Reflections

The Hidden Beliefs Shaping Who You Are: Look for the Threads

The Hidden Beliefs Shaping Who You Are: Look for the Threads

Posted on by mrsmonarch

There is a phrase I have said more times than I can count.

Maybe you have said it too.

“I’m fine.”

Sometimes I actually am.

But there have been plenty of times when “I’m fine” meant something else entirely.

It meant:

I’m not fine at all.

I don’t know how to talk about this.

I don’t have time to fall apart.

I don’t know if this is a safe place to unpack it.

If I start talking about it, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.

Please don’t ask me again.

And sometimes, if I’m really honest, it has meant:

“If I can convince you I’m fine, maybe I can convince myself.”

I don’t think most of us do this because we’re trying to deceive anyone.

I think we do it because we’re trying to keep functioning.

We have things to do. People who need us. Jobs to finish. Meals to make. Messages to answer. Responsibilities to carry.

So we develop little phrases, little habits, little ways of moving through the world that help us keep going when something underneath us is hurting.

“I don’t care.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“I can handle it.”

“I’m just tired.”

“That’s just how I am.”

“I don’t need anybody.”

“I’ll deal with it later.”

Sometimes those things are true.

But sometimes they are cover stories.

And I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what might be underneath them.

Not because I want to diagnose us.

Not because I think every difficult experience from childhood is secretly some enormous trauma.

And certainly not because I think we need to spend the rest of our lives digging around in the past.

Quite the opposite.

I think there may be enormous value in becoming curious about the things we have been carrying without realizing we were carrying them.

Because before we start talking about growth, perhaps we need to know what we’re growing from.

You Can’t Grow an Acre in a Flowerpot

Our culture is absolutely fascinated with growth.

Be better.

Think better.

Eat better.

Exercise more.

Set boundaries.

Build confidence.

Become your best self.

Heal your inner child.

Raise your standards.

Change your mindset.

Set goals.

Get disciplined.

And some of that advice is genuinely good.

But I’ve been thinking about something:

You can’t grow an acre’s worth of garden in a ceramic pot on your porch.

Not without first considering the soil.

What’s already in it?

What’s growing there?

What has taken root?

What’s depleted it?

What’s been buried?

What has been watered?

What has been neglected?

What has been growing quietly beneath the surface while you were busy trying to plant something new?

I think our inner lives work much the same way.

Before we start throwing seeds of self-improvement into the soil, perhaps we should stop and take inventory.

Not because something is wrong with us.

Because where we begin matters.

I Remember Being Picked Last

I can still remember being in third grade, standing on the school playground while teams were being chosen for kickball.

The power players were chosen first.

Then came everybody else.

I was the second-to-last kid chosen.

And even then, I wasn’t really chosen because somebody wanted me on their team. There was one other girl left, and apparently I was considered the slightly less risky liability.

I remember the feeling.

Pick me.

The embarrassment of standing there while name after name was called.

The quiet humiliation of being passed over.

And the painful realization that nobody seemed particularly excited to have me.

I wasn’t sitting there thinking about childhood development or self-esteem.

I was a little girl.

I just knew it hurt.

And I don’t know exactly what that moment contributed to the woman I became.

Maybe it contributed something.

Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe it was one tiny thread among many.

That’s actually the point.

Not every formative experience is huge.

It doesn’t have to be catastrophic.

It doesn’t have to qualify as trauma.

It doesn’t even have to be something we remember clearly.

Sometimes it’s a comment.

A comparison.

A rejection.

A moment of embarrassment.

A time we felt invisible.

A time we were praised only when we performed well.

A time we learned that someone else’s happiness seemed more important than our own feelings.

A time we needed comfort and didn’t know how to ask for it.

Sometimes it’s one event.

Sometimes it’s a hundred little ones.

And sometimes those experiences begin weaving themselves together.

Look for the Threads

Think about a blanket.

When you’re wrapped up in one, you don’t see thousands of individual threads.

You feel warmth.

You feel comfort.

You feel protected.

But the blanket is nothing more than a vast collection of individual threads woven together.

Our lives are like that.

A moment happens.

We experience it.

We interpret it.

We decide what it means.

Then another experience comes along.

And another.

And another.

Sometimes the experiences aren’t even objectively the same.

But they feel the same.

And somewhere inside us something whispers:

“See? There it is again.”

I wasn’t chosen.

See? There it is again.

I’m being overlooked.

See? There it is again.

Someone else was preferred.

See? There it is again.

I’m disappointing somebody.

See? There it is again.

I’m not enough.

And eventually, those individual experiences can become woven together so tightly that we stop seeing them as individual threads at all.

They become part of the blanket.

Part of the way we see ourselves.

Part of the way we interpret other people.

Part of the way we make decisions.

Part of the way we protect ourselves.

Sometimes even part of what we call “just who I am.”

What If Today’s Reaction Isn’t Entirely About Today?

Have you ever had a reaction that surprised even you?

Something happens and suddenly you’re way more hurt than you think you should be.

A comment.

A rejection.

Someone else’s silence.

A friend’s choice.

A spouse’s behavior.

A criticism.

Being left out.

Feeling ignored.

And you find yourself thinking:

“Why is this affecting me this much?”

Instead of immediately telling yourself you’re overreacting, what if you became curious?

Ask:

Is my reaction entirely about what is happening right now?

Maybe it is.

But maybe today’s event has touched an old thread.

Ask yourself:

Have I felt this particular feeling before?

When?

Where?

With whom?

What was happening?

And then, perhaps the hardest question:

What did younger me decide about herself the other times she felt this way?

Maybe she decided:

I’m not important.

I’m not pretty enough.

I’m too much.

I’m not enough.

I have to work harder to be chosen.

I can’t depend on people.

My needs are inconvenient.

If I make everybody happy, they’ll stay.

If I’m useful, I’ll be valuable.

If I never need anything, nobody can disappoint me.

We may not consciously remember making these decisions.

Children don’t usually sit down and formulate beliefs about themselves.

They experience something and try to make sense of it with the information they have.

And sometimes the explanation they come up with follows them into adulthood.

This Isn’t About Blaming the Past

I want to be very careful here.

We’re not building a courtroom.

We’re not trying to find somebody to blame for every insecurity we have ever experienced.

And we’re not going to turn ordinary childhood moments into diagnoses.

We’re investigating.

That’s different.

Because something can have affected you without being the single cause of everything you struggle with.

Someone else’s choices can hurt you without becoming their permanent ownership of your identity.

And a childhood experience can matter without needing to be labeled catastrophic.

We’re simply becoming curious about the threads.

Because sometimes today’s reaction isn’t entirely about today.

Sometimes today’s moment is touching something that has been woven into us for a very long time.

And We Don’t Have to Pull the Whole Blanket Apart

That’s important, too.

We’re not going backward so we can live there.

We’re going backward just far enough to understand what came forward with us.

We’re not digging through our past because we’re broken.

We’re digging because what we don’t understand can quietly continue to influence us.

And eventually, what we have never examined can begin to feel like identity.

That’s just who I am.

I’m just sensitive.

I’m just a perfectionist.

I’m just independent.

I’m just a worrier.

I’m just not good with conflict.

But what if some of those things aren’t simply personality?

What if some of them are learned responses?

What if some of them began as protection?

What if something that protected us then is quietly imprisoning us now?

I don’t know.

And neither do you.

Not yet.

That’s why we’re going to investigate.

So This Week, Just Notice

I don’t want to give you a neat little three-step plan for fixing your life.

Life doesn’t work that way.

Neither does healing.

Instead, I want to invite you to become curious.

Maybe this week isn’t about figuring yourself out.

Maybe it’s simply about noticing.

Pay attention to the phrases you reach for when you’re overwhelmed.

Pay attention to the moments when your reaction seems bigger than the circumstance.

Pay attention to the feelings that seem strangely familiar.

Pay attention when something happens and a little voice inside you says:

“See? There it is again.”

You don’t have to figure out what it means yet.

You don’t have to force a memory.

You don’t have to decide that you’ve discovered the one event responsible for everything that has ever happened to you.

Just notice.

Maybe write it down.

And if something keeps tugging at your attention, let yourself become curious about it.

Because sometimes the first step toward healing isn’t changing anything.

Sometimes it’s finally seeing what is there.

Find One Thread

Maybe you have a phrase.

Maybe you have a reaction you don’t understand.

Maybe you have a feeling that seems strangely familiar.

Maybe you have a memory from childhood that you’ve never considered important.

Maybe you have absolutely no idea where to begin.

That’s okay.

We’re not looking for drama. We’re looking for patterns.

So don’t try to pull your entire blanket apart.

Just find one thread.

Hold it gently.

Look at it without judgment.

Wonder where it might lead.

Because we’re going to spend some time together over the next several weeks learning what to do with the things we uncover.

We’re going to look at the beliefs hiding underneath our coping mechanisms.

We’re going to examine what those beliefs have been doing in our relationships, our choices, our boundaries, our self-image, our striving, and even our attempts at self-improvement.

And eventually, we’re going to ask whether some of the things we have been trying so hard to change aren’t actually the things that need changing at all.

Maybe what needs changing is why we’re doing them.

Maybe the goal isn’t to become someone else.

Maybe it’s to become whole.

But we can’t begin to understand that until we know what we’re carrying.

So this week, don’t fix anything.

Don’t judge anything.

Don’t unravel the whole blanket.

Just look for the threads.

And if you find one…

write it down.

Because…

We’re going to need that thread. 🦋

 

Until Next Time, 


 

You Were Never Meant to Earn Your Worth

You Were Never Meant to Earn Your Worth

Posted on by mrsmonarch

I heard a story recently that has stayed with me far longer than I expected.

A husband was trying to explain why he had been looking at provocative pictures of other women online. In an effort to reassure his wife that it “didn’t mean anything,” he reached for an analogy.

“It’s like going to a car show,” he said. “You can admire the Lamborghinis. It’s not like you’re ever going to buy one.”

His wife didn’t miss a beat.

“Maybe not,” she replied. “But if someone handed you the keys and offered you a free test drive… I’m pretty sure you’d take it.”

Silence.

I’ve thought about that conversation for days.

Not simply because of the analogy itself.

But because I couldn’t stop thinking about what it might feel like to be the wife sitting across from him.

To suddenly wonder…

“So… I’m the old car in the driveway?”

“I’m the one who has aged.”

“I’m the one who can’t compete anymore.”

And then I realized something.

This conversation isn’t really just about pictures.

It’s about something much deeper.

It’s about authority.

Who Gave Them the Authority to Label You?

Who gets to decide what makes someone valuable?

Because somewhere along the way, many of us quietly accepted a lie.

We began believing our worth was something to earn instead of something to remember.

If I can lose the weight…

If I can erase the wrinkles…

If I can afford the right clothes…

If I can look younger…

If I can become more successful…

If I can finally be chosen…

Then I’ll be enough.

But every time we reach the finish line, it quietly moves.

That’s the cruel genius of shame.

It never lets us arrive.

The number on the scale changes.

The standard changes.

The comparison changes.

The person we’re trying to impress changes.

And suddenly the thing we thought would finally make us feel secure leaves us standing at the beginning of the race all over again.

Because the finish line was never real.

It was built on a lie.

And if we trace that lie all the way back to the beginning, we find it waiting for us in a garden.

“Did God really say…?”

Those were the first words of doubt whispered over humanity.

Did God really say you are loved?

Did God really say you are enough?

Did God really say your identity comes from Him?

Or do you need something else?

Something more?

Something you can earn?

The enemy has been asking the same question ever since.

The lie isn’t that caring for ourselves is unimportant. It is important.

Our health matters.

Our bodies matter.

Our emotional and spiritual growth matter.

We are responsible for stewarding the life God has entrusted to us.

But there is a profound difference between caring for ourselves because we know we have value…

and trying to create value through self-improvement.

One is stewardship.

The other is striving.

One grows from identity.

The other is an attempt to earn it.

I think many of us need to ask a difficult question:

When did I start believing someone else had the authority to define what God had already declared?

When did I hand someone else the microphone?

When did my reflection become louder than my Creator?

When did another person’s approval become more powerful than God’s voice?

Culture grabs that microphone all the time.

It says:

“You’re valuable if you’re young enough.”

“If you’re beautiful enough.”

“If you’re successful enough.”

“If you’re desirable enough.”

Comparison grabs it too.

“Look at her.”

“Look what she has.”

“Look how easily she is chosen.”

The enemy grabs it.

“You’re only what you’ve done.”

“You’re only what happened to you.”

“You’re only your failures.”

And little by little…

we forget the voice that spoke first.

The voice that said:

“You are Mine.”

This is where responsibility matters.

Not because responsibility is heavy.

Because responsibility is hopeful.

If my identity depends entirely on someone else’s choices, then I am powerless.

But if part of healing involves reclaiming whose voice I listen to…

there is hope.

Real hope.

I cannot control another person’s character. 

But I can examine my own.

I can ask:

What lies have I believed?

What voices have I trusted?

Where have I abandoned myself?

Where have I allowed fear to lead me?

Those questions do not bring shame.

They bring freedom.

Because there is a difference between guilt and shame.

Guilt says:

“I did something wrong.”

Healthy guilt has movement.

It invites confession.

Repentance.

Growth.

Restoration.

Shame says:

“I am what’s wrong.”

Shame doesn’t correct behavior.

It attacks identity.

And then there is another burden many of us carry without realizing it:

False responsibility.

“If someone hurt me, it must somehow be because I wasn’t enough.”

Not pretty enough.

Not young enough.

Not exciting enough.

Not thin enough.

Not successful enough.

Not desirable enough.

The human heart has a remarkable ability to turn someone else’s sin into evidence against itself.

Someone lies…

“Look at how stupid I was for trusting them!” 

Someone leaves…

“I must not have been lovable.”

Someone chooses something else…

“I must not have been worth choosing.”

But that responsibility was never ours to carry.

Healthy responsibility sounds different:

“I cannot control another person’s character or their choices. 

But I can examine my own.”

Maybe the question isn’t:

“Why did they do this to me?”

Maybe the deeper question is:

“Why did I allow their choices to become a statement about my worth?”

Not because I caused their choices.

Not because their actions were acceptable.

Not because my pain isn’t real.

But because I have the opportunity to reclaim something that was never meant to be surrendered.

My identity.

Maybe that’s why so many people stay too long in places where their souls slowly disappear.

Not because they are weak.

Not because they don’t know better.

But because somewhere along the journey, being chosen became more important than remembering they already belonged.

We accepted scraps because we were afraid of losing the table.

We silenced ourselves because we feared being alone.

We shrank ourselves because rejection felt unbearable.

We confused being wanted with being worthy.

But those are not the same thing.

Friend, if another person’s choices have wounded you, let me say this gently:

Your pain is real.

It should hurt.

Love always leaves us vulnerable.

But someone else’s choices were never meant to become the measuring stick for your identity.

There is only One who has the authority to answer the question:

“Who are you?”

And He answered long before culture had an opinion.

Long before social media created impossible standards.

Long before age left its fingerprints on your face.

Long before anyone failed to see your beauty.

Long before another person’s brokenness tempted you to question your own worth.

You are not a product sitting on a showroom floor waiting to be compared.

You are God’s workmanship.

His masterpiece.

Ephesians 2:10 tells us:

“For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.”

A masterpiece does not compete with another masterpiece.

A one-of-a-kind creation does not become more valuable because someone notices it.

Its value comes from the One who created it.

Perhaps healing doesn’t begin when everyone else finally recognizes your worth.

Perhaps healing begins the moment you remember they never had the authority to define you.

So today, maybe ask yourself:

Whose voice have I been trusting to tell me who I am?

And maybe, just maybe…

it is time to take back the microphone.

Until Next Time— Keep Becoming! 

When Someone Else’s Choices Make You Question Your Worth

When Someone Else’s Choices Make You Question Your Worth

Posted on by mrsmonarch

 *** A tender note before reading: Today’s post touches on betrayal, marriage wounds, and the painful questions that can surface when trust is broken. Please— take a deep breath and stay with this one. I believe it’s a post each of us can relate to in some way or another, and that even if the circumstances are a little different in your life, the message could still be helpful. ***  

Will I Allow You to Become

Will I Allow You to Become

Posted on by mrsmonarch

Last week, we focused on: 

“Will you allow me to become…”

 a different version of myself….

To allow old versions that are embarrassing or no longer accurate to slough away…

Can you know me better than anyone… including all my flaws and fears… and yet still encourage me to keep striving for that fresh, unblemished version of myself that I’m fighting to become? 

This week, we are shifting perspectives and asking: 

“Will I allow you to become?”

Those are not the same question.

The second one is much harder!

Because suddenly I’m the one being asked to loosen my grip.

Here’s the thing:

We all want grace…

until someone else’s growth inconveniences us.

That’s uncomfortable to admit.

We love the idea of redemption— when it’s our story.

We’re much more cautious when it’s someone else’s.

Why?

I don’t think it’s because we’re bad people.

I think it’s because someone else’s change threatens the emotional map we’ve built of our world.

Human beings crave predictability.

We don’t just love people…

We learn them.

We learn their reactions.

Their habits.

Their weaknesses.

Their strengths.

We know how conversations usually go.

We know what they’ll order at a restaurant.

We know which buttons not to push.

We know who they are.

Or at least…

we think we do.

Then one day they begin changing.

The recovering alcoholic says,
“I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

The quiet wife finds her voice.

The workaholic father retires and wants to learn to paint.

The adult child stops needing our advice.

The anxious friend becomes confident.

The people-pleaser begins saying no.

And suddenly…

our map no longer matches the territory.

That feels disorienting.

Not because their change is wrong…

but because our certainty has been taken away.

I also think there’s another emotion underneath it that we rarely admit.

If you change…

What does that require of me?

That’s the scary part.

Because if you’ve become healthier…

I may have to become healthier, too.

If you’ve learned better boundaries…

I can’t keep benefiting from your lack of them.

If you’ve healed…

I can no longer define you by your wounds.

If you’ve forgiven…

I may have to face the ways I’ve stayed bitter.

Someone else’s growth has a funny way of exposing where we’ve stopped growing ourselves.

That’s uncomfortable.

Sometimes it’s easier to insist,

“People don’t really change.”

Than to accept that they have…and ask why we haven’t.

Then there’s fear. It might sound like: 

“Maybe they’ll outgrow me.”

I think that fear is far more common than people realize.

Not just in marriage.

In Friendships.

With Parents.

In our Churches.

Even in workplaces.

When someone begins changing, the people around them often wonder,

“Will there still be room for me?”

It’s almost childlike.

“If you become someone new… will you still choose me?”

That’s a vulnerable question.

Sometimes we unconsciously resist another person’s growth because we’re afraid we’ll lose our place in their life.

Ironically…

trying to hold someone still is often the very thing that pushes them away.

Here’s another thought I haven’t shared before.

I think there are two very different ways to know someone.

One says,

“I know exactly who you are.”

The other says,

“I’m excited to keep discovering who you’re becoming.”

The first creates certainty. And, humans crave certainly! 

But the second creates intimacy. 

Those sound like the similar things.

They’re not.

Certainty says,

“I’ve finished reading your story.”

Intimacy says,

“I can’t wait for the next chapter.”

Consider the whole foundation of Built To Be A Butterfly.

Imagine if the caterpillar had people standing around saying,

“Stop pretending.

You’ll always crawl.

That’s who you’ve always been.

(And even worse) It’s what God created you to be!”

The cocoon would look ridiculous to anyone who only believed past evidence.

Transformation almost always looks unbelievable…

until it’s complete!

Maybe that’s why Scripture is filled with renamed people.

Abram became Abraham.

Sarai became Sarah.

Jacob became Israel.

Simon became Peter.

Saul became Paul.

God seemed strangely unwilling to let people remain known only by the evidence of who they’d been.

He kept introducing them according to who they were becoming.

What if…

that’s one of the ways we’re called to love each other?

Now— that said— my family of origin was terribly, irreparably fractured by the demons of mental illness, addiction and manipulation. 

I have learned the hard way that not every claimed change is genuine.

Sometimes people say they’ve changed while continuing the same harmful behavior, under the guise of “change”. 

So, Wisdom matters.

Trust is rebuilt over time.

Forgiveness doesn’t erase discernment!

But…

when genuine transformation is happening…

love should probably be the first to notice it.

Not the last.

Who in your life have you remembered so well that you’ve forgotten to notice who they’re becoming? Perhaps the greatest gift we can give the people we love isn’t holding on to who they were… but remaining curious about who God is still shaping them to be.

Is it the husband who has spent years trying to become gentler?

The adult daughter you’ve secretly continued mothering like she’s still sixteen?

The son who finally found his footing?

The friend who isn’t as fragile as she used to be?

Your parents… whose own hearts have softened with age?

We often think transformation is an individual act.

It isn’t.

Transformation is relational.

Every time one person changes, everyone who loves them is invited to change, too.

That’s why becoming is so beautiful.

And that’s also why it’s so costly.

Because God doesn’t only ask us to become new creations.

Sometimes He asks us to believe that someone else has become one, too.

And that may require its own kind of faith.

Until Next Time– 
Keep Becoming! 

 

☕ Join The Porch

If you found us through social media, Pinterest or Google, and this post encouraged you today, I’d love to invite you to Join us on “The Porch”, a members only on-line community who get emails like this every Tuesday and Friday evenings.

“The Porch” is exactly what your mind dreams up when it’s allowed to think of quieter, slower days. It’s a “place” we are building in cyberspace— that allows us to “gather” whenever our schedule allows, shut out the world and simple BE REFRESHED.

A 10-minute pit stop— twice a week— where I share encouragement, faith-filled reflections and honest conversations about the journey of becoming.

Pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee, and stay awhile.

[Join The Porch]

And– For those who live life on the GO— You can now listen to the audio version of Built To Be A Butterfly posts FREE on Spotify! 

Will You Allow Me to Become Someone You Haven't Met Yet?

Will You Allow Me to Become Someone You Haven’t Met Yet?

Posted on by mrsmonarch
For Those Who Keep Showing Up

For Those Who Keep Showing Up

Posted on by mrsmonarch

This week’s message is for the ones who keep showing up.

Not people looking for shortcuts.
Not people demanding applause.
Just… faithful people, doing the best they can, as they walk through difficult times. 

The daughter making another long drive to care for an aging parent.
The grandmother raising grandchildren when she thought that season of life was over.
The mother who spent decades pouring herself into her children only to feel forgotten.
The man who goes to work every day, pays the bills, keeps his promises, and wonders if anyone would notice if he stopped.
The volunteer who quietly serves every Sunday while carrying grief no one sees.

Friends, I’m here to proclaim what we all know and try hard not to say:

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from working too hard. It comes from loving hard. And wondering if it mattered.

I’m realizing that it isn’t simply that people are tired.

It’s that they’re beginning to question whether faithfulness is worth it.

Not because they expected a parade.

But because after years—even decades—of doing what was right, they secretly hoped there would at least be fruit.

A grateful child.

A healthier marriage.

A restored relationship.

A little acknowledgment. 

They were patient; knowing full well that planted seeds take time to bring forth fruit. So, they’ve waited and waited… and waited. 

But Instead of fruit…

They’ve been greeted by silence.

Distance.

More responsibility.

Another problem to solve.

Another person to carry.

And eventually the enemy begins whispering that age-old question:

“What was the point?”

I don’t think that question is asked nearly enough in Christian circles because it feels almost shameful.

But it is profoundly human. And our humanity is not shameful. It’s simply … frail. 

It needs Validation. Hope. Reminders! 

So here’s where it gets real: 

Jesus never measured results the way we measure them.

We count followers.

God counts obedience.

We count gratitude.

God counts sacrifice.

We count visible fruit.

God sees seeds buried in soil that hasn’t broken open yet.

That’s incredibly difficult for hearts that are hurting because we long to know that our pouring out actually mattered.

I keep coming back to the Old Testament idea of the tithe.

A tithe wasn’t valuable because the OT church needed to pay their electric bill.

It was valuable because it declared: “This belongs to God.”

***Sit with that thought a minute!***

What if every unseen act of service is like that?

Every meal cooked.

Every diaper changed.

Every elderly parent cared for.

Every difficult conversation handled with grace.

Every bill we worked hard to pay.

Every prayer whispered over children who never knew.

Every lonely shift at work.

Every sacrifice no one thanked you for.

Not wasted.

Offered.

A living tithe.

Placed in God’s hands before anyone else’s opinion ever gets to evaluate it.

Maybe that’s what faithfulness really is.

Not performing until someone notices.

But laying another day’s offering on the altar even when no one says thank you.

Because God has never confused hidden with insignificant.

There’s another thought I can’t shake:

The world tells us that our value is determined by what comes back around to us; what we “manifest”. 

The Kingdom has always worked differently.

Love first.

Serve first.

Give first.

Forgive first.

Plant first.

Sometimes harvest comes much later.

Sometimes someone else gathers the fruit from seeds we planted.

Sometimes we won’t see the full harvest this side of heaven.

That doesn’t make the planting meaningless.

 

Maybe today you’re carrying responsibilities that no one applauds.

Maybe you’ve spent years loving people who no longer call.

Maybe you’re wondering if all the giving, serving, praying, working, sacrificing, and simply showing up has made any difference at all.

Hear this, friend:

God has never overlooked a single offering you’ve laid before Him.

Not one meal.
Not one mile.
Not one tear.
Not one prayer.
Not one unseen act of love.

The world may reward performance.

Heaven remembers faithfulness.

Your service has never been invisible.

It has always been worship.

One final thought: There’s a temptation, when we’re wounded by the lack of gratitude or visible fruit, to conclude that the value of our service depended on the response we received.

But what if its value was established the moment we offered it to God?

That doesn’t erase the grief. It doesn’t make estranged children less painful, caregiving less exhausting, or lonely faithfulness any easier.

It does, however, move the weight of our worth from human hands back into God’s hands.

And perhaps that’s where weary servants finally find enough strength to offer one more day. 

Until Next Time– 
Keep Becoming! 

 

☕ Join The Porch

If you found us through social media, Pinterest or Google, and this post encouraged you today, I’d love to invite you to Join us on “The Porch”, a members only on-line community who get emails like this every Tuesday and Friday evenings.

“The Porch” is exactly what your mind dreams up when it’s allowed to think of quieter, slower days. It’s a “place” we are building in cyberspace— that allows us to “gather” whenever our schedule allows, shut out the world and simple BE REFRESHED.

A 10-minute pit stop— twice a week— where I share encouragement, faith-filled reflections and honest conversations about the journey of becoming.

Pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee, and stay awhile.

[Join The Porch]

And– For those who live life on the GO— You can now listen to the audio version of Built To Be A Butterfly posts FREE on Spotify! 

The People We Thought Would Show Up

The People We Thought Would Show Up

Posted on by mrsmonarch

Lately I’ve been learning something about people that I didn’t expect.

It’s not a lesson I went looking for. In fact, if I’m being honest, it’s one I would have gladly skipped.

For years, I struggled with technology. Anyone who knew me well knew that. Progress often felt slow and frustrating, and many of the things I wanted to create seemed to remain just out of reach.

Then, little by little, things began to change.

I learned new skills. The blog became more polished. Emails started reaching the right people. A podcast was launched. Systems that once felt impossible slowly began working together.

Most of that growth happened quietly, behind the scenes.

And with that growth came something unexpected.

Visibility.

For the first time, I could see some of what happened after I hit “publish.”

Who opened the email.
Who clicked the link.
Who returned week after week.

What surprised me wasn’t the technology.

It was the people.

Some people I assumed had forgotten all about me were still reading.

Some people I haven’t spoken to in years reached out with encouragement.

A few people I never expected to hear from again offered kind words that meant more than they probably realize.

And then there were others.

People I expected would be interested who never seemed to engage at all.

People I thought would celebrate the progress who appeared completely uninterested.

People whose silence hurt more than I wanted to admit.

I’d be lying if I said that doesn’t push on some of my own insecurities from time to time.

There are moments when I pour my heart into something and wonder if any of it matters at all.

Moments when the silence feels louder than the encouragement.

Moments when that little voice in the back of my mind whispers, “Nobody cares. You could stop tomorrow and no one would even notice.”

Perhaps you’ve heard that voice too.

I suspect most of us have.

At first, I found myself trying to make sense of it all.

Why does this person show up?

Why doesn’t that one?

Why do some people encourage us from a distance while others drift away?

The truth is, I don’t know.

And perhaps that’s the lesson.

People are far more complicated than the stories we tell ourselves about them.

The longer I live, the more I realize how little we truly know about what someone else is carrying.

We don’t know the weight of their responsibilities.

We don’t know the struggles they’re quietly fighting.

We don’t know the exhaustion they feel when they finally crawl into bed at night.

We don’t know which relationships are thriving and which are barely hanging on.

We don’t know which battles are visible and which are being fought in silence.

Sometimes a lack of response isn’t rejection at all.

Sometimes it’s simply the reality of being human in a world that feels increasingly heavy.

That doesn’t mean the silence never hurts.

It does.

But it reminds me to be careful about the stories I create when I don’t have all the facts.

I’ve come to realize that if I wait for perfect support, universal approval, or complete understanding from everyone around me, I’ll never move forward.

Someone will misunderstand.

Someone will disappoint.

Someone will leave.

But someone else will unexpectedly encourage.

Someone else will offer a kind word at exactly the right moment.

Someone else will remind you that what you’re doing matters.

And sometimes, that small act of encouragement becomes the very thing that puts gas back in someone’s tank when they’re running on fumes.

A quick text.

A thoughtful comment.

A kind conversation.

A moment taken to say, “I appreciate you.”

Those things matter far more than we often realize.

You may never know how close someone was to giving up before your words reached them.

You may never know how long they wrestled with doubt before your encouragement arrived.

You may never know how much courage a weary heart found because you took a moment to be kind.

Perhaps becoming who God created us to be requires learning to hold all of these truths at the same time.

To accept that people are imperfect.

To recognize that everyone is carrying something.

To offer grace where we can.

To release expectations we were never meant to carry.

And to keep moving forward anyway.

Not because everyone showed up.

Not because everyone understood.

Not because everyone applauded.

But because kindness COUNTS!

Dear Ones, purpose is too important to abandon just because someone didn’t respond the way we are hoping and our ego took a beating.

We need to remind one another that, sometimes, the encouragement we’re wishing someone would give to us is the very encouragement someone else needs from us today!

Until Next Time…

Keep Becoming! 


☕ Join The Porch

Members of the Built To Be A Butterfly Community get emails like this every Tuesday and Friday evenings. If you found us through social media, Pinterest or Google, and this post encouraged you today, I’d love to invite you to Join us on “The Porch”. 

What exactly IS “the Porch”? Hmmmm…. 

It’s exactly what your mind dreams up when it’s allowed to think of quieter, slower days. It’s a “place” we are building in cyberspace— that allows us to “gather” whenever our schedule allows, shut out the world and simple BE REFRESHED.

A 10 minute pit stop, twice a week where I share encouragement, faith-filled reflections and honest conversations about the journey of becoming.

And, if this season of life has you constantly on the go…. You can now listen to the audio version of this post on Spotify! 

Pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee, and stay awhile.

[Join The Porch]

 

When Love Becomes Care: The Sacred Weight of Showing Up for an Aging Father

When Love Becomes Care: The Sacred Weight of Showing Up for an Aging Father

Posted on by mrsmonarch

There are seasons in life that don’t announce themselves as sacred.

They arrive quietly… wrapped in responsibility, routine, and a kind of exhaustion you don’t fully notice until you’re already living inside it.

This is one of those seasons for me.

I’ve found myself sitting in more silence lately—not because there is nothing to say, but because what is unfolding feels too tender to rush.

Too layered to simplify.

Too real to package neatly.

And I’ve been learning that sometimes the most honest thing we can do is simply tell the truth about where we are… even when it doesn’t come out polished.

My father is aging in a way that is no longer subtle.

After my mom passed last year, everything shifted. The home they built together became too big for him to care for alone. So we made the decision to move him into an independent living facility—a place that is safe, supportive, and honestly very beautiful.

He has his own apartment. A balcony. A kitchen. A full calendar of activities if he feels up to them. Choir, art, social gatherings. A community around him.

On paper… he is cared for. And in many ways, he is.

But life is never just what’s on paper.

His body is weaker now.

His steps are slower.

His hands—especially—fight him because of neuropathy.

And beneath all of it is a quiet fragility that I can feel even when nothing is being said.

So my life has taken on a different rhythm.

Phone calls every day.

Medication organization.

Grocery orders through an app.

Six-hour drives each way, twice a month, to sit with him, refill pill packets, share meals, and simply be present.

And I won’t pretend I always carry it well.

There are days I am tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

Days where repetition wears thin and responsibility feels heavy.

Days where fear sits quietly in the background whispering what-ifs I don’t want to name out loud.

Because when you love someone in this stage of life, there is a thought that doesn’t fully go away:

What if something happens and I’m not there?

And yet… something else is happening too.

Something I didn’t expect.

Something I didn’t plan for.

There are moments—small, unassuming moments—where everything softens.

Where the pace slows down enough for something deeper to surface.

Where he is no longer only the father who carried everything… and I am no longer only the daughter being carried.

We are simply two people sitting in the same room sharing the precious gift of time.

And in that space, something tender is being rebuilt.

Not perfectly.

Not without tension.

But honestly.

We talk differently now.

More slowly.

More openly.

Sometimes revisiting old memories in ways that weren’t possible when life was loud and rushed and full of responsibility.

And I find myself realizing something I didn’t expect:

We are not only navigating decline.

We are also witnessing something sacred being restored.

It is not easy to name this season.

It is grief and gratitude sharing the same breath.

It is love that feels heavy and holy at the same time.

It is showing up again… and again… and again… even when I don’t feel strong enough for it.

But it is also connection.

It is presence.

It is healing in places I didn’t know were still open and wounded.

With Father’s Day approaching, I’ve been thinking about how complicated love becomes in seasons like this.

It’s no longer just celebration.

It becomes attention.

Witness.

Care in its most practical form.

And maybe that’s what I want to say most of all—if you are in a season like this too:

Don’t dismiss what has a chance to be rebuilt–even in the middle of what is being worn down.

Don’t assume the hard parts cancel out the holy parts.

Sometimes love doesn’t look like ease.

Sometimes it looks like showing up.

Quietly.

Repeatedly.

Faithfully.

Even when it costs something.

Even when it aches.

Even when you don’t have the emotional language for it yet.

Because there are winter seasons in life that don’t just ‘take’ from us. 

They reveal.

They deepen.

They reshape what love actually means.

And strangely… they are capable of still growing something beautiful.

Something honest.

Something that looks a lot like grace.

Here’s my closing thought: 

If you are walking through something similar, I hope you remember this:

Nothing sacred is wasted.

Not the hard days.

Not the repetition.

Not the fear you don’t say out loud.

Not the love that feels heavier than you expected.

It all matters.

Even here.

Even now.

Even in this season.

Until Next Time… 
Keep Becoming! 

☕ Join The Porch

If you found us through social media, Pinterest or Google, and this post encouraged you today, I’d love to invite you to Join us on “The Porch”, a members only on-line community who get emails like this every Tuesday and Friday evenings.

“The Porch” is exactly what your mind dreams up when it’s allowed to think of quieter, slower days. It’s a “place” we are building in cyberspace— that allows us to “gather” whenever our schedule allows, shut out the world and simple BE REFRESHED.

A 10-minute pit stop— twice a week— where I share encouragement, faith-filled reflections and honest conversations about the journey of becoming.

Pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee, and stay awhile.

[Join The Porch]

And– For those who live life on the GO— You can now listen to the audio version of Built To Be A Butterfly posts FREE on Spotify! 

 

 

Does Any of This Even Matter?

Does Any of This Even Matter?

Posted on by mrsmonarch

Some days, I look around at the world and wonder if anything I do makes a difference.

The world feels heavy lately.

People seem exhausted. Distracted. Angry. Lonely.

Everyone is scrolling, rushing, consuming, reacting, moving on to the next thing.

And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, I find myself asking a question that I suspect many of us ask:

Does any of this even matter?

Not in a dramatic, throw-my-hands-up-and-quit sort of way.

More in a quiet, honest way.

Does the meal I cooked matter?

Does the prayer I prayed matter?

Does the encouraging text I sent matter?

Does the blog post I wrote matter?

Does the conversation I had over coffee matter?

Am I actually making a difference, or am I simply adding another drop to an ocean so large it can never be noticed?

For a long time, I thought purpose looked big.

I thought meaningful work had to be impressive.

I thought impact should be measurable.

Surely if I was making a difference, there would be obvious proof.

There would be applause.

Testimonials.

Large numbers.

Visible results.

But the older I get, the more I suspect that much of the good we do in this world happens quietly.

The teacher never fully knows which student carried her words for decades.

The mother never fully knows which small moments shaped her children.

The friend never fully knows how much that one conversation mattered.

The person who chooses kindness over criticism never sees the ripple effect that decision creates.

And… The writer never hears from most of her readers.

So much of our impact remains invisible.

Not because it wasn’t important.

Because life simply doesn’t provide a report card for every act of faithfulness.

I used to think I needed to have everything figured out before I could share anything meaningful.

I wanted to write from the other side of the struggle.

I wanted to tell the story after the lesson had been learned, the problem solved, and the victory secured.

After all, who am I to speak on things I’m still learning?

Who am I to encourage others when I don’t have all the answers?

But somewhere along the way, I began to realize something.

If I wait until I’ve mastered every lesson before I share it, I may never share anything at all. And even if I did… who wants to learn from a know-it-all??! 

I’m learning that most of life isn’t solved. It’s being lived… often in the trenches, while we’re really struggling. 

And maybe people aren’t looking for experts nearly as often as they’re looking for companions.

Maybe they don’t need someone standing on a stage saying, “I’ve arrived.”

Maybe they need someone sitting beside them saying, “I’m walking this road too.”

That realization changed something in me.

I stopped waiting for inspiration quite so much.

I stopped waiting for certainty.

I stopped waiting until I felt qualified.

Instead, I started doing.

Here a little. There a little.

One conversation. One prayer. 

One act of kindness. One blog post.

One journal. One encouraging word.

Just showing up and placing what I have in God’s hands.

No grand strategy. No guarantees.

No certainty that it will matter.

Just faithfulness.

And perhaps that’s where purpose has been hiding all along.

Not in changing the whole world. Not in reaching everyone.

Not in building something impressive.

But in faithfully loving the people God places in front of us today.

The internet has plenty of stages. The world has plenty of people shouting.

What it often lacks are quiet places where people can sit down, exhale, and be honest.

What it lacks are people willing to offer kindness when criticism would be easier.

What it lacks are people willing to keep planting seeds even when they never get to see the harvest.

So if you’ve been wondering whether your life matters…

If you’ve been wondering whether your small acts of faithfulness are accomplishing anything…

If you’ve been wondering whether anyone notices…

I hope you’ll remember this:

You may never know the full impact of your obedience.

You may never see all the ripples.

You may never hear all the stories.

But that doesn’t mean they aren’t happening.

The good you do is not measured solely by what you can see.

Sometimes the most meaningful things we ever do look remarkably ordinary while we’re doing them.

A conversation. 

A prayer.

A meal.

A journal entry.

A kind word.

A small act of courage.

A simple act of showing up.

Here a little. There a little.

And perhaps, in the hands of God, that is more than enough.

☕ Join The Porch

If this post encouraged you today, I’d love to invite you to Join The Porch.

It’s a quiet place where I share weekly encouragement, faith-filled reflections, podcast updates, and honest conversations about the journey of becoming.

Pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee, and stay awhile.

[Join The Porch]

 

The Messy Side of Becoming

The Messy Side of Becoming

Posted on by mrsmonarch

This week, I became a podcaster.

Even typing those words feels a little strange.

A few months ago, if someone had suggested I’d be recording podcast episodes and uploading them to Spotify, I probably would have laughed and changed the subject. Yet somehow, after several people asked whether I had ever considered a podcast, curiosity finally got the better of me.

How hard could it be?

Record a short audio.

Upload it.

Share it.

Done.

At least, that was the plan.

What actually happened looked a little different.

There was the overthinking first.

What should I call it?

What category should it go in?

What artwork should I use?

Would anyone listen?

Would I sound ridiculous?

Then came the technology.

The recording itself went surprisingly well. Years ago, I took Speech and Debate and spent time speaking in front of groups, so talking into a microphone wasn’t nearly as intimidating as I expected.

Uploading it, however, was another story.

My phone and Spotify seemed determined not to cooperate.

Files wouldn’t go where I wanted them to go.

Settings had to be changed.

Permissions needed updating.

At one point, I had the same audio file saved in multiple places and still couldn’t figure out how to get it where it needed to be.

Then my phone stopped making calls.

Not exactly the outcome I was hoping for.

Somewhere in the process of trying to fix that problem, I accidentally entered a part of my phone I never knew existed. Suddenly, I was staring at a screen filled with strange codes, serial numbers, and an Android robot lying on its back looking like it was in the middle of surgery.

I had no idea what I had done.

For a brief moment, I was convinced I had permanently broken my phone.

Thankfully, I hadn’t.

Eventually, the phone was rescued.

The podcast was uploaded.

The trailer was recorded.

The calls started working again.

And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, God quietly reminded me of something.

For years, I thought growth was supposed to look cleaner than this.

I thought becoming looked organized.

Planned.

Predictable.

I assumed confident people took big steps because they already knew what they were doing.

But maybe that’s not how it works at all.

Maybe confidence grows after we take the step.

Maybe courage is simply deciding the possibility of growth is greater than the fear of looking foolish.

Maybe becoming is far messier than we expected.

The older I get, the more I realize that many of the things I once avoided weren’t impossible. They were simply unfamiliar.

I wasn’t afraid because I couldn’t do them.

I was afraid because I hadn’t done them yet.

There is a difference.

This season of life feels different than previous seasons.

For so many years, I carried an invisible pressure to get everything right. To perform. To achieve. To meet standards that no human being could consistently meet.

And honestly?

It was exhausting.

Lately, I’ve been learning to loosen my grip on perfection.

To laugh more.

To criticize myself less.

To allow room for mistakes, detours, and learning curves.

And the freedom that comes with that is hard to describe.

It feels a little like walking barefoot through cool meadow grass while a gentle breeze moves through the trees.

There is space to breathe again.

Space to enjoy the journey instead of constantly evaluating my performance along the way.

This week reminded me that growth rarely arrives wrapped in perfection.

Sometimes it arrives disguised as confusion, technical difficulties, wrong turns, and moments where you’re convinced you’ve broken something important.

But if you stay with the process, you often discover that what felt like failure was actually growth in progress.

The podcast exists.

The phone works.

The world didn’t end.

And perhaps most importantly, I had fun.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

Sometimes becoming doesn’t look like a butterfly gracefully emerging from a cocoon.

Sometimes it looks like an overwhelmed caterpillar accidentally pushing the wrong button and ending up somewhere completely unexpected.

Either way, growth is still happening.

And that, my friend, is a beautiful thing.

☕ Join The Porch

Members of the Built To Be A Butterfly Community get emails like this every Tuesday and Friday evenings. If you found us through social media, Pinterest or Google, and this post encouraged you today, I’d love to invite you to Join us on “The Porch”. 

What exactly IS “the Porch”? Hmmmm…. 

It’s exactly what your mind dreams up when it’s allowed to think of quieter, slower days. It’s a “place” we are building in cyberspace— that allows us to “gather” whenever our schedule allows, shut out the world and simple BE REFRESHED.

A 10 minute pit stop, twice a week where I share encouragement, faith-filled reflections and honest conversations about the journey of becoming.

And, if this season of life has you constantly on the go…. You can now listen to the audio version of this post on Spotify! 

Pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee, and stay awhile.

[Join The Porch]