Returning to Writing After Years of Silence

I’m sitting in the dark in my bedroom, wondering when I forgot how much I loved this place—the place where my thoughts meet the keyboard. Where a white screen becomes cluttered with the untangling of ideas, where sentences slowly find their structure and form. It’s been years—four, to be exact—since my last post of any kind, and that span of time feels like an eternity. So much has happened, so much has changed, that the old things—the old words, the old writings—feel as though they belong to a space and time no longer relevant to me.

Drastic life circumstances like divorce and grief tend to change a person. It’s something you hear often from those who have walked that path, but having made it to the other side, I can say with certainty that the woman I was in 2021 is not the woman walking into 2026. Sometimes, I don’t even recognize her when I see her in pictures. Parts of her are still here, I think—buried beneath a tougher exterior and a much smaller tolerance for false images and shallow conversation. I find myself longing for deep, meaningful connection rather than the hollow comfort of small talk and irrelevant exchange.

When the Person You Used to Be Feels Unrecognizable

Something inside me emptied. Almost as though blinders came off and I walked face-first into the reality of my own heart—its ugliness, its brokenness. For the sake of my children and their privacy, I won’t disclose the details of my divorce, but it changed and shifted all of us. I can say with a clear and clean conscience that my divorce was biblically warranted, and I carry overwhelming peace with that decision. Still, I was led down a road of self-discovery and healing that I absolutely did not expect—which seems ignorant now, to have believed I would be immune to a heart check simply because it “wasn’t my fault.”

We do that, though, don’t we? Place all blame on the ones we feel have wronged us? We point fingers, quick to highlight the mistakes, flaws, and sins of others without turning inward to confront our own mess. My ex-husband had plenty of faults, as we all do, and our marriage was marked by trials, unforgiveness, brokenness, and hidden sin. But it was the healing process—the stages of divorce—that left me face down in my own mess and forced me to examine not only who I became in the context of a failing marriage, but who I had always been.

Writing for the Woman Still on Her Knees

I suppose that’s where I am now—why I’m here. Why I’ve come back to this place of blinking cursors and white screens. I don’t know how much the internet has changed in the last four years, other than knowing that reels and videos have taken over our feeds and that there’s an algorithm I can’t keep up with, one that seems to shift with every app update. But maybe someone, somewhere, needs the story God has given me. Maybe someone is fighting a battle on her knees, begging God for healing and for the pain to stop—wondering if any of it will ever make sense again.

Here’s the truth:

It will.

That’s what I want to show you.