All posts by magnoliatru

A Mother..&& A Woman

Healing journey, , , , , , , ,

Hey Sweets,

This week marks 13 years since I became somebody’s mom.

Thirteen.

That’s over a decade of growing up alongside two girls who have seen me at every stage of womanhood, barely holding it together, silently sacrificing, learning as I go, and slowly waking up to the truth that motherhood can be sacred without being all-consuming. For the first time since becoming a mother, I finally feel like I understand the difference.

The myth is that motherhood is supposed to be your everything. That once you become a mom, you stop being anything else. That loving your kids well means giving up who you were and whatever you wanted in service of what they need. That’s the version of motherhood I swallowed whole. It was the version I saw, the version so many of us were raised by.

But it’s not sustainable. It’s not even healthy. What I thought was devotion was sometimes a mask for guilt. What I called sacrifice was sometimes fear. And what I believed was protection was sometimes avoidance.

The guilt…

Mom guilt has a way of rearing its head even when you’re doing your best. It shows up when you miss a game. When you’re too tired to cook. When you take a trip alone. When you set a boundary. When you buy something for yourself. When you sit still while the laundry piles up. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve already given; there’s always a whisper saying, “You should be doing more.”

More of what? More of the stuff that leaves us depleted? More of the kind of mothering that erases the woman behind it?

That guilt doesn’t come from God. It comes from conditioning. From generations of women who were told they only mattered when they were needed. Who had to fight for space in their own lives and often didn’t win. We inherited it. With their love also came their exhaustion.

For years, I was on autopilot. I thought I was doing the right thing by putting my girls first in every way. Every decision I made was for them. I stayed in jobs I hated, homes I didn’t feel safe in, routines that drained me, all because I was trying to build them a life better than the one I had. I told myself that’s what good moms do. We sacrifice. And in a lot of ways, I was building them a life better than mine. But what I wasn’t doing was building myself a life I could thrive in. That we could thrive in. I was building a house where my daughters could grow while I quietly shrunk in the corner of it.

I don’t want them to grow up thinking that’s normal.

And maybe the hardest question I had to ask myself was this: What if I do all this sacrificing, staying up late, showing up tired, putting my dreams on hold, and I still mess them up?

Not because I didn’t love them enough. But because I loved them so much, I forgot to love myself too. Because I was so focused on making their life better, I never taught them what joy looks like up close. Because I was present but never really home within myself.

What I want most is to raise daughters who are free. Free to choose themselves, to rest without guilt, to set boundaries without shame. And how can they learn that if the only version of womanhood they’ve seen is one where I disappear in motherhood?

I don’t want to give them a version of love that looks like depletion. I want to give them a version that looks like wholeness. A love that includes me too.

And that’s what brought me here to this 13th year, and this shift that’s still in motion. I didn’t have a breakdown. I didn’t hit rock bottom. I started waking up to my own life. I started realizing I couldn’t remember what I liked to do for fun. Noticing how often I felt resentment underneath my routine. Catching myself saying, “One day I’ll rest” one too many times.

So I started asking questions.

Who am I outside of them? What do I need to function AND feel alive? What would it look like to build a life where I’m not only surviving the day?

The answers are not all coming in at once. But one of the first steps is giving myself permission to exist again, not only as “Mom,” but as me.

This looks like going to therapy and telling the truth when I’m asked, “How are you?” This looks like resting on purpose, not waiting until I’m burnt out. This looks like saying no to things that don’t align. This looks like letting myself dream again without shame.

And I’m not gonna lie, it’s messy. Some days, I still feel guilty. Some days I backslide into old habits. But I remind myself I’m not doing this to be perfect. I’m doing it to be whole.

The more I learn to separate guilt from truth, the easier it becomes to choose differently. To choose peace over performance, intention over image and presence over pressure.

Because identity loss is not a joke.

It happens slowly. You’re running errands, making meals, doing drop-offs, and before you know it, you haven’t heard your full name in days. You forget what kind of music you like. You stop doing your hair the way you used to. You buy clothes based on how fast you can get them on and off. You move through life on a loop. 

Whats sucks is sometimes, people applaud you for that.

They say you’re strong. They say you’re amazing. They call you supermom.

But being praised for your exhaustion isn’t the same as being seen.

I see me and I won’t be a cautionary tale.

Breaking generational patterns looks like not yelling back, apologizing first, letting your kid have a feeling without shutting it down AND taking care of your body because you want to feel good, not just look good. Letting your children see you rest. Letting them see you love yourself.

I want my girls to know that their mother didn’t live small. That I didn’t disappear behind motherhood. That I didn’t teach them to sacrifice their joy in the name of love.

They deserve better than that. And so do I.

So if you’re where I’ve been, I see you. If you’re tired, I see you. If you feel invisible, I see you.

You can come home to yourself again. You don’t have to wait for permission. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to apologize for it.

The work you’re doing is holy. But so is your healing.

This is what reclaiming yourself looks like: not a big speech or a dramatic change, but a series of honest decisions. To be here. To be whole. To keep showing up, for them and for you. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when no one claps. Especially then.

Because healing in real time, in front of your children, is not a weakness. It’s a legacy shift.

You deserve to live a life that feels like yours.

With love, Tru

Untitled

Healing journey, self love, Uncategorized, ,

This piece is part of my personal healing. I wrote it to process something I couldn’t quite say out loud. I’m sharing it because sometimes writing is the only way I can feel my way through the fog. It’s raw. It’s vulnerable. It’s not wrapped up in a lesson, and it doesn’t have a clean ending. It just is. If you’ve ever felt unseen, disrespected, or deeply disappointed by someone you let close, I hope you feel less alone reading this.

I don’t even know where to start.

I feel disappointed. I feel disrespected. I feel dumbfounded. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. I wasn’t guarded. I wasn’t expecting the blow. I was open. I was soft. I let myself be vulnerable.

It hit me hard.

It was supposed to be light. Nothing deep. No big expectations. Just time shared between two people who know each other. And because of our history, I thought that came with some basic level of respect. But it didn’t.

It felt cruel. Deliberate. Calculated, even. And that’s a hard thing to admit. That someone I’ve let close, someone who knows me, might have actually wanted to hurt me. Wanted to watch me flinch. Wanted to see if I’d break.

And I did.

I broke. Quietly. In the car. In the shower. In the silence after everything went down.

Everyone I’ve told has said the same thing. He wanted you to be upset. He wanted a rise out of you. And honestly, yea. The blatant callousness of his actions scream he was trying to trigger something.

What’s messing with my head is how unbothered he was initially. How detached. Like there’s no guilt. No reflection. No “I’m sorry, I see how I hurt you.” Nothing. He literally said he doesn’t see where he’s wrong.

And that right there

That did something to me.

I wasn’t seen, really.

I wasn’t valued.

Not as a whole person.

This has stirred up something deep. Like that old wound I thought I had buried is wide open again. That feeling of being reduced to a body. Like my worth lives in what I can give, not in who I am. Like I’m disposable. Replaceable. Convenient until I’m complicated.

It’s not just the way he treated me in that moment. It’s the way it made everything else resurface. Every time I’ve ever felt like someone was only interested in me when I was quiet, cooperative, or available. Every time I’ve felt like my value was only tied to how useful I was or how easily I could be accessed. Every time someone didn’t care what happened to my heart as long as they got what they came for.

This is about dignity. About being looked at and not truly seen. About being spoken to and still feeling unheard. About offering softness to someone and realizing they had no intention of holding it gently.

It’s the way he looked at me after. The way he talked to me. There was no care there. No tenderness. Just coldness. Just distance. And I started spiraling, asking myself what did I do to deserve that.

But I didn’t do anything.

And I know that.

And I still don’t feel better.

There’s this deep sense of shame sitting on my chest. Like I should’ve known better. Like I should’ve protected myself. And I hate that I still wanted to be seen by him even after the hurt. That’s hard to admit.

I keep running through the details in my head, and none of it makes sense unless I accept the fact that he did it on purpose. And I don’t want to accept that. I don’t want to believe that someone I let that close could treat me like this and feel nothing.

But here I am. Sitting in it.

Trying not to shut down.

Trying not to believe that this is what I attract.

And I’m still handling him with kindness. Still giving him grace. Still responding like he didn’t just make me question everything I thought we were at least capable of coexisting as.

All my friends are angry. They’re telling me I should return the energy. Cut him off. Match what he gave. But I don’t want to. And I hate that.

I hate that I still want to be decent to someone who wasn’t decent to me. I hate that I’m still being careful with his feelings when he wasn’t careful with mine. I hate that even now, I’m the one holding the weight of being the bigger person.

And I don’t know what that says about me.

Does it mean I’m weak? Or does it mean I’m loving?

Does it mean I’m afraid of being angry?

Does it mean I still have hope?

I don’t know.

But I do recognize this had to happen.

I see now that it might’ve been allowed to happen to open my eyes on a spiritual level.

And the more I sit with it, the more I realize it might not have been deliberate. Maybe he didn’t set out to hurt me. But his actions still show something deeper. Whatever he’s battling in his own life won’t allow us to coexist in peace. His dysfunction doesn’t leave room for his love.

Can he stand my light? Is his ego too big to see me as human? Because if he did, if he truly saw me, it would force him to face himself. And maybe that’s what he’s been avoiding all along.

So the kindness feels necessary.

But I know he doesn’t deserve it.

And still, I give it.

Not for him, but maybe for me. Maybe because if I don’t stay true to who I am in this, then I lose more than just the illusion of what we were.

But what I do know is that it doesn’t feel good.

It feels lonely.

It feels like I’m bleeding and still trying to clean up the mess he made.

Because this is too much to carry on my own. I needed to write this.. 

right now, this is all I’ve got.

Happy Heavenly Birthday Dad

Grief and growth, Healing journey,

Hey Sweets,

Today is my dad’s first heavenly birthday.

And if I’m being real, my heart feels… complicated. Not just because he’s gone, but because of what his presence and absence meant throughout my life.

I wouldn’t call my dad present when I was younger. In fact, I spent years angry at him, labeling him a deadbeat. And honestly? He was. As much as I wouldn’t use that word now, it was the truth back then. He wasn’t there for the birthdays, the breakdowns, or the big moments that shaped me. I learned how to live without him, and by the time he tried to come back around, I had already built a life without space for him in it.

He started making an effort in my late twenties. When I turned 27, he threw me and my sister a birthday party. I didn’t know what to do with that. I appreciated it, but I was already a mom of two. I was busy. I was guarded. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t make it easy for him. I wasn’t sure he had earned the access he was trying to get back.

Shortly after that, he got sick.

We lived in different states, and again, he became an afterthought.

That’s hard to say, but it’s real.

Still, last year, I made it to his bedside for his birthday. I said the words I needed to say. I told him Happy Birthday. I told him I loved him. I told him I forgave him. And I pray, deeply, that he heard me. That even in his fading body, he felt the love I brought with me. That he knew I meant every word.

In his death, I learned more about my father than I ever knew in life.

The church was full for his funeral, so full it felt like standing room only. I sat there listening to people share stories about him that made me pause. His stepchildren spoke about him with so much love and admiration. I saw photos I’d never seen before. Heard laughter and memories that never included me. And bitterness… yeah, it crept in.

It was hard to hear about how present he was for them.

Hard not to compare.

Hard not to ask, why not me?

But as I listened, really listened, I also started to understand.

I learned about his love story with his wife and the life he tried to build. And even though it doesn’t excuse everything, it gave me clarity. In that clarity, bitterness gave way to compassion.

I saw him not just as the father who failed me, but as a flawed man who tried.

Tried to love in the best way he knew how.

Tried to show up, even if it was late.

Tried to find his place in my world again.

His death took a toll on me. One I didn’t expect.

In a way, it felt like I lost him twice. The first time in childhood when he wasn’t there, and the second time when he left this earth for good. That second loss stung more than I ever imagined it would.

I know I wasn’t the only one carrying the weight.

I have a lot of siblings, and we all have our own stories. None of us experienced him the same way. We all carry different pieces of the puzzle—some painful, some tender, some incomplete. I hold space for their stories too. For the love, the anger, the grief, the confusion. Whatever they feel is valid. The blessing in all of this is that I have them. That we have each other.

And I know how this may sound to most people.

Trust me, I was just as shocked at the pain I felt in my chest when I got the news. The way I cried. The way I still cry. I often imagined his death when I was younger and swore I wouldn’t shed a tear for a stranger. I meant it, too. Tupac’s “Dear Mama” was my anthem and my truth for a long time.

But when it happened, that “stranger” felt like a part of me I didn’t know was still holding on.

And those tears came without hesitation.

So today, I just want to say:

Happy first heavenly birthday, Dad.

I wish we had more time. I wish I had gotten to know you sooner. But I’m grateful for the little moments we did have. For the party. For the effort. For the small ways you tried.

I miss what we didn’t get.

I’m grateful for what we did.

And I truly do forgive you.

I hope you felt my love that day.

I hope you hear me now.

With love,

Your daughter.

A Note to My Siblings:

To all of you—my siblings—I just want you to know that I see you. I feel you. I hold space for every story, every ache, every memory you carry. We didn’t all experience him the same way, but we share the impact of who he was and who he wasn’t.

Whatever you’re feeling today—whether it’s peace, pain, or a mix of both—you’re not alone. I’m grateful that through him, I have you. That even in the brokenness, there’s still something beautiful: us.

The Duality of Life Right Now

Faith and Resilience, Grief and growth, Healing journey, , , , ,

Hey Sweets,

I’ve been sitting with some hard emotions lately. Not because something new has happened, but because life has finally quieted enough for the feelings I’ve been carrying to speak up. That’s the tricky part about healing. It doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it shows up in the stillness, in those soft spaces where you’re no longer distracted by survival.

I’ve been thinking about what it means to carry conflicting emotions at once. How you can be sure of a decision and still mourn what it cost you. How you can be grateful for a new beginning and still ache for what’s no longer an option.

I’ve been living in that tension for a while now, quietly and deeply, and I think it’s time I gave it language.

After my hysterectomy, I told everyone I felt fine. And I mostly did. I was cancer-free, healthy, and focused on getting back to myself. But what I didn’t say out loud was how heavy it felt to close a door I didn’t even want open anymore.

I had already made peace with not having more children, but the finality of it brought up a quiet kind of grief. I wasn’t mourning a future I had planned, but the loss of possibility. That unexpected ache.

And as a single woman, that grief got tangled with something else: anxiety. How do I share this with someone new? Will I still be seen as whole?

Logically, I know I am. But emotions don’t always follow logic. Some days, I feel grounded in who I am. Other days, I sit with the ache and let it be what it is.

That same practice of letting things speak led me to take FMLA. I needed rest, badly. But rest felt radical. Almost reckless.

When survival mode is your default, slowing down feels like rebellion. Even with support, I still wrestled with guilt, fear, and the what-ifs. Would I fall behind? Could I afford the pause?

But I also knew I couldn’t afford not to. Choosing to rest reminded me that being human is reason enough. That I don’t have to prove I’m worthy of rest. That I don’t have to burn out just to be taken seriously.

Lately, I’ve also been mourning the loss that comes with setting boundaries, the ones that protect my peace but cost me comfort.

It’s strange how something so necessary can still break your heart a little. Letting go of dynamics, people, or patterns that once felt familiar, even if they were harmful, comes with grief.

Some days, I feel strong and clear. Other days, I grieve what I thought would work if I just held on a little longer. I’m learning that loving myself out loud won’t always feel like a celebration. Sometimes, it feels like silence. Like distance. Like starting over.

But it’s still love.
It’s still becoming.
It’s still choosing me.

What I know now is that duality doesn’t mean confusion. It means truth.

I can miss what I left behind and still know I was right to walk away.
I can hold gratitude and grief in the same breath.
I can be proud of my growth and still feel the weight of it.

And to you, my sweets, if you’re feeling torn between what you had to release and what you’re stepping into, I hope you know there is nothing wrong with you. There is no timeline for making peace with your own decisions. You are allowed to cry over the things you had to let go of. You are allowed to miss what you outgrew. You are allowed to feel sad about choosing yourself, even when you know it was the right thing.

You are not broken for feeling more than one thing at once. You are becoming. And becoming takes courage. You are doing better than you think.

With love,
Tru

Unpaused: Embracing a New Shift

Faith and Resilience, Healing journey, , , , , , , ,

A pause for me was needed, but I’m back, Sweets. Your Pisces sister turned 33.

Turning 33 feels different, and the fact that it’s my Jesus Year feels right. For me, this year is about finally letting go of survival mode and believing that I don’t have to have everything figured out to move forward. It’s the year of transformation. Rebrand. Reinvention, if you will. I keep feeling like God is calling me to rest, to trust Him more, and to believe that I can want more than just getting by. It’s about giving myself permission to breathe, dream, and stop carrying the weight of guilt, fear, and the idea that I have to hustle nonstop to be enough. I feel this nudge to slow down and make space for the things that actually matter, even if it means letting go of what feels safe.

This Jesus Year feels like an invitation to rebuild, realign, and live intentionally. This shit is scary, but I’m ready. After spending so many years just trying to get by, working nonstop and juggling everything, I feel like it’s time to do things differently. Not perfectly, but differently. This year, I want to move with intention, not just out of habit. I want to make choices that feel right, not just safe.

But if I’m honest, it’s been hard to step into this new chapter. In the weeks leading up to my birthday, I could barely get out of bed. Every morning felt like a battle, and some days I’d find myself on the brink of tears for reasons I couldn’t even explain. I’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, overwhelmed by everything I had to do yet completely drained at the thought of doing any of it. I kept asking myself, Is this really how I want to live?

That question lingered, and the answer was obvious: no. I don’t want to keep living in survival mode. I don’t want to spend another year exhausted, burned out, and stretched so thin that I barely recognize myself. I want to create a life that feels good, not just one that looks good on paper.

Survival mode is exhausting.

It’s waking up already tired, dragging yourself through the day, and falling into bed at night feeling like you’ve accomplished nothing, even though you haven’t stopped moving since your feet hit the floor. That’s been me for years. Between my girls’ busy schedules and running my business, I was always on the go. Most mornings started with a prayer that I wouldn’t fall apart before noon and ended with me passing out mid-thought. My to-do list felt like a bottomless pit, and no matter how much I checked off, I was always behind. I kept telling myself I didn’t have time to slow down. But looking back, I think I was really just afraid of what might come up if I did.

When you’re so used to surviving, slowing down feels unnatural. It’s almost like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong if you dare to rest. I realized I’d been so focused on keeping everything afloat that I hadn’t even stopped to ask myself if I was happy. Spoiler: I wasn’t.

And it wasn’t just me feeling it. My girls could see it too, even if they didn’t have the words for it. I could tell they noticed how stretched thin I was, how little time I left for anything that wasn’t work or responsibilities. That hit me harder than I expected. I don’t want them to grow up thinking that being exhausted and overwhelmed is just part of being an adult. I want to model something better for them.

The truth is, my girls haven’t really seen me set healthy boundaries before. I’ve always been the “yes” person, the one who says, “I’ll figure it out,” even when I’m already drowning. But if I want this year to look different, that has to change.

So, I did something I’ve never really done before. I took FMLA. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m giving myself permission to rest without guilt. I won’t lie, it’s uncomfortable. Saying, “I need a break” feels heavy. It feels like admitting I can’t do it all somehow makes me less capable. But it doesn’t. It just makes me human.

The days have felt slower since then, but in a good way. I’ve been spending more time praying, writing, and just letting myself be still. Some mornings, I make a cup of tea and sit by the window, watching the world wake up, listening to the quiet before the day starts rushing by. It’s such a small thing, but it reminds me that life isn’t supposed to be an endless to-do list.

And honestly, my girls need to see this side of me, the side that isn’t always rushing, that knows how to pause and breathe. I want them to know that it’s okay to rest, that they don’t have to earn it by exhausting themselves first.

I’ve been feeling this nudge from God to rest and trust Him more. It’s been hard to pray lately, and even harder to get in my Word, but the theme for sermons at church has been The Shift. Every time I hear that, it feels like a reminder that this season is about changing how I move through life.

I keep hearing God say, “You don’t have to do this alone.” But it’s hard to let go of that mindset that if I don’t do it, it won’t get done. I’ve spent so long in hustle mode that it feels risky to slow down and trust that God will take care of me. But if I’m going to live with intention, I have to believe that God’s plan for me is bigger than just paying bills and staying afloat.

I also started therapy. Y’all, that first session? Whew. I don’t think I was ready for how much I had to say once I actually started talking. It’s wild how much you can hold in without even realizing it. But honestly, it feels good to unpack all of it, even if it’s messy.

Therapy is showing me just how much I’ve been carrying alone. It’s one thing to journal about your feelings and a whole other thing to say them out loud to someone who isn’t going to rush in with advice or judgment. Some days, I leave sessions feeling emotionally wrung out but also lighter somehow.

It’s a strange kind of peace, knowing I don’t have to figure everything out right now. That I can take it day by day, prayer by prayer, and trust that God’s timing is better than mine.

I’ve also been trying to be on my phone less, to procrastinate less, and to make the most of my rest days. It’s easy to numb out with scrolling or find a million distractions to avoid the hard stuff. But I want to actually be in my life, not just skim through it.

The only way I think I can find balance is by making the most of my leave, planning and organizing our lives in a way that makes room for rest and joy. I’m tired of feeling like I’m constantly putting out fires, never really getting to the things that matter most.

By the end of this year, I want to feel proud, not just of what I accomplish, but of how I lived. I want to look back and see that I chose better, even if it was hard.

Dear Sweets (Yes, You!):

If any part of this hit home for you, I hope you know you’re not alone. It’s so easy to feel like you’re the only one barely holding it together, especially when everyone else seems to have it all figured out. But the truth is, a lot of us are just trying to make it through the day without falling apart. So if you’re stuck in survival mode, trying to find your purpose, or just exhausted from being everything to everyone, I want you to know it’s okay to slow down. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to choose yourself without feeling guilty.

You don’t have to have all the answers to start making changes. Sometimes, all you need is a little bit of courage to take that first step, even if you’re not sure where it’s leading. It doesn’t have to be a big leap. Maybe it’s allowing yourself to rest without the constant need to be productive. Maybe it’s setting one small boundary or giving yourself permission to want more. Whatever it looks like, just know that starting, no matter how small, is enough.

And if you’ve been waiting for a sign, take this as yours. You don’t have to wait for the perfect moment or until you feel ready. You’re allowed to take a breath, to pause for a moment, and to remind yourself that it’s okay not to have it all figured out. Trust that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. God has a way of using even the seasons that feel heavy and uncertain to lead us to the ones that are full of light and peace.

So here’s to new beginnings. Here’s to giving ourselves the space to grow and the grace to do it imperfectly. Here’s to stepping out of survival mode and learning to live with intention, faith, and a whole lot of grace.

Let’s grow through what we go through, Sweets.

With love and light,
TRU 🌸

A Pause for Me

Love Month, self love,

Lately, I’ve been pouring into everything but myself. Work, responsibilities, and personal projects have taken up all my energy, and I’ve been running on fumes. Even the things I love can become distractions when I’m not being intentional about my own well-being. Magnolia Tru has been a space I cherish, a promise to myself, but even something as meaningful as this can become a way to avoid sitting with what I really need. Right now, what I need is rest. Not a temporary escape, not a way to procrastinate, but a real pause to reset.

Tax season is here, and my plate is full. It’s not just the workload, it’s the weight of everything else I carry—the mental lists, the personal expectations, the responsibilities I can’t set down. I feel the pressure to keep pushing, to stretch myself a little further, to prove that I can handle it all. But I know myself well enough to recognize when I’m reaching my limit. The truth is, I’ve been operating in survival mode for too long, and I don’t want to keep living like that.

For a long time, I felt like I had to earn my rest. That I had to check every box, complete every task, and prove my worth through how much I could handle before I allowed myself a break. But I’m realizing that’s not sustainable, and it’s not healthy. Rest isn’t a luxury, and it’s not something that should come last. It’s a necessity. It’s how I show up for myself so that I can show up for everything else in my life with clarity and intention. If I don’t take the time to refill my cup, I’ll keep running on empty, and I don’t want to live like that anymore.

I don’t want this break to just be about stepping away from responsibilities. I want it to be about stepping toward myself. Slowing down. Listening. Paying attention to what my body, mind, and spirit actually need instead of ignoring the signs until I have no choice but to crash. So, for the next two weeks, I’m choosing to be still. I’m letting go of the need to constantly produce, to always be available, to feel like I have to keep up. No overloading my schedule, no unnecessary distractions, no guilt. Just rest, clarity, and the space to realign.

This is also my way of honoring Love Month. Not through grand gestures or external validation, but through the simple, necessary act of self-love. Loving myself enough to step back. To say no to burnout and yes to restoration. To remind myself that I don’t have to earn the right to rest—I just have to take it.

“In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” — Isaiah 30:15.

I’m holding onto this truth. Strength isn’t found in exhaustion, in always being on, in proving I can handle everything. Strength is found in trust, in quietness, in surrendering the need to do it all. When I return, I want to come back whole, not running on fumes.

Hey sweets, if you’ve been feeling stretched too thin, this is your reminder that you don’t have to wait until you’re completely drained to take a break. You don’t have to push through exhaustion just because that’s what you’re used to. You deserve rest—not when everything is done, not when you feel like you’ve earned it, but simply because you are human, and you need it. Take care of yourself. I’ll be doing the same.

Talk soon,

Tru

A Tru Love

Uncategorized

A Love Letter to Me. Happy Valentines Day Sweets.

Tru,

I love you. Not because of what you do, not because of how much you’ve accomplished, and not because of how strong you are—but simply because you exist.

I love the way you move through the world, weird and wonderful, completely and undeniably you. You’ve never been one to shrink yourself to fit in, and I love that you’ve finally embraced that. You are original in a way that cannot be copied. You have a light that cannot be dimmed. And you are at your best when you let yourself be seen exactly as you are.

I love the kind of friend you are—the one who doesn’t play judge or jury, who listens with her whole heart, who makes people feel safe just by being present. I love that people, especially children, trust you. That they feel at home with you. That you have created a space in this world where people can show up as themselves and know they will be loved, not for who they could be, but for who they are.

I love your curves, the way they hold your story, the way they shift and change but never take away from your beauty. I love that you’ve learned to adore your body, to celebrate it, to treat it with the love and softness it has always deserved. I love that you no longer wait for a certain number or a certain look to appreciate yourself. You are beautiful now. You have always been.

I love that you are naturally funny, that your laughter is easy, that your presence makes people feel lighter. You have a way of making life feel less heavy, of reminding others—and yourself—that joy still exists, that even in the hardest seasons, there is something to smile about.

I love that you give people a chance, that you see the good even when it’s buried, that you believe in redemption, in second chances, in people’s ability to change. And I love that you have given yourself that same grace.

I love that you are not your mistakes. You have grown, you have healed, and you are still becoming.

I love you. Right now, exactly as you are. Not for the woman you are working to be, not for the version of yourself you think you need to reach, but for the woman reading this letter in this moment. You are worthy of love now. You are enough now. And you deserve to feel loved every single day, by yourself before anyone else.

I love you, Tru. I see you. And I will never stop choosing you.

Always.

Covered, Kept, and Loved

Faith and Resilience, Love Month, , , ,

Hey Sweets,

As you know, I’ve been writing these love letters to honor the ways love has shaped my life. And there’s no way I could do this without writing to the One who loved me first.

God,

There’s no love like Yours. No love more patient, more forgiving, more constant. No love that has held me through every season, every joy, every storm the way Yours has.

And if I’m being honest, there was a time I didn’t believe You were real. Childhood trauma and church hurt succeeded in convincing me otherwise. I questioned You, doubted You, even rejected You. But still, You never let me go.

You carried me through things I thought would destroy me. You covered me when I didn’t even know I needed covering. No weapon formed against me has prospered because You have always been my protector, even when I didn’t acknowledge You. I owe my life to You.

You’ve shown me that love isn’t just a feeling; it’s action. It’s the breath in my lungs each morning. It’s the strength You give me to keep going. It’s the grace You extend when I get it wrong, the peace You provide when my heart is heavy.

Psalm 46:5 says, “God is within her; she will not fall. God will help her at break of day.” There have been so many moments when I felt like I was falling, but You always held me up. And now, I stand knowing that no matter what comes, I am never alone.

You’ve taught me that love isn’t about perfection. It’s about surrender. And as much as I desire love in this life, I know that no love will ever compare to Yours. You are my first love, my foundation, the very reason I know how to love at all.

So today, I just want to say thank You.

Thank You for loving me completely, even when I struggled to love myself. Thank You for every answered prayer and even the ones You denied—because I trust You see what I cannot. Thank You for Your presence, for Your patience, for never letting me go.

Psalm 46:10 reminds me to “Be still and know that You are God.” And that’s what I’m choosing to do. To trust You fully. To walk in faith, not fear. To love You not just in words, but in the way I live, in the way I treat others, in the way I surrender to You every day.

Forever Yours,

Your Child, Dorcaste

Lanmou Merite: A Love Letter to Idoren

Grief and growth, Love Month

Hey Sweets,

Love has a way of outliving us. It keeps moving, keeps showing up, even when we don’t expect it. Today I want to share the first in a series of love letters I’ll be writing to honor God’s love and how it manifests in my life. My hope is that these love letters remind you of the many ways love heals, restores, continues to move and blesses us, even in ways we don’t always see.

My Girl,

I didn’t realize just how much your love was still working until this past weekend.

I was sitting across from a client, someone who’s been with me since my very first year doing taxes. We were talking, and he casually mentioned how happy the people he referred to me were. Earlier that day, with one of his friends, I mentioned that I could not remember how he became my client. And as we were talking, he said it unwarranted, “I believe it was your Matant who sent me to you.” My heart paused when he said it. I had completely forgotten.

As he got ready to ask me how you were doing, it quickly dawned on me that he didn’t know and I had to tell him you were gone. I had to relive that day all over again. But in light of him receiving the news, what he said next was comforting reminder. He said, “If I had to credit anyone for where I am now in life, I would include her.”

He told me how you two met at work, how you became good friends, how you helped him, guided him, and supported him. How meeting you was the catalyst he needed to set up his life in Indiana with his family. Your love, your kindness, your impact stretched far and wide. Your love was and is so powerful that it continues to be a blessing even after your transition.

Since the day you left, I have struggled with the fact that we weren’t in a good space at the time. That’s something I don’t talk about much, but it lingers. The things I wish we’d said. The way I wish we had made things right. It’s a weight I’ve been holding onto, unsure if I’d ever be able to put it down.

But in that conversation, something shifted. My heart was so full. It was a reminder of the way you always made sure I was okay, even in ways I didn’t notice at the time. You set something in motion that’s still blessing me today. I’m thinking you had something to do with him deciding to meet in person instead of virtually. God knew I needed to physically experience this because even though we weren’t in the best place, love was still working. I needed to know that.

You are still looking out for me. Still making sure I am taken care of. Still pouring into me. That conversation reminded me of something I should have never questioned—your love was never conditional. It didn’t fade just because things got complicated. It didn’t stop just because we didn’t get to say everything we needed to.

It was deserved.

And that’s what your name means. Merite.

You loved me in ways I’ll never be able to repay.

You were there for the biggest moments of my life. You held my hand when I brought my second baby girl into the world, keeping me strong. And when she arrived, you didn’t just love her—you raised her and her sister. You cared for them like they were yours. And in doing that, you took care of me too.

You never let me feel alone. No matter what was going on, you showed up. Every single time.

I wish I had told you more often how much I appreciated you. I hope you knew.

I hope you knew that even when we weren’t seeing eye to eye, I still loved you. That even now, I carry so much of you with me.

You taught me what it means to love fully. You showed me how to pour into people, how to leave a mark that lasts long after you’re gone. And Matant, you left a mark on me that time could never erase.

I miss you. I miss your laugh, your strength, your presence. I miss being able to call you, to hear your voice, to feel like you’re just a moment away. But I see now that you’re never really gone.

You’re in my daughter’s laughter.

You’re in your children’s strength.

You’re in the clients who keep coming my way because of you.

You’re in the way I push through, the way I keep going.

You’re in me.

And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

I thank God for you.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop carrying the weight of what was left unfinished. But I do know this: I’ll carry the love too. I’ll carry it every day, in every choice I make, in every act of kindness I put into the world. Because that’s what you did for me. That’s what you left me with.

And as long as I’m here, that love isn’t going anywhere.

Thank you for everything, Matant. You deserved all the love you gave. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure it keeps growing.

Love,

Your Niece

Merite Idoren – Forever in my Heart ♥️

When Love Shows Up

Healing journey, self love, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Have you ever felt like love is something you have to chase? Like it’s reserved for other people, but somehow always out of reach for you? I used to think love had to be grand, something you had to fight for. But more often than not, love just shows up—quietly, unexpectedly, in the places we least expect. It finds us in the middle of our hardest days, in the cracks of our guarded hearts, in the spaces where we least believe we deserve it.

I’ve had my fair share of heartbreak. I’ve known the weight of disappointment, the sting of betrayal, and the slow unraveling of trust. There were times I convinced myself that shutting down was the safest way to move forward, that guarding my heart meant protecting it. That if I stopped expecting kindness, I wouldn’t be let down. But love has a way of slipping through the cracks, gently reminding me that it never truly leaves.

I also know what it’s like to believe otherwise. When the people we trusted the most become the source of our deepest wounds, when love is given conditionally or used as a weapon, when every open hand has felt like a setup for another letdown—it’s hard not to wonder if love was ever real to begin with. Pain has a way of convincing us that kindness is temporary, that people will always leave, that warmth is just another thing that can turn cold. But love doesn’t disappear just because we’ve been let down. It doesn’t stop existing just because we’ve experienced the kind that hurt more than it healed.

Love keeps showing up. Sometimes in grand gestures, but more often in the small, quiet moments. In the stranger who holds the door open when I feel invisible, as if they somehow see the weight I’m carrying. In the nurse who stayed by my side at my most vulnerable, her presence offering comfort beyond words. In my children’s laughter—the kind that bubbles up so effortlessly, reminding me that love doesn’t have to be complicated, that it can be pure and unfiltered.

It’s in my family, the ones who love me despite my sharp edges, who anchor me when I feel like I’m drifting too far. It’s in my clients, who extend grace when I fall short, teaching me that patience and understanding are love in their own right.

And then there’s God—steady, unwavering, patient. Even when I pull away, even when I question, even when I get it wrong, He still shows up, reminding me that I am seen, I am loved, I am held. That I am never alone, even when I feel like I am. That I don’t have to be perfect or whole to be worthy of love.

Love isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come in the ways we expect. Sometimes, it’s a small moment of understanding when we least deserve it. A kind word when we need it most. A warm meal placed in front of us, a deep breath after a long cry, a friend who calls at just the right time. A stranger who sees you—not just the version of you that you present to the world, but the one who is quietly struggling underneath.

For so long, I searched for love in the grand gestures, in the declarations, in the moments that felt big enough to prove its existence. But I’ve learned that love is in the details. It’s in the pauses between conversations, in the way someone listens, in the way life keeps offering us kindness even when we’re not sure how to receive it.

Sweets, I know how hard it is to believe in love again when life has given you every reason not to. When you’ve been hurt, when trust has been broken, when the ones who were supposed to protect you became the reason you built walls, it’s easy to feel like love is something distant—something unreliable. But love doesn’t disappear just because people failed to hold it well.

Love keeps showing up. It’s in the unexpected phone call when you need to hear a familiar voice. In the friend who stays when words fall short, reminding you that presence is its own kind of love. In the moments when, even in your loneliness, the world still finds a way to remind you that you are not forgotten.

So, Sweets, even if trust feels fragile, even if love seems like something that happens for others but not for you, know that love is already on its way to you. It’s in the small, quiet moments. In the people who see you when you feel invisible. In the grace that finds you when you least expect it. Love isn’t lost—it’s just waiting for you to notice.

Because love isn’t something we have to chase. It was never lost to begin with.

Until next time,

Magnolia Tru