I am no longer available for roles that diminish my worth. No longer accessible to the ones who only know how to take. I am not bitter — I’m healing. I’m not distant — I’m discerning. I’m not angry — I’m finally free. I’ve laid down the burden of being the strong one for everyone. I’ve picked up peace — one sacred “no” at a time. They called it attitude, but it was armour. They called it silence, but it was survival. They called it distance, but it was deliverance. I’m reclaiming my voice, refilling my cup and protecting the little girl in me that no one ever covered — but Jesus. I don’t owe access to those who trampled over my soft heart. I owe healing to the version of me who held on for dear life. I am no longer a doormat. I am an oak of righteousness, standing tall, rooted in truth, flourishing in freedom.

There’s a kind of courage not often celebrated — the kind it takes to stand up to patterns so familiar they almost feel like family. The ones that whisper, “This is just how we are,” even when they’re slowly suffocating us. Some of the chains we carry didn’t begin with us. They were forged in generations past — in households where silence was survival, where anger simmered just beneath the surface, where avoidance masked wounds too deep for words. For years, I mistook those patterns for protection. They were all I knew. Familiar. Predictable. "Safe." But familiarity is not the same as freedom. Healing required me to name what hurt, not just in my own heart, but in the lineage I came from. To call out the hatred that paraded as strength. The silence that masqueraded as peace. The avoidance that posed as harmony. None of it was holy. None of it was love. Breaking patterns isn’t just about change — it’s about deliverance. It’s about refusing to let old strongholds define the future of our families. It’s about letting the Holy Spirit shine light into generational shadows and rewrite the story through grace, truth, and fierce love. 📖 “For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds.” — 2 Corinthians 10:4 (NKJV) So today, if you’re the one who’s rising up — the pattern-breaker, the cycle-stopper, the chain-snapper — I honour your courage. Your “yes” to healing is not just for you. It’s for every child who follows. It’s for every unspoken cry in your bloodline. It’s for the legacy that begins with you. Let the chains fall. Let the healing flow. Let the patterns be broken — once and for all. You are not alone in this holy work. You are seen. You are held. And with every brave step you take, heaven rejoices. 💔💖 🎨Creative Prompt: Draw or paint a broken chain with words written across each link — words that represent patterns you are releasing (e.g., silence, fear, perfectionism, shame). Then paint a golden path or rising dove beside it, symbolising the freedom and legacy you’re creating. 🙌Prayer: Heavenly Father, thank You for the healing that flows from Your heart — the kind that doesn’t just touch one life, but ripples through generations. Today, I bring my family before You. Every hidden wound. Every repeated pattern. Every unspoken sorrow. You see it all, and You care deeply. In the mighty Name of Jesus, I declare freedom over my bloodline. Where there has been shame, let there be honour. Where there has been fear, let there be bold faith. Where abandonment left its scar, let Your love restore belonging. Where silence buried truth, let Your Word bring light and healing. Break every chain that has held us captive, Lord — those known and unknown, spoken and unspoken. I ask for the courage to walk a different path. For grace to forgive. For wisdom to speak truth in love and for the Holy Spirit to guide every step as we rebuild on the solid Rock of Christ. Let my "yes" to healing be a door that opens blessings for generations to come. May we be a family marked not by the pain of the past, but by the redemptive power of Your love. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

There’s a kind of ache only a mother knows — the ache of hindsight. Of looking back and realising that while your arms held them tight, your heart was locked behind walls even you couldn’t name at the time. I see it now…How depression dulled my joy, how perfectionism became the mask I wore to feel worthy, and how, in all my trying to be enough, I became emotionally unavailable when they needed me most.

Some words pierce like thorns, not because they’re untrue, but because they brush up against a part of us still learning to stand tall. Today’s reflection stirs that tender place in me — the place that once confused love with overgiving, and peace with silence. It’s a strange ache when someone pulls back not because you’ve wronged them, but because you’ve grown. Growth — real, God-led transformation — often reveals the unspoken contracts we never meant to sign: “I will stay small if it keeps you comfortable.” “I will overextend so you don’t feel the lack in your own soul.” “I will dim my light so you don’t feel the need to hide your own.”

Not all families feel like safe places. For some, the wounds run deep and the pain is stitched into silence. If you grew up in a home where love felt conditional, emotions were suppressed, and truth was unwelcome, you are not alone. These unspoken rules often form the backdrop of toxic family systems. But by naming them, we begin to break their power. And by inviting Jesus into our story, we allow truth, healing, and freedom to take root.

There’s something quietly beautiful about being at peace with your own limitations — like standing barefoot in the soft soil of who you truly are, without needing to bloom in every garden. This week at Elijah House A-School, I’ve made a fair share of clumsy mistakes while serving on the sound desk. Wrong buttons. Missed cues. A tangle of wires and sighs. And then yesterday, Sandee gently told me, “This is not your gifting.” I'm not sure if it was a comment or a question. A few years ago, that would have pierced my heart and her "we love you" that followed would have missed my heart. I might’ve internalised it as failure, as unworthiness, as shame but without missing a beat, I heard myself reply with calm clarity, “No, it’s a skill — something I’m capable of, but not something I’m called to excel at.”

I had a friend over for a catch-up this afternoon and found our conversation deeply disappointing and maybe even disgusting. what she shared left me grieved to the core. She works in a church office — a place that should be sacred, safe, and Spirit-filled, a place meant to reflect Christ’s love and yet her account was filled with sorrow, which was heartbreaking. She described a culture of bullying, disrespect, dishonour, manipulation and control. These were not accusations levelled at the world but at church leaders. Trusted leaders, instead of nurturing, were using their authority to bully, intimidate and silence. They were wielding their authority like a weapon and have created a culture of fear.

If they’re comfortable tearing others down in front of you, they’ll have no problem doing the same to you when you’re not around. Gossip isn’t harmless — it’s betrayal dressed up as conversation, a counterfeit connection rooted in division, not love. When gossip shows up, Scripture calls us to recognise it for what it is. 📖 "Whoever goes about slandering reveals secrets; therefore, do not associate with a simple babbler." — Proverbs 20:19 (ESV)

I used to wonder why touch felt unfamiliar — why affection stirred a strange discomfort inside me, like something I both longed for and feared. I didn’t grow up in a home full of hugs or gentle words. Warmth, in many ways, felt foreign. For decades, I thought it was just me — that something in me was broken or too needy. But recently, I stumbled across research that changed everything. It spoke of a time, not so long ago, when mothers in Germany were taught not to hold their babies. Cuddling was discouraged. Smiling too much was considered spoiling. And grief washed over me like a tide I didn’t see coming.

A daughter never stops needing her father — not when she’s grown, not when she’s strong, not even when she says she’s fine. Be her safe place. Her steady ground. Her quiet reminder that she is, and always has been, deeply loved because how you show up now — still matters just as much as how you showed up then. 💛 For some of us, this truth touches a tender place — a quiet ache where love was absent, or presence was too painful to hold. Some wounds are carved not by what happened, but by what never did. And the hardest grief to carry is often for those still living — yet distant, disconnected, emotionally unavailable. If that’s you, you’re not alone. Your heart is not too much. Your longing is not too late and healing is still possible — not because they change, but because you choose to live whole and loved, even when they couldn’t show you how.

I’m sitting here tonight, heart full and quiet, letting it all sink in. For so long I’ve been sowing in hope — seed by seed, prayer by prayer. I launched the Healing Trauma Encounter Groups in February 2023 with trembling faith. I wasn’t sure who would come, or what God would do. But I knew He had asked me to make space for healing. For honesty. For transformation. At times, it’s felt like sowing seeds into soil I couldn’t see. Tender work. It felt small at times. Invisible even. Like digging trenches in dry ground, believing rain would come. And now, I’m beginning to see the first fruits. I can feel it. Not in a loud, triumphant way, but like the whisper of butterfly wings. Gentle. Sure. Holy. One has done A-School. Another, all the way from A to C, now heading for D. But next month — five of our group are stepping into A-School, and two of us will be serving and interceding as they go. That thought makes me teary. God is building something, slowly and beautifully, right in our midst. It’s not just about training. It’s about hearts. It’s about legacy. It’s about people becoming who they really are — healed, whole, and ready to bring healing to others. It’s more than numbers. It’s answered prayers. It’s transformation. It’s vision beginning to take flight. I’m cautiously excited and deeply grateful. I feel like I’m watching the first butterflies emerge from the cocoon and it’s sacred. I’m praying for miracles — deep healing, divine encounters, and a sense of calling awakened in each one. And I can’t help but believe that these beautiful souls are part of the crew God is raising up to help bring this bigger vision to life. Lord, thank You. Thank You for trusting me with this. For being patient when I wasn’t sure if anything was happening. For these precious lives. For the vision You’ve planted. I still don’t know how it will all unfold… but I trust You. Let this next season be full of miracles — the kind that mark lives forever. God is faithful. Always. 📖"Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us" Ephesians 3:20 Please continue keep us in your prayers as we prepare for this next chapter. May the healing that’s begun continue to ripple far beyond anything we could ask or imagine (Ephesians 3:20).

The blame. The silence. The brokenness passed down like heirlooms — They were never your burden to fix. You are not the glue for what others refused to hold together. You didn’t cause the wounds they neglected. You didn’t choose the chaos that shaped your childhood. And yet, somehow, you became the one holding it all.

This morning after church, a kind woman smiled and said she saw me as a painter, a singer, a flag dancer, and so much more. Her words lingered as sacred affirmation — like Holy Spirit gently holding up a mirror to remind me of who I truly am. For years, I carried a label that quietly limited me — “Jack of all trades, master of none.” It echoed in my mind whenever I tried something new, as though having many creative expressions meant I lacked focus or mastery. Yet the Lord has been teaching me a different truth. I am not scattered; I am woven. Each thread of artistry — painting, writing, singing, dancing — carries its own story, its own ministry. Together, they form a tapestry of beauty and purpose. I am not called to confine myself to one expression but to steward them all with grace. At yesterday’s community paint party, one woman shared that she too once called herself a “Jill of all trades” until she realised she was created and called by name — fearfully, wonderfully, and intentionally made. Her revelation echoed my own. Names carry meaning and mission. Mine, Patrizia, means “of noble birth.” Trixi means “bringer of joy.” Together, they declare identity and calling — a daughter of the King, commissioned to carry joy into the world. So today, I release the old label and embrace the truth of who I am: Trixi of all trades, master of diversity, bringer of joy. This is not a contradiction but a confirmation — a reflection of the God who creates endlessly, each work unique yet unmistakably His. Creativity, after all, is part of His image in me. 📖 “Having then gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us, let us use them.” — Romans 12:6 (NKJV) I was born to colour outside the lines of expectation, to sing and paint and write and dance in ways that carry healing and hope. Every expression is worship. Every act of creativity is a thread in the grand design of divine purpose. 💡Reflection: What labels or old names have you carried that no longer fit who God says you are?🤔 How might your “many trades” actually reveal the richness of your calling?🤔 In what ways can you use your creativity to bring joy and healing to others this week?🤔

Sometimes the heaviest burdens are the ones nobody sees. They don’t show up in casts or crutches or tidy explanations. They hide behind calm smiles, polite answers, and the phrase we’ve all used at some point — “I’m fine.” But F.I.N.E. doesn’t always mean we’re okay. Sometimes it means Feelings Inside Not Expressed or Freaked Out, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional.

There are moments — quiet, aching moments — when it feels like your life has lost its thread. Like someone pressed pause on your purpose and scattered the pieces of who you thought you'd be. You look around and wonder, How did I get here?🤔 The path that once felt sure now feels unfamiliar, like walking through fog barefoot, unsure of what you’ll step on next. But beloved, that is not the end of your story. It's the middle. The sacred, messy middle where God is doing His hidden work.

She was a giver — the kind of soul who poured oceans of love into others without hesitation. Her heart had no borders, no fences, no caution signs. She gave and gave, believing that kindness could soften even the hardest ground.

You had to be the calm one. The responsible one. The one who held it all together while no one asked how you were doing. You didn’t grow up — you adapted. You learned to read the room before you learned to read. You learned to apologise for your existence before you learned to ask for what you needed.

This morning, after reading my Bible and spending time in prayer, I drifted off into a vivid dream that has lingered with me all day. In it, Clive and I were sitting in our lounge with visitors when I noticed a box standing there. I picked it up to throw it out, but underneath was a huge bug. As I carried the box to the door, I heard a strange buzzing like a windstorm inside. I searched for Doom to spray, but the cupboard where I usually kept it was empty — nothing familiar was there. When I reached the kitchen door and opened it, I found that our house was floating in the sky. I had to grip the security gate tightly so I wouldn’t be swept away. I threw the box outside and returned to the lounge, relieved — only for it to reappear later, crawling with even more bugs. I heard myself say, “I thought I’d thrown it out,” and then I woke up, distraught, with a headache and itchy eyes and face that had been fine the night before. I don’t usually remember my dreams, but this one felt like a message. Could it be reflecting my inner turmoil — the places where I feel stuck, especially in learning the language of the heart and conducting heart interviews with myself?🤔 Even Clive has been asking what’s wrong because apparently it shows on my face. I don’t have answers, only a sense of wrestling. Since “trigger season” began last November, there’s been a regular cycle of wanting to lie down and fade away. It disappears for a while but then reappears, just like that box of bugs. It’s also the second time this year I’ve reacted to something so severely that my face and eyes have been itchy for over a week. I’ve wondered if these food intolerances might be spiritually rooted. Even my worship flag dance sessions on Monday and Thursday mornings — normally a time of freedom — have felt like a struggle this month. Part of me is even ashamed to admit I’ve wondered if this could be a slumbering spirit, spiritual captivity, or even demonic. To be running the Healing Trauma series while fighting my own battles feels hypocritical. “What if I mess this up?🤔” is a question that pops up more often than I’d like to admit. A Gentle Interpretation This dream feels like an invitation, not an accusation. The box of bugs might represent issues, fears, or lies we think we’ve dealt with but which resurface when stress, triggers, or transition seasons open old doors. The floating house suggests instability—the feeling of being ungrounded while you’re trying to step into your purpose. The missing Doom could symbolise the absence of your usual coping mechanisms. Yet even in the dream, you acted: you picked up the box, carried it out, and threw it away. That shows courage and perseverance, even when familiar tools seem missing. 📖 “Cast all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.” — 1 Peter 5:7 (NKJV) You’re not a hypocrite for struggling while helping others heal. You’re a human being in process. Healing is not a straight line but a cycle where layers are peeled away. In your dream, the bugs increased, but so did your awareness. That’s not defeat—that’s revelation. God brings things into the light not to shame us but to set us free. Reflection: What “bugs” have I thought I dealt with, but which seem to reappear in new seasons?🤔 Where might God be asking me to replace familiar “sprays” (coping mechanisms) with His power and presence?🤔 How can I show myself grace as I lead others while still healing myself?🤔 Prayer: Lord Jesus, thank You for showing me what still lingers in the hidden corners of my heart. Help me not to fear the bugs but to hand the box to You completely. Ground me in Your truth so that even when the winds of change blow, I hold fast to Your Word. Strengthen me to walk in freedom and to minister from a place of authenticity and grace. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

The art of my life looks like brushstrokes painted in gentle rhythms, a canvas ever-evolving, colourful yet softened by the whispers of grace. It resembles a tapestry woven with threads of joy, sorrow, struggle, and redemption, all blending into patterns I couldn’t have imagined or planned myself.

The lines between productivity and purpose can blur so easily — especially in seasons where doing feels safer than being. Let’s sit with this for a moment. Productivity whispers: “Keep going — your worth is in what you can achieve.”It counts the checkboxes, the hours, and the output. It often wears the mask of importance, convincing us that our significance is tied to our busyness. And while there is dignity in hard work, productivity alone can become a false altar when it disconnects us from presence, people, and the quiet voice of God.