Memorial Day is a time to remember and honor the brave men and women who gave their lives in service to our nation. Today, we especially honor the memory of my husband’s uncle, who made the ultimate sacrifice while serving his country. He was only 27 years old. He died when his aircraft was shot down. His courage, devotion, and selflessness will never be forgotten.
Behind every gravestone is more than a hero; a beloved son, daughter, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, friend, or loved one whose life touched many others. Their memory lives on in the hearts of those who loved them, and we remember them with gratitude and honor. May we never forget the price paid for the freedoms we enjoy each day.
All gave some. Some gave all.
As Scripture reminds us:
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” ~ John 15:13
Today, we also pray for the families who carry both pride and sorrow in their hearts. May God comfort those who mourn, bless the souls of the fallen, and remind us never to take their sacrifice for granted.
Freedom is never free. Today, we remember, honor, and give thanks. Gone, but never forgotten. 🇺🇸
The gravestone of Milton Keith McNulty (my husband’s uncle), a US Marine Corps 1st Lieutenant from Montana who served in Vietnam
She wasn’t the kind of woman people called strong.
She didn’t command a room or always make the wisest choices. She didn’t have the steady confidence I sometimes envied in other mothers.
My mama was flawed in ways that showed. Tender in places where life had been anything but gentle. And somehow, without either of us planning it, I became the strong one.
I stepped into that role way too young, long before I knew what it meant. A role never meant for a daughter, let alone a child. I became her steady ground. Her confidant. Her shield. And slowly, quietly, I started mothering my own mama.
I learned to read her eyes and knew when she was hurt or afraid. I carried feelings too heavy for a child to hold. I filled in gaps I didn’t even have words for yet. My childhood ended before it really got started.
And yet, it shaped me. It made me responsible. Watchful. Tougher than I wanted to be. But it also left me tired in ways I wouldn’t understand until years later.
Still … she was my mama. And I loved her. We all did.
Love doesn’t always grow where it’s supposed to. Sometimes it pushes through the hardest places and blooms anyway. Because God knows how to make something beautiful out of what’s been broken. Mama may not have modeled the kind of strength others admire. But she gave me something deeper without meaning to: space to find my own strength. I learned to recognize fragility up close. A kind of empathy I had to discover on my own. And grit, because someone had to hold the line. And when mine ran out, I learned to lean on God.
Loving a parent who couldn’t fully be there for you is a tender, kind of tangled ache. It isn’t resentment or blame. It’s a quiet knowing. I always knew she loved me, and she knew I loved her. And I believe she did the best she could with what she had. Even if what she had fell short. What she couldn’t give, God supplied. He filled the gaps with His grace, His presence, and the way He kept showing up for me.
Mama had six of us. She was ours—flawed, fragile, human, and deeply loved. She wasn’t perfect, and neither was I. But we were perfect for each other.
Missing her today reminds me that even fragile love can grow into something good in God’s hands. What she couldn’t give, God provided. It didn’t happen overnight. In the places that felt unfinished, God planted healing, resilience, and a deeper faith. I wouldn’t know this kind of faith without that journey.
It may not be everyone’s story. But it’s mine. And it shaped me.
If you’re missing someone complicated and imperfect today, I hope you feel seen. Love doesn’t have to be flawless to shape us.
I’m missing my mama today.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mama. I’m still here because of you—
For more than ten years, I’ve been pouring out pieces of my life right here. Some posts came from deep pain, others from quiet gratitude or hard-won lessons. To my humble surprise, a few of them have kept drawing readers year after year, long after I first hit “publish.”
These are the posts that have touched the most hearts over time. They talk about real struggles—loss, brokenness, family wounds, verbal abuse, and the battles we fight inside—but they also point to the hope and healing that only God’s grace can bring. Many of them echo the same journey I share in my memoir, Running in Heels: A Memoir of Grit and Grace.
If you’re walking through a hard season and feeling unseen or hopeless, I pray one of these reflections meets you right where you are and reminds you that you are not alone.
Here are my Top 12 Most-Viewed Posts
I’ll Never Forget 9/11: A personal reflection on that heartbreaking day and how it still echoes in our lives.
About Me: My story, where I came from, the struggles I faced, and how God can transform despair into hope. This page alone has welcomed over 80 heartfelt comments from readers who shared their own journeys.
The Battle Within: The struggle didn’t disappear, but through God’s grace, I learned I no longer have to fight it alone.
Beauty For Ashes: An honest wrestling with the idea of beauty in the middle of real-life devastation.
Verbal Abuse: I wrote this from a place I know all too well—the silent pain of feeling broken, invisible, and trapped. But it’s also a reminder that we are not meant to stay there.
I Dreamed a Dream: I’ve walked through seasons where the dreams I once held began to fade, pushed aside by life, responsibilities, and discouraging words. But I’ve come to see that what feels like the end may not be the end at all… just the beginning of a new dream.
This Thing Called Tears: Tears don’t only come in sorrow; they show up in joy, frustration, and even gratitude. In these everyday moments, I’m reminded that God meets us in every emotion, and every tear has a purpose.
Damaged Goods: I once believed the lies that I was broken, unworthy, and beyond repair. But I’ve learned that we are not defined by what we’ve been through. God doesn’t see damaged goods… He sees something worth restoring.
Ode to a Mother’s Heart – Part II: A mother’s love & the unimaginable pain of losing a child. My heart grieves with those who carry this kind of sorrow, and I lift them up in prayer.
Shark Bait: This is my dear husband’s story, and a reminder of how faithful God is, even in the most unexpected moments.
Each story carries a piece of my heart. Some made me cry as I wrote them. Others reminded me of God’s faithfulness even when life felt unbearable. Readers have told me they saw parts of their own stories in these words, and that blesses me more than I can say. I’m continually humbled by how far these stories are traveling.
WordPress recently shared that this blog has now reached readers in 174 countries, the newest being Gabon. That’s something only God could do, and I don’t take a single reader for granted.
If these reflections speak to you, I believe you’ll find even deeper encouragement in the pages of Running in Heels. It’s the fuller story behind so many of these posts—the raw truth of growing up in pain, surviving abuse and abandonment, and learning to walk in grit and grace. The book is available on Amazon in paperback, hardcover, Kindle, and audiobook. And I’m thrilled that a Spanish edition, Corriendo en Tacones, Memorias de valentía y gracia, is on the way for my Latino friends and family.
We’re prayerfully hoping to reach 500 honest reviews on Amazon so this message can reach more women who feel broken or stuck. If any of these posts (or the book) touches your heart, I would be so grateful if you’d take a moment to leave a review.
Thank you for stopping by and for being part of this journey with me. Whether you’ve been reading for years or this is your first time here, my prayer is that I lift you up with love and faith.
Thirty-two years ago, (and after three years of dating), I stood in a mid-length off-white dress and said, “I do.” I had no idea that God was giving me my greatest second chance. At the time, I believed the twists in my life had run their course.
You know my story, babe. Life hasn’t been a straight path for me. It’s felt more like going in circles, running into things I never saw coming. Grit got me through those days that tried to break me. And then you waltzed into our lives. You became a step-dad to my four kids, loving them like your own from the very start. No hesitation. Just heart and true devotion.
After all these years with you, I’ve realized something deeper. Grit keeps me moving forward, but grace is what keeps my heart from turning hard and bitter. And you? You’ve been that steady tenderness I could actually feel. Patient when I wasn’t. Calm when I was losing it. Forgiving even when I made it really hard.
We’re not some picture-perfect couple from a magazine. God knows we both brought plenty of baggage. We’ve experienced real life together. Faced real pain that could have split us up. Had loud arguments that left us both raw and exhausted. There were days I wasn’t sure we’d make it. But we kept choosing each other anyway. We’d sit across the table. Me being my loud Puerto Rican self, and you with that Irish stubbornness of yours. Neither one wanting to back down. We talked through the ugly stuff because we had to. We forgave when walking away would’ve been easier.
Second chances aren’t about pretending the past never happened. They’re about believing God can still build something beautiful with whatever’s left. That’s the truth, we’ve been living together for 35 years.
Those early years were wild. Raising a family, juggling bills, teenagers, and way more than we thought we could handle. Some nights I’d fall into bed exhausted, sleepless nights, praying and wondering how we were going to get through tomorrow. But we stayed committed. We kept showing up.
Now the pace has slowed. The house is quieter. The chaos isn’t running our lives anymore. And you know what still surprises me in the best way? When you look at me and say, I’m pretty. When you still reach for my hand across the room. Plus, you still can make me laugh. That spark is still there in your eyes, not the young, hungry one from back then, but something deeper. Seasoned. Steady. Fierce. Stronger because of everything we’ve been through together.
Yes, time has slowed us down, humbled us, and taught us what really matters. We’re not the same two people who said those vows 32 years ago, and thank God for that. We’ve grown into each other. Learned to hold hands when words don’t come. Figured out that just showing up every single day is its own kind of romance.
To my husband, my rock, my second chance: thank you. Thank you for being the steady place when everything beneath me was shaking. Thank you for walking beside me through every chapter, the hard ones and the sweet ones. Thank you for loving every version of me.
You loved the scared, insecure girl I used to be. You embraced the woman I fought to become. And you support the one I’m still becoming, with your hand in mine.
Here’s to 32 years of choosing each other. To slowing down without drifting apart. To still catching that look across the room that says, “I see you, and I’m still all in.” And to all the grace-filled days ahead, because with you, I know they’ll be good.
“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.” — 1 Corinthians 13:7–8
Happy anniversary, babe. I’d run this race with you all over again, in heels or in flats. Thirty-two years later, I’d still choose you every time.
It’s Friday. Jesus is praying. Peter’s a sleeping. Judas is betraying. But Sunday’s comin’.
It’s Friday. Pilate’s struggling. The council is conspiring. The crowd is vilifying. They don’t even know That Sunday’s comin’.
It’s Friday. The disciples are running Like sheep without a shepherd. Mary’s crying. Peter is denying. But they don’t know That Sunday’s a comin’.
It’s Friday. The Romans beat my Jesus. They robe Him in scarlet. They crown Him with thorns. But they don’t know That Sunday’s comin’.
It’s Friday. See Jesus walking to Calvary. His blood dripping. His body stumbling. And His spirit’s burdened. But you see, it’s only Friday… Sunday’s comin’.
It’s Friday. The world’s winning. People are sinning. And evil’s grinning.
It’s Friday. The soldiers nail my Savior’s hands To the cross. They nail my Savior’s feet To the cross. And then they raise Him up Next to criminals.
It’s Friday. But let me tell you something— Sunday’s comin’.
It’s Friday. The disciples are questioning, “What has happened to their King?” And the Pharisees are celebrating That their scheming Has been achieved. But they don’t know— It’s only Friday. Sunday’s comin’.
It’s Friday. He’s hanging on the cross. Feeling forsaken by His Father. Left alone and dying. Can nobody save Him? Ooooh… It’s Friday. But Sunday’s comin’.
It’s Friday. The earth trembles. The sky grows dark. My King yields His spirit.
It’s Friday. Hope is lost. Death has won. Sin has conquered. And Satan’s just a laughin’.
It’s Friday. Jesus is buried. A soldier stands guard. And a rock is rolled into place.
But it’s Friday… It is only Friday. Sunday is a comin’!
Grace isn’t about life being easy; if it were, everyone would have it. Real grace is showing up in the mess. It’s laughing at the chaos, and somehow looking like you’ve got it together… even when inside, you’re totally winging it. Stumble by stumble, heel by heel, that’s how I’ve learned it.
2 Corinthians 12:9 says, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
Turns out, your mess is exactly where God’s grace shines brightest.
After our move from Denver to Miami, we settled into a duplex apartment. The small amount of money we had saved quickly dwindled. Donny couldn’t find steady work, and my waitressing tips barely kept us afloat.
Six months later:
“Pack your bags; we’re moving,” Donny announced out of the blue.
“What? Another move? Where to now?” I wailed and braced for the answer.
“The Lone Star State, he shrugged. “Jobs are booming in Houston.” He left to tie up loose ends for our big move.
I put Anna Marie down for a nap. I plopped on the floor surrounded by boxes Donny had gathered, waiting to fill. I wept instead of packing, wanting to pull my hair out in frustration.
Whatare we going to do in Texas? Live out on the prairie? Herd a bunch of cattle? Ride horses? Donny might think himself a cowboy, but I ain’t no cowgirl.
I found myself talking to God. I pleaded with Him to change the circumstances. I wanted help to survive one more day, another move—to Timbuktu for all I knew. Was it selfish for me to want my little girl to know the love of her great-grandparents? Was it wrong for me to want her to know her humorous grandpa and enjoy Gloria’s pampering?
Angry. I threw things into suitcases and boxes. Pointless. Coming and going. Didn’t I moved enough times as a kid? As I fumed and tossed stuff around, an envelope fell out of my dusty Bible and dropped onto my lap. A letter! From Aunt Irma; written after I’d returned from New York, after my “great escape” from Donny. I sat crossed-legged on the floor and re-read her letter, allowing her words to digest:
I pray that Donny’s heart will soften, so that he learns that our being imperfect beings that we are, we tend to make mistakes. Even with the best of intentions. May God put it in his heart these truths, so that he will be able to forget that you left him when you were hurt and so confused. And that the act no way lessened the love you have for him.
Mary Ann, may he ever remember that a woman is not to ever be mistreated by hitting, but to be held, respected, and loved as someone precious as a part of himself. As for you dear, please remember; no one wins in a fight. And having the last word in an argument is not important. We love you and miss you and Anna Marie.
God bless you, Aunt Irma and your uncle Jimmy.
I re-folded the page and tucked it away. With a fresh determination to put all self-pity aside, I went back to my packing.
That day (at 17-years of age), I learned something about how God works in the middle of our chaos. Sometimes the answer to our prayers doesn’t arrive as a miracle or a changed circumstance. Sometimes it slips quietly out of the pages of a dusty Bible. It may appear as a letter written by someone who loves us.
Looking back now, I realize that move to Texas wasn’t just another exhausting chapter in a string of moves. It was one more place where God was teaching me grit… and a little grace.
Life has a funny way of surprising us with reminders. This happens just when we think we can’t take one more step. For me, it was Aunt Irma’s words on a worn piece of paper.
Have you ever had a moment like that—when something small stopped you in your tracks and shifted your perspective?
I’d love to hear your stories. Sometimes the lessons that steady us the most are the ones we almost overlook
My precious son, today on your birthday, I lift you up with gratitude and faith. I am thankful for who you are. I am just as grateful for who you are becoming. I’ve watched you grow in ways that still amaze me. You have learned strength not by pretending you have none, but by recognizing your weaknesses and facing them anyway!
Lord, thank You for making him brave enough to face his giants. Thank You for helping him stand firm in daily challenges with integrity. Help him walk in humility and grace, especially in moments of victory.
May his wishes be matched with effort, his goals be high, and his heart stay clear. I pray he continues to master himself even as he seeks to lead others.
May he always carry a joyful spirit, one that knows when to laugh freely and when it’s okay to weep.
Let love guide his steps, faith steady his heart, and grace remain his constant companion.
Happy Birthday, my beloved son.
I still remember the little boy who used to look up at me.
Now I’m the one looking up at the man you’ve become.
Walk forward with courage, grit, and above all, grace.
Love you.
As Scripture promises: “For I know the plans I have for you… plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” – Jeremiah 29:11.
Love is a road. Sometimes smooth. Sometimes full of potholes. Sometimes, it’s like quicksand that wants to swallow you whole.
Looking at this photo of my husband and me, I don’t just see a moment. I see every step we’ve taken together. The long days. The late-night talks. The whispered prayers when we didn’t know what else to do. The mistakes we stumbled through, and the grace that carried us forward.
How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning says it perfectly. Not the easy love. The steady, persistent love. The kind that stretches deep and holds firm when life tilts sideways.
Marriage has been our classroom. It’s taught me that love isn’t just a feeling; you don’t wait for it to show up. It’s a choice. Again. And again. It asks you to bend, to forgive, to hope, to trust. To keep showing up, even when you’re tired, even when your heart aches, even when the world feels heavy.
Faith has quietly guided us through it all. God has been the steady hand on the wheel. The compass was used when we couldn’t see the path. The shelter was where storms came. And because of Him, our love keeps growing, not perfect, not loud, but true.
Love like this doesn’t fade with time. It deepens. It matures. And by His grace, it continues to grow, day by day, breath by breath.
So today, on Valentine’s Day, I’m grateful. For him. For us. For the crooked roads and the smooth stretches. I am also thankful to God. He keeps showing us how to love deeper. He teaches us to love more widely and more deeply than we ever could on our own.
The Spanish translation of Running in Heels is complete—but the journey isn’t over. This memoir of grit and grace is being prepared for publication in Spanish, to reach hearts across cultures and generations. From family setbacks to divine provision, every step has been a testimony.
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From Heart to Heritage
Reflections From the Heart 