God winks often find me when I need them the most. Whether it’s a dream or an encounter browsing the grocery store, God knows what I need, when I need it, especially on this side of awareness. After a while of silence, maturity, and remaining consistent with my iron pills, I am starting to see them again.

I was once zealous for the Lord. I desired to teach his word, using various mediums like writing and podcasting. Naive when my mom would say I haven’t lived enough life yet to understand. Wisdom found me through experience. I moved to Texas by faith during the pandemic, and disillusionment came knocking. I read a book a few years back that talked about the night seasons. Night seasons are where our faith grows the most. And boy, did my faith grow over the last few years, so that my zealousness turned into steadfastness. Where my eyes stay on God, even when disappointment hijacked the conversation. I learned where my trust was not.

For the last few years, dreams have been hard to come by. And I ponder often between the lines that we call faith and spiritual psychosis. The thought has been on me heavily. The way social media has polarized topics and people, I’m exhausted, and using my voice doesn’t seem like the best choice as of late. I am wrestling with what the Lord desires me to speak. Not a wrestle that keeps me up at night, but one that only surrender can unravel. I figured as I write and show up in this space, God will meet us in it.

I am not ashamed to admit that it’s been a quiet few years. The way he speaks to me is different. His presence is felt. I’m just not the same woman I was before life started teaching me lessons that would ground my faith and test it at the same time. I’ve had to sit with hard questions and real moments of people struggling in their own regards, while trusting God to see us all through. My body responded through bracing and pain before my mind realized what was happening. I was numb, angry, and desperate for this phase of the process to conclude. It hasn’t fully ended; I’ve just learned to see it through a necessary lens. Where I show up despite what it feels like as I step, the next step is revealed. It’s hard not to notice the God winks that surround me.

Where God shows up in a dream, reassuring a friend that all his decisions have led him to here, and God is with him in whatever decision he makes moving forward. In faith, I send a text to that friend on the opposite coast from me, and within a minute he responds in awe because he’s having a conversation as I sent the text with a parent around a decision he needs to make. God wanted him to know that he is with him in whatever decision is made because it’s made from the place of relationship with him. A moment that stopped me in my tracks. A holy awe returning. Yet, a silent uh oh because in the midst of some chaotic dreams, and moments of saying no thanks, I don’t like that dream, I had a dream about another peer, but didn’t speak up then. This time I did, and it was a God wink. I needed to know God is still speaking, and I get to have front-row access as he allows.

Then fast forward, still relishing in the awe of what God did for my friend. I take a trip to the supermarket with my little mini, and as beautiful as she is and social, I get stopped every 3 to 5 minutes by people speaking to her, telling me how beautiful she is, blessed I am, or in awe of how much joy her beautiful smile brings them. We pass a woman in a mask—a simple interaction. Or I thought. My baby waves; she melts; I say Have a great day, we depart. It’s quick, in passing, I think nothing of it as I turn on the aisle to get my girl some applesauce pouches. Next thing you know, this same lady is walking up beside me, mask off, letting me know how blessed I am with a precious little one like mine. My baby brings me so much joy. She lights up a room. I am indeed blessed.

This lady proceeds to share how people can never guess her age and are in awe when they find out. She asks me to guess. At this point, I am stuck between "wait, what is happening?" and "let me engage out of respect and awe," because she’s probably older than I am going to say, but me guessing 70 and her saying 87 sent me into pure bewilderment. 87? Looking as good as you, hair done, nails done, outfit laid. The woman was beautiful, and 80 nor 70 were on my radar. She proceeded to tell me that it’s Jesus and to keep my eyes on him. That’s the testimony. If God can keep her, he can keep me, and anyone who allows him to be their anchor and guide.

It’s important to note that I am out of the postpartum trenches, but the residue of anxiety lingers. There are things I think about that stress me out and almost send me over the edge. This moment was a God wink of reassurance that God hears and sees me, and I have to keep my eyes on him through all the clutter and noise. She hugs my baby because she’s 87. 87-year-old strangers are allowed to get hugs from my baby if my baby lets them. And my girl initiated the hug. It reminded me of a conversation I had with my mom the other day about having no concept of age because all my grandparents are late 70s, early 80s. I’ve been blessed to see longevity up close. The Lord has kept us, and is continuing to keep us. I needed the reminder to silence the anxious noise finally. God winks.

Only to be in a parking lot the next day, meeting a friend with her two littles, as we watched her car catch on fire. What a moment of application. Right place. Right time. The fire department came within seconds of the call. She and her boys are safe, and no one was hurt except the car. Keeping our eyes on Jesus. The God winks set the foundation for a moment where we tangibly see God’s hand in action. We could have been at the farm, like the day before, in the middle of nowhere, where it took the fire department longer to arrive. Or they could have been driving on the highway. So many could-haves, yet reality shows us that divine protection can still arrive in heartbreaking moments. Her car is a total loss, but her life is alive and well. God winks.

God winks find me when I need them the most, when I decide internally to go all in with what God sets before me. Where I’m honest about how my life is and how I’m feeling. I am no stranger to keeping it real. I will always be in awe of God’s keeping ability. He reminds us when we need it most, and we keep it alive by testifying so others can experience their own God winks, because faith comes by hearing.

When a God wink finds you, come back and share,

Janae Carlee

One thing stood out more than anything else. Belief. An area that requires uncomfortable questions. Do I actually believe I’m going to do the thing I say I’m called to do, or do I believe it in theory?

Paul says, For I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength. (Philippians 4:13). A verse I’ve heard and quoted for years. In context, despite what we walk through, God gives us the strength to see it through. It’s full dependence and trust in him—the same belief needed to show up consistently and not just endure hard seasons.

I recently shared that I have ideas, but the moment doubt creeps in, I never launch them. However, I do launch them; the outcome doesn’t meet my expectations. Books, journals, t-shirts, podcasts, showcases—the list can keep going—but spare me the embarrassment. I recently launched a six-week intensive that helps people take a written poem and prepare it for the microphone, born of walking a peer through her own writing-to-spoken-word process before an upcoming open mic. I loved helping her stand in the power of her voice without disclaimers, because we don’t need to make our experience more palatable for others through this expression.

After I launched it, I realized my audience knows me from a handful of different seasons, each tied to wherever I was at the time. I’ve continuously started and stopped to heal, take refuge, or gather the pieces needed before I could get to where God was taking me next. When in the middle of one of those stops, it never feels like a continuation. More like quitting again. It’s only when I look back that I can see it as a part of what God’s doing in me.

Clarity is often easier for others than for ourselves, because we have a close-up view of our own shortcomings. Doubt and fear start talking us out of the next step before we finish taking the last one. While sitting with this, I came across an article about being embarrassed for disappearing after you’ve established yourself as someone who helps others stay consistent, when you yourself are not.

It’s not about the intensive.

It’s not about the failed ideas.

It’s this: as a believer, why am I struggling to believe I can see anything through? What generational junk am I still working through that keeps me stuck, stagnant, and feeling defeated, when launching has never been my problem? It’s that with so many launches, and so many ventures that didn’t stick, I keep asking when will it finally land.

The world is constantly evolving. People are changing. That’s the one constant we can stand on these days. I’m changing too, daily, especially on this side of marriage and motherhood. I am not, and will never again be, who I was before. In that, I can give myself a lot more grace to evolve.

I have so much respect for people who have it figured out, who are courageous enough to go all in on something that was once merely an idea. But what about the rest of us, still figuring it out? Do we lack resolve? Is this part of the process? Or is there a deeper, rooted belief keeping us stuck in a cycle?

A cycle that isn’t only about launching ideas, but also showing up in my marriage.

My husband and I have good days, and then we repeat the same frustrations with each other. I’m learning that anger is something I thought I dealt with before marriage, but in every way, God is using him to put His hand on it and expose where it’s still living in me. I can sit here defeated, or I can sit alongside our marriage coaches and acknowledge that we are two devoted people willing to go the distance, willing to do the work to get where God needs us to be, together. And alongside them, we see the cycle clearly. At its core, we’re tired. Tired from parenting, tired from work.

I’m a stay-at-home mom who wants to work, doing some part-time things, trying to finally answer the call to entrepreneurship without hiding or shrinking back. He’s doing twelve-hour shifts in a space that’s hard but necessary for our family right now. I have to actually pick up the tools to get out of the cycle that keeps lagging our marriage, and it’s the same story in my daily life. I see it. And still, I stop, start, and get discouraged.

There’s a missing piece, and I believe developing this writing habit, showing up and using my voice through it, will help me unlock it. Writing and poetry are the one area I have never gone all in on, and maybe that’s the point. The continuation is where we discover what was always there. We just had to return to it after gathering the missing pieces. And it’s never failure until we stop.

That belief never left. It just got drowned out by self-doubt masquerading as the voice of our Creator. But if He is good, then those thoughts are not from Him. As Philippians says, I have to fix my mind on what is true, what is noble, what is right (Philippians 4:8). That’s how I overcome the fear that if I don’t move quickly enough, I won’t know what’s needed.

We can’t use waiting and praying as a crutch when God is simply waiting on us to keep showing up in the discomfort, in the figuring it out, in the in-between.

For example, I started writing this as my daughter sleeps, interrupted by her waking to eat lunch, only to stop again to change a poopy diaper. I could have closed my laptop after the fifth interruption. I didn’t. That’s the practice right now. The goal isn’t finished or perfection. It’s simply not closing my laptop.

Resolve is built through trying.

Consistency is formed when you continue to decide to show up imperfectly.

Even though I just launched the intensive, I’ve already taken it offline because I finally know enough to build the next version that helps the one like me stop treating every stall as proof they were never called to this, where authenticity is the secret sauce. Can you take the thing you’re scared to say out loud, get in front of an audience anyway, still shaking, unfinished in your brain, but willing to speak anyway?

You actually do know what you do. You need to stand in it and speak up.

If this is you too, stuck in the start-stop cycle, tell me in the comments what you keep starting and putting down. I want to know I'm not the only one.

Janae Carlee

And to the flesh…

God isn’t intimidated by the frustration.

He’s aware of everything that’s happening internally.

He also knows our end from the beginning as He is both alpha and omega; the middle moments never catch him by surprise.

Just us.

We’re in it.

We’re wrestling.

We’re figuring it out with or without him.

It isn’t until we’re through it that we see his hand in it and the decisions made from the place of maturity in relationship with Him. Yet, immaturity does not disqualify us. It continues to keep us tethered at his feet of dependence. We’ll never have it figured out, as the goal is to be perfected; transformed; molded to look more like him.

And that’s the thing: Romans 8:28.

God causes EVERYTHING to work together FOR THE GOOD of THOSE who LOVE GOD and ARE CALLED according to HIS purpose for them. Memorize this. Let it permeate every part of your mind and body. That when doubt comes in, remind yourself that you love God. And when you love God, you are called according to his purpose. Therefore, he will cause everything to work together for YOUR good.

This may not be exactly what you want, but it will meet your needs. And if you can surrender your desires for his, you’re one step closer to silencing your flesh. The flesh wants what it can not or should not have. Being in relationship with God asks of us to rest in the fact that he is good…

DESPITE current circumstances.

It will still work out for your good.

BECAUSE he is good.

And if you need help understanding that he is good, spend some time in the gospels, starting with the book of John as a gentle reminder.

Get acclimated with the heart of Christ to see yourself in the plans that he has for the redemption of humanity from the fallen human nature inherited by Adam.

God will ask you to do unconventional tasks, and maturity will have you only seek his validation. Please make a decision and stand by it, solely because it's what God said to you.

Obedience doesn't make sense to onlookers and sometimes ourselves. We are often talked out of the very thing God instructed us to do because we want familial approval.

If Moses ' mom knew putting him in a basket would land him inPharaoh'ss palace, I imagine shewouldn'tt have done it. Yet God will even shield us in obedience from the outcome of what our yes requires.

God is moving many strings behind the scenes to make our path straight.

As we figure it out, meditate on Romans 8:28 and Proverbs 3:5-6.

Trust him with the parts that don't make sense yet.

Obey anyway,

Janae Carlee.

You have to be willing to take the first step.

You have to dream big and believe it.

You owe it to yourself.

Show up in the mundane. Dedicate 100% to the craft of perfecting. Let maturity do its work in you. Don’t let self-sabotage keep talking you out of commitment.

I think of Joseph from the book of Genesis often. Known as a dreamer and an interpreter of dreams. He had a dream that altered his destiny because he shared it aloud. God used the junk in his brothers’ hearts to catapult him into the future, saving them from a guaranteed famine. Yet God positioned Joseph after years of heartbreak and betrayal. When reflecting on his story, one verse in Psalms stands out. Psalm 105:19 says Joseph’s character was purged until God’s promise came to pass.

Regardless of when you capture the dream, your character will be tested. It’s the nature of the game called life. Life happens. How we respond, based on what we know to be true about God's nature, allows us to show up in ways that honor Christ and ourselves. God is good even when our circumstances or surroundings shout otherwise. God will always be good. God will always use people to advance His mission. God and the enemy are not synonymous. The enemy has a plan, and sometimes we experience the sorrow that comes with it, but God is always working behind the scenes, even when we don’t feel or see it.

This is where James 1:3-4 comes in.

Perfect and complete, needing nothing.

There is an inner peace in needing nothing. At this point, we obey. The testing of our character reveals the self-sabotage, in whatever form it arrives in your life. For me, it looks like fear or doubt, then using waiting on God as a crutch.

When in reality, God is waiting on me to do the last thing He told me to do, and to rest in His presence. Resting is an internal state of mind. It’s deciding the place of relationship with God.

What is the last thing God told you?

Is the last thing God told you to do too big to believe?

If you need help hearing God’s voice, please let me know. I can help you walk through this and gain clarity on what God is saying for your life.

Each decision to take a step forward makes the path clearer. Sometimes it does require a pivot, but you really owe it to yourself to keep showing up regardless.

Lately, I’ve been really intrigued by Mojo Brooks, curious about his origin story. I went down a rabbit hole this past week watching several interviews with him, and what stood out was his consistency of character across every screen. Now, his content is raunchy, so please look him up with discretion. The algorithm fed me his content once, so I decided to peek behind the scenes at the person.

In one interview, he shared a moment of desperation: his comedy career had tanked, a new career opportunity had opened up, and God told him that if he trusted Him, He’d make his dreams come true. Yet at that crossroads, he had to choose between his dream of comedy or making a difference as a police officer in Chicago. He realized that after all those years of being good at everything, he’d never gone all in on one thing. So he decided to go all in on comedy. Now he’s a highly sought-after comedian.

I became intrigued and convicted. Being good at so many things, I’ve never gone all in with my writing or poetry. I’ve flirted with it, but never said, “This is where I’m going to focus my attention.” This is the start of me going all in with my writing and poetry.

I kept watching interviews because of my curiosity of his story. The same curiosity I need to bring into my own writing. It’s not to have it all figured out. It’s to stay with it long enough to find out what it becomes.

The key to continuance is curiosity.

This is a message to tell you to stand in your clarity.

Keep showing up,

May God meet you in your obedience,
Janae Carlee

He has a way of bringing us back to himself.

This is a story on being kept. On God bringing us back to himself, at all times, no matter the cost. He says it’s not his desire for any of us to perish and I believe it [2 Peter 3:9]. I truly believe God constantly leaves the 99 for us, the one [Luke 15:4]. At each phase, like a newborn into adulthood, God knows where we are, what we struggle with, and slowly gives us more freedom, responsibility, and expectation of what he desires of us. As a new babe in the faith we’re zealous. We see the possibilities. We’re immature. We interpret scripture through our limitations and pain. And here, God teaches surrender. He teaches the ability to be still and know [Psalm 46:10]. To know his voice and follow. We become soberminded. Transforming. Willing to lay down what doesn’t please him for his desires. When the bible says God will give us the desires of our heart, we often skip the part where it says when we delight in him [Psalm 37:4]. It’s in relationship with God, our heart becomes synced to his, and our desires become the desires he has for us. This is why God says to seek first his kingdom and righteousness and everything we need will be added onto us [Matthew 6:33].

Need and want are two different things and this is where we’re constantly walking the tension rope of what our flesh wants and what God needs for us. In my stillness, I am learning it’s more simple than it looks, but the human nature makes it the most uncomfortable complex topic. We selfishly want what God may not want for us. Often building a ladder to a place where there is no oxygen. We try to make a name for ourselves, when the focus should be to amplify God’s. But that feels wrong. Uncomfortable. We want the glory. And yet God still walks with us, guiding us gently like clay on the potter’s wheel to be more like him [Isaiah 64:8], without trying to be him.

There are a few key moments that stand out that rocked my faith in ways I will do my best to explain, each bringing me back to God. A friend taking me out to lunch to question how I knew God was real my sophomore year of college. One of my grandfathers dying of a different belief. Hospitalization for a panic attack going into my senior year of college. A breakup from a relationship I knew would lead to marriage. Moving to a new state by faith. Marriage. Now motherhood. Each a topic on their own. But all defining moments for a specific chapter in my life where I can sit with and see God even when he felt distant.

I remember sitting at the dinner table with a friend, sobbing because I couldn’t defend my faith, and felt his desperation to want resolve. I just knew God was real. And I vowed to never be in a situation where I couldn’t defend my faith [1 Peter 3:15]. Then my papa died. Death feels so unnatural even though it’s the one constant all of us will experience. When he died, I was set on fire. To know God. To seek God. To share my faith with others in hopes they too will want the same God I knew. Then in the midst of seeking God, heading towards graduation, a panic attack came upon me leading me to become hospitalized. I stood in the mirror a day after telling God if he was real, he had a year to prove it. The decision to journal wasn’t dramatic. I just started writing. It wasn’t until a year later, in the middle of my first real breakup, reading back through those entries, that I realized I had been collecting evidence of God the whole time without knowing it.

Moving to a new state was the first major decision I made entirely out of obedience. Three years into a wholehearted surrender, I went with big promises in my heart in the midst of a pandemic. What met me instead was grief, for four years straight. And yet, God was still there.

And as life progressed, I lost my way.

Not in backsliding.

But in disappointment.

At my big age, nine years into the moment I looked into the mirror and said God I’m giving you a year. After all the documentation through journaling. All my collection of stones to remember what God’s done [Joshua 4:6-7], I stopped trying to remember. I fell into the abyss of hormones and postpartum. I stopped reading my bible. Made excuses to not attend church, pray, journal. And yet God has been here all this time. My life doesn’t align with the timeline I had for myself. My career isn’t what I desired. My marriage is hard. Motherhood has been the easiest part of the process. Raising her came naturally, even when the hormonal side blindsided me. I could show up for my daughter even when I felt like I had lost myself.

And God.

In all of it was always there.

He has a way of bringing us back to himself, even when we get wounded by expectations that don’t play out how we’d like. Surrounded by so much sorrow, joy can be hard to find. And it’s in the silence, the kicking, screaming, cursing, spiraling, or even intentional hardening of heart, the still small voice continues to speak [1 Kings 19:12]. That one day, we soften. The clouds don’t seem so foggy and it’s there God is saying my child, welcome back.

Prayer gets easier.

Reading doesn’t feel as daunting.

Your energy returns.

And those key moments that rocked your faith become reference points for all God’s done.

I owe it to God for allowing me to be a mother that’s helping me understand unconditional love. I love her so much it hurts. I see her. And want to be the best version of myself, alongside her dad, guiding her to live a life sold out for the one that created us all.

God has a way.

And I encourage you, in the doubt, frustration, disappointment, to see he’s there. He’s always been. Gently guiding you to himself. Look back at moments you tangibly saw his hand. Now lean into knowing him for who he is and start again.

Your ability to show up even in hard moments is commendable.

Those hard moments make you.

As he will never leave nor forsake you, even when you do [Hebrews 13:5].

In intention,
Janae Carlee

Before she arrived, I decided early to keep my kid off the internet. But that decision took on a deeper meaning after birth. It’s difficult to come home after an intense delivery, with an internal injury no one sees, exhausted, while your husband returns to work after one week of paternity leave. You’re expected to keep this baby you’re just now meeting alive while your hormones wage war within through the swelling, pain, and dissociation. On top of the exhaustion from sleepless nights, starting from the moment your water broke. Postpartum did a number on me in the area of anxiety. I even lost my hair, but the brain fog, oddly, helped me see clearly my desire to protect what’s mine, even my husband. I rarely post him these days due to the nature of his job.

My daughter’s privacy is more important than a few minutes of dopamine through comments and likes. In part, it’s protecting her from a world that demands every detail of our lives, held tightly under a microscope of sarcasm and opinions. The internet is ruthless. Comparison is real. And words spoken can create worlds and narratives that are so easily avoidable when you walk in a level of discretion.

Access to the digital world has created a narrative that we have the right to every detail of a person’s life, even when they don’t know we exist. All of this emotional investment for what? It raises the question I ask myself often: Is social media worth all its pomp and circumstance, especially in a post-pandemic era where people are more on edge than ever, and mental health is more prominent?

This is where the parasocial dynamic comes in.

According to Google, “parasocial” refers to a one-sided relationship in which a person invests emotional energy, interest, and time in a public figure, celebrity, or fictional character who is unaware of their existence. These relationships create a feeling of intimacy and friendship that exists only in their mind.

This happens not just to celebrities and public figures but also to small-scale creators and influencers. I’ve recently had two parasocial experiences that helped me see this differently. Both accused me of creating content about them when I hadn’t spoken directly to either and never knew anything about what they were going through. Both made wrong assumptions that ended in blocks and unfollows on my end to protect my peace.

When someone accuses you of making content about them, it takes you back for a second. Because you know you would never do such a thing, yet in their own vulnerability, they are filtering your words through a wound. At first, I felt anger. Hurtful things were said towards me in the DMs before confirming that was what I did. Then I felt compassion, because it’s bigger than me. Although I wasn’t making content about them, maybe God used it to reveal an area within them he wants to heal. I will, however, hold firm to boundaries and remove myself from the dynamic, especially when the relationship is parasocial to begin with.

I will never create content about people, especially from intimate moments, nor do I want to.

Motherhood has opened my eyes to a lot. I have to sit with certain questions:

• What does showing up for me look like in this season?

• How can I share moments, led by God, around motherhood and life in between without posterizing my kid?

• Do I want to show up online at all?

I choose to keep intimate moments tightly knit within the community I live in. I’ll put photos in an actual album or digital catalog for my children later in life. I’m not subscribing to the parasocial dynamic. My kid deserves autonomy and the ability to decide after her dad and I lay a solid foundation. Plus, it doesn’t sit right with me knowing strangers can identify her on the street, call her name, or show up in public spaces she attends.

Absolutely not.

With intention,
Janae Carlee

I.

Kept.

My.

Baby.

Alive.

What a blessing.

This last year has taught me so much about myself that I really don’t care to maintain an online persona. I no longer desire to be well-known or to build this highly sought-after brand.

Most days, I don’t even want to use my voice and consider going off-grid by deleting this blog and creating an anonymous column. I want to hear your stories and dialogue about them, learn, and add wisdom to this ongoing climb of life as we both walk it out.

In the postpartum pause of stepping back to raise a child, I’ve decided to break up with AI. I was using her too much that it’s stifling my voice and creativity. Now she does help me cook, so I will keep that in my back pocket. And she’s an awesome copyeditor catching typos and gray areas, but to compose sentence structures and thoughts, nah, I’m good, love. I’d rather this sound like a letter from the heart than a beautifully curated editorial.

Honestly, I’m also breaking up with social media for the 50th time. I’ll post when I post. I’d rather write. I am heavily considering focusing my energy on the resurgence of spoken word poetry. I have poems that need to see the light again. I have around 30. It would make for a good low-maintenance series. Poetry is something I enjoy without the pressure to perform because it comes naturally. I miss writing them.

In the midst of planning my girl’s birthday, I discovered the craft side of social media, and oh my, I am loving seeing what people create. I am going to dive into hobbies and find what I enjoy on this side of motherhood and the beginning of my 30s. I really don’t know what life looks like outside of what I was trying to build through design. I need something to do with my hands that does not involve a computer or phone screen.

Speaking of design, I am helping a friend as he prepares for the sixth annual Juneteenth festival in the Apex, NC area, and I’ve been roped into doing a few design tasks. And I must say, designing while being a full-time mom is crazy work and has really shown me that I would be content if I didn’t design another event graphic ever again. I don’t think I am going back to work as a designer. I am looking into something else. Maybe fitness? Ghostwriting? Anything else but design and brand-building. Oh my, how things have changed.

But back to AI. I wrote a piece a few months back titled "Please let your originality shine" (read it because I know you didn’t, and you need some encouragement to be authentically you). I am realizing, as I navigate the muddy writing streets, that everyone sounds the same.

AI is the problem.

She can be a beautiful tool, but her writing style is predictable. She likes to sneak in “quiet” and use “it’s not this, it’s that” statements. Yuck. We all sound the same, and I don’t like that.

I want to sound like me.

And I relied heavily on her guidance, which started to give me a headache, so we’re breaking up.

Where does that leave us?

Back to my choppy sentence structures and to sounding like we’re besties again as I navigate the tension of showing up anyway through life changes and decision-making.

I am in the thick of planning my little bean burrito’s first birthday party. I have never thrown a party, decorated, and provided food by myself before.

Who am I?

An adult?

When did I become an adult?

This is next level, and I am trying not to stress myself out. I am reminding myself that this is fun. It’s supposed to be fun. I’m currently making her felt crown and birthday banner, and I'm looking at DIY grazing spreads because the quotes are humbling. I shall do this, and it shall be memorable for us at least because she won’t remember the details, but she will experience the love and know that we’re going to make each milestone the best one yet.

AI has helped me find the gaps in what I am missing for her party. But using it to write outside of my cooking and copyeditor bestie catching the typos, we're good. I'm good, and I can feel my brain healing.

How are you adapting to AI and setting up boundaries to protect your authenticity?

With intention,

Janae Carlee

Maybe it’s just hormones.

My ambition is gone.

Any other mamas feel this way? Even mentioning it seems taboo.

The last time I really felt like myself was before the pandemic. Somewhere in college, when life was carefree, and I had a few years left to graduate. I had a plan and the creativity to see it through. Then Jesus found me in the discomfort of anxiety, attempting to creep in. I started seeking God, and since then, I haven’t been myself.

That question follows me now. What if I had stayed in design? Stayed consistent on Substack in 2020? Stayed the course on YouTube back in 2016? What would my life look like if I had just stayed? The unfinished roads are heavy. And postpartum cracked them all the way open.

I didn’t know following God would be so hard.

And honestly, it’s the transition from naivety to awareness nestled into adulthood. Childhood bliss fades when reality hits. Seeking God brings an awareness of the sorrow around and within us. We struggle to find joy and peace, always needing to keep God top of mind, or we may lose our minds. It’s the awareness of transformation occurring the moment you sense there is more to this life than what you’ve been chasing.

And yet it’s true.

To die is to gain.

To leave alone or behind what you thought and embrace what God said takes courage.

Losing yourself is a part of the plan. Once we stop resisting it, we realize this is what the caterpillar feels moments before it enters its cocoon. The cocoon becomes the place of possibility. Will we see it through to metamorphosis? Will we come out stronger and more refined, like gold? When we hold onto God, even in silence or struggle, we open ourselves to hope and new life.

We’re constantly shedding ideas. And it’s not that we gave up. It’s that we realized it takes more in the middle to form the larger picture.

The caterpillar doesn’t know what it’s becoming. It just trusts the cocoon, and so do we. What if you had stayed?

Janae Carlee

As a child of divorce, I had no interest in marriage. However, before my 2018 internship, God used this relationship to show me something I didn’t know I wanted. Only to take it away. I mourned the life I suddenly desired.

But even in my grief, I realized I wanted God more.

When doubts crept in, I quickly shut them down, trusting that if God said it, He would do it.

Near the end of the internship, I’m sitting in my car when, clear as day, God tells me that as soon as I get married, I’ll have children just as quickly. I’m side-eying now, perfectly content with my one little bean burrito, but the Lord continues, saying they’re vital to what he needs us to build.

After completing my internship in 2018, a new season began as I remained single until 2022.

In 2021, three years after my internship and while I was still single, I felt God tell me to move. By faith, I relocated to Texas, intending to attend law school at the University of Texas at Austin. Before moving, I applied for a legal assistant position at The Creator’s law firm, run by a Jesus-loving female founder. I believed God would confirm Texas as my next step if I got the job. During the process, I sensed God hinting that the founder would use my design skills. A surprise since my goal was to become a lawyer. She hired me as a designer, saying I would stay only long enough to gain what I needed before stepping into my true purpose. Two days before my 2023 wedding, I was let go. That circumstance taught me to depend on God and to trust my husband as he learned to provide for us.

Neither dependence nor trust is easy, but together we learned to move forward.

We married in 2023, after we met on a dating app five months after I relocated to Texas in 2021. I wanted to wait a year in marriage before considering a baby.

Six weeks into pregnancy, September 2024, I thought I miscarried. I was calmer than expected. A friend picked me up, took me to eat, and my small circle—those I’d told—rallied and prayed. I kept it small on purpose.

I was sad, knowing what God said, but my body seemed to tell a different story, so I couldn’t yet reconcile the two.

That night, before our appointment, God told me this is a season of joy. Joy is a posture, position, and decision.

This sense of joy carried me through a smooth pregnancy, even though I was labeled high risk for fluctuating amniotic fluid, which started at 26 weeks and resolved at 35 weeks.

I wanted what God wanted for this pregnancy: the right doctors, hospital, and people around me. When the scare happened, the Lord redirected me to a new OB, and I received the care I needed, especially during delivery when I tore badly. It’s rare for an OB to stay four hours, but mine did. The week I went into labor, an elder called and said God told her to assure me that the right staff would be there. My husband dreamed of a struggle during delivery, but in his dream, everything would be all right.

Looking back, those words proved accurate, serving as a reminder of how God’s guidance showed up at every step.

Looking back, marriage has truly been a rollercoaster of refining and surrender.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Motherhood is easy and fun for me.

I share this to encourage your faith: when God says it, He’ll do it and orchestrate each step.

Believing and posturing your heart to receive are choices, despite the challenges.

The middle of our story shapes us.

The 2018 breakup pushed me to surrender, where I heard God’s instructions for later. Years later, now frustrated by how long it’s taken to build something sustainable, I remember that word, reframing these challenges as chances for character and conviction. However, after my delivery, I stopped talking to God. I was so traumatized. The silence that followed felt like brain fog.

For 10 months after delivery, I only remember my daughter and her milestones. The rest is a blur. My mind felt stuck on repeat. Now, as she grows independent, I step out again, writing in small steps and returning to myself.

It’s taken 10 months of wrestling to return to His presence, as this story reminds me, He’s always been there, and it’s the start of a new conversation with Him.

During postpartum, the decision to leave Texas troubled me as the fog lifted. After being sent by God, I wondered if leaving was His plan. Listening to a podcast, I heard the speaker say that God says, ‘If you obeyed me coming here, obey me when it’s time to leave.’ That struck me deeply, then came God’s peace.

As I write, the awareness of His presence grows clearer. If you’re finding your way back, start by remembering what He’s done. Let remembrance be the road.

As you sit with these questions, let reflection draw you forward.

What if the silence was a part of God’s plan?

What if the distance was intentional for your maturity?

Be encouraged,

Janae Carlee

This one also lives on YouTube.

Postpartum was a reckoning of years in the making.

Moving to Texas was a pitstop for rest. It was an opportunity to deconstruct erroneous beliefs inherited from culture and church. A space for me to be with myself and then my husband, to create a new paradigm that God wanted to teach us, where ambition isn’t front and center, and application is a necessary skill. The accolades hold no weight anymore, and the accomplishments mean nothing when you’re the only one having to endure the microaggressions embedded in a culture of no accountability.

We’re taught early to go after the bag and climb these ladders.

I decided early, I would not.

A year ago, I shut down my business. Offboarded clients. Stopped taking on new projects and redirected inquiries to other creatives whose work speaks for itself. I was a few weeks away from giving birth, and design had left a bad aftertaste in my mouth. Finally, after years of tug-of-war with my desires, I laid down design with no next in sight, aside from focusing on becoming the best mother my daughter needs me to be. Some days felt like failure. And I believe postpartum exacerbated that. I’ve learned that failure isn’t truly failure until you stop. Lying it down was an act of surrender. God knows best. Motherhood was my focus. And I have pages of notes and a collection of stories waiting for when it’s time to keep building. Each day, I am one step closer, even if it doesn’t feel like active participation.

It was while helping a friend launch her community platform that something clicked. I realized I have something to say to the women who need it. I have to be confident in what I have to offer and the wisdom God has given me.

This is for my daughter.

I don’t want her to spend her life being twice as good just to be half as recognized. I don’t want her exhausting herself climbing ladders that were never built with her in mind. She can build her own table. Forget the ladders.

I’ve been thinking about what I don’t want her to carry as I find solace in the obscurity of this season. It’s not as bad as it seems when faced against the idea of striving that social media drills into us. Obscurity is rest. A place to be unknown without stress if we allow it. The problem for me is what people see. It’s an unspoken pressure when people see possibility in you, it’s almost like the disappointment they don’t speak out loud can creep in and make us feel behind because of projected potential.

We have to really sit with ourselves and God to know that it’s his timeline, not ours. I am learning to close the laptop and feel good about it. To put the phone down and feel poured out in the right way, not drained by what I consumed, but emptied by what I gave. That I showed up. That I stewarded the time well. Even at 3 a.m. Even in the middle of all of this.

Especially in the middle of all of this.

Some days are better than others. In order to build anything, we have to keep going. Even if that means sitting it down for a little while to focus elsewhere. It’s all a continuation.

You’ll circle back wiser,
Janae Carlee

P.S. As I wrote this, I was on the edge of self-doubt, a few seconds away from self-sabotaging and not posting this letter. Then a friend sent me this DM on Instagram:

God's timing is best. May this encourage you to keep showing up even if the little voice in your head is taunting you to quit. Someone needs what you have, and that's the point.

Every time, I was met with disappointment.

It’s not because the work was bad. It’s because it wasn’t mine. There was no intimate connection with it. It felt like a chore instead of an extension of myself. I burned out fast because you can’t maintain what isn’t ingrained.

And here came the grief.

It’s sobering to recognize the wasted moments or the years spent watering someone else’s garden while mine sat waiting. Grief gently led me to the realization that I’ve always had it. I’ve been that girl, and time demanded maturity to surface. When I didn’t get what I wanted on my timeline, God used the waiting to build a patient endurance that helps shape this letter—from me, to me, left open for you.

Bring originality back!

Look around. What we’re seeing online is starting to look the same.

Same fonts.

Same colors.

Same AI-generated content recycled through different faces.

A lot of women building with good intentions, creating duplicates of each other and burning out when it doesn’t work. That’s because the secret sauce was never transferable. What works for her works because it’s her.

The details.

The story.

The specific way she sees the world is what people are connecting to. Remove that, and you have a hollow template.

Culture has a way of making borrowed things feel personal. Yet, there is a difference between being inspired and becoming consumed.

Underneath the borrowing is a belief system that who you are isn’t enough. In the moment, it doesn’t feel like that. It masks itself as aspiration.

Or possibility.

Someone has cracked the code, and the ideas start flowing, making us think we can do something like that too. We could, but does it flow from our secret sauce or a subconscious coveting?

You’re seeing the results, but you aren’t privy to the hours, pivots, or undocumented quiet seasons of building.

What if they, too, borrowed their breakthrough? To build from someone else’s blueprint delays the discovery of your own.

Remember, you can’t maintain what isn’t ingrained.

Just like you can’t build without sitting in the silence of your discomfort. And discomfort doesn’t always feel dramatic. It can be a season of doing nothing, i.e., allowing the mundane to become your best friend:

Tending to your family.

Showing up to a 9-to-5.

Stepping back from launches, content, or the business you build, as the world keeps moving. Everything in you wants to produce something just to “prove” you aren’t falling behind, not realizing the stillness is where clarity lives.

When I stopped, I returned to my first love—writing. She was always that girl. Design was the enhancement, and I spent years building the enhancement into the main event, wondering why it felt heavy.

Stillness demands questions to be answered.

Do you like yourself?

Are you okay with yourself?

Can you find peace with what makes you uniquely you without tearing yourself apart?

And don’t rush past this part. The answers are the beginning of your way back.

You have to know that God is intentional about you down to the details. Think about it. No two fingerprints are the same. He placed details in you that are worth uncovering—not borrowing or replicating.

Contentment and complacency can look identical from the outside and inside, too.

Contentment isn’t passive. It’s not shrinking or settling or pretending you don’t want more. It’s an inner peace that says I am enough while I am becoming. It’s a pliable, teachable heart that holds what it has with an open hand while remaining open to the next step.

Whereas complacency is the counterfeit.

And I know because I, too, have worn it. It looks like rest, but quenches wonder. It silences the nudges and keeps you comfortable in a version of yourself you weren’t meant to stay in. Often inviting in comparison. And if you’re not careful, complacency will partner with pride to convince you to be anything less than original. It produces a stillness that slowly hardens into stuck.

Instead, bet on yourself. What’s inside of you was placed there on purpose. Remain honest with yourself about what sets you on fire, what you’ve been borrowing, or what you’ve been avoiding. Allow silence to become your friend. Sit in it. Let it guide your next step as you turn away from what others are building to build your own. Then release your timeline. God’s timing is best. Nothing we can do can speed up the process. Impatience can add unnecessary chapters. Chapters God can redeem. But still unnecessary.

Remember, you were original before originality was a trend.

God made you on purpose down to every detail, with a specific voice and a specific assignment that no font, color palette, or AI-generated content can replicate.

Please bring her back—the original.

She’s been waiting,
Janae Carlee

The tension is the middle.

The decision is to keep going.

You don’t need another rebrand.

You need encouragement to continue with what you’re already building.

Building isn’t linear. You have to take several steps ahead to pause, pivot, walk backwards, and begin again. But it’s a continuation. Who you are is who you are. Every day is a new opportunity to learn who you are today, with the experiences of the past giving you context for where you’ve been and wisdom for where you’re going.

This is why I appreciate college. It introduces you to cultures, backgrounds, and civil discourse you wouldn't have if you were only surrounded by what's familiar. It's in the hard questions —the ones we're afraid to ask because we think they'll cost us something—because there are places where wisdom alone isn't enough. Where only lived experience can carry us forward. In order to learn, we must be willing to try. To be uncomfortable. To have tough conversations. To place ourselves outside our comfort zones. And sometimes the most uncomfortable place is stillness. Where there's nothing left to do but sit with your thoughts and God's voice. It's there that silence births more than harvest seasons.

And often, it's not that we aren't where we think we should be. It's that we aren't giving ourselves permission to fully commit to what we know sets our soul on fire, because life and disappointment quenched our wonder.

I know what it’s like to be a little girl full of dreams. Until growing up teaches you the language of suffering. A suffering that only makes sense through the lens of faith, and even then, it’s hard. It knocks the wind out of you. Life looks nothing like those childhood eyes imagined. It’s hard to pray. Hard to read your Bible. Hard to keep going. Hard to be honest about where you are because pressure says we are supposed to always have it together.

What happens if we return to childlike faith? What if there were no limits outside of surrender to what our heart truly desires?

I believe that decisions made from a place of relationship with God can’t become bad decisions. He’s factored in every choice and our immaturity. He knows. It doesn’t throw Him through a loop. Surrender and dependence work hand in hand.

It’s a continuation. It’s a heart aligned with the One who created us. It’s making space for the now—without starting over—because everything gathered makes up the larger picture.

It’s not really about people.

But it is.

We aren't living our lives for their applause. This isn't a conference call. At the same time, people are directly impacted by what we do because God uses people to advance the kingdom message. People get to see the middle moments based on what we choose to share. We control the narrative, not in a manipulative way, but in a way that honors God and the boundaries around what He’s entrusted us to build.

And building looks different for all of us.

Building doesn't always look like a brand or a business. Not everyone is meant for stages. Yet most of us are asked to build in ways that make sense to who we are.

Cultivating the seeds in your child so they can become who God destined them to be.

Pouring into someone else’s vision because you believe in what God gave them.

Serving your local community because you want people to see the fullness of who they are.

You can add your hands to a plow that’s already built. Or you can build from no blueprint in your bloodline. Either way, to build is to obey. It’s using your hands, your experience, your uniqueness for whatever is set before you on the race you’re running. It’s doing it well and finding joy in the trials that show up uninvited because those trials are supposed to build character that produces an internal endurance.

It’s a continuation.

It’s a shift in perspective.

It’s starting with what you have, where you are, allowing yourself to become fully immersed in what’s before you without the stinking thinking. Without the self-doubt dressed up as hyperspiritualization. Yes, pray about it. But don’t let prayer become the reason you don’t move in the direction God is clearly outlining.

Be okay with getting it wrong. With sitting down and doing something else for a season. But don’t abandon what sets your soul on fire. If you keep coming back to it, pick it up from where you are now, with everything you’ve learned, and the willingness to keep moving forward.

This is your sign to stop playing yourself.

To bet on yourself.

To believe what God has said about you.

After all, He created you for such a time as this. It’s worth committing to see it through without the fear of success punking you out of your destiny,

Janae Carlee

And then I pressed record.

But the truth is, fitting in was never the tea.

Being authentically you is where it’s at.

In the mundane.

The nothingness of everyday.

It’s in the unexpected. The this isn’t what I envisioned for my life.

It’s in the willingness to show up each day, repeating the same steps as the day before—but today, adding one new step. A little razzle-dazzle to move in the direction you desire. A desire formed from a relationship with Christ, not social media scrolling.

I’m in a season I did not envision for myself.

Yet I can’t ask God to use me as He sees fit—or desire an intimate relationship with Him—and still hold onto the belief that where I am now isn’t where He wants me. He is the author and finisher of my faith. These middle moments never catch Him by surprise.

Here, in the middle, is where the true growth happens. It’s where we find out our ability to remain.

When nothing is going our way, will we still seek Him? Sit with Him? Serve Him? Show up for those around us without bitterness?

I’m getting to this space. Finally.

I learned this shift during my internship at Elevation Church in 2018. Not I have to—as if it’s an obligation. But I get to. Shifting my stance to: this is a privilege and an honor to…

Raise a child.
Build from home.
Live in a level of predictability for now.

And yet, we see change. That’s inevitable—in our aging parents, our children, us, our environments.

Time passes.

Circumstances change.

Seasons of stillness weren’t as appreciated as they needed to be.

And we find ourselves longing for what was, because we wanted to be everywhere but where we were. It gets better.

It has to get better.

That’s a mindset.
A perspective.
A decision.

Find joy in the now. Lean into the present and experience the daily rhythms of it won’t always be like this, but for now, I will enjoy what this season has to offer—even if I don’t want to. I get to.

Now let’s be real for a second. Just last week, I was offloading to my therapist about expectations around marriage and motherhood.

She reminded me that God is with me and won’t forsake me. Now, that seems like a no-brainer for someone who has a history with God. And by history, I mean notebooks of lived experience where God has moved in ways I can’t fully comprehend or articulate. When He decided to up the levels of the test with marriage and motherhood, everything I thought I learned was compressed.

I know God’s with me, but my heart took a beating from the difficulties that come with transition after transition.

I dissociated.

I love God and struggled to read his word.

Felt left out and behind.

Embarrassed that my ambition ran dry.

Not realizing that the mundane is where the heart transformation is taking place. God’s not intimidated or surprised by what He allows to continue molding our character.

And here’s what I’m learning—motherhood feels easier than marriage. Motherhood is an extension of self. It’s innate. Something I was always destined to express. But marriage? Marriage is the joining of two perspectives, two upbringings, two personalities. It’s a decision. A choice. And choices require a different kind of endurance than what comes naturally.

This isn’t new.

Joseph’s character was purged until the promises of God came to pass (Psalm 105:19). His brothers sold him into slavery after his father openly rebuked him for dreaming. He didn’t know that the very junk in his brothers’ hearts would catapult him into a future that would save their lives.

This was not without false accusations and two years in prison. Though he rose in rank, he still had to walk out the mundane.

The difficulty.

Even when you step into the more, the mundane is always present. It’s not flashy when living in it. Yet it’s the very experience needed to develop character.

If God is the same God yesterday, today, and forevermore, then these lessons don’t stop. They show up in various ways based on how He desires us to be processed.

And it’s messy.

Upsetting.

Honest.

Raw.

Also, full of commentary from people who may never understand.

Parents included.

In it, God teaches surrender and dependence.

It’s up to us to endure.

To see it through.

Even though, honestly, I am tired of that fortitude-endure sequence. Like, miss me with it. But I’m going to obey regardless.

I remind myself daily: I get to. I no longer allow myself to make excuses. I have to give myself grace because life happens. Change is constant. Community changes.

GOD REMAINS THE SAME.

When I look back over my life thus far, God is evident. And my therapist reminded me, when the woes of transition tried to muffle my sound, there is nothing that can separate me from God’s love. Not even my own disappointments. He wants them. All of them. He holds our expectations and exchanges them for grace.

Stop comparing.

When you covet a life, you inherit its problems.

Find solace in where you are.

You get to.

What an honor and a privilege,
Janae Carlee

I remember dreaming big in college. I had a plan to become a creative director for ESPN.

But in senior year, something started shifting. I sat in design class, sad because my desire for design was changing. I felt it. I felt my ambition being tampered with. As someone who grew up in the faith, it was during this time that I decided to make the relationship personal. I started learning the language of surrender. In that tension, God whispered deep into my soul: choose me or forge a path I never intended for you to venture down.

Then Ogilvy arrived—a final round interview with a New York and British advertising, marketing, and publishing agency. The dream is within reach. And a few days before my granddad and I were set to fly out, I politely declined.

I was afraid of success.

Afraid of actually achieving the dream embedded in my heart.

And I let the fear of the unknown, the fear of success, and my immaturity drown out my pursuit. The grief of being a senior with no plan haunted me.

I’ll never forget one of my design teachers chewing me out the entire class for turning down such a wonderful opportunity. He was right—I owed it to myself to see it through. And in that decision, something died. It followed me for years. But I didn’t know then what I know now that saying no would shape who I was becoming.

The invitation came in the middle of my first relationship. I remember him finding out, looking at me, and saying our relationship wouldn’t survive the distance.

I looked at him and said I refuse to be someone who sacrifices her dream for a man who will leave anyway.

A year later, I was single.

The relationship ended the day I moved to Charlotte to start my internship at Elevation Church. I disconnected from social media for the entire four months. I needed to be fully present for the internship, for healing, for God. That breakup brought me to my knees. I learned I was willing to shrink for someone else’s comfort, but God no longer allowed it.

Losing the idea of the relationship hurt worse than losing him.

I entered that season desperate to meet God.

And somewhere in those four months, faith stopped being inherited and became mine.

I started documenting my journey. Sharing videos and words to encourage others as I navigated the discomfort of not having the success I thought I should. I sought to grow an online platform with pure intentions but no clear direction. I showed up online endlessly until I burnt out, went into hiding, and emerged months later, repeating the cycle. Constantly feeling an urge to live an anonymous life.

I’ve never been one to share intimate details online.

I don’t like showcasing my family, my house, cars, or anything that makes me easily identifiable within the region I live.

I started understanding the importance of privacy. Of controlling the narrative. Of sharing after, even when some people want to see the in-between.

I shared moving to Texas after I moved.

I shared bits of my relationship after I was married.

I ended up sharing that I was pregnant, going into my third trimester, because she was too much of a blessing to contain. Yet, I kept intimate details to myself and didn’t announce her arrival until weeks later.

Some things need to be protected in infancy for development and growth. It’s not to be secretive but intentional. It’s to shield it from people’s good intentions and negative words spoken.

Fear and I have an unfortunate history.

I’ve known panic attacks. I’ve also learned to move scared. I’ve learned to divorce its grip, but I’d be remiss not to admit that it still attempts to hijack my thoughts and decisions. I feel its presence.

So it’s in solitude that I have to lean into my relationship with God to navigate the next step I take. Even when He feels distant, His presence is stronger.

Each year, I shed my desire to be online. I want to show up on my terms, not feeding the machine. Only if I want to. Not because I feel like it’s the only way to build a brand or business. I want to explore new models. Create what feels poetic. I want to write my way through, make videos that accompany, sit on podcasts, having thoughtful conversations that don’t lead people to a product offering.

I remember during my internship at Elevation, I shared my desire to be a creative director for ESPN, and one of my peers said I spoke about it as if it were something to be embarrassed about, when really it pointed to my ability to dream big.

It hit me.

What if I dreamed with God instead of from my own striving? What if I found contentment in where I am and made the best of what’s in front of me instead of always looking to be somewhere else based on what others reflect through the smoke and screens of social media?

It’s never as it seems.

I’ve made peace with my now. Though unknown. I’m no longer holding onto old dreams birthed from old versions of myself. I’m a mother now. I owe it to her to teach her what I’m unlearning. To let her be part of what I'm building from a place of intentionality and rest, as I wrestle with remaining present and document for my own remembrance.

Most of life is a blur. Pictures and videos help us remember.

I owe it to myself and her to show up each day, without the pressure to be great in the eyes of social media.

I’m done curating for an audience. I’m choosing presence over performance. Privacy over access.

I’d rather live a life worth remembering than one worth posting.

You’re invited to do the same,
Janae Carlee

I entered my thirties a month after giving birth to my first child. I don’t remember much of it. I do remember that both my parents flew in the same weekend. A dream of a divorced child, realized in the blur of new motherhood.

Ask me what I did in June when I turned thirty, and I couldn’t tell you. Ask me about her milestones? I can recount every single one.

Although the weight in my chest isn’t about her, it’s about me becoming her mother while watching myself age in ways I wasn’t prepared for. It’s recognizing the grief that comes with growing older and realizing the cost of wisdom is heavier than expected.

I’ve learned to write my way through discomfort and honor the awareness of its presence.

That’s the beautifully complex part.

It’s hard to ignore all the junk vying for our attention that keeps us from being fully present. Anxiety. Depression. Isolation. Doubt.

The older I get, the more I see them coming. The more I understand their weight.

That’s Ecclesiastes 1:18 playing out in real time: The greater my wisdom, the greater my grief. To increase knowledge only increases sorrow.

When I moved closer to family, I told myself I had no expectations. Except deep down, when we tell ourselves this, we do. We carry unnamed hopes we don’t allow ourselves to articulate. And when we stop and feel, we realize how much of the previous season we actually miss. The parts we can remember.

I miss my friends.

I miss my pastors.

I miss the life I was building in Texas.

I have to watch life from that season continue without me.

With time and wisdom, you’re taught that some relationships are purely based on proximity. It’s a hard lesson. It hurts. All while seeing the beauty in the time spent together.

What a grief to realize it couldn’t translate across distance.

Postpartum adds another layer to the grief due to all the hormones. It makes me grieve friendships I attempted to cultivate, where reciprocity fell short.

Postpartum depression fought hard to take me under.

I needed the support of my family. And that’s where this hard decision to leave behind our life in Texas was born.

And this is the crossroads.

This is where I continue to admit getting older is hard.

Where I sit with and write through the grief.

We make hard decisions that are best overall, but don’t feel good.

Even when necessary.

Returning home puts you in front of people who are familiar with you and often don’t foster space for the growth that took place while away. It’s losing the same friendship twice because they couldn’t embrace the person you’ve become.

Motherhood is teaching me it’s okay to say no to overextending myself and fighting for relationships that don’t want to be kept.

That’s it. Understanding that not everyone can come with you. That growth sometimes means loss, and the wisdom to see that doesn’t make it hurt less.

The grief of growing older isn’t from wanting to be elsewhere. It’s from seeing clearly. From understanding the weight of decisions made.

The necessary decisions that still hurt.

The losses that come with growth.

The friendships that can’t survive distance or evolution.

We see the world around us differently now. We feel the cost of wisdom in our chest, in our silence, in the space between what was and what is.

I don’t have answers. Just the weight of the realization. I’m learning to hold love and grief at the same time—for my daughter, for the life I left, for the person I’m becoming. I’m learning to trust that a new normal can be forged even as time ticks, even as I sit in the unknown.

It’s finding contentment in where you are. Accepting what you cannot change. Fighting hard not to let the emotions of this world bring you under.

This is what growing older costs.

Wisdom that doesn’t make life easier, just clearer as you walk.

May you have the courage to sit with your own grief and write through it,
Janae Carlee

The middle sucks, but it’s where our best heart work takes place. In the waiting. A place where the becoming unfolds, messily. Sometimes returning to the starting line is the only way to see how far we’ve come. And the hardest lesson hasn’t been holding onto hope for the future—it’s been looking back at every decision that brought me here and realizing I’m not who I thought I was. I’ve given myself time to grieve an idea of myself that is not. I’m starting to like who I am, but she’s not who I envisioned before I surrendered my ambition for contentment. That surrender felt like a loss for a while, especially watching others step into what I once dreamed for myself. But I’m finding the language of relief now as I embrace motherhood and realize I want my daughter to learn what I’m still unlearning.

I write during the quiet of her naps because when she’s awake, she’s all curiosity and motion—I’m a human jungle gym the moment I open my laptop. Today she pulled off her sock in determination to chew on it. I put it back. She pulled it off again. Big emotions at just eight months old. I’m in awe that God gave me such a determined little one, and watching her fight for that sock stirred something in me. I used to be like that. Once determined, before defeat came in, I was willing to take the risk and walk in whatever direction felt right. Somewhere along the way, I started shrinking. Maybe it was the fast-paced transitions—new state, marriage, merging two lives and personalities, finding work, building a business, and then birthing a baby. It all came so fast. But her persistence, that refusal to stop reaching for what she wants, inspired me to dream again from who I am today.

I’ll admit, since losing my job in 2023, it’s been quiet in the space of dreaming. I tried to pivot. Constantly rebranding. Looking for the next now. I saw small glimmers of hope with each person who showed up in what I created. But momentum would build and then fall again once procrastination crept back in. Self-doubt got louder. Yet even in the fog, I could see God providing. He’s always providing, even when it’s hard to see. When I shift to a lens of gratitude for where I am today, I can see tangible proof of him in the details. My daughter is one of those details. She is evidence that he provided by allowing me to become her mom.

Baby is here and thriving. Now it’s time to build. Again. I realize it’s never been about a New Year’s resolution but a continuation of what God’s already doing and my willingness to keep taking steps forward. Daily steps that will one day form a larger picture. So here’s me locking in: I’m going all in with what sets me on fire, and that’s writing. I love making videos, I love using my voice, I love trying new ideas, but writing has my heart. This year, I’m putting everything behind it. And I need accountability. If you catch me signing up for a fitness certification or launching a candle business, you have permission to send this letter back to me. Unless, of course, God makes it clear that the path has a few detours I didn't plan for.

Since having a daughter, I see life through a renewed lens of wanting to be the best for her. Some lessons I already know I need to teach her. Others are revealing themselves as I mother her daily and watch her grow. One of those revealed lessons was rest before responsibility. It inspired me to dive deeper and build a series around it. This year, my focus is on writing letters to my daughter about what I’m unlearning. I’ll make space for spontaneous heart musings along the way, but this is where my attention lives. I want you to come along. Not just to read, but to consider your own unlearning. What are you holding onto that no longer fits who you’re becoming?

With Love,
Janae Carlee

This is year three.

I admire the Instagram posts about obedience—the ones that say “God said start the business” with step-by-step breakdowns on how to build God’s way. But what they don’t show you is the middle. The part where you did everything right, and it still looks like failure from the outside.

It’s naptime. My daughter is asleep. My husband just left for the gym. The house is quiet, and I’m sitting here with a few dollars to my name from a part-time job that gives me 5-10 hours a week, depending on the load. No car in the driveway. No client emails to respond to. Just me and the silence.

And the thought that slips in: When is it my turn?

I hate that I even think it. It feels selfish. Entitled. Nothing is promised, and I know better than to compare my timeline to someone else’s perceived blessing. I can only be faithful to my own conviction around what I believe God is showing me. Eventually, I’ll understand the long pause or the redirection. But when you’re in it—when you step back to reflect—it’s a little frustrating.

Actually, it’s more than a little.

But here’s what’s different now: I don’t condemn myself for feeling it. I sit in the frustration. I let it be what it is. And each time it shows up, it gets a little easier to pivot—to remind myself of what God’s done and is doing, despite what I expected. The “get to” mindset isn’t something I mastered overnight. It’s a practice. A choice I’m learning to make faster each time the question creeps back in.

The truth no one wants to say out loud: entrepreneurship is hard. Obedience is hard. And doing both at the same time while life is falling apart? That’s the kind of middle that makes you question everything.

I’m approaching year three of not having a traditional job. One interview in all that time—led nowhere. A handful of clients until the crickets started. I could list all the ways God has kept me—marrying my husband when I did, having the mom I have, an aunt who’s taking a chance on me to do part-time work, the roof over my head—because without those things, I don’t know where I’d be. But this isn’t a testimony about provision wrapped in a neat bow. This is me telling you I’m still in it. Still waiting to see the reward of obedience. Still learning to be still.

And it’s not as uncomfortable as it once was.

I can navigate the day-to-day with gratitude and joy. I focus on the “get to.”

I get to be at home, hands-on, with my daughter in her formative years as I scale back to the basics of what I’ve always desired before design and adulthood made the view cloudy.

Writing.

Before the fancy position statements and opinions of people telling me to go with what made money over leaning into what God planted inside of me. I get that nothing is wasted, and your purpose is backed by many different assignments. Purpose is the big picture. It’s found in the daily tasks. It’s deciding to do what you can with what’s presented. Make a plan. Stick to it. Adjust as you walk. With each step, make a minor adjustment based on the clarity you receive along the way.

Nothing wasted.

This is what obedience looks like when no one’s watching. When there’s no testimony yet. Just the quiet middle where you decide if you still believe what you said you believed when it felt easier.

If you’re in year three—or year one, or year five—of obedience that looks like failure, I see you. You’re not crazy. You didn’t hear God wrong. You’re just in the middle. And the middle is where faith actually gets built.

May you still find the courage to obey,
Janae Carlee

In my early twenties, when I was single and had time to read my Bible, explore, and show up for people in ways that marriage and motherhood have since changed, I read the book of Hosea for the first time. It was 2015, and I had just decided to take my devotions seriously.

I grew up in the church, but God was the God of my mother. I needed a personal encounter.

In Hosea, God instructed the prophet to be faithful to Gomer even when she wasn’t faithful to him as a sign of God’s love to His people. The story stuck with me, but I didn’t fully understand why until years later, during the pandemic, when Clubhouse gained popularity, and I connected with people all over the world. That’s when the Lord brought me back to Hosea and pressed this truth deeper into my heart: be to them what they haven’t experienced through what you’re strong at. We can be an answered prayer or an area of refinement they never expected, and vice versa.

Stay with me.

At no point are we supposed to wallow in abuse. But at some point, resilience becomes the nature of the game. We heal. We do the work. We hear God for ourselves. We find what we’re good at and we be that to people.

For me, that’s intentionality. I’m the friend who will sit with you in silence when words won’t come. I’ll come into your space, especially if you have kids, and leaving feels impossible. I’ll enter your environment, stop what I’m doing to be present, and show up in the ways that matter. I experienced postpartum firsthand and know what it’s like to show up for people and have it not be reciprocated.

And honestly? It’s frustrating sometimes. But if you’re consistent, people around you won’t always be, and your life becomes a mini deposit of that skill.

You aren’t responsible for how a person reacts. You’re responsible for how you respond. Remember boundaries. Don’t neglect those. But let God direct your steps to be what you’re strong at.

For years, I hated receiving words about fortitude. How much longer is this gonna take? Because in my flesh, I can only be so strong. But God’s strength is made perfect in weakness. I lean on Him to see me through as endurance, transitions, and obedience are things I’m good at. And they’re the very things that get tested.

Do I stand or do I flee?

Do I tear down altars built from generations of fleeing and stand like the tree in Psalms 1?

Or do I tear down the altars that give of self at the expense of self with no boundaries?

Both desires—to flee and to give—crash into each other. A collision with double-mindedness.

Instead, I’ll stand on what God reveals, letting grace be the answer.

I’ll be what God needs me to be, even when it looks foolish in the eyes of the wise.

I don’t expect us to get it perfect—we’re only human. To do our best from a place of relationship, with the expectation that God is ordering our steps. We won’t get it right. We will hurt people, and that’s where we humble ourselves, apologize, and become what God’s leading us beside still waters to become.

It’s in stillness that we can be.

So here’s my invitation: identify your strength. Lean into it. And extend grace to those around you who need what you’re strong at as an anchor and guide.

May grace be your portion to give and receive,
Janae Carlee

If this message stirs something within you, don't push past it. I'm still sitting with it myself, especially in marriage, where my expectations have taken precedence over what God commanded me to do in obedience. These are the questions I keep coming back to. Sit with these questions too, grab a journal, and actually hash it out through writing. Let God meet you in the middle.

JOURNAL WITH ME

Pause. Think about the last time you held someone to a standard higher than what you ask of yourself. Flip it. What strength is pushing through that someone around you could benefit from?

Now, ask yourself: are you more prone to flee from challenging situations or overextend yourself? These are altars—passed down or built in self-protection. Maybe it’s something else entirely. What might God be asking you to tear down?

Lastly, who in your life needs what you’re strong at without the interference of the altars you’re choosing to remove? Choose one small, intentional way you can show up for them this week, even if it’s not reciprocated.

I’ve been thinking a lot about life as a stay-at-home mom, a title that was never part of my plan. Neither motherhood nor staying at home was on my agenda. And yet, I’m enjoying motherhood. It feels natural, like an extension of myself. I don’t feel lost inside of it.

As for staying at home, I am no longer kicking and screaming. It was not my paradigm. I come from a line of working women. Women who showed up, provided, and made things happen. With my mom in childcare, I was always with her, surrounded by women who felt like family. Work was normal.

Now, with a child of my own, I find myself in the in-between, unsure of what the future holds beyond what God desires.

Here in the middle,
I am learning rest.

I am learning to lay down my plow and be present.

I am learning to thank God for the gift of being hands-on in my daughter’s formative years.

I didn’t expect how difficult rest would feel. How choosing presence would push against everything I’ve been taught about productivity and worth. There is a quiet tension between who I’ve always been, driven, and who this season is inviting me to become. Rest feels rebellious when you come from women who survived by carrying what no one else would.

I am learning to pause and ask God what obedience looks like here, in the ordinary days. The answer is not louder striving. It’s quieter trust.

We are changing the script for daughters who come from lineages of difference. Not wrong, just no longer aligned with what God is asking of us now. The generations before us did the best they could with what they had. We are the continuation, and sometimes, the course correction.

The old rule said keep going, keep giving, keep proving.
The new rule asks to stay, receive, and remain present. That even if you stop walking, remain standing.

Both rules coexist.

To know it is okay to be.
To understand, she does not have to have everything figured out to be valuable.

I want her to move forward aware of where she is, not rushing past the present to arrive somewhere else. To know there is more ahead, but not being there yet is both humbling and holy.

When you can see the future, it is tempting to chase it. To fight for it. To earn it. I do not want to look back and grieve the life I did not live or the chances I did not take. I refuse that for her, too.

I want her to see what is possible and go after it.
To pour decisiveness into what brings her heart alive.
To know she is allowed to change her mind.

I will teach her how to commit fully and how to pivot when the environment calls for it.

Rest is not passivity.
Rest is a relationship with Jesus.
It is trusting that He knows the beginning, the middle, and the end, and that the middle never catches Him by surprise.

The middle is an unraveling of all we have done up until this point.
It is the character development of where our trust is not.

What does rest look like for you?

With intention,
Janae Carlee

This is for the ones like me with reliability in their bones and compassion in their smiles. The ones who inherited a trait that often backfires. Who watched matriarchs give of themselves at the expense of themselves, all in the name of “If I don’t do it, who else will?”

The ones who feel the unspoken pressure wrapped in the traditions of this is just what we do.

But is it?

Because if you’re anything like me, you see a generational cycle you refuse to carry forward. Boundaries, please.

And yet, it’s not that simple.

It comes with guilt.
It comes with voiced and unvoiced obligations.
It comes with a pressure we don’t want to crumble under and a responsibility we don’t want our children to inherit.

We see hope in our future.
A childhood our daughters won’t have to heal from.
A healthy mother.

One who doesn’t trade her entire life for money, but works enough to support the home without disappearing inside of it.

Life comes at us fast. Most of us are living in the aftermath of decisions our parents made.

We can take responsibility.
We can repent on their behalf.
We can choose to change the direction of this pattern.

To be a giver is beautiful.
To prioritize others until your own body, soul, and spirit suffer because no one ever taught you boundaries is not.

Prioritize your no.
Protect it like it’s going out of style.

Silence shame. Tell it to kick rocks.

And ask God how to navigate the terrain of the eldest and only daughter, one who will redefine what it means to be dependable, with clear, expressed boundaries.

To the daughters rewriting the rules, I see you.

Holding space with you,

Janae Carlee