Reimagining Identity: The Butterfly Girl Podcast Logo

Creating a logo for the Butterfly Girl Podcast was more than a design task. It became a reflection of identity, mission, and the heart behind the message I feel called to share.

When I first began thinking about a logo, I knew I didn’t want something generic or overly complicated. I wanted something that felt like an extension of the podcast itself. The Butterfly Girl Podcast is rooted in faith, healing, growth, and becoming who God created us to be. The logo needed to visually carry that same message.

The butterfly felt like the natural starting point. Butterflies represent transformation, renewal, and hope. They remind us that growth often happens in hidden, difficult seasons before something beautiful emerges. That symbolism aligns so deeply with the stories and conversations I share on the podcast. It reflects healing after hardship, finding your voice, and stepping into who you are meant to be.

Color played an important role as well. I chose teal and red intentionally. Teal brings a sense of calm, healing, and peace. It is also the color of Sexual Assault Awareness Month, which holds deep meaning in the work I feel called to do. So much of my mission centers around helping children find their voice, raising awareness, and supporting healing for those who have experienced abuse. Incorporating teal into the logo is not just a design choice. It is a quiet but powerful statement of solidarity, awareness, and hope. Red adds boldness, courage, and life. It represents the strength it takes to share your story, to speak up, and to walk forward in faith even when it feels uncertain. Together, these colors create a balance between gentleness and strength.

One of the most meaningful parts of the design process was incorporating faith in a subtle but powerful way. Instead of making the cross the focal point, I chose to place a soft glow of light at the center of the butterfly. It’s a quiet reminder that God is present in the transformation. The light doesn’t overpower the image, but it grounds it. That felt important. Faith is at the center of this podcast, but it is lived, experienced, and carried, not forced.

As I reflected more deeply on the logo, I also felt a strong pull to move away from the original version. The earlier logo, while meaningful in its own way, featured a literal image of me wearing butterfly wings. It captured a moment, but it didn’t fully capture the mission. It felt more personal than purposeful, more about an image than an invitation.

I began to realize that the podcast is not about me. It is about the message. It is about creating a space where others can see themselves, where healing can happen, and where transformation is possible. Shifting to a symbolic butterfly allows the logo to become more inclusive. It invites others into the story instead of centering it on a single image.

This change also reflects growth. Just like the butterfly itself, the podcast is evolving. What once felt like the right representation no longer fully holds the depth of what this space has become. And that is okay. Growth often calls us to refine, to realign, and to step more fully into purpose.

As the design came together, I kept returning to one question: does this reflect the heart of the mission? The answer, finally, felt like yes.

This logo is more than a design. It is a symbol of healing, awareness, faith, and transformation. It honors the stories that are shared, the voices that are finding their way, and the quiet, courageous work of becoming.

And in many ways, it feels like just the beginning.

Scars That Speak of Resurrection

On Thursday, a close friend sent me a meditation by Venerable Fulton J. Sheen titled Jesus of the Scars. It came at a time that felt anything but random. We are in the Easter season, a time when we celebrate the Resurrection and hold onto the truth that death does not have the final word. And knowing that this reflection came from someone who will be beatified this fall made it feel even more significant. Even more personally, he is from my home diocese, the Diocese of Peoria, which made the meditation feel less like something I happened to read and more like something I was meant to receive. 

As I read it, I was struck by how closely Easter remains tied to the Cross. One line stayed with me: “Unless there is a cross in our lives, there will never be an empty tomb… unless we suffer with Him, we shall not rise with Him.” I have heard that before. I have believed it. But now, I understand it in a way I didn’t before.

I recently went into the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine surgery, something simple enough that I was expected to go home the very same day. It was meant to be controlled, manageable, predictable. But it didn’t unfold that way. Instead of returning home, I was admitted for five days. What was supposed to be routine became complicated and frightening. My body became a place of unexpected complication, and I found myself in a situation I had not prepared for, one I could not control. I remember the heaviness in my chest, the struggle to breathe, and the quiet awareness that something was not right. I remember how quickly everything shifted, how vulnerable I felt, and how deeply I realized that I was not in control.

And yet, somewhere within that experience, there was a question that surfaced, quietly but persistently: Where are You?

The meditation spoke about the scars of Christ not only as reminders of suffering, but as pledges of victory. That is not an easy truth to hold when you are in the middle of pain. There is nothing about those moments that feels victorious. It feels like loss, like fear, and like something you would never choose. It feels like your body has been overtaken, like your sense of stability has been shaken. Y
et, during this Easter season, we are reminded that Christ did not rise without His scars. He kept them. He revealed them. They were not erased in the Resurrection. They were transformed.

That realization has begun to change how I understand what happened to me. In the hospital, I wanted healing to mean going back to what was before, to a version of myself untouched by what I had just endured. But Christ does not present healing that way. When He rises, He does not hide His wounds. He shows them. Not as evidence of defeat, but as proof that suffering did not have the final word. That means the Resurrection is not about removing the wound, but about what God does within it.

The meditation also reminds us that Christ does not offer immunity from suffering. He does not promise that we will be spared pain, sorrow, or even moments of deep fear. That truth is difficult, but it is also grounding. It means that what I experienced was not outside of His awareness. It was not meaningless. It was not abandoned. Even in those moments when I felt fragile, when I did not feel strong or steady, when I wondered where He was, He was there.

Looking back, I can see it more clearly. He was there in the quiet steadiness that carried me when I did not feel steady. He was there in the people who cared for me, in the presence that surrounded me, in the breath I continued to take even when it felt difficult. He was there in ways I did not recognize at the time, but that I can begin to see now.

The meditation describes our trials as “the shade of His hand outstretched caressingly.” That is not how suffering feels in the moment. It does not feel gentle or comforting. But perhaps it means that even in the pain, we are not alone. Even in trauma, we are not outside His reach. Even in the scars we now carry, there is something being held, something being transformed, something that will not be wasted.

We are in the Easter season, and yet I find myself still carrying pieces of Good Friday within me. And maybe that is exactly where faith deepens. The Resurrection does not erase the Cross; it gives it meaning. I am still healing, still processing what I experienced, still learning what it means to trust in a way that is not rooted in control. But I am beginning to believe that the scars I carry are not signs of defeat. They are places where Christ has met me, and where He continues to meet me.

Because of Him, the worst thing is never the final thing. Because of Him, the wound is not the end of the story. Because of Him, even this will rise.

The Simons God Sent Me: Not Alone on the Road to Calvary

As I have walked through this season of suffering, I have found myself returning again and again to the image of Simon of Cyrene stepping forward to help Jesus Christ carry His cross. It is a moment that can easily be passed over, yet it holds a quiet depth. It reminds us that even in the most painful journey, God does not intend for us to walk alone. He provides companions, people who step in, often unexpectedly, to help carry what feels too heavy. It is not lost on me that I am walking through this during Holy Week, a time when the Church enters most deeply into Christ’s suffering, death, and the promise of resurrection.

There is something deeply human, and deeply holy, in that moment Simon is drawn into suffering he did not choose. And yet, he becomes part of Christ’s journey to Calvary.

I have come to understand that moment differently through my own suffering.

My hysterectomy, and the complications that followed, became a kind of cross I did not choose. There were moments of fear, moments of pain that felt overwhelming, and moments when I simply did not know how I would take the next step forward. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually, it was heavier than I anticipated.

And yet, I was not alone on that road.

God sent me hundreds of Simons.

Before I even realized how much I would need them, Sister Elaine was there. She walked with me every step of the way. She sat by my bedside in the hospital, a quiet and steady presence in moments that felt anything but steady. She prayed with me and for me, grounding me in a peace that did not come from my circumstances. She read Scripture aloud, reminding me of God’s promises when my own strength felt depleted. She massaged my feet to help soothe me and calm down my body so it would function as it was needed to. 

Her care did not end when I left the hospital. She brought me back to the convent with her, creating a space where I could truly begin to heal. She made sure I took my medications, encouraged me to walk when I needed to move, and gently reminded me to rest when I pushed too hard. Through her attentiveness and love, I experienced what it means to be cared for in both body and soul. She did not simply help me carry the cross in one moment. She stayed.

Janean, too, became a Simon in one of the most difficult moments of my journey. Through FaceTime, she was present with me during what felt like one of the most traumatic experiences in the hospital. Even through a screen, her presence was real. Her voice was calm and steady when everything inside me felt anything but.

She spoke words I needed to hear. She reminded me that I was safe. She reminded me that I was not alone. And most importantly, she reminded me that Jesus was right there with me in that moment.

There is something powerful about someone who can hold space for you when fear rises, who can speak peace into chaos. Her voice became an anchor, helping me breathe, helping me remain present, helping me trust that I would get through that moment.

There were others too. Prayers spoken for me. Messages sent. Quiet acts of love that reminded me I was surrounded by a community willing to carry this with me.

Simon did not take the cross away from Jesus. He shared in it.

That is what love does.

It does not always fix or remove suffering. Sometimes it simply enters into it, lifts with you, and refuses to let you walk alone.

In my recovery, I have found myself drawn more intentionally into uniting my suffering with that of Christ. Not in a way that glorifies pain, but in a way that gives it meaning. Crucifixion of Jesus is not the end of the story. It is inseparable from the Resurrection of Jesus.

That truth has carried me.

There were moments when my body felt broken, when healing seemed slow, when I questioned why things had become so complicated. But even there, I began to see that suffering, when united with Christ, is never wasted. It becomes a place of encounter. A place where grace quietly enters.

In the hardest moments, I have prayed not for the cross to disappear, but for the strength to carry it with Him.

And in that prayer, I have also come to see that I am not only the one being helped. I am also being formed. Softened. Drawn closer to the heart of Christ, who knows suffering intimately.

Simon’s act was brief, but it was enough. Enough to change the course of that moment. Enough to remind us that God allows others to step into our suffering as instruments of His love.

I will never forget the Simons who have walked with me.

Their prayers, their presence, their faith, have been a living reminder that even on the road to Calvary, love is never absent.

And as I continue to heal, I carry this hope: That just as Christ’s suffering led to resurrection, so too will this season of pain give way to new life.

Let It Be Done: A Life Shaped by Saying Yes to God

The Annunciation has always felt like a quiet moment that carries immense weight. In the stillness of an ordinary day, the angel appears to Mary with a message that will change everything. There is no long preparation and no perfect timing. There is only an invitation and a calling. What strikes me most is not just that she said yes, but how she said it. Not with full understanding. Not with guarantees. Not with control over what would happen next. She said yes in faith, in trust, without knowing the cost, yet believing that God would be present within it.

I am reminded of this every time I look at the artwork above the tabernacle at my parish, Sts. Anne and Joachim Catholic Church. The image draws your eyes upward and holds together the mystery of God’s plan in a single frame. At the center is Christ on the cross. Above Him is God the Father, with the Holy Spirit present. Surrounding it are moments of salvation history that began with a yes. It is a visual reminder that the Annunciation was not just a moment. It was the beginning of everything that followed.

And it started with Mary’s yes.

I have come to recognize that much of my own life has been shaped by those same kinds of yeses, not always confident, not always easy, but still, yes.

Saying yes to moving away from family and friends meant leaving behind what felt familiar and steady. It meant stepping into places where I did not yet know the people, the rhythms, or even who I would become there. There were moments of deep loneliness and moments of growth that only came because I was no longer surrounded by what was comfortable. In those spaces, I learned to rely on God in a different way. I learned that home is not only a place, but a presence that travels with me when I trust Him.

Saying yes to new job opportunities often came with more questions than confidence. I wondered if I had enough experience, enough knowledge, or enough strength to carry what was being asked of me. Each new role stretched me beyond what felt manageable at the time. Yet in stepping forward, I began to see that readiness is not always something we feel before we begin. Sometimes it is something that is formed within us as we go. God did not wait for me to feel fully capable. He asked for my willingness and met me in the learning, the uncertainty, and the responsibility that followed.

Saying yes to becoming a teacher meant trusting that I could guide and support others even as I continued learning myself. It was a calling that required patience, humility, and a willingness to grow alongside those I was meant to serve.

Saying yes to stepping into leadership roles I did not feel fully prepared for meant accepting responsibility when I would have preferred more time, more clarity, or more certainty. Those moments asked me to rely not on my own confidence, but on God’s grace and the quiet assurance that He equips us for what He calls us to do.

Saying yes to writing meant allowing myself to be seen in ways that felt deeply personal. It meant sharing thoughts, experiences, and faith in a way that could be received, misunderstood, or even rejected. Writing became an act of trust, of offering something real and believing that God could use it for someone else.

Those yeses were not simple. They carried grief, uncertainty, and sometimes loneliness. They asked me to trust when I would have preferred clarity. And yet, looking back, I can see that each one became a place where God met me in a real and tangible way. That is what the Annunciation reveals so beautifully. God does not wait until everything feels secure. He enters into our ordinary lives and invites us into something greater, often before we feel ready. Mary’s yes was not a one time decision. It was a lifelong unfolding of trust, lived out in moments both hidden and profound.

The same is true for us. Faith is often less about having answers and more about being willing to respond. It is choosing to trust that God’s grace will meet us in the unfamiliar. It is believing that even when we leave something behind, we are not left alone.

There are still moments when I hesitate. Moments when I want reassurance before I respond. But the Annunciation, and that image above the tabernacle, remind me that faith is not built on certainty. It is built on relationship. It is built on trust. The cross at the center of that image makes it clear that every yes carries cost. It also reveals something deeper. God is present in all of it, from the first yes to the final surrender.

Mary’s yes continues to echo, not just as a moment in Scripture, but as a way of living.

And today, I am reminded that my own yes does not need to be perfect or fearless. It only needs to be willing.

“Let it be done to me according to your word.”

That prayer is not just Mary’s.

It is mine too.

The Thirst Beneath Our Striving

On Friday night, I had a long conversation with a friend that stayed with me long after we finished talking. During the conversation she shared something her daughter had asked her. Her daughter wondered how you can tell the difference between not being content and always searching for the next best thing, or simply trying to do better and improve yourself by setting goals. That question immediately caught my attention. It is such a simple question, but it touches on something many of us quietly wrestle with. Are we striving because we are never satisfied, or are we striving because we are trying to grow?

As someone who is almost always working on something, the question felt very personal. I spend much of my time writing books, going to school, learning, and creating. There is often another idea forming, another story to write, another project to move forward. Hearing that question made me pause and really think about my own motivations. Why do I keep moving forward? What is driving that desire to continue learning and creating? Is it simply ambition? Is it purpose? Or is there something deeper that is harder to name?

If I am honest, sometimes my tendency to keep doing and producing is not always about growth. Sometimes it is about avoiding stillness. For many years I learned how to stay busy. Work, writing, school, projects, plans. Staying in motion can sometimes feel easier than sitting quietly with what is happening inside your heart. Activity can become a way to keep moving forward without having to fully feel everything that is underneath the surface.

There are moments when I recognize that pattern in myself. It is easier to write another chapter, sign up for another class, or map out the next idea than it is to sit in silence and allow certain memories, questions, or emotions to surface. Busyness can become a shield. Doing can become a way of not feeling.

But there is also another side to this. Not all striving comes from avoidance. Sometimes the desire to grow and create comes from something much deeper. Sometimes it comes from a real thirst that lives inside the human heart. A thirst for meaning, for purpose, for beauty, and for truth. A thirst to use the gifts we have been given in a way that matters.

That is why my friend’s daughter’s question felt so important. It asked something many adults rarely stop to examine. How do we know the difference between restless searching and genuine growth?

Then last night, during Mass, something I heard in Father Luke’s homily brought that question back to the surface in a new way. He said something that immediately caught my attention. He said that it is okay not to feel content and to recognize our thirst, as long as we continue bringing that thirst to Christ. He spoke about how Jesus desires our hearts and our longings. Christ does not ask us to eliminate our desires. Instead, He invites us to bring those desires to Him.

That thought reframed the whole question for me. We often hear that we should be content, and contentment is certainly a good virtue. But sometimes the word contentment can sound like we are supposed to quiet our desires completely or stop longing for something more. Yet when we look at Scripture, thirst is often used as a powerful image for the human relationship with God. The human heart naturally longs for meaning, love, belonging, and purpose. Beneath many of our goals and ambitions is a deeper longing that ultimately points toward God.

When we chase accomplishments on their own, our thirst can turn into restlessness. No milestone ever feels like enough because the next one is already waiting. But when we bring our desires to Christ, something different begins to happen. The striving becomes an offering rather than a burden. Our goals become part of our prayer. The work we do can become a way of serving others and participating in the gifts God has placed within us.

Writing books, continuing my education, and pursuing new ideas do not have to come from a place of dissatisfaction with life. They can come from a place of gratitude and stewardship. God gives each of us talents, ideas, and passions. Those inner stirrings are not problems that need to be suppressed. They can be invitations to grow and to share what we have been given.

At the same time, it is important to be honest about the tension that can exist inside the heart. Sometimes the drive to keep moving comes from a place of avoiding pain. Other times it comes from the genuine desire to respond to the gifts God has placed within us. Discerning the difference requires honesty and prayer.

The key question may not be whether we are striving, but where our striving is leading us. If our goals leave us anxious, constantly comparing ourselves to others, or feeling like we are never enough, then our thirst may be directed toward something that cannot truly satisfy us. But if our desires lead us back to Christ, if they deepen our trust in Him and help us use our gifts to serve others, then those desires can become pathways of grace.

The human heart was never meant to be completely satisfied by the world alone. We were created with a deeper longing that points toward God. Sometimes the quiet thirst we feel is not a sign that something is wrong. Sometimes it is an invitation to bring our hearts more honestly to Christ, who understands both our striving and our longing.

And sometimes the work of faith is learning to sit with both truths at the same time. To recognize when we are trying to stay busy so we do not have to feel, and to recognize when the desire within us is something holy, a longing that invites us to bring our hearts honestly before Christ, the One who alone can satisfy the deepest thirst of the human heart.

Christ at the Center: Remembering Eucharistic Love This Lent

I saw this image on Facebook this morning, and it stopped me in the middle of my scrolling. The sunlight streaming through the round window, the white marble rising heavenward, the purple cloth marking the season of Lent, and at the center, Christ with His arms open and His Sacred Heart radiant. It was all so still, so reverent, so beautiful. In a feed usually filled with noise, opinions, arguments, disasters, and breaking news, this image felt like a deep breath. It felt holy. It felt grounding.

What moved me just as deeply was the Eucharistic Christ exposed in the monstrance on the altar. The golden rays surrounded the consecrated Host, drawing the eye and the heart to the quiet miracle at the center of our Catholic faith. Jesus was present not only in statue and symbol, but truly present in the Eucharist. The same Christ whose heart burns with love stands before us in humility under the appearance of bread. In a world obsessed with power, control, and visibility, the Eucharistic Christ reveals a different kind of strength. He remains. He waits. He gives Himself.

It is hard to ignore how fractured our world feels right now. We are divided politically and economically. We are divided racially and culturally. We are divided by ideology, by media narratives, by generational tensions, by distrust in institutions, and even within our own families. Social media amplifies outrage and rewards sharp words. It often feels easier to label one another than to listen.

Beyond our personal and national divisions, the global reality weighs heavily. Wars continue to devastate entire regions, displacing families and claiming innocent lives. Communities around the United States are facing wildfires that destroy homes and livelihoods. Others are buried under historic snowstorms, cut off from resources and struggling to stay safe. Natural disasters remind us how fragile life can be. These are not abstract headlines. They are lived realities for millions of people.

It can feel overwhelming. It can feel like everything is breaking at once.

And yet, there on that altar, Christ stands with His arms open, and in the monstrance He is present, silent and radiant. He does not withdraw from chaos. He does not choose sides in our partisan battles. He offers Himself. To all. To the grieving mother in a war zone. To the family who lost their home to fire. To the farmer buried under snow. To the anxious person scrolling through the news at dawn.

Lent calls us to refocus. It invites us into prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, but at its heart Lent calls us back to love. It calls us back to the altar. As I looked at that image, I was reminded that our devotion to Christ cannot be seasonal. The purple will give way to Easter white. The calendar will move forward. The crises will shift from one headline to the next. But the Eucharistic Christ remains. His presence does not depend on circumstances. His love does not fluctuate with global instability.

The monstrance on that altar was a quiet proclamation that Christ is still at the center. Not our politics. Not our fears. Not our disasters. Not our divisions. Christ. When we kneel before Him in the Eucharist, we remember who we are. We are not first defined by our nationality, our race, our economic status, or our political alignment. We are sons and daughters who receive everything from a God who gives Himself completely.

The world does not need more noise from us. It needs more Eucharistic people. People who adore before they argue. People who pray before they post. People who allow their hearts to be softened by time spent before the Blessed Sacrament. If we allowed the Eucharistic Christ to shape our responses to war, to natural disaster, to social division, and to suffering across borders, perhaps our words and actions would look different. Perhaps they would look more like mercy.

That image this morning felt like a gentle invitation. Come back to the altar. Come back to the Eucharistic heart of Christ. Not only during Lent, but always. In a world that feels shaken by conflict, catastrophe, and division, healing will not begin with louder arguments. It will begin in hearts that have first knelt before Him and learned how to love as He loves.

When a Story Surprises the Writer

I recently completed my final personal edits of Light Still Stands and sent the manuscript forward. I expected to feel relief when I hit “send.” Instead, I found myself unexpectedly emotional.

What surprised me most is that I worked on this project for only a little over a month. It was not years in the making. It came together quickly and intensely, almost urgently. Yet in that short span of time, it reached deeper into me than I anticipated.

During those weeks, I was hyper-focused in a way that felt both energizing and consuming. I stayed up late into the night refining chapters and revising themes, sometimes sleeping only three or four hours before getting up to do my actual job the next morning. I would tell myself I was finished for the evening, only to return to one more scene or one more edit. The story followed me into the early hours when I should have been resting.

All of this unfolded while life continued at full pace. I am taking graduate classes. I am producing a Lenten series podcast. I am balancing professional responsibilities. I am also preparing myself mentally for upcoming surgery and the reality of being away from work for a time. None of those commitments paused while I was writing. I simply layered this creative sprint on top of everything else.

Looking back, I can see how much I was carrying.

And yet, I do not regret it.

Somewhere in those late nights, something deeper was happening. I was not just shaping dialogue and structure. I was wrestling with themes of steadiness, surrender, grief, control, and trust. Light Still Stands explores what remains when circumstances feel fragile and how light can endure in uncertain seasons. When I stepped back from the manuscript, I realized those questions were not only fictional. They were personal.

The emotional response I experienced after finishing was not doubt. It was release. It felt like my body and spirit finally catching up to the intensity of the past month. Even in a short, concentrated window of creativity, God was doing deeper work in me than I recognized at the time.

Over the past year, I have sensed God inviting me to live more intentionally. Not reactively. Not driven solely by productivity. Not fueled by the pressure to keep producing the next thing. Intentionally. Finishing this novel and feeling its weight confirmed that invitation. I do not want to move directly from one intense season into another without space to reflect on what has changed within me.

Because of that, I am choosing to pause from beginning any new creative projects for a season.

This is not stepping away from writing. It is choosing to steward it well. My current projects will continue moving forward. Commitments already in motion will remain steady. The Lenten series will continue. Ongoing responsibilities will be honored. But I will not be launching anything new while I process what this experience uncovered and prepare both physically and mentally for what lies ahead.

Intentional living does not always mean slowing down; sometimes it means sprinting when called to do so. But it also means recognizing when it is time to breathe. This past month reminded me that even a brief season can carry deep impact. Now the faithful response is not to rush forward, but to pause long enough to listen.

Sometimes the most surprising projects are the ones that shape us the most.

Walking Through Lent with Intentional Purpose

There are moments in life when God invites us to pause.

After Season Two of the Butterfly Girl Podcast ended, I felt that invitation clearly. Instead of immediately planning the next season, I stepped back. I prayed. I listened. I asked hard questions. Was this podcast something God still wanted me to carry forward? Or was it time to lay it down?

I did not want to continue simply because it was familiar or comfortable. I wanted to be obedient. I wanted to be intentional.

So I took time away.

In that quiet space, something beautiful happened. The silence did not feel empty. It felt purposeful. Slowly, the desire to return to the microphone did not come from pressure or obligation. It came from peace. It came from a gentle nudge to keep walking, keep sharing, keep creating space for honest conversations about faith.

And that is how Season Three was born.

This season is titled Walking Through Lent with Intentional Purpose because Lent is not meant to be rushed through or treated as a checklist. It is an invitation. An invitation to slow down. To examine our hearts. To make room for God to work more deeply in our lives.

Throughout this season, we will talk about intentional prayer, fasting, almsgiving, surrender, trust, healing, and discipleship. Some episodes will be quiet reflections. Others will include guests who share their own faith journeys and wisdom. Each conversation is meant to meet you where you are, whether you are strong in your faith, searching, tired, hopeful, or somewhere in between.

This season is not about perfection.

It is about presence.

It is about choosing, again and again, to walk with Jesus, even when the road feels uncomfortable or uncertain. It is about showing up with open hands and honest hearts.

I am deeply grateful for every listener who has walked this journey with me so far. Your messages, prayers, and encouragement mean more than you know. Thank you for allowing this space to be one of reflection, vulnerability, and growth.

As we begin Season Three together, my prayer is simple:
That you would feel less rushed.
More grounded.
More connected to God.
And more willing to live your faith intentionally.

Welcome to Season Three of the Butterfly Girl Podcast. Let’s walk through Lent with purpose together.

You can listen to the Butterfly Girl Podcast on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or Amazon Music.

Why I’m Writing Light Still Stands

When I began Light Still Stands, I believed I was writing a Catholic young adult novel about a parish, a bell tower, and teenagers navigating faith and doubt. The book is still in progress. The manuscript is not finished yet. But as the story has unfolded, I have realized I am writing about something much deeper than I first imagined.

I am writing about endurance.

There were experiences in my childhood that introduced fear and confusion far too early. For a long time, I did not have language for them. Silence felt safer than explanation. My body carried tension long after circumstances changed. Those early fractures shaped how I understood trust, safety, and belonging.

And yet, beneath all of that, something steady remained.

Light still stood.

I was raised by my grandparents, whose faithfulness shaped me long before I formally entered the Catholic Church. I was not Catholic until I was nineteen years old. But I was raised around people who believed in God and who showed me what it meant to live with moral conviction and consistency. My grandparents created rhythm, structure, and stability when other parts of my early life felt uncertain.

Alongside them were close friends and neighbors who became steady souls in my world. They modeled what it meant to live the Catholic faith in practical ways. They showed up to Mass. They volunteered. They stayed in hard conversations. They kept choosing community even when faith felt complicated. From them I learned that faith is not the absence of doubt. It is the willingness to remain.

There were also absences in my early years that left quiet but lasting questions about belonging and worth. Before I could articulate what abandonment meant, I understood what it felt like when someone did not stay. That awareness shaped how I viewed relationships and how I measured safety. And yet, against that backdrop, there were people who did remain. That contrast between leaving and staying lives at the heart of this novel. Light Still Stands asks what truly makes something endure. Is it perfection, or is it presence?

In 2025, I lost a dear friend to cancer. I did not know she was sick. She chose to carry that privately. The loss came with sorrow and with surprise. Grief like that has a particular weight. It leaves you reflecting on conversations you did not know were final. It reminds you how much of life unfolds quietly, beyond what we can see. That experience deepened my understanding of how fragile and sacred relationships are, and that awareness has shaped the emotional landscape of this story.

Forgiveness has been one of the longest journeys of my life. It did not arrive quickly. It did not excuse harm or erase failure. It was not about pretending the past did not matter. It was about refusing to let brokenness define me. It was about releasing what was never mine to carry. That slow work of healing threads through this novel. The characters wrestle with fear, doubt, and the question of whether they will measure the world by its instability or by who stands beside them when it trembles.

For years, I have written for children because I believe stories shape hearts early. I want young readers to encounter courage, virtue, imagination, and faith in ways that feel honest and hopeful. As I move into young adult literature, that conviction deepens. Teenagers deserve good, quality, faith-filled literature that respects their intelligence and complexity. They deserve stories that acknowledge darkness without glorifying it. They deserve narratives where faith is resilient, thoughtful, and rooted in reality.

Light Still Stands is still unfolding. The bell tower in Maple Hollow bears cracks and signs of repair. It is not flawless. It requires tending. But it stands. In many ways, that image mirrors my own life. Structures can fracture. People can fail. Loss can arrive without warning. Yet presence, perseverance, and grace can hold.

That is why I am writing this novel.

Because even when the structure shows its history, light remains.

Light still stands.

Changing the Sails in the Storm

The other day I was scrolling through social media when I heard Father Michael Sliney say, “You can’t change the wind, but you can change the sails.” I can't stop thinking about those words
because the wind right now feels relentless.

It feels like unrest in Minneapolis. It feels like the reported abduction of Nancy Guthrie. It feels like the reality that children go missing every day in our country. It feels like the ongoing loss of innocent and helpless unborn lives. It feels like families torn apart by political, emotional, and spiritual division. The headlines feel heavy. The divisions feel personal. The sorrow feels constant.

The instinct is to react with outrage or to shut down completely. To argue harder. To despair faster. To try to control what is far beyond me. But Father Sliney’s questions cut through the noise: What is God asking of me in this situation? How does God want me to respond with His love right now?

I cannot stop every act of violence. I cannot prevent every tragedy. I cannot heal every fractured relationship. I cannot calm every headline. I cannot change the wind.

But I can change the sails.

For me, one of the first and most powerful adjustments is prayer. Prayer is not passive. It is not avoidance. It is an intentional turning of the heart toward God when everything feels unstable. It is asking Him to bring justice where there is injustice, protection where there is vulnerability, healing where there is trauma. It is placing names and faces before Him instead of just scrolling past them.

And prayer must move into action.

One thing I know I can do is support organizations that walk alongside children who have experienced abuse and trauma. I cannot rescue every child. But I can help those who are already doing that work. That is why 100 percent of the proceeds from my book sales go directly to organizations that support children in crisis. It is one small but concrete way I can change the sails. Writing stories. Selling books. Turning creativity into compassion in action.

Changing the sails might also mean refusing to let anger harden into hatred. It might mean advocating for the unborn with both conviction and tenderness. It might mean choosing conversation over contempt within my own family. It might mean guarding my heart from cynicism when it would be easier to give up.

The wind will keep blowing. The question is not whether the storm exists. The question is how I will respond inside it.

Changing the sails may look small. A whispered prayer. A donation. A book purchased that becomes support for a child who needs safety and healing. A gentler tone in a hard conversation. But even a slight shift in direction can change the course of a journey.

I cannot change the wind. But by God’s grace, I can adjust the sails of my heart toward mercy, truth, protection of the vulnerable, and love. And in a storm like this, that is not small at all.