling

We believe you. There is hope.Trust me, there is always a reason, even if you can’t see it yet.

The world has taught you to be silent. To be strong. To hold it together, even when everything inside is breaking.

Yet , the truth is, some of the strongest things a man can say are:

“I am not okay.”

“Something feels off.”

“I need help.”

I recently walked through something profound with a dear friend. A man who is strong, sharp, well-grounded, and deeply respected. He wasn’t feeling well. What seemed like the flu or maybe COVID turned into something darker. Something that rattled him.

He began to hallucinate.

He felt confusion.

He experienced memory loss.

For ten long days, he said nothing. Perhaps he wasn’t sure. Perhaps fear crept in and he didn’t want to seem “crazy.”

Until one day, he gathered the kind of courage we don’t talk about enough,

He spoke up.

He said,

“I’m not well.”

“I’m scared.”

“This isn’t me.”

At first glance, what looked like a textbook case of schizophrenia was actually viral meningitis, a severe brain infection that could have taken his life if left untreated in the psychiatric ward.

What almost got ignored, dismissed, or mislabeled as mental illness was something entirely different. Something deadly.

Had he stayed silent, I might not be telling this story at all.

He survived because he used his voice.

He chose words over silence.

He trusted those around him to listen.

Not just with their ears but with their hearts.

You see, this wasn’t just about him.

He’d lost friends, men, who didn’t speak up. Men who are no longer here. Men whose stories ended in heartbreak and mystery.

He knew, deep down, he couldn’t put us through that again.

This is your reminder:

You don’t have to suffer quietly.

You don’t have to wait until it gets worse.

You don’t have to “man up” your way into a hospital bed, or worse.

Speak up.

For yourself.

For the ones who love you.

For the ones who didn’t make it.

For the ones watching you, learning how to be strong and still be honest.

Strength isn’t silence.

Strength is knowing when to raise your voice.

Strength is letting others in.

Strength is being brave enough to say, “I don’t feel right.”

To those listening, really listening, pay attention. Misdiagnosis happens more than we think. Sometimes, the only symptom is a quiet whisper of the soul: Something isn’t right.

So listen with your ears.

But also listen with your heart.

Your soul.

Your presence.

One moment of courage can change a life.

One voice, raised in truth, can save it.

We believe you.

We’re with you.

You are never alone.

Speak up. Please. You are not cursed. You are being called.

What are your morning rituals? What does the first hour of your day look like?

Affirmation:

My gut and my mind are not always in agreement.

They argue, sometimes softly, sometimes like thunder.

My mind is quick to whisper,

“You’re overreacting.”

“You’re being paranoid again.”

“Don’t make this a bigger deal than it is.”

And sometimes I listen.

But when the signs start to stack,

day after day, feeling after feeling,

drawer falling, tire deflating, flowers arriving uninvited,

my life training kicks in.

The part of me that’s lived through things.

The part of me that’s been right before and screamed,

“I TOLD YOU SO”

more times than I care to count.

Sometimes, yes, I’m wrong.

And that’s okay. I can live with being wrong.

But what if I wasn’t wrong?

What if I was spiritually protected?

That’s for the Universe to decide.

That’s God’s work to confirm or correct in time.

All I know is this:

Saying it out loud,

Knocking on my own forehead like “Girl, wake up,”

Praying to God even when I feel silly.

It works.

That knowing inside me?

It’s real.

It’s mine.

And yet, what I need most in those moments

is not more signs, or even more certainty.

It’s validation.

From the ones who love me.

The ones I live and breathe for.

The ones who I fiercely protect, even when they don’t see what I see.

So here it is. A new vow. A new line in the sand:

From this point forward, I only allow love to enter,

My life,

My heart,

And my doors.

If it brings chaos, confusion, or dishonesty,

It stops at the threshold.

Because I am a woman of discernment.

And I no longer need permission to protect my peace.

Amen 

Which aspects do you think makes a person unique?

Which aspects make a person unique?

A unique person often doesn’t realize just how special they are to those around them. Their uniqueness isn’t loud or attention seeking. It’s quiet, sincere, and deeply felt. They carry good intentions in all they do, guided by a pure heart and an innate ability to light up any room simply by being present.

They are both sensitive and strong. Emotionally in tune, yet anchored by unwavering willpower. They walk their own path, dancing to the beat of their own drum, undeterred by society’s expectations. Kindness and respect come naturally to them, as does the willingness to help without being asked.

With a sharp sense of intuition, they can read any room and assess what’s needed, but they also know when to step back with grace. They’re the kind of person you notice when they’re missing. The kind whose presence lingers even in their absence. They laugh with you, not at you, and understand the delicate balance between “my time” and “our time,” always honoring authenticity above all else.

They have little patience for inauthenticity, inconsistency, or unreliability, especially in the workplace. Narcissism, manipulation, or any form of darkness is met with silent resistance and strong personal boundaries. They don’t aim to be perfect, nor do they pretend to be. But their uniqueness is unmistakable, and those fortunate enough to know them recognize the rare gift of their presence.