Today’s post comes from a tender place, so stay with me.
Tonight, while making dinner, I realized I had done it again — made more than enough for the two of us. For four years, I cooked for three. It took me a full year to stop setting out three plates without thinking. Muscle memory doesn’t just live in your hands; it lives in your heart.
Earlier today at work, I handled a devastating case. Someone lost their spouse. As I comforted her, I told her something I once read: grief is like glitter. You think you’ve cleaned it all up, but months — even years — later, you’ll find a speck of it shining in the corner of an ordinary day.
I didn’t realize I would find my own glitter tonight.
Ry was in her room painting while I stood at the stove. The house was peaceful. It was a good day. And then, out of nowhere, I felt anger rise in me — sharp and unexpected. But it wasn’t anger. It was hurt in disguise. I walked into my room and fell to my knees.
I haven’t felt that kind of ache from the divorce in a long time. I’ve moved forward. I’ve rebuilt. So why today? Why on a happy, ordinary evening?
That’s when it clicked.
I wasn’t upset about the extra food. I wasn’t frustrated that I still overcook. I was grieving the life I once planned.. Where I expected to be at this point in my life. I have always said I would be married once — that divorce would never be part of my story. I had dreams of a whole, steady marriage and a family that stayed intact. And when that future unraveled, it felt like something sacred was torn from my hands.
What hurt wasn’t the past. It was the reminder.
I was angry that glitter found me on a good day. Sad that, for a moment, I felt “broken” again.
But as I cried, I felt the Lord’s presence wrap around me — steady and kind. And in my spirit, I heard it: You fought. You did what you could. You fought for your family and God's voice "I saw it all."
That mattered.
Grief doesn’t mean I haven’t healed. It means I loved deeply. It means I tried. It means I built real dreams and real hopes. Glitter doesn’t show up where nothing existed. It only shows up where something once sparkled.
Tonight reminded me that healing isn’t the absence of pain — it’s the ability to feel it, sit with it, and still stand back up.
And I did.
I want to be clear about something.
The ache I felt tonight wasn’t because I miss him. I don’t. I genuinely thank God for that relationship ending and everything it taught me. I carry no bitterness anymore. For a long time, I held anger, especially around the abandonment. That wound ran deep. But I laid it down. I released it.
What hurt wasn’t the person. It was the death of a dream.
There’s a difference.
That marriage broke, yes, but it also built me. It refined me. It forced me to confront parts of myself I may have never faced otherwise. It sharpened my discernment. It strengthened my standards. It taught me what questions must be asked early in dating, what red flags cannot be excused, and what consistency actually looks like. It showed me the difference between chemistry and covenant.
Because of that broken marriage, I now know exactly what the one God has ordained for me will carry. I know the steadiness I require. I know the spiritual leadership I need. I know the emotional maturity that isn’t negotiable. Most importantly, I know the kind of love I deserve — not a love that wavers when things get hard, but one that stands, protects, chooses, and stays throughout all of life's storms.
Grief showed up tonight not because I want the past back, but because I once believed that version of my future was permanent. And when something you built your identity around shifts, even if you’re grateful for the outcome, your heart still remembers.
But here’s the beautiful part: I’m not the same woman who entered that marriage.
And I won’t be the same woman who walks into the next one — because the next one will be my last.
The man I will stand beside is not rushed, not random, not accidental. He is being shaped in God’s hands even now. While I’ve been healing, he’s been becoming. While I’ve been refining my standards, he’s been refining his character. There is no wasted time in heaven’s preparation.
The next covenant won’t be built on potential or hope alone. It will be built on alignment, maturity, and obedience. It will be two whole people choosing each other daily, not out of fear, not out of loneliness, but out of calling.
And the love I have poured out so freely for years, the steady, loyal, sacrificial kind, will not be wasted. It will return to me. Multiplied. Protected. Reciprocated.
This time, it won’t just be love I give.
It will be love I receive.
Glitter may find me from time to time, but so will wisdom. So will peace. So will clarity.
And this time, I won’t settle for anything less than what heaven has already written.
I don’t mind waiting. I’ve come to trust that the Lord’s timing for my life is not late, not careless, not random. It is precise. I didn’t land in this state, in this season, by accident. There is purpose even here.
The love that is coming, the man my heart is being prepared for is worth every moment of hurt, every betrayal, every tear I’ve ever had to face. Nothing has been wasted. Not one lesson. Not one lonely night. Not one prayer whispered through clenched teeth.
Sometimes I think about him and feel a tenderness I can’t fully explain yet. And I know that tenderness comes from our Creator. God doesn’t plant anticipation without intention. I pray for my future husband daily. for his day, his burdens, his discipline, his healing, his walk with the Lord. I lift up his struggles, his desires, his calling. I ask that he be strengthened where he feels weak and refined where he needs growth. I may not know his name yet, but heaven does.
And the glitter, it will always be there. A reminder of what once was. A reminder that I loved deeply. Grief doesn’t disappear; it integrates. It becomes part of the story without defining the ending.
I saw a video recently that said: "If God can take away the person you thought you'd never lose, imagine the person He could give you, you thought you'd never find." That stayed with me.
Grief hurts. The life you imagined, the version of the future you rehearsed in your mind, when it slips through your fingers, it can feel unbearable. But I promise you this: if God allowed it to leave, there is a reason. Some people are assigned to a season. Some walk longer stretches beside us. But there is always purpose in their presence and in their departure.
That’s why I no longer cling to what chooses to go.
The man I once believed I would spend forever with walked out. I was shattered. I truly thought life would feel empty without him. But in the silence that followed, I learned something eternal: there is One who never leaves. One who stays. One who loves me exactly as I am — and will never abandon me, nor my daughter.
What left revealed Who remained.
And that has changed everything.
So to those of you experiencing glitter for the first time or noticing tiny specks of it resting quietly on your dresser today be gentle with yourself. Don’t rush the cleanup. Don’t shame yourself for still feeling it. We’re all just learning how to carry what life has handed us.
If there’s any advice I can offer, it’s this: choose love. Every chance you get, choose it. Speak it. Show it. Lead with it. You have no idea what kind of glitter someone else is quietly brushing off their own heart. That small act of kindness, that extra patience, that encouraging word it might be the very thing holding them together.
We’re all navigating loss, healing, hope, and becoming. None of us have this life mastered. So give grace freely. Including to yourself.
Until next time,
XOXO — your favorite sappy writer ✨
Heavenly Father,
Thank You for meeting me here, and for meeting every person reading this right where they are. You see every season we walk through. You see every hidden tear, every quiet ache, every speck of glitter that catches us off guard. On the days it feels too heavy to carry, remind us that we were never meant to carry it alone.
Your love is our greatest example, steady, patient, unwavering. Refine us through every trial. Teach us through every loss. Draw us closer to You in both the breaking and the rebuilding. Shape our hearts to look more like Yours.
Lord, You see all things. You know what You allow and what You remove. Help us trust You with both. When something leaves our lives, steady our hearts. When something new is being formed, prepare us for it. Guard what is meant for us and gently release what is not.
For the one reading this wrap them in Your peace tonight. Strengthen them where they feel weak. Heal what still feels tender. Restore joy where grief has lingered. Remind them that nothing in their story is wasted.
Teach us to put our full trust in You not in our own understanding, not in our own timing, not in our own strength. Anchor us in faith. Align our desires with Your will. And let our lives be a reflection of Your goodness.
We love You. We trust You. We surrender it all to You.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
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