Girls with Grafts Deeper Dive

First, I want to say thank you to the Phoenix Society for Burn Survivors for giving me the space to share my story, my heart, and the love that has carried me through. This has been a dream of mine—to speak on the podcast and share more of my story—so truly, thank you.

And if you found your way here from the “Girls with Grafts” podcast—welcome. Truly. I don’t believe in accidents when it comes to connection. If something in that conversation resonated with you, stirred something in you, or maybe even hurt a little… I’m really glad you’re here. I’m excited to walk this journey with you and to dive deeper together. Whether you are a burn survivor, a caregiver, new to this journey, a seasoned one, or somewhere in between—I am honored to have you here.

This space isn’t just a blog. It’s a place to be seen, to wrestle, to heal, and to grow. So stay a while—read, reach out, subscribe, share. This exists because of community, and there is room for you in it.

Why a Deep Dive?

When I listened back to my interview, I didn’t just hear my story—I felt it again. The vulnerability, the strength, the moments where my voice carried more than my words ever could. And I also noticed the places I moved past too quickly. Not because they didn’t matter, but because there wasn’t time to sit in them.

That’s the tension of a podcast—it captures truth, but not always the depth of it.

There were pauses I wish I had lingered in. Pieces of my story that deserved more than a sentence. Emotions that needed space to breathe instead of being wrapped up neatly.

So this is that space.

Not polished. Not rushed. Just honest.

This is the deeper dive.

My Story and Journey

If you’ve been here before, you know I’ve shared pieces of my story—the layers, the memories, the milestones that mark where I’ve been. But what I’m learning is that healing isn’t a one-time telling. It doesn’t wrap itself up just because you’ve said it out loud once.

It unfolds.

There are still moments I’m learning how to name. Memories that shift as I see them through a different lens. Questions I still bring before God, not because I doubt Him—but because I trust Him enough to sit in the unknown with me.

Survival wasn’t the end of my story. In many ways, it was just the beginning.

The beginning of becoming.

And that becoming hasn’t been neat or predictable. It’s been layered with beauty and grief, strength and surrender, clarity and confusion—all existing at the same time. I think that’s something we don’t talk about enough: you can be healing and hurting in the same breath.

If you want to explore more of that, the Survivor Journey section holds parts of that unfolding. But just know—I’m still writing it. Every day, in real time. And if there’s something you’re wondering about, something you’re wrestling with, I would genuinely love to hear it. Because chances are, you’re not the only one asking.

Emotional, Physical, and Soulful Healing

Healing gets talked about like it’s a finish line—like one day you’ll arrive and everything will finally feel whole again. But my experience hasn’t looked like that.

It’s looked like layers.

Physical healing came first in many ways, but it didn’t come quietly. It came with scars—visible, permanent reminders of what my body endured. And even now, it’s still ongoing. I’m preparing for another surgery in July, which means stepping back into a season where my body sets the pace again. As an adult, that’s not easy. There are responsibilities, expectations, things I want to keep up with—but healing asks me to slow down whether I want to or not.

And maybe you’re there too, learning how to care for your body in ways you never expected. If you are, let this be your reminder: it’s okay to give your body what it needs. Rest is not weakness. Slowing down is not failure. It’s part of the process.

Emotional healing, though… that’s where things got unpredictable.

It came in waves I didn’t know how to ride at first. One day I felt steady, the next I felt like everything was unraveling. There were moments of anger, grief, confusion—sometimes all in the same hour. And for a long time, I thought something was wrong with me because I wasn’t “getting over it.”

But healing doesn’t work like that.

I remember being asked if I always knew I needed help or if there was a specific turning point. The truth is, I knew. I knew I was struggling. I knew I was carrying more than I could handle. But I was afraid—afraid of being a burden, afraid of adding to the weight I thought others were already carrying because of me.

So I stayed silent.

And in that silence, things grew heavier. The PTSD, the fear of fire and smoke, the sleepless nights, the panic attacks, the flashbacks—it all compounded. Healing didn’t begin until I let someone step into that space with me.

You don’t have to carry it alone.

And choosing healing doesn’t mean what happened to you was okay. It doesn’t mean you forget. It means you’re choosing not to stay stuck in it. You’re choosing to move forward, even if it’s slow, even if it’s messy.

And then there’s the soul.

The deepest places.

The places where words don’t always reach.

Soul healing is different. It doesn’t just touch one area—it touches everything. It can feel dark, like you’re buried under the weight of it all. But I’ve come to realize that some of the most important growth happens there.

Seeds don’t grow in the light first. They grow in the dark.

So if you’re in that space, don’t rush out of it. There is something being formed in you, even if you can’t see it yet.

God didn’t wait for me to be “put together” before meeting me. He met me right in the middle of the mess—in the questions, in the exhaustion, in the moments I didn’t even recognize myself anymore. I’ve had nights where I wondered if I would ever feel normal again, days where I hid myself completely, and others where I stepped out with a confidence I didn’t fully understand.

That’s the reality of healing—it moves.

It shifts.

And somehow, through all of it, God remains steady.

He didn’t rush me. He didn’t force growth. He stayed.

And that changed everything.

Burn Camps and Advocacy

Burn camps were one of the first places I experienced what it felt like to truly belong again. Not because everything was the same—but because nothing had to be explained. There’s something powerful about being surrounded by people who just get it.

No stares. No awkward questions. No need to hide parts of yourself to make others comfortable.

Just understanding.

Those spaces did more than give me community—they gave me confidence. They helped me find my voice, and eventually, they led me into advocacy. Not in a loud, performative way, but in a steady, intentional one.

Because stories matter.

They carry weight. They open doors. They remind people that survival is possible—and that life after survival can still be meaningful and full.

Advocacy doesn’t always look like a stage. Sometimes it looks like a conversation. Sometimes it looks like honesty. Sometimes it’s simply choosing not to shrink back anymore.

And if you have the opportunity to be part of a burn camp—whether as a camper or a volunteer—I can tell you firsthand, it changes you.

Finding Your People

If there’s one thing I could sit across from you and say, it would be this: you are not meant to do this alone.

Even if it feels easier to isolate. Even if it feels safer to keep parts of your story to yourself.

We were created for connection.

Finding your people might take time. It might feel uncomfortable at first. It might require you to be seen in ways that feel vulnerable. But the right people won’t turn away from your story—they’ll lean in.

They’ll sit with you in the silence. They’ll celebrate the small victories that no one else notices. They’ll remind you who you are when you forget.

And that kind of community? It changes everything.

Ministry

For me, ministry didn’t start with a title or a platform. It started quietly.

In conversations that weren’t planned. In moments where someone felt safe enough to share their story because I had shared mine first. In the realization that what I had been through wasn’t just something to survive—it was something God could use.

I didn’t choose this story.

But I am choosing what I do with it.

And if God can take something so painful and use it to bring hope, connection, or even just a sense of “you’re not alone” to someone else… then it matters. That’s what ministry has become for me—not a position, but a posture.

A willingness to be used, right where I am.

Life Motto

There’s a truth I come back to often: healing isn’t about going back to who you were—it’s about becoming who you were created to be.

My life motto has grown out of that: if my pain can help one person, then it was worth it.

Not because the pain itself was good. Not because I would choose it again. But because I’ve seen what God can do with it.

I’ve seen how He takes what felt meaningless and weaves purpose into it. How He brings beauty out of something that once felt only broken.

And now, I can look at who I am today—stronger, more compassionate, more aware of His presence—and know that even in the hardest moments, something was being formed.

I’m just honored to carry that story forward.

Final Thoughts

If you listened to the podcast, you heard part of my story. If you haven’t, here is the link:

https://open.spotify.com/episode/3cbJ24qYGp1vDlXyJilVQA?si=05f9dfb2899e4152

But this—this is the heart behind it.

And if you are in a place where you feel broken, unseen, or stuck in your healing, I want you to hold onto this:

There is still more ahead of you.

More healing. More growth. More purpose. More life.

Your story isn’t over.

And if you need someone to remind you of that—

I’m here.