Have you ever looked in the mirror and thought, “Who is that woman staring back at me?”
Or found yourself smiling for everyone else while feeling absolutely nothing inside?
Or maybe you’ve been through so much that “joy” feels like a mythical creature—like a unicorn that got tired of your trauma and flew off to someone else’s life?
Yeah… me too.
Last week, I had an epiphany—one of those spiritual lightbulbs that flickers on when you least expect it and blinds you right in the middle of trying to do your makeup. I realized that ever since my husband Stephen went to prison, I’ve been emotionally numb. Not sad, not angry, just… flatlined. Like a spiritual zombie with lip gloss.
Don’t get me wrong—I have peace. And that peace is something I thank God for every single day. But peace and joy are not the same thing. Peace is that calm you feel when you’ve stopped fighting. Joy is the dance you do when you’ve won. And lately, I haven’t danced. Not even a little shoulder shimmy.
As the winter months sneak in, I notice my emotions shifting from numb to heavy. It’s like my soul is allergic to daylight savings time. Around people, I put on my best “church smile”—you know the one—tight enough to say “praise God” but loose enough to hide the tears. But when I’m alone, it’s hard to even pretend.
Lately, my biggest fight has been with the mirror—and my mind. I’ve been mentally beating myself up over all the things I still struggle with: my ditziness, my past mistakes, poor judgement, my stubbornness, my short-term memory, my fear of success, my lack of confidence and the list goes on. It’s like God said, “Let’s face all your trauma this season!” and I said, “Cool, can I not?”
When I look at pictures of myself, I see a woman trying to hide inside her shell but still forced to stick her head out to survive. The world demands confidence, but trauma demands healing. And honestly, sometimes healing looks like me sobbing in my car eating Inn and Out Burger while listening to worship music.
I fail—A LOT. And every time I do, I tumble into self-pity, whispering, “God, why can’t I get it together?” But deep down I know… He’s not punishing me. He’s preparing me. Every insecurity I’m forced to face is another wound He’s trying to heal.
This week, I’m in Hawaii, celebrating my friend Lucky Starr’s birthday with Tia Kai. Hawaii has always been a dream of mine. When I got off the plane, I fully expected a group of smiling locals to throw leis around my neck and start hula dancing like in the movies. Spoiler alert—they didn’t. Instead, I got a lukewarm breeze and a lady yelling “keep moving” in the customs line.
But once I stepped outside, the real beauty hit me. The sky was so blue it made my problems look smaller. The people were friendly. The food was chef’s kiss. And the water? Let’s just say it made me understand why people move here and “accidentally forget” to go back to work.
Then came my first luau. The dancers were mesmerizing—the fire dancers? Lord, I almost rededicated my life right there! The energy, the movement, the joy—it was contagious. For a moment, I thought maybe this trip would be the thing that brought my joy back. But even surrounded by laughter and music, my heart stayed quiet.
Despite my dream trip, my internal battles still tagged along, like unwanted luggage. But through it all, I’ve been so grateful for my friends Lucky and Tia. When everything happened with Stephen, most people turned their backs on us. People I had prayed with, served with, called “family”—gone. Even some Christians I thought were forever friends.
I had one Jewish friend who asked me, “Where’s your Jesus in all this?”
Ouch.
But you know who did reach out? The sex workers, the strippers, the pornstars, the adult creators—the so-called “sinners.” People the church side-eyes were the ones checking in on me, offering love, no judgment, and genuine grace. Isn’t it funny how the people who’ve been condemned the most are the ones who show the most compassion?
The very ones some Christians would label “unclean” are the ones who’ve been the hands and feet of Jesus in my life. That says something, doesn’t it? Maybe the church could take a few notes from the strip club. (And not the choreography kind—though some of those moves might help during worship.)
If I didn’t have a personal relationship with Jesus, I might’ve walked away from faith altogether. But thank God I do. Because this season has taught me the real meaning of grace. The kind of grace that doesn’t wait for you to get it right. The kind that keeps showing up when you’re a hot mess in need of holy mercy.
Peter once asked Jesus, “How many times should I forgive?” Jesus replied, “Seventy times seven.” Translation: always. Because grace doesn’t keep score—it keeps showing up.
I’m writing this through tears. My heart feels broken, my soul feels tired, but my faith? My faith is stubborn. God has never left me. Even when I’ve screamed at Him, doubted Him, and thought I wasn’t worth His love—He stayed.
He keeps walking beside me, whispering, “You’re still mine.”
So, if you’re reading this and feel like you’ve messed up too much, failed too many times, or that God has stopped answering your calls—hear me when I say this: He hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s right there in the middle of your mess, cheering you on like a proud parent at a really chaotic soccer game.
Jesus doesn’t love us because we’re perfect. He loves us because we’re His. Even when we’re broken, even when we’re numb, even when we feel like joy has packed up and left the building—He’s still there.
Maybe joy isn’t the absence of pain. Maybe it’s the quiet realization that even when you’re falling apart, you’re still held together by grace.
So, if you find yourself wearing your “church smile” while crying on the inside, remember this: You’re not alone. God’s not done. And joy isn’t lost—it’s just taking a nap.
Remember you are my lovers, whether you love me or love to hate me you are still my lover!
Don’t forget Jesus loves you and so do I!