There’s a photograph saved on my phone that I come back to often. It’s a sepia-colored snapshot of a woman leaning out the window of an old car, hair wild from the wind, sunlight catching the edges of her defiance. One arm is raised high above her head, fingers curled in that unmistakable shape of rebellion and self-ownership—part victory, part boundary, part declaration of this is who I am now. II had used it as a post on my Facebook page months back. Every time I look at it, I feel something inside me nod in recognition. It’s the energy of a woman who once opened her heart freely, without hesitation, and learned—sometimes softly, sometimes painfully—that openness and access are two very different things.

The quote across the image reads:

“The door to my heart will always be open. But I’ve renovated the front porch, and you’ll have to step up to reach it these days.”

As if the words themselves were a quiet anthem for every woman who has ever outgrown her old patterns. It’s a reminder that kindness does not have to come at the expense of self-respect, that love can remain warm while access becomes intentional. And it speaks to a deeper truth we learn somewhere between heartbreak and healing: it’s not that we stop loving, it’s that we stop lowering ourselves to be loved.

There was a time when I made my heart easy to reach. I left the porch light on for everyone. I kept the steps low, the door unlocked, the welcome mat worn from the comings and goings of people who only stopped by when it was convenient for them. I thought that openness meant goodness. I thought accessibility was the same as compassion. And I thought that saying “yes” meant I was being loyal. But seasons have a way of exposing what we can no longer carry. Life has a way of showing us where our greatest leaks are. And eventually, I realized that I had built a home around my heart that anyone could walk into—but few cared enough to stay.

Renovation, in any form, begins with honesty. Something inside whispers, You deserve better boundaries than this. So you pick up the broken boards, clear out the old debris, reinforce the weak spots, and rebuild. And when you rebuild, you don’t build it the same way. You’ve earned the right to elevate the steps. You’ve earned the right to choose who climbs them. You’ve earned the right to keep your heart warm without keeping your soul exposed.

Today, my heart is still open—wide, radiant, full of compassion and hope.

That part of me hasn’t changed. I still believe in people. I still believe in connection. I still believe in the kind of love that chooses you every single day. But I no longer hand that softness to anyone unwilling to rise to meet it. The porch is higher now. The steps require intention. You can’t stumble in by accident or convenience. You have to want to show up. You have to try. And effort, I’ve learned, is a beautiful filter.

This renovation is not about bitterness. It’s about worth. It’s about recognizing the sacredness of your own energy. It’s about allowing your boundaries to become the architecture of your healing. And it’s about honoring the version of you who once gave too much too easily—not by shaming her, but by promising her you’ll do better now. Because she was never the problem; the problem was believing she had to shrink to be loved.

So here I am—heart open, porch lifted, peace intact. I no longer apologize for asking others to meet me where I am. I no longer dilute myself so that people with lower standards feel comfortable. And I no longer fear that raising the steps will keep the wrong people away. In fact, that’s the point.

Let it keep the wrong ones away.
Let it attract the right ones in.
Let it teach you that elevation is a form of protection.

If you’re reading this while standing somewhere between who you were and who you’re becoming, let this be your sign: it’s okay to renovate your heart’s entryway. It’s okay to raise the standard. It’s okay to require effort.

You are not “harder to reach”—you are simply no longer willing to be reached by those who do not know how to honor you.

And that, my friend, is the most powerful shift of all.
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I pray. All the time. Not because I have all the answers, but because I don’t. Prayer, to me, is less about religion and more about relationship—a conversation with the unseen, with the divine whisper that guides and holds me when I can’t seem to hold myself. It doesn’t much matter which name you give that presence—God, Universe, Source, Spirit.

What matters is that you speak, and more importantly, that you listen.
Because prayer isn’t just about asking—it’s about remembering that you are heard.

There are days when my prayers are calm and graceful. When I bow my head, light a candle, and whisper soft requests for protection—for my loved ones, for myself. I pray for ease, for peace, for the strength to meet the day with grace.

Sometimes, I pray for love—the kind that stays, that roots deeply, that grows with me. Other times, I find myself praying for something simple, like a solution to a problem that probably doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. But still, I pray.

Because prayer keeps me connected—to hope, to humility, to the heartbeat of something greater.

Then there are the other times. The harder ones. The ones when words feel too small for the ache in my chest. When I can’t find my footing, can’t hear the lesson, can’t make sense of the chaos that life throws my way. In those moments, my prayers sound less like peace and more like surrender. They sound like, “What do you want from me?” Sometimes they are whispered, sometimes they are cried out into the silence, and sometimes they are screamed into the universe because silence feels unbearable. And that’s okay. We are human, and sometimes our prayers sound more like breaking than believing.

That question--What do you want from me?—isn’t one of frustration as much as it is of faith. It’s a prayer of awareness, an acknowledgment that while I may be a co-creator in this life, I am not the sole architect. It’s a reminder that my existence carries purpose, even when I can’t see the blueprint. Those words are not rebellion; they are reverence. They are the moment I stop trying to control and start trying to understand.

When I reach that point, when the only prayer left in me is “Show me,” something shifts. Because that is not a prayer for comfort—it’s a prayer for clarity. It’s not a plea to make the storm stop; it’s a request for the courage to walk through it. Those prayers are humbling. They are raw and unfiltered and real. They often happen on bathroom floors, in dark nights of the soul, when every illusion of control has crumbled. “God, what do you want from me?” “Lead me.” “Show me.” Not fix this. Not make it easy. But use me.

And while I don’t always get an answer I can name, I’ve learned that those prayers don’t go unheard. The universe, in its quiet way, often answers not with thunder, but with a whisper—a small, holy nudge that reminds me to keep going. Sometimes it’s a song that finds me at the right moment. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s a moment of silence that suddenly feels peaceful instead of empty.
I don’t know that I’ve ever received the full “mission command” I’ve asked for. I’m still learning to trust the language of divine timing, to see meaning in moments that don’t make sense yet. But I do know this: when the world crashes around me and I crash to my knees, there always comes a moment afterward—a quiet reprieve—when I can breathe again. And in that breath, I feel gratitude rise from somewhere deep within me. “Thank you for this,” I whisper. Not because I understand it, but because I’m not alone in it.

That “thank you” is its own kind of prayer. It’s the moment I realize that I was never meant to have it all figured out. The path rarely appears all at once—it comes one illuminated step at a time. And sometimes, that’s enough. One step, one breath, one act of faith.
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Because the truth is, there are no prayers that are not holy. Not the polished ones. Not the poetic ones. And certainly not the desperate, trembling ones that spill out between tears. Especially not the ones that begin with surrender.
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Reflection Prompt:

Take a quiet moment today—just you and your breath.

Close your eyes and think of a time when your prayers felt more like cries for help than words of faith. Instead of judging that moment, honor it.

​Write down what you were truly asking for beneath the words. Was it direction? Relief? Understanding? Then ask yourself gently, How might that experience have been the universe’s way of leading me closer to my purpose?

Remember, even the prayers that sound like surrender are sacred. Sometimes “What do you want from me?” is the beginning of being shown who you truly are.