I’m writing from Bend this morning, with a small thought kindly knocking and asking to be let out. Unabridged and straight from my journal—maybe it’s for you, too.

Something cracked open in me on this trip. Something I bottled that was always meant to be poured. I’d rather be a fragrant puddle of oil and tears than dusty on a shelf.

I think it started at The Met last week when I wept through the new Krasner exhibit for a solid hour. Her art touched something deep deep deep in my soul that I couldn’t name. I just let it pour out all over my face. Art is holy and mysterious and necessary in that way. A little taste of eternity.

I want to create (to honor, to explore, to remember, to memorialize) not to steal a moment of beauty and lock it up forever, but to give it space to run. I want to use my camera and pen and whatever means necessary to give it two legs.

I’ve recognized I have a pilgrim’s heart that my own legs don’t always know how to step in time with. It beats faster then slows to a relishing joy when it recognizes a kindred heart in another chest. One who is drawn to, and almost nagged by, wonder and beauty. One who is awed by the ordinary and wants to see all the ordinary that’s out there to see. Those hearts are everywhere, often hidden in the ordinary.

That’s how I feel in Oregon. My heart beats in step with this place and my feet match the stride of a cousin I love so dearly, in the city and on the coast and in the mountains…and it’s peaceful.

Here I have calmed and quieted my soul before the Lord. His statutes have become my songs in the house of my pilgrimage. These jumpy bones, these unshaven legs, this wonderful life.

God, if this is the external landscape you delighted in forming, how much more the landscape in me? My Amtrak ticket and first school-less autumn are freeing but not the freedom itself. When boundary lines fall, YOU are the pleasant place I long to explore. It’s only a minute that I’ll be in this world.

What a glorious burden,
To be twenty-three
I could have a few kids
Or a couple degrees
These years feel pregnant
Sometimes I wish I was
No ring on my finger but
There’s one in my nose

I’m crashing on couches and
Reading the classics
I’m crying in public and
Pondering purpose
I love quoting poets in
Walkable cities but
If I can’t sit in silence
I fear that I’ve missed it

All this talk of 
Changing the world and
Not our neighborhood
Always heard I was
Bound to do great things but
I really just want to be
Good

An unlikely but determined pair

Genes strong enough to level any playing field

DNA twisted so tight it turns back time and freezes it

Rabbits, those two

The feral creatures they call offspring have overrun this town

In fact

One jumped through my kitchen window just this morning

The mutant splashed around in my second cup of coffee

Spilled the whole pot

And wrinkled the pages of my library book in the process

It finally just wore itself out and took a nap inside my washing machine

You can lock your door but they’ll only bust it down

They’re everywhere,

At all times,

And multiplying by the minute

I’d keep my eye out if I were you

I imagine I’ll roll over and ask my husband when I became a woman of a certain age. He’ll assure me that my heart has always been old, and it’s the rest of me that had to catch up. I won’t know exactly how to receive that so I will assume he meant it as complimentary, remind him it’s my turn for trash day tomorrow, kiss him, and turn out the light.

How expensive will stamps get in my lifetime?

How much lower can my -5.75 glasses prescription possibly go before I just go blind?

Would Tenet be considered one of Nolan’s best films if it had been released a year later?

How many signature dinner party recipes will I have over the years?

Can someone write a book about Wendell Berry’s wife?

What is the cheapest way I could visit Cornwall?

When I watch Merrily We Roll Along in 2040, will I still think of Paul Mescal as that sad Irish Connell from Normal People?

What is Olivia Colman’s curl routine, and will she ever be knighted?

Where did our value for beautiful church architecture go?

If that guy who works in AI won’t read a book to his kid because his computer can do it instead, has AI already killed us?

What will my grandkids call me?

Will I still enjoy live music at seventy, and will encores be archaic by then?

How many goodbyes will I make by eighty, if I’m alive to see it or able to see at all?

All this potential at twenty-three, stored up and with nowhere to go. Except maybe on a walk to hear the birds. Or to the supermarket to make friends with someone’s grandmother by the deli counter. And then back home for sandwiches with my dad and a 2pm coffee.

I’ll fall asleep to the sounds of brown noise and everything I don’t know.

The morning will come soon enough, as will the rest of it. Too many tomorrows to fit inside today.

What began as a time to rest and seek direction after an intense year has turned out to be one of the greatest gifts I didn’t know to ask for. Most of my money is spent on gas and coffee, and I get to see nearly everyone I’ve ever loved along the way. I get to look in the eyes of my newly married college roommate, a high school friend, a handful of ministry school friends, my parents, my brother, half a dozen college friends, my spiritual mentor, the kids I babysat as a teenager, my honorary mom, two former bosses, and a friend I discipled during college. And that’s only in the span of TWO weeks.

I’ve wondered, is this a farewell tour? Is my entire life flashing before my eyes? Am I George Bailey and an angel is getting its wings? Am I Ebenezer Scrooge and God is blessing us, everyone? What a unique opportunity it is to spend these transitional months sitting with the people who shaped me and telling them I love them. Plus, we usually have a sleepover and share a great meal, so that rocks. Many a problem has been solved over chips and queso in the last month.

Being on the road so much, it’s not uncommon for me to wake up and not remember where I am. Today it was in the guest room at my parents’ house in Texas. I spent a quiet morning on the porch reading with a cup of drip coffee. I could find better stuff elsewhere, but it’s always normal things like this normal coffee I miss when I’m in new places. Distance makes the coffee grow stronger, or whatever it is they say. My timer went off at 9:30 so I went inside and threw on my favorite cotton dress for the third time this week. (My wardrobe is pretty limited since 85% of my belongings currently live in storage, and I live everywhere and nowhere.) I drove twenty minutes into the country to visit a friend who wouldn’t care if my dress had a tiny burrito stain.

Jolie and I grew up in neighboring towns, but really became friends when we reconnected during college and ran in the same ministry circles. (Fun fact: we also dated the same guy and they’re now each happily married, to other people.) Her wedding was the first I ever photographed by myself, then I shot her maternity photos a year later. Now my Taco Bell stains and I hold her perfect baby and marvel at the passing time whenever I pass through town. Jolie and her husband recently moved back to live on family land and be near her mom. Her life isn’t showy or grand. She mills her own flour and bakes her own bread. Her family intentionally prays and reads scripture and worships together every day. They are building a whole, beautiful life as two young people in the country with a baby and one salary. I deeply, deeply admire Jolie.

The more I see of this world, the more I crave the simple. I want my life to speak without shouting. I want a life of fruit and fellowship. My aspirations aren’t sexy, and the things I hope to accomplish wouldn’t be impressive on LinkedIn. I know I have the potential to do a lot, but I’m more interested in who I'm doing it with and who I am.

I could be just as discontent in my parents’ (free) guest room as I could in a New York walk-up. I’m not convinced it’s a matter of location.

I can wake up with the sun and read the Bible anywhere. I can make a pour over in my Chemex anywhere. I can FaceTime my friends and send handwritten letters from anywhere. I can frequent coffee shops and go to matinees anywhere. I can work a job that keeps the lights on anywhere. I can choose a church community and be rooted anywhere.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my first month of traveling, it’s that I want to be everywhere and exactly where I am.

I want to be anywhere You are, God.

Keep me right here, wherever that is.

Maybe it will be Brooklyn or maybe it will be a plot of land in the country with all my friends nearby.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

Wherever I go, there You are.

Wherever You go, here I am.

The wall colors of The Met

I had a free morning in Manhattan before I met up with friends, so I fulfilled a lifelong dream of exploring The Met! Explore is quite the overstatement because I could spend weeks and weeks there and only scratch the surface. The highlights for me were the Chinese ceramics collection and the 19th and 20th century European impressionist collection. I camped out in one of the Monet rooms for thirty minutes to write postcards back home and consider how each brushstroke is a tiny painting of its own.

Beyond Degas, Renoir, and Redon, I was inspired by the wall and trim color choices throughout the museum. Everything was (unsurprisingly) expertly paired.

Related: Whistler by Ann Patchett, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg, and Life in Five Senses by Gretchen Rubin.

Do The Right Thing

Samuel L. Jackson, billed as Sam Jackson! The guy who plays the car attendant in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off! Irving from Severance!

I figured this would be an appropriate plane watch since we stayed in the Bed-Stuy area of Brooklyn on our trip last week. I won’t pretend to fully understand the film’s complexities, but I found it to be profound and thought-provoking. Incredible ending.

Basically everything Jack Johnson touches

Jack Johnson’s documentary Surfilmusic deserves all the flowers. Beyond wholesome. I walked out of the theater and wanted to move to Hawaii even though I’ve never so much as touched a surfboard, much less surfed. The soundtrack is fabulous! The logo is perfect!

He’s currently on tour in support of the documentary, and my friend Maddie and I saw him in Dallas on Sunday. Mr. Banana Pancakes was just as awkwardly charming as I hoped he’d be. He told anecdotes in between songs the way I probably would if I was a musician; he’d start telling a story, say “I don’t know why I told you that,” then trail off and just start the song. He forgot a few lyrics but the crowd carried every time. I’ve also never seen an acoustic request set at a show that large! He took 5-6 requests and made a few of his own.

A highlight of the whole night was hearing him cover Willie Nelson in Texas, since my weekend kicked off by seeing Willie Nelson play on Long Island. A full circle, once-in-a-lifetime weekend for live music.

Also worth mentioning is his elite merch selection. In addition to new Surfilmusic designs, the merch booth carried upcycled merch from past tours. Take my money.

Cafe Momento in Fort Worth

One of my friends (who's more like the cool older sister I never had) recommended this place a while back, and I just stopped in for the first time. Vinyl, perfect cortados, A24 merch, film drop-off…what more could I dream up for a coffee shop?

Also, dreamy cortado cup color combo.

The art clearance section at The Strand

If I hadn’t traveled to New York with only a backpack as a personal item, I absolutely would have lugged a few art history books back to Texas. I took no pictures but TRUST, it was magical. I can’t wait to be an old lady with an extensive collection of art history coffee table books.

Baby Blues Luncheonette in Brooklyn

I visited for the first time in January and have been thinking about it ever since. I got to introduce my friends this week, and we ended up at the same corner booth from my last visit! There’s a lot that inspires me here: the ergononical diner mugs, the VHS collection as decor, the abundance of plants, the spicy pickle grilled cheese, and whatever they dress their arugula in. I’m an unashamed salad hater and even I loved it!

East of Eden

I did it! I’ve officially been initiated into Substack! (Kidding….kinda.)

I went in knowing nothing about the story but wholeheartedly trusting Steinbeck as my guide. And it paid off!! 600 pages still didn’t feel like enough time with these complex characters. I’m still chewing good and evil running in the blood, and what we make and take of family legacies. This is my new standard for character-driven fiction.

I also have two additions to my future dog name list after reading: Doxology, after the iconic Hamilton horse, and Steinbeck.

Lost Weekend by Phoebe Bridgers

I’m amazed by this album.

I was skeptical when I heard Jack Antonoff was producing for Phoebe, but I owe him a major apology! Lost Weekend is textured and atmospheric, yet intimate and raw with Phoebe’s signature honesty. Jack’s touch is evident but not heavy-handed, and pairs nicely with her slew of talented collaborators. Existential bangers left and right.

My favorite tracks at the moment:

• The Outside

• Lost Boys

• The Governor’s Waltz

• Bobby

• Haunted

• Never Going Back!

Fun fact, the first solo concert I ever attended was Phoebe Bridgers in 2022. My second was Gracie Abrams in 2024. I have a concert type and apparently it’s “Paul Mescal’s indie artist girlfriends.”

The End of Oak Street

The premise: a 1980s neighborhood somehow time travels to the jurassic era, where Ewan McGregor and company must learn to survive or coexist with the dinosaurs that have taken over.

This is the Jurassic World movie I waited a decade for. It’s what Jurassic World: Dominion tried (and failed miserably) to be. I also think this is Anne Hathaway’s best performance of her eighty-seven releases of 2026. This film is quick, fun, and the perfect end of summer blockbuster. Plus, (MINOR SPOILER ALERT) Mrs. Kim from Gilmore Girls plays the town librarian who swoops in to save the day.

Snack plates

An excuse to eat colorful charcuterie for lunch.

Lastly, my queen Mary Oliver

I recently had lunch with my younger brother and we discovered a mutual love of Mary Oliver, and quoted our favorite pieces to each other. Whenever I read Oliver, I want to frolic barefoot through a dewy field. The unpredictability and fluidity of her poetry structure inspires me.

This poem from Long Life (as featured in Devotions) stopped me in my tracks this week:

I’d love to hear what’s gotten your creative juices flowing recently!

LOVE YOU!

Now I know

how it feels to look over at the boy behind the wheel and burst into tears because he’s beautiful and he’s mine.

that a fun companion in a stressful season can easily become an escape. Especially if one person is searching for her next step and the other has a foothold just her size.

that CPR is good but I can’t survive off borrowed breath for four months and call it living. One set of lungs isn’t made to sustain two people.

to be alert when a man thanks God for me but his list of reasons is just a list of my body parts.

I can hike a fourteener and love it, even if my Texas lungs aren’t acclimated.

it’s not normal to cry as often as I was made to.

the thrill of a delayed flight and a last minute Taco Bell car picnic.

all I really wanted from the man who would have bought me the world was a Costco hot dog and his undivided attention.

my eyes turn green when I’m in love.

what it’s like to break up over FaceTime in my parked car at 6pm on a weekday.

I can love our story and know it’s not forever.

to be alarmed when creating feels too exhausting because I’m emotionally preoccupied for a prolonged period of time. When I stop writing. When my books get dusty. When my camera lives on the shelf.

the Denver airport really, really well. And how much I love its security lines. And the voice on the train. And the perfectly designed bathrooms.

to pay attention to how he treats his family.

to be aware of how he speaks of exes.

how it feels to be held by beautiful freckled arms.

that behavior reveals belief.

that relationships can be fun.

how much it hurts to hear from his friend that he said I’d look awful as a blonde. I know I’m not a spiteful person but that makes me want to buy bleach.

what it’s like to gaze into his blue eyes and wonder what they’d look like on our imaginary child.

that I don’t like Jordan Peterson’s tone or writing style or argument structure, and I can’t pretend I do.

it’s probably not wise for me to have big picture conversations after 11pm.

I like having a hand to reach for in parking lots.

how distasteful I find it when books are turned with the spines hidden for aesthetic reasons.

how special and magical it feels to be flown out for the weekend. Especially on a 5am flight and watching the sun rise from a window seat.

how much I hate Panera coffee. And how much of it I’m willing to endure if it means I get to sit next to someone I love while he works on his laptop.

how much I love Loyal Coffee.

how sad it is to hear my three-year-old cousin to ask about him, and not know how to break the news that he won’t see him again.

how badly I want to buy another bike to ride it in pretty places, since mine was stolen in college a few years ago.

how mindful I need to be of my words during my luteal phase.

I can easily get lost in conversation until the birds start chirping at 5am.

how the giant apple pie dinner scene in La La Land happens in real life.

why Olivia Rodrigo wrote tracks 7-10 on her latest album.

more of what I want. What I don’t. What I’ll stay for. What I won’t.

how it feels to be kissed and enjoy it.

how brutally honest my parents will be with me, especially when I’m in the wrong.

the pain of hearing someone say they think they’re in love with me but not really sure. That he almost loves me, just give him a month. (I did, and he did.)

how much I love his friends. That I may never see them again. And I might end up missing them more than I miss him.

there must be room and maturity for two sets of emotions to cohabitate.

I’m getting better and quicker at asking for forgiveness.

I can be a much better listener.

I am, in fact, capable of loving.

I want a big dog someday.

the importance and truth of the dad’s wedding speech in About Time.

I don’t always need to immediately solve other people’s problems. I can simply listen and shoulder the burden.

how attractive I find it when someone is passionate about what they do (as a hobbyist, semi-professional, or professional…it doesn’t matter. Just passion in general.)

a man won’t make me whole.

his sister meant it when she said she was my friend before she was my boyfriend’s sister.

not to quiet my lesser-loved pieces just to feel liked.

I love the music of Ray LaMontagne.

my decisions must be mine. Informed and wise, but mine nonetheless.

how deeply I love the mountains. Standing in awe of their greatness and the hands that made them. Feeling dwarfed and humbly insignificant in their shadows. (Even if I don’t understand how mountain weather works.)

I’m jealous of places that experience four seasons. Of places that have heat advisories at 80 degrees.

I’ll probably never hear Bon Iver without picturing the boy who kissed me at the stoplight while “Hey, Ma” played through the car speakers.

I should be able to disagree without having my “wrong opinion” invalidated.

my sentimentality can be a strength.

how much I love King Soopers, even if it is just a Kroger with a more obnoxious name.

to lean into excitement but not misread it as a need to hurry.

I’m able to dream again.

I can have the potential answer to everything I want standing in front of me, and let him go because I know it’s not right. I’m aware of the pain and confusion and relief.

how it feels to be in love for the first time.

Subscribe now

Eight months this week
We’ve exchanged I Love Yous and
He’s met my parents over coffee and
Me at the terminal with
Flowers in the cup holder that were
Fake
Like my smile on that silent ride home
I fear that the years with him might
Fly
Like that plane I took to California
Where everything was
Green
And made me wonder, is it finally time to 
Wander?

How do I tell him that I caught my
Breath
When I caught that flight away from him?

How do I tell him that I’ve questioned what he's best at?
Not football
Not freeways
Not food
Maybe it's...
Friends?
We do have community
That much I'll give
I also have a phone and
My money where my mouth is
It’s why I keep postage stamps
Tucked in my wallet

How do I tell him that I need space to
Run?
Not away,
Just around
Do I saddle up
Or settle down?
Settle up
Or close my mouth?

How do I tell him that my lease ends in
July?
And after that it might be goodbye?
August and everything after looks
Foggy
In my mind
I’ve recently wondered what keeps me with him
Should I suck it up and be
Content?
Or dare to dream of what comes
Next?
Riddle me this so I'm not riddled with
Regret

How could I possibly say all this to
My
Beloved
Dallas?

I’ve had a lot of feelings and words rattling inside of me these past few weeks. Some have spewed out aggressively and with a vengeance; those will live in my journal and never see the light of the internet. Others were like babies birthed en route to the hospital; ready to make an appearance and only in need of hands to catch them in their slippery beauty. Others, still, had a slow home birth with the lights dimmed and Kenny G on the stereo.

The following poems are the latter.

I originally shared them as Substack notes but the formatting was wonky and they feel too dear to leave them there. So whether these find you in your inbox or on a Substack scroll, enjoy! Straight from the heart of a twenty-something who loves her right-now and also aches for a will-be.

Holding

by Kayci Pharaon

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

My second cup of coffee, with a slight shake

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

The kind-eyed gaze of the barista who refilled that cup for free

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

My cards further from my chest

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

My friends’ hands

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

A hanger with my third blue bridesmaid dress in just as many years

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

A sleeping baby that’s not mine

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

On, not out

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Everything loosely

The Field

by Kayci Pharaon

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Books give me glimpses and

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Songs sing me whispers of

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

That faraway field

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

That’s calling my name

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

My fingernails crave the dirt and

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Future wounds await the hurt of

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

That faraway field

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

That’s calling my name

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Long time coming like your legs next to mine

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Giddy explorers, we trek a few miles in

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

This faraway field

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

That called both our names

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

The sun is rising, erasing this view

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

I miss you already but I’ll see you soon in

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

That faraway field

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

That’s calling our names

Yours,

Kayci

January 29th. The date felt familiar to my pen as I wrote it in my journal but I couldn’t place its importance. As I drove to my friend’s house in my new city, it hit me. My (other) childhood best friend’s birthday. Birthday sleepovers in elementary school became birthday wishes in the halls of our high school became birthday texts in college became this.

I’m visiting my hometown this weekend to celebrate my brother’s eighteenth birthday. Even typing that makes me want to cry celebratory tears over the man he’s become and mournful tears over the years that flew. My hometown, like most Texas towns, has no shortage of donut stores. I grew up going to Max Donuts because it was closest to our house and Mr. Dale greeted us by name. I drove to Max this morning to meet family friends for a donut date before the kids went to school. I knew logically that I was twenty-two in that moment, but the familiarity of the streets hypnotized me into wondering if I was seven and heading to Krause Elementary. I wonder what Mr. Dale is up to these days.

Going back to my hometown used to feel like Mia returning to Boulder City, NV in La La Land. Now it feels more like Mia returning to the coffee shop on the Warner Bros lot in the film’s epilogue. Huh.

I held the door open for an older man at the thrift store today. He smelled like my Grandpa, who passed away almost seventeen years ago. That sticky cigarette smoke was like a little wormhole in my memories.

At the thrift store, I saw a sweatshirt hanging on the rack that I donated the last time I was home. I wondered if it was a sign to return it to my closet, but I ultimately decided it to leave it. I’m glad to know it’s out there, and I hope it finds a loving new home. I feel the same way about certain relationships. Best left on the rack of fond memories.

I used to measure drives by the number of songs I could listen to. From my house to my high school parking spot was usually two. Now I measure drives by the number of albums I can listen to. From work to home in rush hour is usually two.

I ordered black coffee at the place I used to order an iced caramel macchiato. Is this adulthood?

When I was a toddler, I told my parents that Crocs felt like “mashed a-tatoes on my feet.” Today I bought a pair of Crocs flip-flops for my upcoming trip to San Diego. I can confirm, two decades later, that I was onto something back in 2005.

An old friend from my drill team days took my order at lunch today. She said her daughter is five now, which means it’s been five years since I graduated high school. Five years since we knew more about each other than how I take my cheeseburger. I drove home with my cheeseburger riding shotgun, past Max Donuts and my childhood home with the giant oak tree. My dad and I built a treehouse in that tree fifteen years ago, but we moved away and the treehouse is long gone. I passed the hill I learned how to ride a bike on and remembered that my bike was stolen from my college apartment this time last year. Note to self: buy a new bike.

I grew bitter over the course of years in that environment. My “relationship” with God became isolated and feelings-based. I existed spiritually in a vacuum. I worshiped my emotions and drowned in their ebbs and flows. It got exhausting, journaling and self-diagnosing in my own strength as a hormonal teenager. I numbed my hurt with a puddle of scripture but had not learned how to drink deeply. I knew about myself but didn’t know God.

The pendulum swung from the intellectual approach to God modeled by my church to the emotional approach I developed in wounded response. I can gather all the information about God I want, but that is not the same as personally knowing Him. I can dive as deeply into myself as I want, but that’s a prideful and lonely existence.

My death was so slow but I didn’t know I was dying.

A few important things happened next. One, my black-and-white childhood religion and I encountered Jesus.

Two, I took a philosophy class.

The first is obviously the headliner here! But paired with the second? It flipped my world on its head.

I felt so sophisticated seeing Plato and Voltaire on the syllabus. “Should I buy a beret? Maybe take up smoking cigarettes?” I decided against both and strutted into class, strapped with innocence and at least a dozen highlighters. The class required a mental fortitude I had not yet exercised in college. It was satisfying to get A’s for thinking deeply.

A third important thing happened. Serious sexual allegations had come to light about leaders in my college ministry, and I was making the painful choice to step away from the organization after months of praying for direction. The ship was sinking and I was still leading a small group. Discipleship in that season was gritty, to say the least.

I sobbed my eyes out alone in my car. I listened to pure by Abbie Gamboa in my dark closet and let her words speak for me when I couldn’t form my own. I sat in parks and stared off into the distance (still no cigarette in hand). I grappled with everything I’ve ever believed, inside and out of the classroom. Meanwhile, my classmates were writing these eloquent essays and keeping their eyes dry during class roundtables. I couldn’t catch my breath. Wrestling with these questions well was no longer a matter of making the dean’s list. It was a survival tactic. I had gnarly, incessant questions spewing out of me and few answers to appease them.

I could have easily resorted to bitterness and no one would have blamed me. Instead, I brought my open wound of a heart to God. My teenage self collapsed into herself when she felt wounded, but this time I knew I had to look beyond myself. My internal mess didn’t contain the answers to clean it up.

I sat through a sermon around that time where the speaker taught on Doubting Thomas and condemned his questioning. I was in a season of asking hard questions and touching the wounds of Jesus, but being told from a stage to hold my questions because doubt reflects distrust. It wasn’t distrust in God that guided my questions. It was desperation and neediness for Him. I asked big questions and aimed them at the feet of Jesus. Not out of attack, but as a form of surrender.

I learned that semester that I was the one afraid of what I might find if I explored Aristotle’s writings and poked at my lurking doubt. God was never afraid of my questions, even if He didn’t answer all of them. He sat with me in the tension. He taught me about His nature through both the Bible and philosophy books. He revealed Himself to me through brilliant people who deny His very existence. I recognized my narrow view of Him and my growling hunger to see Him rightly. I had conversations with my professor along the way, who acted more as a therapist than anything else. She fueled my curiosity and pointed me back to God by answering my questions with even more questions.

It hit me one day toward the end of the semester, as I looked at the white board with its squiggles and illegible notes. I understood in that moment that I understand absolutely nothing, and I don’t need to know everything if I know the Father. It brought such intense relief to my aching heart. I learned that wonder is a powerful force, and it matters what direction I wonder in. Are my questions pointing me to the Father or to myself?

I learned that my questions can be a shovel or a sword.

My feelings in that dark night proclaimed that everything was hopeless and community was not worth the heartache because we’re all sinful and doomed. Listening to those feelings exclusively would have landed me in a pit.

My thoughts were full of doubt and curiosity. Worshiping the questions themselves and not the God I asked them to would have also landed me in a pit.

I felt the pendulum in me starting to swing again. But this time, it rested in the middle. I can think and feel deeply, if I bring both to the altar.

Feel the feelings. Think the thoughts. It is absolutely possible to reconcile intellect, emotions, and truth. You’re a theologian, after all! You were made in the image of a thinking, feeling God of indescribable depth.

Your thoughts about Him are not what make you holy. Your feelings toward Him are not what make you holy. You cannot think or feel yourself into His presence or affections.

What makes you holy is Him.

What a relief to be off the throne of my heart. And what a journey to wake up every morning and surrender my heart, soul, mind, and strength afresh and out of love.

He cares about what you think and how you feel. But more than anything, He wants to know you and be known by you, in every season you find yourself in. He’s not afraid of your questions. Bring your doubt and sit with Him anyway. Let His voice be the loudest, that still small whisper it usually is.

A month after I finished my philosophy class, my mom and I got matching question mark tattoos on our wrists to celebrate my 21st birthday. It is my permanent reminder, intentionally located on my writing hand, to ask questions and surrender them in the right direction, as worship.

These are the pieces of media (art!!!) that stopped me in my tracks this year. The ones that became so familiar that engaging with them felt like a conversation with an old friend. I cried over many of them and wholeheartedly recommend all of them.

Books

I read 71 books this year, which is a personal best. It’s no coincidence that time away from Instagram made more space in my life for books, but also increased my attention span. The writing quality of what I read improved greatly and began to matter to me more. I savored classics like Pride and Prejudice, which I had previously never had the endurance to read, much less, enjoy.

I will probably always prefer physical books, but the Kindle/Libby combo came in clutch this year. (I left my first Kindle on a plane back in July, and didn’t realize how much I loved it until it was gone. Shoutout to my parents for restoring order to my world with Kindle number two!!) Moving to Dallas also gave me access to dozens of new bookstores. I shop used as much as possible (hi, Half Price Books flagship), but splurge occasionally at a local bookstore. My favorites in the DFW area are Neighbor Books and The Wild Detectives.

Of the 71 books I read in 2025, these are my very favorites.

“What the Wind Knows” by Amy Harmon (fiction)

My best friend has been recommending this book to me for years it seems. I wish I read it sooner. Irish historical fiction time travel romance. What more could I ask for? Checked every box. Couldn’t put it down. Made me cry. Perfection.

“Walking on Water” by Madeleine L’Engle (nonfiction)

Mrs. L’Engle would have killed on Substack. A stunning book about being a Christian creative.

“Remarkably Bright Creatures” by Shelby Van Pelt (fiction)

I’ll admit, the general hype surrounding this novel and the idea of an octopus main character made me skeptical. But it deserves every accolade and will stay with me for a long time. A funny and moving portrait of grief in the PNW. I read it plopped in front of the ocean which felt oh so appropriate.

“Thirsting” by Strahan Coleman (nonfiction)

Thank you Substack for leading me to Strahan Coleman!!! I have dreamed about online spaces with Spirit-filled contemplatives, and here he is. This book is phenomenal.

Related:

• The song “My Beloved” by Eliza King

• Steffany Gretzinger’s “Only for the Thirsty” sermon

• Song of Songs!!!

  

“How to Stay Married” by Harrison Scott Key (nonfiction)

HSK is one of my favorite discoveries of 2025. Read this book if you’re married, engaged, single, literally anything. Laugh out loud funny and beautifully honest. My mom read it shortly after I did, and it was an excellent conversation starter.

I just finished his most recent memoir Congratulations, Who Are You Again? and loved it as well. I highly recommend both, but How to Stay Married made my shortlist.

“Small Things Like These” by Claire Keegan (fiction)

Very Irish and perfect for these few weeks surrounding Christmas and New Years. Here’s what I recommend:

1. Make a cup of tea. Irish breakfast tea, preferably.

2. Read this short story in one sitting. Curled up by a window with a blanket, preferably.

3. Watch the film adaptation. In a dark room alone, preferably.

4. Go down a rabbit hole of the historical events that inspired the story. On Reddit, preferably.

Honorable Mentions

• Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell

• Emotionally Healthy Spirituality by Pete Scazzero

• The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides (so good, it made me leave my Kindle on a Frontier plane!)

Movies

I watched 47 new-to-me movies this year, which is down significantly from 87 last year. Evidence of shifting priorities, although there are few things in the world I love more than a solo matinee. I find myself increasingly exhausted by all the options in the world of streaming. Most times I scroll for thirty minutes, turn off the TV, and pick up a book instead. But alas! Roll the favorites!

A Real Pain (directed by Jesse Eisenberg)

The characters in this film were almost too familiar for my comfort. You will likely either resonate with Culkin or Eisenberg and be utterly annoyed by the other. Plus, Jennifer Grey!! 9 stars out of 10.

28 Years Later (directed by Danny Boyle)

Boyle and Garland, back together at last! If you’re familiar with this franchise, a threequel was scrapped years ago and the two collaborators parted ways. They skipped over 28 months and straight into 28 years, which was the better creative choice in my opinion.

As a general rule, I don’t like zombie movies or anything that has to do with infectious diseases, shaky cams, or jump scares. But I love this franchise. And I think this is the strongest installment. Excellent soundtrack. Impressive casting. Exciting world-building. The fourth movie comes out next month and I’m stoked! Long live Ralph Fiennes. 8 stars out of 10.

Honorable Mentions

• Hamnet (Jessie Buckley, come get your Oscar!!!)

• Scream 2 and 4 (this is my list and I will make it a rollercoaster if I so choose)

• Superman

• Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (The final scene made me cry and I feel no shame)

Music

A few things worth noting that shaped this list:

• My preferred method of listening to music these days is one album at a time, from top to bottom. I think that’s vinyl’s influence on me.

• I typically fixate on one artist at a time and wear out their discography.

• They say you’re either a music or lyrics person. (I don’t know who “they” are, but they’re out there and they’re saying this.) I’m a lyrics gal. I love when an album has something to say and does it cohesively.

Pale, Through the Window by Ruston Kelly

There was a difficult stretch of 2025 where I only cried once. Emotional constipation, if you will. (Quite concerning for this deep feeler.) This album is what broke that two-month dry spell. I sat in Dallas traffic on September 12th and encountered God through this album. I rushed out and bought a signed copy from a local record store to support Ruston Kelly in any way I could.

I saw Ruston open for Maren Morris a few years ago, when he was battling drug addiction and fresh off a high profile divorce from Kacey Musgraves. Both were evident in that performance. Since then, he has gotten engaged and been open about sobriety and his faith journey. These three components are the beating heart of the perfectly paced thirteen-track record.

Album standouts, if I absolutely had to choose:

• Give Up the Ghost (the song that broke the dam)

• Me and You

• I See You

• Great Wide Open

The Pressing In by Eliza King

This album is holy and anointed. Not since Abbie Gamboa’s pure has a collection of songs been so dear to my heart. Truly the soundtrack of my secret place. Thank you, Eliza King, for sharing this gift with the world!!

Album standouts:

• My Beloved (my top song of the year)

• Prayerlessness

• Foolish & Ruined

Pressure Machine by The Killers

I’m late to the party on this record. Consider this my formal apology to Mr. Flowers and company.

I usually listen to the abridged version, but I recommend listening to the unabridged version at least once for the talking intros. Inspired by a Utah childhood, this album’s narrative is explored through a handful of individual stories. It might not be their most musically cohesive or critically successful album…but it’s a banger.

Album standouts:

• Sleepwalker

• In Another Life

• Pressure Machine (my very favorite)

• The Getting By

Meditations of a Bride by Cindy Parrish

I spent a lot of time this year reading Revelation and Song of Songs, and I feel such a fear of the Lord surrounding the bride of Christ preparing herself for Jesus. This is a short and tender collection of songs for the Bridegroom, from the bride.

Album standouts:

• His Name is Jesus

• Perfect Peace

• Waiting for Spring (my favorite on the album)

Honorable Mentions

• SABLE, fABLE by Bon Iver (Justin Vernon is a genius. “From” is the album highlight for me!)

• Magic by Ben Rector (an oldie but a goodie)

• Rushmere by Mumford & Sons (not entirely cohesive but when it’s good, it’s GOOD)

• 1350 by UPPERROOM (my favorite worship record of the year)

  ---

  What a year. Even more to love in 2026!

“What follows you around?”

He could easily be a serial killer

or an in-between-the-lines reader.

I chewed on it for a day then replied,

“My shadow follows me around.

In it is

self-sufficiency,

pride,

and envy.

I know Jesus shines before me,

but it feels like my shadow deepens

the closer we get.”

So honest,

I catch myself off guard.

Blindspot sins and residual shame.

Too honest?

Ben just replied,

“I hear you.

Friend,

He cleanses your shadow places.

The great Light of the world came

for even your shadow to know Him,

and so you could rest in His.”

I harbored bitterness towards my spiritual leaders who kept quiet when I wished they’d shouted. I was sad for my friends who had been hurt directly and in the blowback. I was angry at the seemingly endless rug and how much got swept under it.

My tears were relentless. Could I lock myself in my closet with just me and Jesus? Could I keep doing the whole Christian thing, sans other Christians? Could I change my name and dissociate from broken, sinful people? (Those options all seemed safer but would ultimately mean living a life outside community and God’s design. And I’m one of those broken, sinful people. The plan wasn’t airtight.)

On one of many weepy drives through the country, I cried out to God and asked Him to father me. He answered immediately and poetically; I passed a yellow “dead end” sign surrounded by wildflowers. The sight took my breath away.

The Father showed me that some dead ends are beautiful. They may not be the destination, but can still be worth the scenic detour.

I mistook a group of Jesus-loving people for the Man himself. It was a painful lesson to lose my house in a sand trap of flesh and bone, but it was absolutely worth it when I rebuilt on the rock. I met some of my best friends in that organization. I became aware of my hunger. I began learning how to be a disciple. God ultimately used a broken group of believers to lead me back to Him. No assembly of humans, however much they love Jesus, will be perfect. That truth alone was a balm for my disappointed soul and worth all the tears.

Disappointment in relationships seems to be the common denominator in the beautiful dead ends of my life. Not only being let down, but being the person who does the letting down. That’s painful to recognize.

I’ve hurt the people closest to me. I don’t (yet) know how not to run. I’m not as emotionally healthy as I want to be. I have much room for improvement and am learning every day how to be a true friend. I’m taking responsibility for past hurt I inflicted, and have had conversations of acknowledgement in attempt to heal those wounds.

Maybe we were in each other’s lives shortly but purposefully. We each needed a hand to hold when it got dark and twisty. We’ll bid farewell and find another companion and new road when it’s right. I trust that our short-lived journey had meaning even if it ended suddenly. Thanks for being my travel buddy.

I pulled over on the same country road a year later for a photo. The next batch of wildflowers was wilting but my heart was healing.

To be human is to disappoint and be disappointed. To walk the narrow road is to learn how to handle that double-edged disappointment.

God, help me navigate the dead ends and disappointments. Teach me to handle redirections gracefully. I want to be a good friend and see my travel companions rightly. Give me discernment to know which roads are worth the pilgrimage. I trust that You’ll reveal yourself even in the cul-de-sacs. You’re on the driveways and highways alike. It’s a long journey ahead and I need you always.

I’m now a fresh university grad (with a different major than I declared at age twelve, for the record) in a new city. It feels like the whole world, for better or for worse, is sprawled in front of me. I’ll happily enjoy the freedom of choosing which coffee shop to frequent and what time to fall asleep. I’ll pay my taxes and take the trash out on Mondays. I’ll mop my floors and drive the speed limit most of the time. What I will not do is join the rat race that is modern hustle culture. I will not manipulate my fellow man to earn a paycheck. I will not live an unfulfilling life just to drive a nice car and mow a big yard. That’s not the direction I want to grow up in.

God has planted an undeniable craving for childlikeness in my gut. You could scoff and argue that I still am a child at twenty-two, but I’m straddling the line of adulthood and can see both sides well enough to know that we “grown ups” have a lot to learn. Our priorities are out of whack and our eyesight is shallow. What if the pursuit of maturity is actually stunting our growth?

I sat in a prayer set this morning and considered what it means to be like a child. I opened a fresh page, put myself in the shoes of a five-year-old, and let my imagination run wild. This is what I (a childless woman in her twenties whose only childrearing experience is babysitting) came up with.

What do children do?

• dance barefoot

• cry unashamedly

• splash in puddles

• dress in crazy colors

• ask for water in the middle of the night

• make friends freely

• create for the fun of it

• scribble

• take naps

• go to bed early

• believe in the impossible with unwavering faith

• expect and accept discipline

• act silly

• daydream

• feel deeply

• make up games on the playground

• run to the big bed when it thunders

• play hard enough to get scraped knees

• hold a hand to cross the street

• ask lots of questions

• share and trade lunches

• request bedtime stories

• soak up knowledge like a sponge

• laugh outrageously

• sit cross-cross-applesauce for circle time

This list is my unofficial guide to navigating the adult world. I notice a thread of wonder, a lack of self-focus, and a total dependence on someone bigger than myself. I’ve graduated from the kiddie pool and am now wearing floaties in the deep end. I’m an adult but not a real adult. Basically, it’s my first day of grown up kindergarten.

On my first day of real kindergarten in 2008, I cried into my mom’s shoulder and choked out “I don’t want to go to kindergarten” in between sobs. The moment was videoed and posted on the internet for your enjoyment. Eventually I came around to the idea and got dressed in my Nancy Drew-inspired outfit.

My parents walked me down the hall to Mrs. Bolcerek’s classroom and I quickly settled in with my new friends. The day was fun and smooth until my new friend Pedro threw up on all over my brand new messenger bag. I walked him down to the nurse and haven’t forgotten him since. (Hope you’re well, Pedro.) My takeaways?

1. Tears are okay.

2. Wear an outfit you love, even if no one else would choose it.

3. Pedro might throw up on you, but walk him down to the nurse’s office like a good friend anyway.

4. Your mom won’t abandon you at school, and she’ll probably even take you for a fun snack after pickup.

I’m considering the childlike adults I know and how I can learn from them. At the top of the list is my mom, a gifted kindergarten teacher and my favorite person in the world. She owns unicorns and gnomes. She dresses in rainbows. She plays on her hands and knees. She tells each of her students “I love you” everyday. She teaches them about their big feelings and honors them. She makes sure no friend is left out. May we all be like Mrs. Pharaon.

Find the childlike adults in your life. Wonder. Play. Swing on a swing set. Pay your taxes. Enter the kingdom of God.