Tag Archives: love

Becoming Who You’ve Always Been

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Part 5 – Where the soul and the self finally meet

“A quiet reminder of who you’ve always been.”

Hello my dear friends,

We’ve made it to Part 5 of our reincarnation series, and I’m so grateful you’ve walked this path with me. I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey as much as I’ve loved writing it.

We’ve arrived at the moment where our soul meets our human — where the two finally recognize each other, finally merge, finally become one. It’s been a beautiful unfolding, and I appreciate you more than you know.

There comes a moment in a woman’s life when she stops trying to reinvent herself and starts remembering herself instead. It doesn’t happen all at once. It happens quietly — in the soft hours of the morning, in the way she reaches for her coffee, in the way she suddenly feels the urge to clear a corner of her life to make room for something new.

It happens in the whisper of a thought she almost ignores:
“What if I’m not becoming someone else?
What if I’m becoming who I’ve always been?”

For years, we’ve carried versions of ourselves that were never meant to stay forever — the caretaker, the fixer, the strong one, the one who held everything together even when she was unraveling inside. We wore those identities like armor, believing they were required, believing they were us.

But beneath all of that… beneath the roles, the expectations, the survival seasons… there was a truer version of us waiting patiently.

Not louder.
Not shinier.
Just truer.

And now, in this chapter of our life, she is rising.

Not because we forced her to.
Not because we hustled or pushed or perfected.
But because we finally became quiet enough to hear her.

Because we finally stopped abandoning ourselves.
Because we finally stopped apologizing for wanting more.
Because we finally realized that the woman we’ve been searching for has been here all along — watching, waiting, whispering.

Can you feel her? She’s returning… and she’s ready.

Becoming isn’t about transformation. It’s about returning.

Returning to our softness.
Returning to our intuition.
Returning to the dreams we tucked away for “someday.”
Returning to the voice we silenced because life got loud.
Returning to the woman we promised ourselves we’d become.

Those dreams we had as little girls — they were our future selves calling back through time, saying, I’ll be right here when you’re ready. Take your time. And when you are ready, you’ll remember everything you once knew.

And here’s the truth we may not have said out loud yet:

We’re not starting over.
We’re starting from ourselves.

This is the season where our soul steps forward.
Where our desires stop feeling selfish and start feeling sacred.
Where our creativity stops being a hobby and becomes a calling.
Where our mornings become rituals instead of routines.
Where our voice becomes something we trust again.

This is the season where we stop shrinking.
Where we stop dimming.
Where we stop waiting for permission.

This is the season where we finally say: “I’m ready to be her.”

Not the woman the world told us to be. Not the woman we performed to survive. But the woman we were always meant to become.

The woman we’ve always been.

What part of you has been quietly waiting to return — and are you ready to let her step forward now?

P.S.
If you feel a quiet shift inside you, that’s your soul returning. Be gentle with her. She’s been waiting for you.

Evolving in grace,
Dawna‑Rae
🦋 may your heart return to itself again and again

My Closing Note

Sometimes the deepest transformations are not loud or dramatic — they’re quiet homecomings. If this series stirred something awake in you, hold it gently. Let it unfold at its own pace. Your soul has waited lifetimes to be heard, and she will guide you if you let her.

Thank you for walking this path with me. Thank you for remembering with me. And thank you for allowing me to share this space where our stories, our echoes, and our becoming can meet.

This is the end of this series… but not the end of our journey together. A new chapter is already forming, and I can’t wait to step into it with you.

Letter 6: For the Estranged Mother

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For the mothers who love from a distance

Opening Note:
Some stories of motherhood live in the quiet places — the places without celebration, without recognition, without the closeness the world expects. Estranged motherhood is one of the most tender, unseen landscapes a woman can walk. This letter is offered as a sanctuary for the mothers who still carry love, even when connection is complicated or far away.

Dear estranged mom,

Thank you for being here with me this evening. If this letter has found you, I hope it brings you a moment of comfort in a season that can feel especially heavy. You are not alone. Even if this time of year meets you with a tender ache, please know this: you matter. You deserve to be seen, held, and honored. And yes — you are still a mom.

There are parts of motherhood no one prepares you for — and estrangement is one of them.

No one tells you that you can love a child who no longer knows how to love you back in the same way.

No one tells you that silence can ache just as deeply as loss.

No one tells you that motherhood can continue even when the relationship feels paused, fractured, or far away.

I have learned that there are kinds of distance that don’t erase love — they only change its shape.

I have learned that a mother’s heart doesn’t stop holding, even when her hands no longer can.

I have learned that loving your child from afar is still a form of motherhood, even if the world doesn’t recognize it.

There are days when you may wonder if your child can feel the quiet threads that still connect you.

There are days when you may stand in the doorway of your own life and feel the space where they should be.

There are days when you miss not the person they are, but the hope of who you wished they could have been with you.

And still — there is something true beneath all of it:

You have not stopped wishing for their happiness.

You have not stopped hoping for their healing.

You have not stopped being their mother.

Not in the way the world measures it.

Not in the way holidays celebrate it.

Not in the way people assume it should look.

But in the way that is quiet, steady, and still true.

And for the child who may one day read these words —

your mother’s heart hurts because you are not in her life.

Even if her words never reach you, this remains true:

She has never stopped loving you.

She has never stopped hoping for your healing.

She has never stopped being your mom.

If the day ever comes when you turn toward her again, she will meet you with the same heart that has been waiting — not frozen in time but softened by it.

And if that day never comes, she will still carry you with a tenderness that doesn’t demand anything in return.

Some forms of motherhood are loud and celebrated.

Some are quiet and unseen.

Hers is the kind that lives in the space between you — still here, still steady, still yours.

Author’s Note

Estranged motherhood is a tender, complex landscape. This letter is not meant to reopen wounds or rewrite history, but to honor the mothers who continue to love in ways the world cannot see. If this is your story, may these words offer you a moment of recognition and rest.

With reverence,

Dawna‑Rae

Eternal Echoes — honoring the stories we carry

To the Mother Whose Story Was Written in Longing-Letter 5

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Hello dear friends,

Thank you for pausing with me tonight. HYET has always been a place for quiet truth — a space where the heart can breathe, where the soul can soften, and where the stories we carry in silence can finally be honored.

As we approach Mother’s Day, I want to gently prepare your spirit: this reflection may feel tender for some of you. If you can, find a still moment… a place where your heart can settle and your breath can return to itself. These words were written with reverence, and I pray they land gently on your soul.

There are seasons in life that invite us to slow down and listen to the stories that live beneath the surface. Tonight, I felt called to write to the women whose motherhood was written in longing — the ones who carried hope, heartbreak, and love in the unseen places. If this is you, may these words meet you in the softest way.

Dear mother of the heart,

Thank you for sitting with me in this sacred moment. This reflection is for you because your story, too, is holy.

Some women who long to be mothers never experience the sacred transformation of carrying life beneath their heart. Some never feel the weight of a newborn in their arms. This is a quiet grief, a tender ache that only the soul who has lived it can fully understand.

Those of us who conceived, carried, and birthed children cannot know the depth of the longing held by the woman who prayed, hoped, and waited for a child who never came. And yet… your longing has shaped you in ways that Heaven sees.

To the women who longed to be moms: you are deeply loved. You are profoundly valued. I cannot pretend to know the ache you carry, but I honor it. I honor you.

I have known a few of you personally — women whose hearts hold more love than their arms have ever been asked to carry. I’ve seen the way you cradle a baby, the tenderness in your eyes, the way your spirit softens in the presence of a child. It is a holy thing to witness a woman love so freely, regardless of whose body that child came from.

There are women who mother without ever being called “Mom.” Women whose hearts stretched wide long before life placed a child in their arms. Women who carried hope the way others carry breath — quietly, faithfully, without applause.

This reflection is for you.

For the woman who longed to be a mom… who prayed, waited, tried, hoped, and held her breath through every month, every year, every almost. For the woman who smiled through baby showers while her heart whispered its own quiet ache. For the woman who celebrated others while grieving silently for herself.

You are not forgotten. Your story is not small. Your love is not wasted.

There is a kind of motherhood that lives in the way you show up for the world. In the way you listen. In the way you nurture. In the way you hold space for others to become. In the way you love with a depth carved by longing.

Some women mother through biology. Some through birth. Some through adoption. Some through presence. Some through the quiet, steady way they pour into the world around them.

And some — like you — mother through the ache itself. Through the tenderness longing carved into you. Through the compassion that grew in the empty spaces. Through the wisdom that comes from wanting something so deeply it reshaped your soul.

If today feels tender, may you rest inside that truth. You do not need to be strong every moment. You do not need to pretend it never mattered. You do not need to explain the ache to anyone.

Your heart tells the story.

And if no one has spoken this blessing over you before, let me speak it now:

You are seen. You are valued. You are loved. And the world is softer because you’re in it.

Motherhood takes many forms. Yours is no less sacred.

This reflection is for you — the woman who longed to be a mom, and in so many quiet, holy ways… already is.

Thank you for sharing this sacred moment with me. Thank you for the love you continue to give.

Evolving in grace,

Dawna‑Rae

🦋 may your heart return to itself again and again

Letter Three — For the Daughter Who Still Reaches for Her Mother in the Quiet

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Hello friends,

I hope this blog finds you well. I know we’ve been touching on some pretty heavy topics, and I pray the things I write bring you some comfort during the hard times, like not having your mom during Mother’s Day.

From my corner tonight… this one is for the daughter who still reaches for her mother in the quiet.

There are certain kinds of missing that settle into the body in ways words can’t fully hold. A kind of ache that doesn’t ask for permission — it simply rises, unannounced, in the soft hours of the evening or in the stillness of early morning. If you are carrying that kind of ache tonight, I want to honor you gently.

Mother’s Day has a way of stirring what we thought had settled. It brings memory to the surface — sometimes tender, sometimes sharp, always honest.

I never celebrated Mother’s Day with my own mom. The church I was raised in didn’t allow such things, and by the time I left, the relationship had already fractured beyond recognition. So while I don’t know the grief of losing a mother to death, I do know the grief of losing a mother in life. And grief, in all its forms, reshapes us.

Maybe that’s why I hold my sons so close. Why their visits feel like sunlight. Why their voices on the phone feel like home. Why this year, all I want is a quiet Mother’s Day — no crowds, no noise, just the simple holiness of family.

But tonight isn’t about me. Tonight is for you — the daughter whose mother is no longer here to call, to hug, to sit beside, to ask for advice, to laugh with, to simply exist in the same room.

There are absences that stay shaped like a person. Shaped like her laugh. Shaped like her hands. Shaped like the way she knew you without needing the full story.

If you are moving through this season with a hollow place where her voice used to be, hear me clearly:

You are not grieving wrong. You are not “too emotional.” You are not supposed to be over it by now.

Love this deep doesn’t disappear. It echoes.

Maybe that’s why today feels tender in a way you can’t quite name. Maybe you felt her in the way the light moved across the room. Maybe you reached for a recipe she taught you. Maybe a phrase slipped out of your mouth and you heard her in it. Maybe you found yourself missing her in a way that surprised you.

If so, let that be okay. Let that be holy.

Your mother is not gone from you. Not really.

She lives in the way you comfort others. She lives in the way you straighten a blanket. She lives in the way you stir a pot. She lives in the way you pause before offering advice. She lives in the way you love — fiercely, imperfectly, wholeheartedly.

If today hurts, it’s because she mattered. Because she shaped you. Because she is woven into the person you became.

So if you need to cry, cry. If you need to talk to her, talk. If you need to sit quietly and let the ache move through you, do that.

There is no wrong way to miss your mother.

And if no one has told you this yet today, let me be the one:

She would be proud of you. She would recognize herself in your tenderness. She would see her strength in your resilience. She would be grateful for the way you carry her forward.

You are her living echo.

As Mother’s Day approaches, remember this: Your mother once walked this same path. She, too, most likely had to say goodbye to her own mother. She carried her grief in the way she needed. You are allowed to do the same.

Whatever you choose to do this Mother’s Day — honor her, remember her, speak her name, sit in silence, create a new ritual, or simply breathe — may it bring you comfort. May it remind you that she lives on in you.

Evolving in grace,

Dawna‑Rae 🦋 may your heart return to itself again and again

Who would I be….

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Happy Thursday,

How is everyone doing on this amazing Thursday afternoon? I do hope today is finding you well, safe and happy. I wanted to thank you for taking time to read today’s blog and I wanted to encourage you to follow this blog so you don’t miss new content, which will be coming on a more regular basis moving forward. Please feel free to drop me a comment and if there’s a certain topic you’d like to have me talk about, leave that in the comments.

Today I wanted to talk about something that is close to my heart. You see, not long ago, I was involved heavily in a cult and in that cult, I feared God. I feared doing anything wrong, not because I have ever been afraid to die, but I feared being destroyed.

I was taught that the God I worshiped at that time was one that expected me to be perfect, or as perfect as I could be. I was taught, or made to feel like everything I did in His name wasn’t good enough. I remember one minister giving a sermon saying, “are you sure your giving your all to Jehovah?” Is your all, good enough?”

With statements like that, from an early age, I felt I had to be perfect. I lived my entire life with the mindset, everything had to be just so. I think I developed OCD from being raised feeling like everything I did, wasn’t good enough. To top that off, I was born a girl. Women in the cult were taught to be in complete submission to men and with that came the underlying belief system, we were to be quiet and not voice our opinions, and if we did voice them, then our fathers, brothers, husbands, they were the final decision maker.

When I finally left the cult at the age of 45 years young, I left believing 100% that I was going to be destroyed by God. I believed that no matter how good of a person I was or tried to be, it didn’t matter, because I wasn’t living the life of a cult member, a member of the religion in which I learned to be terrified of our God and creator.

I’ve made some stupid mistakes along the way to finding grace in God. It took my mess ups to realize, God still was there for me and he had been all along.

With this blog, I want to help people realize that we have a loving creator and if you aren’t a believer, that’s okay too, I’m not here to change your belief system. I’m only hear to share my experiences and by doing so, I hope you find comfort in your own core belief.

On my journey to finding comfort in God, I have found that I can freely talk about Him and to Him. I can thank Him and not feel like I’m being fanatical. I enjoy waking up each morning and thanking God for a new day. I thank Him for all the provisions in my life and I thank Him for showing me the way. I always ask Him to keep guiding me. I thank Him for His forgiveness when I know I’ve fallen short.

I am beyond grateful for my new found relationship with God.

This brings to mind a beautiful song sung by Lauren Daigle. “Thank God I do.”

When I was at my lowest point, the point in my life where I didn’t feel loved by anyone, I had given up on life, my life. I simply didn’t care anymore. Then, John came along and he helped me find the relationship I so desperately needed and wanted from God and from a man. John became the man who showed me love and on that path, I began to see that I was capable of being loved, not only by a man, but by God.

“I’ve seen love come and I’ve seen love walk away. So many questions, will anybody stay? It’s been a hard year, so many nights in tears. All of the darkness, trying to fight my fears, alone, so long alone.”

What I didn’t realize, when John came into my life, was, he was sent by God to love me and in that love, I learned God loved me first and h=He made sure to give me a man that could help me past my fears. God gave me someone who was patient, kind, loving and compassionate, but most of all, He gave me someone to hold me tight, so tight that I could feel his heart beat and His love.

“I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t know You. I’d probably fall off the edge. I don’t know where I’d go if You ever let go, so keep me held in Your hands.” I think God holds me in His hands. He knows me better than anyone, so He sent me John. When John sees me spinning, he reminds me of his love, but more importantly of my creators love.

“I’ve started breathing. The weight is lifted here. With You, it’s easy. My head is finally clear. There’s nothing missing. when you are by my side. I took the long road, but now I realize I’m home with You. I’m home. I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t know You.”

Though I doubt my worth from time to time, God is right there reminding me He’s there for me and when I can’t even begin to wrap my head around God actually loving me, He gives me the reminders that I so lovingly and desperately need. Who would I be if I didn’t know Him? Thank God, I do.

It is because God sent someone into my life, that I have learned not to fear Him. I’ve learned an entirely new way to talk to God. I’ve learned how to really build upon my belief in Him and though I fall short, He still loves me.

“You’re my safe place. My hideaway. You’re my anchor. My saving grace. You’re my constant. You’re my steadiness. You’re my shelter. My oxygen.”

I pray every day that I can continue to build on my relationship with Him and I pray He will open doors for me to share His word with others, but more importantly, I pray He uses me to share my experiences of overcoming religious trauma, so that others will come to see what a loving god He truly is. If it be His will.

As I conclude here today, I hope you found something positive to take away in reading this blog.

Until next time, I pray God will keep me and you held in His hands .

I do hope you are having the greatest of days and until next time, open your hearts, listen and evolve today++