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Some answers can't be found until the question changes. Faithfulness is usually celebrated. We're encouraged to be faithful to our commitments. Faithful to our relationships. Faithful to our responsibilities. Faithful to our word. And rightly so. But lately, I've been asking myself a different question. What if it's possible to be faithful... to the wrong thing? Not because it's evil. Not because it's sinful. Simply because somewhere along the way, what once served a purpose

Several weeks ago, I published a podcast episode titled Who Are You? on The Lift with Yannah Up High. At the time, I intended for it to be a question for you. As it turns out, it became a question for me as well. There is something interesting about creating. Whether it's writing, speaking, recording a podcast, or simply spending time in quiet reflection, the creative process has a way of revealing the person behind the work. Over the last several months, I have discovered th

Ordinary moments can have extraordinary influence. It's easy to think of teaching as something intentional. Something we prepare for. Something we do when we have something worth saying. But some of life's most important lessons are never taught intentionally at all. They're observed. We learn what love looks like by watching it. We learn how to handle disappointment by watching it. We learn whether rest is acceptable, whether honesty matters, whether kindness is weakness or

The ticket was never the point. I joked recently that all I needed to do was win the lottery. It was funny. At least, that's what I thought. Then I paused and asked myself a different question. What am I really hoping to gain? The answer surprised me. It wasn't money. Not really. Money was simply the vehicle. What I was actually hoping for was freedom. Freedom from carrying everything alone. Freedom to build the life I imagine. Freedom to create without constant financial pre

The greatest welcome is the one that lets you be yourself. I recently had the opportunity to spend quality time with some of my cousins. We laughed. We talked. We shared stories. Nothing extraordinary happened. At least not on the surface. But as I reflected on that time together, I realized something I hadn't expected. I had missed this. Not the conversation. Not the occasion. The sense of belonging. Just days prior, I had a discussion about the direction of UP-LIFT. Somewhe

I gave someone a gift once. There could have been plenty of reasons to explain it. But none of those reasons were the one in my heart. Actually, if I'm being honest, it felt like something I was led to do. So I did. They opened it with a smile, looked at me, and said, "Awww... thank you! What's this for?" I smiled. Or at least I think I did. On the outside, I shrugged my shoulders as though I didn't really know. But on the inside... My mind was racing. Why did there have to b

The clock measures time. The words measure something far greater. A clock is an interesting gift. It measures something we can never hold. Something we spend, waste, cherish, and sometimes wish we could get back. Time. A measure of nothing and everything all at once. Years ago, my mother gave me a clock for my birthday. At first glance, it wasn't remarkable. It wasn't expensive. It wasn't something that would stop people in their tracks. But written across the front were word

What if there's more to this feeling than you realize? Pain has a way of getting our attention. When something hurts, our instinct is often to do one of two things: push through it or walk away from it. We tell ourselves to be stronger. Or we tell ourselves it's time to quit. But lately, I've been wondering if those are the only options. What if the pain isn't telling you to stop? What if it's trying to tell you something else? We often treat pain like an enemy. Something to

The unseen work matters too. There is a difference between hiding and tending. At first glance, they can look the same. Both happen out of sight. Both happen in quiet. Both involve keeping something close. But their purpose is completely different. When we hide something, we keep it from being seen. When we tend to something, we help it grow. I've learned that not every dream needs to be announced the moment it is conceived. Not every lesson needs to be shared while it is sti

Sometimes we sense what's waiting for us long before we understand why. My intuition often shows up before my conscious mind has assembled all the data. For a long time, I didn't fully trust that. I thought every decision needed more research, more evidence, more certainty. If I couldn't explain exactly why I felt a certain way, I assumed I needed to keep gathering information. Over time, however, I've noticed a pattern. Sometimes I know something before I can explain it. Som

Some journeys never end. Today - as usual, I've found myself thinking about my dad. Not just about missing him, although I do. Every day. I've been thinking about what he left behind. When people talk about legacy, they often think about money, property, or family heirlooms. Those things have their place, but I've learned that some of the most valuable things a person leaves behind can't be held in your hands. My father was a mortician. It wasn't just his profession; it was p

Sometimes the hardest part of growth is acknowledging what it cost. I used to think grief belonged to funerals and death. As the daughter of a mortician, grief was something I associated with loss in its most visible form. It was something families experienced when a loved one was gone. I didn't realize grief could show up in growth. No one told me that becoming someone new would require saying goodbye to parts of my old life. No one told me that growth could feel like loss.

What nobody tells you about personal growth is that it changes your relationship with obligation.

Sometimes starting over isn't about beginning from nothing. It's about carrying forward the wisdom, resilience, and lessons you've gained along the way and using them to build something new.

For a long time, survival became my normal. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way people often imagine survival. More quietly than that. Survival looked like continuing to show up even while emotionally exhausted. It looked like carrying responsibilities while silently carrying disappointment too. It looked like functioning well enough that most people would never realize how much I was holding internally. Because that’s the thing about survival mode: sometimes it becomes so fam

You don't have to see the whole path to take the first step. For a long time, I kept waiting for the “right” moment. The right timing. The right confidence. The right clarity. The right plan. I told myself I would start once everything felt more certain. But lately, life has been teaching me something uncomfortable: Sometimes clarity comes after movement, not before it. This website almost didn’t happen. Not because I lacked ideas. Not because I lacked vision. But because fea