Author: Cassandra S.

AUGUST 31, 2026 — NOON SERIES 🕛

🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪 WHO TOLD YOU THE DOOR WAS CLOSED?

Beloveds,

It’s noon.

Come sit with me for a minute.

Every day at noon, I want us to meet right here—not because I believe twelve o’clock magically fixes whatever happened at 8:00, 9:17, or 11:53 this morning. Sometimes noon arrives and the problem is still sitting there looking at you. The diagnosis hasn’t changed. The grief hasn’t packed its bags. The bills haven’t disappeared. The relationship still hurts. Your body may still refuse to cooperate with the plans your mind made.

But noon means something happened that we sometimes forget to celebrate:

You made it here.

And today, I have a question for you.

Who told you the door was closed?

🔒

I have been thinking about doors.

Some doors really do close. People leave. Opportunities disappear. Bodies change. Plans collapse. People we love die. Life can divide itself so sharply into before and after that we barely recognize the person standing on the other side.

I know something about before and after.

My stroke changed things.

It changed how I move through the world. It changed my speech. It changed what ordinary tasks can require from me. Some days I use my wheelchair. Some days my quad cane enters the story. Things I once did without thinking can now require concentration, adaptation, patience, help, determination—or all five before breakfast.

But somewhere along the way, I had to confront a dangerous assumption:

Changed does not automatically mean closed.

Read that again.

Something can be different without being finished.

Something can be difficult without being impossible.

Something can require another route without meaning there is no destination.

And a life can look nothing like the life you planned while still being a life overflowing with purpose.

🗝️

That is where the key comes in.

Sometimes we spend years carrying locks somebody else handed us.

Too old.

Too young.

Too Black.

Too loud.

Too disabled.

Too different.

Too much.

Not enough.

You missed your chance.

People like you don’t belong here.

After what happened to you, what could possibly come next?

And if we hear those things long enough, something frightening can happen.

We stop needing somebody else to lock the door.

We begin doing it ourselves.

🔏

We start shrinking before anybody asks us to shrink.

We stop knocking before anybody says no.

We decide we cannot belong somewhere before anybody has had the opportunity to welcome us.

We confuse somebody else’s inability to imagine our future with evidence that we don’t have one.

And beloveds, sometimes the hardest lock to recognize is the one we’ve learned to maintain from the inside.

That is why today isn’t simply about finding a cute little inspirational key.

We are digging.

⛏️🪏

I want to know what is underneath the lock.

Maybe underneath anger is hurt.

Maybe underneath perfectionism is fear.

Maybe underneath “I don’t need anybody” is the memory of what happened the last time you needed somebody and they weren’t there.

Maybe underneath silence is the belief that your voice only matters when it comes out perfectly.

Maybe underneath exhaustion is the belief that you have to earn the right to rest.

Maybe underneath being “the strong one” is somebody who desperately needs permission to put the armor down.

Maybe underneath I can’t is something somebody said to you twenty years ago that you accidentally adopted as your own voice.

Dig.

⛏️

Because you cannot unlock what you refuse to name.

And I need to say something else because encouragement can become cruel when we pretend every door can be opened by trying harder.

Some doors require help.

Some require accessibility.

Some require therapy.

Some require medicine.

Some require justice.

Some require community.

Some require somebody standing beside you saying, “I know you’re tired. I’ll hold the door.”

Needing help does not cancel your agency.

Receiving help does not make the victory belong less to you.

And independence is not the only evidence of strength.

Sometimes strength sounds like:

“I need you.”

Sometimes courage looks like accepting the hand.

Sometimes the victory is not kicking the door down.

Sometimes somebody simply holds it open—

and you roll through.

👩🏿‍🦽

Yes.

Roll through.

Because who decided every meaningful journey had to happen on two feet?

I am not waiting until I walk differently to call my life valuable.

I am not waiting until my speech sounds the way it once sounded to believe I have something worth saying.

I am not waiting for my body to become somebody else’s definition of “better” before I participate in my own life.

My wheelchair is not parked outside the story.

It is already inside it.

And God is here too.

🙏🏿

I believe in Jesus Christ.

I believe Him when He says:

“I am the door.” — John 10:9

And that scripture has been sitting differently with me.

Because I have spent so much time thinking about keys that I almost missed the Door.

Jesus did not merely tell me where an entrance might be.

He said:

I AM.

And if He is the Door, then perhaps I need to be very careful about declaring permanently closed what God has not finished with yet.

I don’t know what every door in my life will look like.

I don’t know which things will be restored.

I don’t know which things will be transformed instead.

I don’t know which prayers will receive the answer I want.

Faith does not require me to pretend I know things God has not told me.

But I know this:

I am still here.

And while I am here, I am going to live.

❤️‍🔥

Now, if you don’t believe what I believe, you don’t have to pretend for me.

You are welcome here.

If you are an atheist, come sit.

If you are agnostic, come sit.

If you believe differently, come sit.

If you used to believe and don’t anymore, come sit.

If you’re angry with God, confused about God, searching for God, or have absolutely no intention of searching for God—

there is still a chair for you.

My faith does not require your agreement before I can love you.

And your questions do not frighten me away from mine.

We can sit beside one another without pretending we are standing in exactly the same place.

That might be one of the doors our world desperately needs opened.

🚪

So here is today’s key:

🗝️ Do not confuse what happened to you with who you are.

Something happened.

Maybe something enormous.

Maybe something unfair.

Maybe something you would undo immediately if somebody handed you the power.

But what happened does not get automatic ownership of everything that happens next.

Your grief doesn’t own tomorrow.

Your diagnosis doesn’t own your identity.

Your rejection doesn’t own your worth.

Your mistake doesn’t own your name.

Your disability doesn’t own your humanity.

Your fear doesn’t own your feet—or your wheels.

And somebody else’s opinion certainly does not own the key.

🔓

So before we leave each other today, I want you to ask yourself:

What have I been calling locked?

Then ask:

Who told me it was?

And then—

DEEPPPERRRR.

⛏️🪏

What is underneath that lock?

Fear?

Shame?

Grief?

Someone else’s expectations?

An old wound?

A lie you’ve repeated so many times that it started sounding like truth?

Don’t rush the answer.

We are meeting again tomorrow.

This isn’t a race.

Today, maybe all you do is locate the lock.

Tomorrow, perhaps we touch the key.

And eventually—

when the door opens—

we go through it however we need to.

Walking.

Rolling.

Leaning.

Reaching.

Holding somebody’s hand.

One step.

One wheel turn.

One breath.

One word.

One act of courage at a time.

Because, beloveds—

there is still a door.

There is still a key.

There is still time.

And for me, beneath all of it:

There is still God.

🙏🏿🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪❤️‍🔥

If something here found you today, tell me about it in the comments. Share this with somebody standing in front of a door they think is closed. Like, subscribe or follow, and come back tomorrow at noon.

We are going to keep digging.

And we are going to keep opening doors.

Together.

Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!

Unapologetically His.

AUGUST 31, 2026 — NOON SERIES 🕛

AUGUST 31, 2026 — NOON SERIES 🕛

🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪 WHO TOLD YOU THE DOOR WAS CLOSED?

Beloveds,

It’s noon.

Come sit with me for a minute.

Every day at noon, I want us to meet right here—not because I believe twelve o’clock magically fixes whatever happened at 8:00, 9:17, or 11:53 this morning.

Sometimes noon arrives and the problem is still sitting there looking at you. The diagnosis hasn’t changed. The grief hasn’t packed its bags. The bills haven’t disappeared. The relationship still hurts. Your body may still refuse to cooperate with the plans your mind made.

But noon means something happened that we sometimes forget to celebrate:

You made it here.

And today, I have a question for you.

Who told you the door was closed?

🔒

I have been thinking about doors.

Some doors really do close. People leave. Opportunities disappear. Bodies change. Plans collapse. People we love die. Life can divide itself so sharply into before and after that we barely recognize the person standing on the other side.

I know something about before and after.

My stroke changed things.

It changed how I move through the world. It changed my speech. It changed what ordinary tasks can require from me. Some days I use my wheelchair. Some days my quad cane enters the story. Things I once did without thinking can now require concentration, adaptation, patience, help, determination—or all five before breakfast.

But somewhere along the way, I had to confront a dangerous assumption:

Changed does not automatically mean closed.

Read that again.

Something can be different without being finished.

Something can be difficult without being impossible.

Something can require another route without meaning there is no destination.

And a life can look nothing like the life you planned while still being a life overflowing with purpose.

🗝️

That is where the key comes in.

Sometimes we spend years carrying locks somebody else handed us.

Too old.

Too young.

Too Black.

Too loud.

Too disabled.

Too different.

Too much.

Not enough.

You missed your chance.

People like you don’t belong here.

After what happened to you, what could possibly come next?

And if we hear those things long enough, something frightening can happen.

We stop needing somebody else to lock the door.

We begin doing it ourselves.

🔏

We start shrinking before anybody asks us to shrink.

We stop knocking before anybody says no.

We decide we cannot belong somewhere before anybody has had the opportunity to welcome us.

We confuse somebody else’s inability to imagine our future with evidence that we don’t have one.

And beloveds, sometimes the hardest lock to recognize is the one we’ve learned to maintain from the inside.

That is why today isn’t simply about finding a cute little inspirational key.

We are digging.

⛏️🪏

I want to know what is underneath the lock.

Maybe underneath anger is hurt.

Maybe underneath perfectionism is fear.

Maybe underneath “I don’t need anybody” is the memory of what happened the last time you needed somebody and they weren’t there.

Maybe underneath silence is the belief that your voice only matters when it comes out perfectly.

Maybe underneath exhaustion is the belief that you have to earn the right to rest.

Maybe underneath being “the strong one” is somebody who desperately needs permission to put the armor down.

Maybe underneath I can’t is something somebody said to you twenty years ago that you accidentally adopted as your own voice.

Dig.

⛏️

Because you cannot unlock what you refuse to name.

And I need to say something else because encouragement can become cruel when we pretend every door can be opened by trying harder.

Some doors require help.

Some require accessibility.

Some require therapy.

Some require medicine.

Some require justice.

Some require community.

Some require somebody standing beside you saying, “I know you’re tired. I’ll hold the door.”

Needing help does not cancel your agency.

Receiving help does not make the victory belong less to you.

And independence is not the only evidence of strength.

Sometimes strength sounds like:

“I need you.”

Sometimes courage looks like accepting the hand.

Sometimes the victory is not kicking the door down.

Sometimes somebody simply holds it open—

and you roll through.

👩🏿‍🦽

Yes.

Roll through.

Because who decided every meaningful journey had to happen on two feet?

I am not waiting until I walk differently to call my life valuable.

I am not waiting until my speech sounds the way it once sounded to believe I have something worth saying.

I am not waiting for my body to become somebody else’s definition of “better” before I participate in my own life.

My wheelchair is not parked outside the story.

It is already inside it.

And God is here too.

🙏🏿

I believe in Jesus Christ.

I believe Him when He says:

“I am the door.” — John 10:9

And that scripture has been sitting differently with me.

Because I have spent so much time thinking about keys that I almost missed the Door.

Jesus did not merely tell me where an entrance might be.

He said:

I AM.

And if He is the Door, then perhaps I need to be very careful about declaring permanently closed what God has not finished with yet.

I don’t know what every door in my life will look like.

I don’t know which things will be restored.

I don’t know which things will be transformed instead.

I don’t know which prayers will receive the answer I want.

Faith does not require me to pretend I know things God has not told me.

But I know this:

I am still here.

And while I am here, I am going to live.

❤️‍🔥

Now, if you don’t believe what I believe, you don’t have to pretend for me.

You are welcome here.

If you are an atheist, come sit.

If you are agnostic, come sit.

If you believe differently, come sit.

If you used to believe and don’t anymore, come sit.

If you’re angry with God, confused about God, searching for God, or have absolutely no intention of searching for God—

there is still a chair for you.

My faith does not require your agreement before I can love you.

And your questions do not frighten me away from mine.

We can sit beside one another without pretending we are standing in exactly the same place.

That might be one of the doors our world desperately needs opened.

🚪

So here is today’s key:

🗝️ Do not confuse what happened to you with who you are.

Something happened.

Maybe something enormous.

Maybe something unfair.

Maybe something you would undo immediately if somebody handed you the power.

But what happened does not get automatic ownership of everything that happens next.

Your grief doesn’t own tomorrow.

Your diagnosis doesn’t own your identity.

Your rejection doesn’t own your worth.

Your mistake doesn’t own your name.

Your disability doesn’t own your humanity.

Your fear doesn’t own your feet—or your wheels.

And somebody else’s opinion certainly does not own the key.

🔓

So before we leave each other today, I want you to ask yourself:

What have I been calling locked?

Then ask:

Who told me it was?

And then—

DEEPPPERRRR.

⛏️🪏

What is underneath that lock?

Fear?

Shame?

Grief?

Someone else’s expectations?

An old wound?

A lie you’ve repeated so many times that it started sounding like truth?

Don’t rush the answer.

We are meeting again tomorrow.

This isn’t a race.

Today, maybe all you do is locate the lock.

Tomorrow, perhaps we touch the key.

And eventually—

when the door opens—

we go through it however we need to.

Walking.

Rolling.

Leaning.

Reaching.

Holding somebody’s hand.

One step.

One wheel turn.

One breath.

One word.

One act of courage at a time.

Because, beloveds—

there is still a door.

There is still a key.

There is still time.

And for me, beneath all of it:

There is still God.

🙏🏿🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪❤️‍🔥

If something here found you today, tell me about it in the comments. Share this with somebody standing in front of a door they think is closed. Like, subscribe or follow, and come back tomorrow at noon.

We are going to keep digging.

And we are going to keep opening doors.

Together.

Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!

Unapologetically His.

📫 WHEN WORSHIP FINDS YOU 🎧🙏🏿❤️‍🔥

📫 WHEN WORSHIP FINDS YOU 🎧🙏🏿❤️‍🔥
Beloveds,


This morning I put on my headphones and listened to Serenade of Grace.
And I stayed.
Sometimes you don’t need somebody yelling at you to keep going.


Sometimes you don’t need another lesson.


Sometimes you don’t need somebody explaining your life back to you.


Sometimes you just need a place to rest your heart for a minute.
🎧


The music was Gospel.
Smooth.
Soulful.
R&B.


Worship that didn’t feel like it was chasing me.


It felt like it was sitting with me.
And then I heard these words:
“I will praise You forever… for the victory.”


Whew.


Victory looks different to me now.
🙏🏿


Sometimes victory is getting out of bed.
Sometimes victory is doing the thing that takes me longer than it used to.


Sometimes victory is resting without turning rest into failure.


Sometimes victory is laughing in the middle of something that absolutely was not funny yesterday.


Sometimes victory is putting on my headphones and allowing somebody else’s song to carry what my own voice cannot carry at that moment.


Sometimes victory is simply:


I. AM. STILL. HERE.
❤️‍🩹


My relationship with music has always been bigger than background noise.


I listen.
I hear words.
I pull threads.
I find pieces of myself hiding inside somebody else’s testimony.


This morning, I found another thread.


Praise does not have to wait until everything is fixed.


I can praise while becoming.
I can praise while recovering.
I can praise while frustrated.
I can praise while tired.
I can praise while laughing.
I can praise while crying.
I can praise while I am still waiting for answers.


I can praise while some prayers still seem to have question marks hanging from them.
I can praise because victory isn’t only the moment when the battle ends.


Sometimes victory is discovering that the battle did not end you.
🔑❤️‍🔥
That one got me.
I am learning something about myself:


I kept thinking recovery would show me what I had lost.

There has been loss.
I will never pretend otherwise.
But recovery keeps introducing me to what remains.


My curiosity remains.
My humor remains.
My stubborn little determination remains. 😂
My desire to learn remains.
My desire to encourage somebody else remains.
My ability to find beauty remains.
My faith remains.
And, Beloveds—
my praise remains.
🙏🏿


Maybe that is why this music found me this morning.


Not because I needed another performance.


Because I needed a reminder.


There is still music here.
There is still joy here.
There is still worship here.
There is still life here.
There is still something worth putting the headphones on for.
🎧❤️‍🔥


And maybe you need that reminder too.


Your victory might not look like anybody else’s.


Please stop measuring it with somebody else’s ruler.


Maybe you got dressed today.
Maybe you answered the phone.
Maybe you finally said no.
Maybe you finally said yes.
Maybe you asked for help.
Maybe you rested.
Maybe you started again.
Maybe you survived something nobody around you even knows you’re carrying.


Maybe today your victory is simply reading these words and deciding:
I am going to give tomorrow a chance to meet me.


That counts.
❤️‍🩹
And if faith isn’t part of your life, you don’t have to borrow mine to belong here.


You can call it hope.
You can call it resilience.
You can call it love.
You can call it another morning.
You can simply call it one more step.


Sit with us anyway.
There is room.
🌎🫂


But me?
I’m going to call mine what I know it to be.
God has carried me.


And while I still have breath—


I will love.
I will laugh.
I will learn.
I will write.
I will listen.
I will encourage.
I will live.


And yes—
I will praise Him forever for the victory.
🎧🙏🏿❤️‍🔥


Thank you, Serenade of Grace, for being part of my morning.


Beloveds, put on your headphones today.


Find something that reminds you there is still life inside you.
Then turn it up.


Maybe not too loud.
…
Who am I kidding? 🤣🎧📢
Look at the name of this blog.
WHY CAN’T I BE LOUD?!


Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!


Tell me what you’re listening to today.
Comment, share, like, follow or subscribe, and come back for another little bit of encouragement.
There is more morning ahead of us. 🌅❤️‍🔥

MOM, WOMBIE, WE NEVER GOT MARCH. 🧸❤️‍🩹

MOM, WOMBIE, WE NEVER GOT MARCH. 🧸❤️‍🩹

Beloveds,

My mother died on Christmas morning.

We had plans.

We were supposed to take a vacation in March. She was supposed to see my new car.

I was so sure we had time.

We never got March.

❤️‍🩹

I’ve thought about that a lot.

Because sometimes grief isn’t only losing somebody.

Sometimes grief is losing future tense.

“We’re going to…”

“Next time…”

“When I see you…”

“Later…”

“March.”

Then suddenly we’re going to becomes we were going to.

And there are things you didn’t know were memories while you were making them.

The last ordinary conversation doesn’t announce itself.

The last laugh doesn’t say, Remember this one.

The last hug doesn’t come with a countdown.

Life is just life—

until something changes.

Then memory goes back and puts frames around moments that looked completely ordinary when we lived them.

🧸❤️‍🩹

Maybe you have a March.

Maybe it wasn’t a vacation.

Maybe it was a phone call.

A birthday.

A meal.

An apology.

A conversation.

A Christmas.

A visit.

A ridiculous little thing nobody else would understand.

Maybe you thought:

We have time.

And then you didn’t.

Beloved, I’m not going to tell you what that loss is supposed to mean.

I’m not going to tell you everything happens for a reason.

I’m not going to tell you to stop crying.

And I’m certainly not going to tell you that faith means grief shouldn’t hurt.

Jesus wept.

So can we.

🙏🏿❤️‍🩹

Faith doesn’t require anesthesia.

You can trust God and miss somebody.

You can praise and hurt.

You can laugh at something they used to say and cry thirty seconds later.

You can have questions.

You can even have complicated grief.

Maybe the person you lost loved you beautifully.

Maybe they hurt you.

Maybe both are true.

Maybe you’re grieving with gratitude.

Maybe anger.

Maybe relief.

Maybe guilt.

Maybe questions.

Bring all of it.

There is a chair for you.

🪑🪑

And there is something else I have learned:

Death gets one date.

Love gets the whole life.

Mom was more than Christmas morning.

She was more than the day she died.

More than my grief.

More than a story I’m telling you.

Before she was Mom, she was a whole woman with a whole life.

And Wombie and I still get to call her:

Mom.

🧸❤️

I don’t want the final day to become louder than every day that came before it.

The funeral doesn’t get to become louder than the laughter.

The goodbye doesn’t get to erase the hello.

Death gets one date.

Love gets everything between the dates.

And everything between those dates can contain an entire world.

🌎

That’s why losing one person can feel like losing a world.

Somebody reading this knows.

Maybe your person died yesterday.

Maybe fifty years ago.

Maybe you’ve been doing fine and something tiny brought everything rushing back.

A song.

A smell.

A recipe.

A photograph.

A phrase.

Bring their name.

They don’t have to stay outside.

❤️‍🩹

And Wombie—

same Mom.

Different daughters.

Different memories.

Different grief.

Neither one has to compete with the other.

There is room.

🪑❤️‍🩹🪑

Sometimes one person remembers something another forgot.

Sometimes memory comes back piece by piece.

🧩

And together we can say:

She was here.

Not merely:

Her death happened.

She was here.

She lived.

She loved.

She mattered.

And we are still here.

Which brings me to Jesus.

He said:

“It is finished.”

Jesus’ job is done.

Our job is not done.

We aren’t finishing Calvary.

We aren’t completing Christ’s work.

We aren’t anybody’s Messiah.

What belonged to Jesus to finish, Jesus finished.

🙏🏿

His work is completion.

Our work is response.

Love God.

Love one another.

Be somebody’s neighbor.

Call.

Listen.

Visit.

Feed.

Remember.

Protect.

Make room.

Pull up another chair.

Stay.

Love.

❤️

There are still people here.

So don’t spend your life terrified that every goodbye could be the last one.

That’s not what I’m saying.

I’m saying:

Let ordinary love count while it’s ordinary.

Love somebody while the day is still just Tuesday.

Tell somebody they matter while they can hear you.

Don’t wait for the funeral to discover somebody was precious.

And don’t wait for March.

Because sometimes—

March doesn’t come.

Mom,

I wish we’d gotten ours.

I wish you’d seen my car.

I wish we’d had more ordinary days.

But I won’t allow the day you died to become bigger than all the days you lived.

You were here.

You loved.

You mattered.

You still matter.

🧸❤️‍🩹

Beloveds,

your person was here too.

Say their name.

Tell their stories.

Laugh when the memories are funny.

Cry when they hurt.

Carry what was good.

And then turn toward somebody who is still here.

Love them.

Not because you’re afraid they’re going to die.

Because they’re alive.

That’s reason enough.

One person.

One chair.

One call.

One kindness.

One step.

One step.

One step.

And while we’re both still here—

let’s love this world together.

🌎❤️

Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

You are loved. You are NOT alone.

Keep on being…YOU!

THE HAND FROM HEAVEN ✋🏾☁️🧻🤣

THE HAND FROM HEAVEN ✋🏾☁️🧻🤣

What the Potty Wars Taught Me About God, Help, Dignity, Agency—and Joy

Beloveds,

I have an announcement.

I WON THE POTTY WARS.

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Yes.

Me.

👸🏿

And before somebody gets excessively spiritual and turns this into a solemn testimony with organ music playing softly in the background, please understand:

There were buckets.

🪣🪣🪣

There was toilet paper.

🧻

There was laundry.

🧺

There was trash.

🗑️

There was HARD.

There was also FUN.

There was JOY.

There was laughter.

And my faith tells me something else was there too.

God.

❤️

Let me explain.

When I was in the hospital and needed toilet paper, the techs could help me without taking over everything.

They could hand me what I needed, tastefully, from just outside the door.

🧻

Think about that.

They helped me while still giving me privacy.

They provided something I needed without turning my need into humiliation.

They didn’t have to erase my agency in order to assist me.

I still needed them.

And needing them did not make me less me.

That matters.

Then I came home.

There wasn’t a hospital tech standing outside my bathroom door.

But eventually I started thinking about what had happened at home through the eyes of my faith.

And this is the picture that came to me:

God metaphorically handed me the toilet paper.

🧻

That is what I mean.

Not that the ceiling opened.

Not that a gigantic physical hand descended from Heaven.

Not that the angels arrived carrying bathroom supplies.

Although once He put THAT picture in my head…

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Now I can’t unsee it.

☁️☁️☁️

The clouds part.

Light pours down.

✨✨✨

The heavenly choir begins.

🎶🎶🎶

A majestic hand slowly reaches down from Heaven…

✋🏾☁️

And behold:

🧻

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

“My daughter…

you gon’ need this.”



🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Not the Red Sea today.

Not manna.

Not water from the rock.

TOILET PAPER.

🧻

And somewhere in the bathroom:

👸🏿 Cassandra: “Thank You, Jesus.”

🪣 Bucket: “We have seen things.”

🧺 Laundry basket: “Please leave me out of this.”

🗑️ Trash: “I know my assignment.”

And the humble roll of toilet paper rises for its moment:

🧻

“I WAS CALLED FOR SUCH A TIME AS THIS.”

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Beloveds, I laughed so hard.

But underneath that laughter is something I genuinely believe.

Sometimes we expect God only in enormous things.

We look for seas to part.

Mountains to move.

Doors to fly open.

Miracles big enough to announce themselves.

But what about the ordinary provision?

What about what is already within reach?

What about the thing you need for this step?

Maybe it isn’t spectacular.

Maybe nobody will write a song about it.

Maybe nobody will put it in stained glass.

Maybe it’s toilet paper.

🧻

My faith allows me to look at an ordinary provision and say:

God, You were here too.

Not because the hard disappeared.

It didn’t.

Not because suddenly I didn’t need help.

I did.

Not because my body suddenly did everything I wanted it to do.

It didn’t.

I got what I needed to take another step.

And then another.

And another.

One step. One step. One step.

👀❤️‍🩹

There is a difference between rescue and provision.

Sometimes rescue says:

“You will never have to face this.”

Provision can look more like:

“You’re facing it. I’m here. Here’s what you need for the next part.”

🧻

That realization opened something else for me.

🔑

I needed help.

And I still had agency.

Those things can exist together.

I think sometimes we confuse independence with dignity.

If I can do absolutely everything myself, then I’m independent, capable and dignified.

If I need somebody—or something—to help me, somehow we imagine that means I’ve lost something.

Nah fam.

🤣

I needed those hospital techs.

Their help mattered.

At home, I needed tools.

Those tools mattered.

According to my faith, I needed God.

He mattered.

And through all of it…

I mattered.

Needing help didn’t cancel Cassandra.

Receiving help didn’t erase Cassandra.

My body having needs didn’t make Cassandra the problem.

And this may be one of the biggest 🔑s hiding inside our ridiculous Potty Wars:

THERE WAS A MESS.

I WAS NOT THE MESS.

👀

Sit with that one.

There was something difficult happening.

There were things that needed cleaning.

There were things that needed throwing away.

There were tools I needed to use.

But none of those things defined the human being standing—or sitting—in the middle of them.

Me.

👸🏿

The bucket was a tool.

🪣

The toilet paper was a tool.

🧻

The laundry basket was a tool.

🧺

The trash can had a job.

🗑️

And Cassandra?

Cassandra was the person using what she had to live her life.

That is agency.

Agency isn’t always cinematic.

Sometimes nobody kicks down a door.

Sometimes there isn’t dramatic music.

Sometimes agency looks like:

“Okay. This is what my body is doing today. What do I need?”

Need a bucket?

🪣

Apparently we need another bucket.

🪣🪣

GOOD GRIEF, HOW MANY BUCKETS DO WE NEED?

🪣🪣🪣🪣🪣🪣

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Fine.

Bring the bucket department.

Get the toilet paper.

🧻

Get the laundry basket.

🧺


🥽

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Then handle the business.

And afterward?

👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾

APPLAUSE.

Not shame.

Not humiliation.

Not pretending it didn’t happen.

Not deciding my dignity depends upon keeping every difficult bodily experience secret.

Applause.

Because I made it through.

And I laughed.

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

That matters to me too.

Joy was there.

Joy didn’t wait outside the bathroom until everything became pretty.

Joy didn’t say:

“I’ll come back when this looks respectable.”

Joy came right into the mess.

💘🪣💘

LOOK AT THAT.

Love right between the buckets.

🤣❤️

And maybe that is another 🔑:

DIGNITY IS NOT THE ABSENCE OF MESS.

Dignity is the person in the middle of it still being fully human.

Another 🔑:

NEEDING HELP DOES NOT CANCEL AGENCY.

Another:

RECEIVING HELP DOES NOT MAKE YOU LESS YOU.

Another:

JOY DOES NOT REQUIRE PERFECT CIRCUMSTANCES.

Another:

FAITH DOES NOT REQUIRE PRETENDING SOMETHING WASN’T HARD.

And another:

SOMETIMES PROVISION IS ORDINARY ENOUGH TO MISS.

A roll of toilet paper.

A bucket.

A tool.

A tech who preserves your privacy.

Something placed within reach.

Enough strength for the next movement.

A ridiculous joke that makes you laugh until you can hardly stand yourself.

🤣

And maybe that’s why I don’t want to clean this story up so much that we lose the funny.

The funny belongs here.

The joy belongs here.

The hard belongs here.

My body belongs here.

My faith belongs here.

God belongs here.

I belong here.

❤️‍🩹

And THAT is why I keep saying:

The victory of the Potty Wars was ME.

👸🏿

Not because I needed nobody.

I did.

Not because everything worked perfectly.

It didn’t.

Not because nothing difficult happened.

It did.

The victory was that something difficult happened involving my body…

and I remained the narrator of my own life.

I could decide what it meant.

I could find the tools.

I could receive help.

I could believe God was with me.

I could laugh.

I could learn.

I could keep going.

I could tell the story.

Me.

🫵🏾🔑🚪

Maybe somebody reading this is dealing with something today that doesn’t look inspirational.

Good.

This is for you.

Maybe what you need isn’t a mountain-moving miracle today.

Maybe you need something ordinary.

Maybe you need help.

Maybe you need a tool.

Maybe you need somebody to hand you something from outside the room and give you enough privacy to do the rest yourself.

Maybe you need permission to laugh.

Maybe you need to remember:

There may be a mess.

YOU are not the mess.

And if you’re a person of faith like me, maybe you’ll look around at some ordinary little provision and whisper:

“God, You were here too.”

And if you aren’t a believer, don’t believe in God, don’t believe yet, or never will, there is still a chair for you in this story.

Maybe what you see is human ingenuity.

Help.

Adaptation.

Humor.

Community.

Resilience.

An ordinary object being exactly where somebody needed it.

You don’t have to interpret the experience exactly as I do in order to sit with me.

Bring what you see.

I’ll bring what I see.

Maybe we’ll both notice something we would have missed alone.

👓🥽🔑

Because sometimes life hands us profound lessons.

And sometimes…

apparently…

Heaven’s supply closet is open.

☁️✋🏾🧻

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Hard was there.

Help was there.

Joy was there.

Fun was there.

Agency was there.

Dignity was there.

Cassandra was there.

And according to my faith…

God was there.

❤️

Beloveds, tell me what you see in this story. What ordinary thing has helped you through something hard? Come laugh with me, share this with somebody who needs the reminder, like it if it gave you some joy, follow/subscribe and come back—we’re finding 🔑s together every day.

Asking for A Friend,

Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!

💋🧻🪣👸🏿🤣❤️‍🩹🔑🚪

COME SIT AT MY TABLE 🪑❤️‍🩹

COME SIT AT MY TABLE 🪑❤️‍🩹

Beloveds,

Come sit at my table.

I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what you look like. I don’t care whether your life looks anything like mine. I don’t need you to explain yourself before you pull out the chair.

Just come sit with me.

I know something about sitting alone.

There was a time when I was the child sitting at the lunch table without somebody beside me. I know what it feels like to wonder whether anybody is coming. I know what loneliness can feel like when you’re surrounded by people and somehow still find yourself by yourself.

So I made a choice.

If I am the only person sitting at the table, I will sit there and wait.

Not because I’m ashamed of who I was.

Not because I am still trying to prove something to the people who called me ugly.

I got my beautiful.

I think I’m beautiful now.

And I am moving on with my life.

But moving on doesn’t require me to forget the child who once sat alone. In fact, maybe one of the beautiful things I can do with what hurt me is make sure there is an empty chair beside me for somebody else.

That’s why I stay at the table.

It has nothing to do with race.

Yes, I am a Black woman. And yes, there are things about living in this Black body and moving through this world that are exhausting. There is also tremendous joy here. Both things are true.

But that isn’t what this table is about.

This table is about the person who is alone.

Black.

White.

Brown.

Gay.

Straight.

Believer.

Atheist.

Disabled.

Nondisabled.

Quiet.

Loud.

Certain.

Confused.

Happy.

Hurting.

Somebody who looks like me.

Somebody who doesn’t.

Somebody whose life I understand immediately.

Somebody whose life I may never completely understand.

You don’t have to qualify for the chair.

You don’t have to convince me that your loneliness is lonely enough.

You don’t have to tell me the right story.

You don’t have to believe what I believe before I’ll sit beside you.

You don’t have to become more like me.

And I don’t have to become more like you.

There is no entrance examination at this table.

You’re alone.

There’s a chair.

Come sit with me.

Maybe we talk.

Maybe we laugh.

Maybe we dance.

Maybe we listen to some music.

Maybe we eat our lunch without saying very much at all.

Maybe you tell me something about your world that I couldn’t possibly have known unless you trusted me enough to let me see it.

And maybe I do the same.

We don’t have to fix one another.

We can simply refuse to leave one another alone.

That matters to me because I remember.

I remember the little girl who was called ugly.

I remember being alone.

And I cannot go backward and put somebody beside that little girl.

But today?

Today I can leave a chair open.

And tomorrow I can do it again.

Maybe somebody who sits with me today will notice somebody standing alone tomorrow.

Maybe they’ll pull out another chair.

Maybe that’s how a table gets longer.

Maybe that’s how loneliness loses a little ground.

Maybe that’s one way we love the world.

So, Beloved, if you’ve been standing there wondering where you’re supposed to sit:

Here.

Sit here.

You don’t have to audition.

You don’t have to qualify.

You don’t have to prove that you belong.

I saved you a seat.

Come sit at my table.

Come sit with me.

You don’t have to eat alone. 🪑❤️‍🩹🫂

Asking for A Friend,

Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!

BELOVEDS, YOU CAN HAVE MY FLOWERS. I DON’T NEED THEM ANYMORE.

BELOVEDS, YOU CAN HAVE MY FLOWERS. I DON’T NEED THEM ANYMORE.

❣️💟💕💞💓💗💛🧡🖤💙💚🤍🩶🤎💜❤️❤️‍🩹💖💝💘💘🧩🧸

Beloveds,

You can have MY flowers.

I don’t need them anymore.

🌹🌷🌻

No, really.

Take them.

Take every last one.

Give them to somebody who can smell them.

Give them to somebody who can hold them.

Give them to somebody who needs to know today that somebody thought about them.

Give them to somebody who has been sitting quietly wondering whether anybody sees them.

Give them to somebody who is still here.

❤️

Because I’ve been thinking about flowers.

We give so many of them when somebody dies.

Beautiful arrangements.

Lilies.

Roses.

Cards.

Ribbons.

Rooms filled with color.

People stand beside somebody who can no longer hear them and say some of the most beautiful things they have ever said about that person.

She was wonderful.

He changed my life.

She always made me laugh.

He was there when nobody else was.

I wish I had told her.

I hope he knew.

And Beloveds—

sometimes I want to ask:

Did we tell them while they were here?

👀

Not as condemnation.

Not as guilt.

Because life gets busy.

People get tired.

Relationships get complicated.

Sometimes we assume there will be another opportunity.

Another phone call.

Another Christmas.

Another Tuesday.

Another March.

❤️‍🩹

I know something about March.

That’s why I’m not interested in shaming anybody for what they didn’t know yesterday.

I’m interested in what we can do today.

And today—

somebody is still here.

🌎

So you can have my flowers.

Give mine away early.

Give them before anybody has to stand at a microphone and explain what somebody meant.

Give them before the obituary.

Before the memorial.

Before everybody suddenly remembers the nicest thing they ever thought about somebody.

If you love somebody—

tell them.

If somebody changed your life—

tell them.

If somebody helped you survive something—

tell them.

If somebody makes this ridiculous world a little easier for you to live in—

tell them.

And don’t only tell the people everybody expects you to tell.

Tell the teacher.

Tell the nurse.

Tell the neighbor.

Tell the friend who answered at 2:00 in the morning.

Tell the person who made you laugh on the day you thought laughter had left you.

Tell the person who quietly made room.

Tell the person who pulled up another chair.

🪑🪑

Tell somebody:

You mattered to me today.

Because flowers don’t have to be flowers.

👀

Maybe somebody’s flowers are:

a phone call.

A sandwich.

A ride.

A handwritten note.

An hour without looking at your phone.

A ridiculous meme.

A prayer.

A meal.

A hug.

An apology.

A boundary respected.

A name remembered.

A seat saved.

A door held open.

A message that simply says:

I thought about you.

💐

Maybe flowers are attention.

Maybe flowers are presence.

Maybe flowers are seeing somebody while they’re still standing in front of you.

And maybe that’s why I don’t need mine anymore.

Because I’ve been getting mine.

❤️

Not necessarily roses.

Not necessarily bouquets.

I’ve received love.

I’ve received kindness.

I’ve received people sitting beside me.

I’ve received laughter.

I’ve received prayers.

I’ve received people who stayed.

I’ve received people who saw me.

I’ve received people who let me be loud.

I’ve received people who let me be quiet.

I’ve received people who loved me when I was strong.

I’ve received people who loved me when strong wasn’t available.

I’ve received flowers that never grew from soil.

💝

And Beloveds—

that’s enough.

So if someday somebody thinks:

I wish I could give Cassandra flowers…

Nah, fam.

Find somebody living.

🌎

Give them mine.

Take that bouquet somewhere else.

Walk into a nursing home.

Visit somebody nobody visits.

Thank somebody who thinks nobody noticed.

Call somebody you’ve been meaning to call.

Tell your sister.

Tell your brother.

Tell your friend.

Tell your Wombie.

Tell somebody who has been carrying everybody else.

Tell somebody whose name rarely gets called unless somebody needs something.

Tell somebody:

I see you.

👀❤️

And don’t wait until they’re extraordinary.

Don’t wait until they accomplish something enormous.

Don’t wait until they survive something terrible.

Don’t wait until the whole world applauds them.

Don’t wait until they’re gone.

Love ordinary people on ordinary Tuesdays.

That’s where life actually happens.

❤️

Maybe we’ve confused flowers with reward.

You don’t have to earn tenderness.

You don’t need a tragedy before somebody checks on you.

You don’t need an accomplishment before somebody celebrates you.

You don’t need to almost disappear before somebody finally notices you’re here.

Beloved—

being here is enough.

😭❤️‍🩹

That’s one of the things I want us to learn together.

Give people their humanity before their obituary.

Give people their tenderness before their memorial.

Give people their gratitude before their tribute.

Give people their attention before their absence teaches you to pay attention.

And when somebody gives you flowers—

literal or otherwise—

receive them.

Don’t immediately explain why you don’t deserve them.

Don’t swat love away because receiving makes you uncomfortable.

Don’t make somebody argue you into believing you matter.

Sometimes the assignment is not giving.

Sometimes the assignment is:

open your hands.

💐🤲🏿

Receive.

Then when your hands are full—

give some away.

❤️➡️❤️

That’s how love moves.

Not because anybody owes us.

Not because kindness is a transaction.

Not because I loved you, therefore you must love me exactly the way I demand.

No.

Love moves because love has somewhere to go.

We talked about that already.

Love still has somewhere to go.

🌎

And I want mine moving.

Don’t pile it around me someday.

Move it.

Take whatever love you were going to save for later and spend some of it while somebody can still receive it.

Spend it recklessly on kindness.

Spend it wisely on presence.

Spend it courageously on telling the truth.

Spend it gently on somebody grieving.

Spend it quietly on somebody who doesn’t need an audience.

Spend it across lines somebody told you shouldn’t be crossed.

Race.

Country.

Language.

Age.

Ability.

Religion.

No religion.

Whatever.

Human being.

Start there.

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤎🤍🩶

And yes, boundaries still matter.

Love does not require returning somewhere unsafe.

Love does not require allowing somebody to harm you.

Love does not mean disappearing yourself.

Sometimes the flower is kindness.

Sometimes the flower is forgiveness.

Sometimes the flower is distance.

Sometimes the flower is:

I love you, and I cannot stay here.

Love doesn’t have to lie in order to call itself love.

❤️‍🩹

But wherever love can safely go—

send it.

Because there is somebody alive right now who thinks nobody notices.

Somebody who believes they are too much.

Somebody who believes they are not enough.

Somebody sitting alone.

Somebody grieving.

Somebody scared.

Somebody laughing loudly because joy finally came back.

Somebody starting over.

Somebody barely holding on to hope.

Somebody who doesn’t need your solution.

They might just need another human being to say:

Your life matters to me.

💝

That’s the flower.

Not the rose.

Not the ribbon.

Not the arrangement.

The knowing.

Knowing somebody saw you.

Knowing somebody remembered.

Knowing somebody was glad you existed.

Knowing somebody made room.

Knowing somebody didn’t require you to become somebody else before they loved you.

Knowing there was another chair.

🪑🪑

Beloveds,

that’s what I want.

Not more flowers around death.

More flowers around life.

🌻🌎❤️

Flowers at breakfast.

Flowers on random Wednesdays.

Flowers because somebody made it through Tuesday.

Flowers because somebody tried again.

Flowers because somebody finally rested.

Flowers because somebody spoke.

Flowers because somebody survived.

Flowers because somebody laughed.

Flowers because somebody simply woke up this morning and is still here.

No occasion required.

You are the occasion.

👀❤️‍🔥

And maybe somebody reading this has been waiting for their flowers.

Come here.

🪑

I see you.

I may not know your name.

I may never know your story.

But you’re here.

And for this little moment, we’re sharing the same world.

🌎

So take one of mine.

🌹

Actually—

take the whole bouquet.

💐

I don’t need to hoard love to know I was loved.

I don’t need every flower with my name on it.

I would rather know somebody received one in time.

While they could smell it.

While they could smile.

While they could roll their eyes and say, “What is THIS for?”

While they could put it in some ridiculous vase that doesn’t match anything.

While they could text somebody a picture.

While they could know:

Somebody thought of me today.

🥰

That’s enough for me.

So Beloveds—

you can have MY flowers.

Give them away.

Give them now.

Give them while somebody can receive them.

And when somebody hands you yours—

take them.

💐❤️

We are still here.

Our job is still not done.

Love still has somewhere to go.

So let’s send it.

One person.

One kindness.

One flower.

One step.

One step.

One step.

🌎❤️‍🔥

You are loved.

You are NOT alone.

Keep on being…YOU!

Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

Forgive them, Cassandra, God said to me

God: Forgive him.

Me: He said some terribly hurtful words.

God: I know. Do this for me.

Me: He said some blatantly racist things to his supposed friend!!🥾😡

God: I know. Forgive for they know not what they do.

Me: He KNEW. HE CHOSE THOSE AWFUL WORDS!!😠✋️

God: How will he ever learn and grow lest you teach?

Me: I’m tired, God. Tired of having to teach folks how to not treat my black skin as a crime!! Did you know I can’t show anger or any negative emotions with black emojis as they default to the yellow, considered white, color pallet..

I can

💃🏿😠🫵🏾🫴🏿🫶🏿🤲🏿🙆🏿‍♀️🧏🏿‍♀️👩🏿‍🎓👸🏿👩🏿‍🦼🏃🏿‍♀️🛀🏿

Yet, I can’t be upset as MY BLACK SELF. I’M NOT ASHAMED TO BE ME. I LOVE ME SOME ME!!

God: I know. Forgiveness is asked by ME. Do I not forgive you?

Me: Wellll …

God: Forgive. My grace IS sufficient for you.

Me:

God: Thank you. Be encouraged.

*sigh*

still hurt,

Cassandra

Still In Love

Good morning!

I love my new avatar!! Now I can express me!!!

Two issues:

I’m almost out of free space and will have to upgrade this week.

Secondly, I have been sick enough to have upcoming surgery and to take a full week off to rest. Yet, my heart won’t let me quit you, beloveds. You mean too much to me.

I am aware that I rarely get visitors anymore. No matter. Still, I  rise. I’ll be here for whosoeverwill.

Meaning, I got all or none of you. I’ll keep your seat at the table waiting for you.

In the meantime, enjoy  “Still in Love….

loving you still,

Cassandra

PSA: Don’t be ashamed to admit when you are wrong. Get some act ✅️right!

Fix what YOU broke/ break.  I’m fixing mine! Nah, fam. We do NOT choose to be a clown.🤡🪠🩼🩹⛓️🪏🦯🪣🧻🥽🗑⛑️🧺💃🏿👏

We live. We love. PERIODT!

Asking for A Friend…

REAL TALK: DESPISE NOT SMALL BEGINNINGS, BELOVEDS.👘🦺🥾👟🥿👞🩴👢🩰👡⛑️🔌🕯️🔎🖌️🖋️📢

REAL TALK: DESPISE NOT SMALL BEGINNINGS, BELOVEDS.

👘🦺🥾👟🥿👞🩴👢🩰👡⛑️🔌🕯️🔎🖌️🖋️📢

Beloveds,

Real talk.

Despise not small beginnings.

“For who hath despised the day of small things?”
— Zechariah 4:10 KJV

I want to talk about your hard.

Not motivational-poster hard.

Not the kind somebody can wrap up in three sentences and put underneath a pretty picture of a sunrise.

I mean HARD hard.

The thing you wish had never happened.

The thing you didn’t choose.

The thing that changed your plans.

Your family.

Your finances.

Your relationships.

Your body.

Your work.

Your home.

Your confidence.

Your expectations.

Maybe your understanding of who you were going to be.

The hard that makes something which used to require almost no thought suddenly require strategy.

🦺

This morning, mine looked like a kimono.

👘

That’s where this started.

Getting dressed.

Something ordinary.

Except ordinary things aren’t always ordinary anymore.

I had to figure it out.

Which hand?

Which direction?

How do I pull this?

What can I brace against?

What happens if I approach it from another angle?

Try.

Adjust.

Try again.

And somewhere in all that work, I realized:

I couldn’t have done this hard right-handed.

Ironically.

🤯

The hand I once depended upon automatically might actually have made what I was doing harder.

Life changed the assignment.

So somewhere along the way, without a ceremony announcing it, I had learned another way.

And I almost missed it.

Because that’s what we do sometimes.

We compare today’s small accomplishment with yesterday’s normal.

And then we say:

“I only…”

👀

I only got dressed.

I only made one phone call.

I only filled out one application.

I only walked that far.

I only cleaned one room.

I only wrote one paragraph.

I only saved a few dollars.

I only made it through today.

I only asked for help.

I only prayed a few words.

I only.

Two tiny words can take something that actually happened and immediately prosecute it for everything that didn’t.

🔎

Maybe “I only” is one of the languages of despising small things.

Because:

“I did this.”

becomes:

“I only did this.”

And suddenly the thing that required something from you doesn’t count because it wasn’t bigger.

Beloveds,

stop cross-examining your progress.

😭

Why did it take so long?

Why couldn’t I do more?

Why can somebody else do this easily?

Why am I still here?

Shouldn’t I be farther by now?

Does this even count?

Yes.

It counts.

Not because we’re going to exaggerate it.

Small is still small.

An inch is not secretly a mile.

But an inch forward isn’t standing still either.

Small describes size.

It does not determine value.

A seed is small.

A key is small.

A stitch is small.

A spark is small.

A signature may be only a few inches of ink.

A whispered “yes” can change a life.

A whispered “no” can save one.

Small has never meant powerless.

🕯️

And small beginnings aren’t always cute.

Sometimes they’re downright offensive when you remember having more.

Starting from zero is one thing.

Beginning again while remembering one hundred is another.

Ten steps can mean something very different when your body remembers running.

One paid bill can feel painfully small when you remember financial security.

One quiet evening alone can hurt when you remember a full house.

One sentence can feel tiny when words once came effortlessly.

Sometimes the small beginning hurts precisely because you remember the building that used to stand there.

🦺

That’s the world of Zechariah.

Rebuilding.

Construction.

Foundations.

Something isn’t finished yet.

And construction sites aren’t particularly inspirational-looking.

🤣

Dust.

Exposed wires.

Tools everywhere.

Things pulled apart.

Things that worked yesterday temporarily don’t work today.

Sometimes the place looks worse because work has begun.

Someone unfamiliar with construction might walk in and say:

“Look at this mess.”

The builder may look at the same room and say:

“Look at what we’re building.”

Both people are looking at the same unfinished place.

🔎

So maybe the question isn’t:

“How do I make my hard look beautiful?”

Maybe it’s:

“Since I am here, what can I build from here?”

😭🦺🥾

Notice what I did NOT say.

I didn’t say the terrible thing had to happen.

I didn’t say everything happens for a reason.

I didn’t say you should be grateful for devastation.

I didn’t say suffering automatically makes people stronger.

Some things hurt.

Some things are unfair.

Some losses remain losses.

Some things happened that should not have happened.

You are allowed to say:

I wish this had never happened.

AND—

Since I am here, what can I build from here?

Those truths don’t have to fight each other.

You can grieve the old building while laying bricks for something new.

🧱😭

Rebuilding does not require disrespecting what was lost.

And faith doesn’t require lying.

Sometimes people tell us to “look on the bright side.”

I want to offer something sturdier:

Look accurately.

🔎

What hurts?

What was lost?

What remains?

What can I change?

What can’t I change today?

What requires action?

What requires patience?

What requires grief?

What requires rest?

What requires another person’s hands?

What requires professional help?

What am I trying to solve today that doesn’t actually belong to today?

And:

What is my next faithful move?

🥾👟🥿👞🩴👢🩰👡

Not everybody’s move looks alike.

We’ve been saying:

One step. One step. One step.

But everybody doesn’t step the same way.

Somebody’s step is walking.

Somebody’s is rolling.

Somebody’s is reaching.

Somebody’s is speaking.

Somebody’s is listening.

Somebody’s is making the appointment.

Somebody’s is keeping the appointment.

Somebody’s is taking the medication.

Somebody’s is setting the boundary.

Somebody’s is leaving.

Somebody’s is staying.

Somebody’s is asking for help.

Somebody’s is finally accepting help.

Somebody’s is opening the curtains.

Somebody’s is turning the phone on.

Somebody else’s is turning the phone OFF.

Somebody’s is trying again.

And somebody’s beginning today may simply be:

surviving long enough to begin later.

😭

Movement is larger than walking.

And everybody’s one step does not wear the same shoe.

🥾👟🥿👞🩴👢🩰👡

Please don’t let somebody who has never worn your shoes convince you that your step doesn’t count.

They don’t know what those shoes weigh.

They don’t know what it took for you to get here.

And if you aren’t standing at all?

They still don’t know what it took for you to get HERE.

🫵🏾

But we need to go deeper than movement.

Because even “take one step” can become cruel if we’re careless.

What about the day you cannot?

What about the setback?

The relapse?

The rejection?

The grief anniversary?

The day you tried and failed?

The day you called and received bad news?

The day you asked for help and nobody came?

The day the candle went out?

🕯️

Does your life still matter then?

YES.

📢

Please hear me.

YOUR LIFE DOES NOT BEGIN MATTERING WHEN YOU BEGIN MOVING.

😭😭😭

Before the comeback.

Before the breakthrough.

Before the progress anybody can measure.

Before you make meaning from what happened.

Before you figure out what comes next.

Before the testimony.

Before you put on the kimono.

👘

Your life matters while the kimono is still lying on the bed and you don’t have enough in you to put it on.

Your value is not compensation for productivity.

You don’t have to earn your humanity by overcoming something.

You don’t owe anybody a heroic story.

You don’t have to turn tragedy into inspiration.

You don’t have to discover the purpose of your pain by Friday.

🤣😭

Sometimes being here is enough for today.

And some hard requires something else entirely:

HELP.

⛑️⛑️⛑️

Some hard isn’t yours to overcome by yourself.

Some hard needs treatment.

Some hard needs to be escaped.

Some hard needs to be reported.

Some hard needs to be grieved.

Some hard needs to be shared.

Some hard needs rest.

Some hard needs expertise.

Some hard needs somebody trained for exactly the place where you find yourself.

A doctor.

A therapist.

A social worker.

An attorney.

A financial counselor.

A teacher.

A pastor.

A support group.

A friend.

A neighbor.

A whole team.

⛑️

Sometimes the next step when you’re drowning isn’t:

“Swim harder.”

Sometimes it is:

CALL SOMEBODY WITH A ROPE.

📢

Small beginnings do not mean small help.

You may take one tiny step while receiving enormous support.

There is no shame in that equation.

Human beings were never meant to do every hard thing alone.

Sometimes somebody else holds the flashlight while you work.

🕯️

Somebody carries the toolbox.

🦺

Somebody knows the terrain.

🥾

Somebody calls for help.

⛑️

Somebody makes the first mark.

🖋️

Tomorrow the roles may reverse.

That’s not failure.

That’s community.

🌎

And sometimes you don’t have enough light to see what happens next.

🔌

The power is out.

You wanted daylight.

You wanted answers.

You wanted the whole plan.

You wanted to know how this ends.

Instead, you have this little flicker.

🕯️

Beloveds:

A candle is not a failed sun.

😭

Stop requiring one tiny candle to illuminate your entire future.

Bring it close.

What can you see from here?

Maybe enough for one decision.

One conversation.

One boundary.

One meal.

One application.

One appointment.

One prayer.

One hour.

One breath.

One step.

Use the light you have without lying about the darkness.

🕯️

Faith is not denial.

Hope is not dishonesty.

Gratitude is not amnesia.

Acceptance is not approval.

Rest is not quitting.

Help is not weakness.

And a setback does not necessarily erase everything that came before it.

Maybe you don’t have electricity today.

🔌

Okay.

Find the candle.

🕯️

Can’t see the whole room?

Don’t pretend you can.

See enough for here.

🔎

And don’t despise the flicker because you asked God for the sun.

😭☀️

Then maybe tomorrow there is another little bit of light.

Another step.

Another brick.

Another mark.

🖋️

And that brings me to beginnings themselves.

We say “starting over” as though everything before this moment vanished.

But beginning again does not mean your first beginning meant nothing.

You aren’t necessarily standing here empty-handed.

You may carry knowledge.

Experience.

Memory.

Discernment.

Skills.

Scars.

Boundaries.

Love.

Questions.

Faith.

Fear.

Maybe wisdom you wish had cost less.

😭

A new beginning does not require you to erase the old story.

The old pages remain.

You cannot crawl backward into yesterday and change the ink that’s already dry.

But there may still be blank space.

🖋️

Not an entirely blank life.

Just some space.

One line.

One choice.

One response.

One morning.

One breath.

Maybe a small beginning is simply:

the first mark you are able to make in a space life left blank.

🖋️

And sometimes life isn’t even that linear.

That’s where the paintbrush comes in.

🖌️

Healing isn’t arithmetic.

Pain + effort + faith does not always equal the neat outcome we expected.

Sometimes healing looks more like art.

You paint.

You stop.

You scrape something away.

You discover a color doesn’t work.

You make a mark you didn’t intend.

You step away because you’re too close to see what you’re making.

You come back.

You leave one corner unfinished.

You discover that something you thought was ruined belongs in the picture after all.

🖌️

You can be creating while grieving.

Building while resting.

Believing while questioning.

Laughing while hurting.

Grateful and angry.

Hopeful and tired.

Human beings can hold more than one truth at once.

And maybe maturity isn’t forcing one truth to murder the other.

👀

Maybe today I am struggling.

AND

I am still here.

Maybe I miss what was.

AND

I am learning what is.

Maybe this is unfair.

AND

I still have choices within it.

Maybe I need help.

AND

receiving help doesn’t make me less.

Maybe I’m not where I want to be.

AND

I don’t have to despise where I am.

😭

Which brings us back to that dangerous little word:

only.

Maybe today you only—

No.

Scratch that.

🖋️

Maybe today you did.

Period.

You got dressed.

You called.

You rested.

You cried.

You prayed.

You tried.

You stopped.

You asked.

You received.

You survived.

You began.

Or maybe you didn’t begin today at all.

And your life still matters.

📢❤️‍🔥

Because a beginning doesn’t create your worth.

Your worth is what makes the beginning worth protecting.

😭😭😭

So what is the opposite of despising a small beginning?

It isn’t necessarily throwing it a party.

Sometimes you won’t feel like celebrating.

Sometimes the beginning hurts too much for that.

Sometimes you simply:

honor it enough to continue.

🧱

You don’t have to throw the brick a parade.

Lay the next brick when you can.

And when you can’t?

Rest beside the wall.

Receive help.

Let somebody hold the light.

⛑️🕯️

The unfinished building does not get to vote on whether the builder has value.

And neither does your unfinished life.

😭

So yes.

This morning mine happened to begin with a kimono.

👘

Something small.

Something ordinary.

Something nobody passing by would have known required work.

They would have seen clothes.

I knew the work.

🦺

And that’s why I am telling you:

Stop requiring other people to understand how hard your small thing was before you allow yourself to honor it.

They weren’t there.

You were.

God was.

🙏🏿

Small does not mean meaningless.

A candle is not a failed sun.

Use the light you have without lying about the darkness.

Movement is larger than walking.

Everybody’s one step does not wear the same shoe.

Small beginnings do not mean small help.

Your life does not begin mattering when you begin moving.

And Beloveds—

don’t despise your beginning because it doesn’t look impressive enough to somebody standing outside your hard.

🔎🕯️

Look accurately.

Ask for help when you need it.

⛑️

Pick up the tool you can hold.

🦺

Wear whatever shoe fits your journey.

🥾👟🥿👞🩴👢🩰👡

Make the mark you can make.

🖋️

Paint what you can paint.

🖌️

Use the light you have.

🕯️

And if all you can do today is remain here until another beginning becomes possible—

Beloved, remain.

❤️‍🔥

Your beginning does not have to impress us.

Your hard does not have to become inspirational for us.

And your life does not have to become easier before it becomes precious.

📢

DESPISE NOT SMALL BEGINNINGS, BELOVEDS.

👘🦺🥾🕯️⛑️🖋️

Asking for A Friend,

Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

One step. One step. One step.

And remember:

Sometimes the step is resting long enough to take another.

You are loved.

You are NOT alone.

Keep on being…YOU!