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

Fortitude is not my favorite pastime. It requires presence. It slows you down. It teaches you to stay. I’m writing this with my little bundle of joy crawling around me, grabbing anything within arm’s reach, while I pump and she tests the limits of her vocal cords. All this floor… yet she’s determined to be right underneath me, like she pays rent for that space. And I’m convinced every yell is her checking if she can out-scream the last one. I don’t think she’s exhausted her vocal range yet—but she keeps me on my toes. And as foggy as this season feels, I’m certain she entered our lives for such a time as this.

She brings joy, just as God promised.

While I was pregnant, God told me this would be a season of joy, worship, and continuation. She is a promise fulfilled. Even in the blur of postpartum, she radiates delight. Ask me what I’ve done the past few months—honestly, I couldn’t tell you anything besides keeping my baby alive. Ask me what she’s done every week of her six months? Every detail: documented, remembered, etched into my heart.

Great grace.

I knew transition would be hard. Staying in Texas, away from family, was hard. Moving back home and being surrounded by family is also challenging. I’ve been gone four years. I am not who I was. They are not who they were. Even family deserves permission to be different. We have to choose our hard.

I didn’t directly ask for this season. But the moment I asked to be used by God, however He saw fit, the direction of my life became His discretion. The tension isn’t an identity crisis. I love being a mom. I know I am more than a title because I’m a daughter of God. It’s learning to find contentment without having control over my expectations as a newly 30-year-old… who honestly forgot she even turned 30. I gave birth and six weeks later entered a new decade. The first three months were such a blur, I forgot I had a birthday. It was overshadowed by Father’s Day this year.

It’s in the fog that I have to remember what God has done.

Stones of remembrance, like in Joshua 4, matter here. I haven’t been the best at reminding myself—but I’m trying. When we find ourselves in seasons we didn’t ask for, we have to remember what God has done up to this point.

Present.

I’m learning to be present.

To lean into what I can’t control.

To trust God in new ways.

I’ve had to reframe my perspective—God is sustaining us, and for that I am grateful. My baby won’t be this little forever, so I’m soaking it in, taking mental snapshots for the days when old age comes knocking.

Remembering what He’s already done reminds me that uncertainty isn’t forever.

One day, I’ll be employed again. Or my content creation will finally generate the income we need. Either way, God will provide.

Until then, I’ll keep enduring. I’ll keep reminding myself of His goodness. I’ll lean into the joys of motherhood and watch my baby conquer every milestone.

Hope breathes in this truth: I can trust an unknown future with a known God.

We don’t get to choose the path God directs us down, but we can rest knowing He walks with us. It’s all to make us more like Him. No more asking to be used by God, then running away when it gets hard.

I’d love to hear where you are in this season. What does it look like for you? How are you challenging yourself to remember the goodness of God—even when it doesn’t feel good?

A Poem for the Fog

One day, what was once no longer belonged.
And I can bet that one day can easily become day one.

Day one to start.
Day one to breathe.
Day one to be everything God intended for us to be.

It comes with being present
after dwelling in His presence—
even when feeling extremely disconnected.

A place we fight to remain,
Upon the altar,
A pleasant fragrance.

Yet fortitude is born of enduring the night—
Where the light always rises again.

Night seasons are gritty,
Full of growth.
And just know: we are never alone.

One day, we’ll see that day one for you and me
Holds the peace to start again,
The space to keep walking.

With love,
Janae Carlee

It’s been a while since you’ve heard from me—whether on Substack or YouTube. Truth is, postpartum depression found me, and I’ve been fighting to hand it its eviction notice. For me, it’s wrapped in the weight of unmet expectations. Sitting in the house for six weeks, anxious about whether you’re “doing it right” while your family is 22 hours away—that’s not for the faint of heart. And in the midst of that, I’ve learned: it’s okay to go back home.

@byjanaecarleeIt’s okay to go back home. When it comes to major life transitions, I’m usually quiet—but God is challenging me to be more transparent as He continues to grace me for detours. Postpartum has humbled me and shown me just how much I need the support of family in this season. Texas was the place I came to establish myself and start my family. But now, I’m sensing the call to return. I share this to encourage someone: obedience doesn’t always mean permanence. Sometimes, God sends you ahead to blaze a trail—and then calls you back to familiar spaces to fulfill a bigger picture. #relatable #transition #postpartum

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Oh—did I mention I had a baby? A beautiful baby girl entered the world sunny-side up after four hours of pushing on Mother’s Day. I labored as if I’d been given Pitocin. Arrived at the hospital 5 cm dilated around 6 a.m., and by 10 a.m., I was ready to push. I almost hemorrhaged from her position and how badly I tore. Forty-five stitches later, she arrived with a head full of hair and a whole lot to say. She talks, okay? And now, at 3 months old, she’s already rolling from her stomach to her back. I can’t keep up—they do grow too fast.

I’m alive to share my story. I’m not a statistic, just as my doctor reassured me I wouldn’t be at the moment I realized how badly I was bleeding. God guided me through and surrounded me with a team who knew exactly what to do. One day soon, I’ll share my full birth story on YouTube—but until then, I’ll write about it here.

As I write this, I’m thirteen weeks postpartum—still holding on and keeping the faith. Some days look brighter than others. I’m learning to rearrange expectations as I give myself fully for the sake of the little one God entrusted to me. It’s here that faith is tested alongside marriage. You either suit up and fight through, or get out of the kitchen because it’s too hot. Me? I only have the option to fight.

The last few years have prepared me for this. I can look back through journals of remembrance and see what God has done—reminding me of what’s still possible in the days ahead. Writing and speaking are my weapons of choice, so I plan to create my way through this season. I can’t promise a specific frequency, but I do ask for your prayers and your willingness to hold me accountable.

To remain idle feels like a direct disrespect to the gifts God has given me. Sometimes the fog is too thick to see through—but encouragement goes a long way.

I encourage you to embrace the discomfort. Don’t gaslight yourself. Be honest—and watch God work. He does show up in the midnight hour.

Until then,
Your friend,
Janae Carlee

A question we hear often—sometimes in the middle of stagnation, sometimes in the throes of mental anguish. We desire clarity. Once we had it—a clear directive, a sense of where we were headed. Then, at some point, God threw a curveball, exposing where our trust was lacking. Now, we’re out here treading water, barely staying afloat.

No? Just me?

I always know when I’m entering a transition. The mental disruption comes first, long before the physical shift—the kind of shift we call change.

Change happens.
It’s inevitable.
It’s unavoidable.
It’s coming.

And when it does, transition should have prepared us.

I’m the one who will tell you to cry. Cry and cry and cry some more. It cleanses the soul. It proves empathy still lives within. It’s where we come to the end of ourselves, making space for God to take up residence again. Even if we never stray from His leading, new lessons come with every step forward, creating a void for God to inhabit.

How will change find us?
In surrender or resistance?

Sometimes both.

The faster we accept that we don’t understand, the sooner we can grasp our limitations and our absolute dependence on Jesus. Resistance creates the need for rest. And God—arms wide, always by our side—is simply waiting for our flesh to catch up with what our spirit already knows.

You think it’s a lack of desire.
You’re really grieving an outdated version of yourself.

You can’t fully grasp who you are becoming, but the reflection in the mirror no longer aligns with the transformation happening inside.

And in that place, we are called to build an altar to the Lord. A place of remembrance for what He has done and what He is doing within us.

It’s here, in grief, on the cusp of wonder, that we realize surrender is worship.
Obedience isn’t a catchy slogan.
Faith isn’t just a concept.

It’s a way of living. A way of experiencing "life more abundantly" that God promised for those who believe. Even when weeping and mourning show up as part of the same package as joy.

Worship in pregnancy has looked more like surrender than I know how to articulate. I have cried more tears than I can count. And even in the deep unknown, there—in the middle—I learned to lay down my need for control and free-fall into the arms of the Father. Surrounded by the community He planted me in. Anchored by their presence. Held up by my husband, a pillar of strength for me in my uncertainty.

Pregnancy has exposed my heart.

And yet, worship never ends. It’s ever-evolving, yet always constant.

Worship isn’t just something we do—it’s who we are. It’s embedded in our DNA, a natural response of reverence to our Creator who decided, before time began, that you and I would be part of a larger story.

Our perspectives are shaped by our experiences, but those experiences aren’t always transparent. They’re rose-colored, mosaic-wrapped, woven from the intricate details of generational decisions—leading to the one willing to break what doesn’t align with what God said.

The one who has to know what God said.
By understanding who He is.
Allowing him to guide us into the unknown future where he already exists.

Surrender is worship.

Your heart will be exposed.

So the next time someone asks what you're good at, may your answer be: I’m unafraid of change.

With intentionality,
Janae Carlee

P.S. My good friend, Lyssa Christina, founder of Mosaic Women’s Collective, is hosting the Women Like Us Conference: One God, Many Voices on May 2nd-3rd in the Austin, Texas area.

This transformative worship experience is designed to break down barriers that divide the body of Christ. Together, we’ll explore the essence of worship—what it is, how it looks across cultures and backgrounds, and how it unites us as one church under God.

For more details and to grab your ticket, click here!

In Christian spaces, we’ve mastered religion. We know how to say the right things to fit in with church culture. But here’s the truth: God is not intimidated by our emotions. Our questions don’t scare Him. Our inner thoughts don’t catch Him by surprise. It’s better to be honest than to sit in shame over something He already knows—Psalm 139 is proof of that. This would be a great time to read it. I love the NLT version.

It starts with: “O Lord, you have examined my heart and know everything about me.”

So when life comes at us fast—anger, sadness, frustration, all of it—who are we trying to convince that we’re okay? Ourselves or God?

When I get news I don’t want to hear, I get sad. Then sadness turns into frustration. Then anger. And eventually, I see the light—because deep down, I know nothing catches God by surprise (even if I look like a deer in headlights).

He knows the beginning from the end and is faithful to complete what He started in us. The fact that you’re reading this right now means there’s still breath in your body, which means He’s not done with you.

A few years ago, I decided to be honest—with myself and with others. When people ask how I’m doing, I don’t say okay if I’m not. I won’t say blessed and highly favored when life feels like a dark valley. As humans, we crave connection—to be seen, to be understood. So I let people see me. And I let God use the right ones to remind me of who I am in Him when I can’t feel it for myself.

The other night, I lay in bed, struggling to even open my mouth in prayer as fear tried to crawl into bed with me. Instead of pretending I was okay, I cried out to my husband and asked him to pray for me. I refused to sit in silence and let fear win.

As someone who once battled crippling anxiety in college—so badly that it landed me in the hospital—I know what it’s like to feel helpless. But I also know what it’s like for God to free me from panic attacks for good. That doesn’t mean fear doesn’t try to sneak back in. It just means I’ve learned how to keep my house filled—with the Holy Spirit and with people who can hold up my arms like Aaron and Hur did for Moses.

The truth is, God knows best. He created us on purpose, for a purpose in a world full of brokenness. He is good—not because life is always good, but because He says so and through experience. He desires a relationship with us where we are constantly being transformed, perfected, and prepared for the day He says, “Well done.”

So when emotions are fleeting, when fear knocks, and its friends try to throw a pity party with me as the guest of honor, I remind myself of His Word. I turn to Psalm 139 and remember: God sees me. God knows me. God is with me.

Then, I document. Sometimes, it’s journaling. Other times, it’s writing a Substack essay like this one. Either way, I leave myself stones of remembrance—a record of what God is doing and has already done. And when I look back at the moments I felt helpless, I see how He carried me through the valley to experience light again.

So here’s my encouragement to you: Get honest.

Find a rhythm of documentation.
Find a trusted community.
Find a way to remind yourself of God’s faithfulness.

Because it does get easier—not because trials stop, but because our perspective changes to see through the mind of Christ. The storms still come. But joy still follows mourning. And God never breaks a promise.

He’s a good Father. A good Friend. Whatever you need Him to be in the moment.

But are we still enough to hear Him?

Turn down the noise.
Eliminate the doom-scrolling.
Fix your eyes on Him.
Ask Him what He’s doing—even in sorrow.

Because this too shall pass.
And one day, you’ll testify about how He did it. Again.

First, be honest.

If you’re not okay—say that.

He already knows.

With intentionality,
Janae

Giving up feels tempting right now. You’re tired, and the weight of life is banging on the front door, demanding to come in. With everything life has handed you—brick after brick on silver-plated platters—throwing in the towel seems like the easiest option.

You just feel blah.

Maybe it’s the season.

Have you stopped to reflect on when you started feeling like you’re merely existing? There’s no stress because you’ve gone numb to everything around you. This is what I call the in-between zone.

It’s that space where you know there’s more for you—more to life, more to achieve, more to experience—but nothing’s moving forward. Yet, it’s not getting worse either. It’s like being stuck in limbo, waiting for something to shift.

That knowing is home—He’s calling you back—Holy Spirit is at work.

It’s right there, in the discomfort sitting heavy in your chest. Breathing feels labored, and your eyes sting with tears that threaten to spill over, but even then, something inside you fights back. Your mental fortitude attempts to kick in every time those intrusive thoughts try to convince you of a false narrative.

Let me remind you:

You are not a failure.
You are not behind.
You are not your mistakes.

You are becoming.

You are in process, learning that the perfecting of your character requires refinement—a process that isn’t always comfortable. I’m not saying to ignore how you feel. It’s important to acknowledge your emotions, but feelings can be unreliable narrators. They’re indicators, not truths. Often, they expose areas God is asking to transform.

This is where He reveals what cannot stay. Maybe you’re noticing yourself acting out of character or responding in ways you thought were healed. Don’t beat yourself up. It’s okay! Acknowledge it and surrender it. Let God help you navigate now that you’re aware. Apologize to anyone you’ve hurt or offended.

Here’s the thing: you have every reason to quit. Which means you also have every reason to keep going.

You’ve come too far to let it all slip away.

Endurance looks good on you.

Even if it doesn’t feel good.

In a few months, the pieces will start to come together. The "why" behind all of this will begin to make sense. You may not understand it now, but God does. He’s guiding you through this transition, even in the frustration it brings. He’s pruning what can’t remain and working in ways you can’t yet see.

So, see it through.

Trust that the God who brought you here hasn’t left you. He’s preparing something greater than you could imagine. And when it all unfolds, you’ll look back and be so glad you didn’t give up.

Endurance isn’t easy. But it’s worth it.

With love,
Janae

I knew I needed it, but at the time, I had no idea you could stay on your parents’ insurance until 26. Praise God for that! I stayed on it until the clock struck midnight in June 2021.

Then God provided.

When I obeyed His leading and moved to Texas by faith, He didn’t just provide a job—my health benefits kicked in on July 1st of the same year. He made a way. I’ve learned that sometimes the stress is there to reveal where we’re not fully anchored in trust.

Fast forward to 2023, just two days before my wedding, my job ended, which meant I’d be without health insurance again. And to make it more complicated, I was battling a random case of cellulitis on my leg. After the wedding, the dermatologist wanted to biopsy it. Did you know that when a major life event happens, like getting married, you can be added to your spouse’s health insurance? Maybe it was just me who didn’t know.

God provided yet again.

My insurance ended in September, and the new plan started on October 1. So why am I tripping right now as I write this? Why are you trippin too at whatever you’re facing?

It’s because we have more questions than we do answers right now.

It’s easy to say we trust God, but do we?

At 29, I’m revisiting lessons learned over the past few years and seeing God move in ways I never expected. But here I am again—at a crossroads. No job, a desire to move back to my home state, and a heart that has to stay yielded to His leading.

Does He know best?

Of course, He does.

But when you’re in the middle of it, it doesn’t always feel that way.

And that’s the point.

He will provide.

He always does.

When you choose to live a life poured out to God, you can gather all the containers, but He directs the pour. And when the pour feels empty, that’s when we lean in, turn down the distractions, quiet our appetites, and sit with Him in the stillness of discomfort.

What has my life become?

This isn’t a sorrowful question—it’s a sober one. Because I’m doing things I never thought I would. Janae? Cooking every day? Crazy. I was kicking and screaming, craving takeout because cooking felt like a chore. But here I am now—a homemaker. God slowed me down. The performer in me is dying.

Not being able to get a job has kept me humble. I’m starting to see that this season has a purpose, even if it hasn’t been fully revealed. And like with every answered prayer, one day, I’ll look up and see how far I’ve come—living on the other side of the questions I’m asking now.

It’s a slow process, learning to do more with less.

If you find yourself in an unfamiliar space, take a moment to reflect. What would younger you think about the person you’ve become? Chances are, you’re further along than you ever imagined—even if this isn’t the path you expected.

We’re one step closer to where we’re headed, and that’s worth holding on to. Not to rush the process, but to provide hope in the becoming.

Never in my life did I think I’d be a stay-at-home wife, cooking two to three meals a day, reading and preparing to write a book, no longer designing. But God knows what’s ahead. Now, I cling to Exodus 14:14: The Lord will fight for you;you need only to be still.

It’s the “still” part He’s still working on in me.

This time, I’m determined to learn the lesson—the last time.

So, let me ask:

What has your life become?

With love,
Janae Carlee

Reading “What if the best growth strategy this year is subtraction?” made me reflect on my journey, especially at the end of 2022 when God challenged me to do more with less.

As a multi-passionate creative, I’ve wrestled between my voice and my hands—until my voice won. I loved design and built a career around it, but my heart has always belonged to writing. I guess in some ways writing requires active participation from both my voice and hands.

I remember being six years old, writing short stories and recounting experiences to share my perspective with family and teachers.

Secretly, I’ve always dreamed of becoming a well-known author, but that dream got buried under the weight of my many passions. Whenever I discovered something I could do, I’d go all in, learning and mastering the skill. Even in all that tinkering, God found ways to develop my voice—through his word, through study, and through sharing his goodness on a podcast I started with zeal.

While my hands kept busy, my voice kept growing.

These days, I crave simplicity. The beauty of doing more with less. I’m writing and reading again, dreaming of self-publishing books, maybe even landing a publishing deal—embracing a life centered on literature and words.

It feels creative to return to the basics. When there’s nothing to prove, only lessons to share and the confidence in God’s intentionality to guide every experience.

Design wasn’t just work—until it was.

Until the joy of creating visual stories to communicate my clients' visions faded. It became a chore. These days, I feel a wave of sadness whenever I sit down to design. It’s a wild shift, but it’s not without its lessons.

Design taught me discipline and attention to detail. It showed me how to make something out of nothing. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

Right now, you’ll find me sharing thoughts on Substack, creating short-form clips on Instagram, and diving deeper into topics on YouTube. I even paused my personal podcast to collaborate with my pastor on an intergenerational podcast that explores the intersection of faith and culture for rising voices and seasoned saints.

I’m cutting back on screen time. I deleted Facebook and Threads from my phone—TikTok is next—and treated myself to a Kindle. My hope? To dive into more fiction this year and let my imagination take the lead.

Less is more.

I’m living proof.

We don’t have to chase metrics or cling to things that no longer serve us. We can explore for the sake of growth, but we don’t need to keep our hands in everything.

I’ve let go of podcasts, businesses, ideas—and now, design as a career—to stand once again at the crossroads asking, What’s next, God? I’m stepping into the unknown where he’s already waiting.

It’s obedience he’s after.

It’s the stillness he’s cultivating.

It’s contentment.

Focus on what you should. Release what you can.

Don’t stifle your growth by clinging to an outdated version of yourself. You never know—when the season is right, you may return with maturity and clarity, better equipped for what’s next.

Now it’s your turn.

What can you release? Or what is God calling you back to?

With love,
Janae Carlee