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.

Returning to beauty — especially after seasons of pain, disappointment, or numbness — can feel like standing barefoot at the edge of a familiar sea you once loved but now hesitate to wade into. There’s memory there. There’s an ache and there’s a quiet yearning too. Here’s the truth I’ve come to know gently, slowly, and with much stumbling: Beauty doesn’t demand perfection or readiness — only presence.

Let’s settle in, dear heart, as though we’re resting under the shade of an old fig tree, our hands wrapped around warm mugs, the air humming softly with grace. I want to tell you a little story — one that might echo the chambers of your own weary soul when the colours dull and the words refuse to come. Some years ago, I sat at my worktable surrounded by half-finished paintings, dry paint pots, and a heart so hollow it rattled. I remember touching the bristles of my favourite brush, willing it to stir something — anything. But all I felt was fatigue. Not just physical, but soul-deep. I thought, “Have I lost it? That spark, that sacred whisper?”

Your child doesn’t owe you perfection. Not straight A’s. Not a spotless attitude. Not sleeping through the night. Not an empty plate. Not excitement for every plan you make. Not obedience without question. They don’t owe you those things just because you’re their parent. They’re still learning. Still feeling. Still becoming. Just like you. They don’t exist to meet your expectations. They exist to become who they’re meant to be.

It was just a Scripture verse on our church board — a familiar one, perhaps even overlooked at times. But this time, it stirred something raw, something holy. It pressed on emotions I couldn’t name, as if the Spirit were groaning with me, reminding me that this ache is sacred (Romans 8:26). The world right now is loud with empathy. We see it in campaigns, in shared stories, in leadership  training, in visible tears. Empathy acknowledges pain. It listens. It validates. But it often stops just short of the threshold where transformation begins.

Today, my body feels like a battlefield. For the second time this year, my eyes are crying out against me — itching so fiercely that I almost want to scratch them from their sockets. The redness on my face tells the story of a fight I didn’t choose, and yet here I am, living through it again. Four days in… and I remember last time lasted a whole week. In my desperation, I turned to the simplest thing I could find — organic coconut oil. Twice I’ve rubbed it gently across my sore, burning skin, and though the redness lingers, the pain has softened. It reminds me that sometimes God doesn’t take away the storm right away, but He offers a little mercy in the middle of it. 📖 "He gives power to the weak, and to those who have no might He increases strength." — Isaiah 40:29 (NKJV) This itching feels relentless, yet I sense the Holy Spirit whispering that healing is not only about the absence of symptoms, but also about His presence that sustains me in the waiting. I can rest in knowing my body is not abandoned, even when it rebels. I will hold onto hope that this flare will not last forever. My body may ache, but my heart is held. 🙌🏻Prayer: Lord, You see me when I am weary of my own skin. You know how hard it is to wait for healing when each moment feels raw. I ask for Your soothing touch over my body, especially my eyes, and for patience in the process. Thank You for the little mercies that remind me You are near — even in coconut oil on an inflamed face. Help me to remember that my worth and joy do not rest on how I feel, but on who You are. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Not every invitation means you’re truly wanted there. Being included doesn’t always mean you’re accepted. Sometimes you’re invited to keep up appearances — not because your presence is genuinely desired. You can feel it in the way you’re looked at, in how you’re treated like an afterthought rather than a valued guest. It’s rarely loud or obvious, yet your heart knows.

The celebrations have ended, and now that the world is dark and quiet with everyone asleep, I'm feeling it again, the tears from this morning welling back up and weighing on my chest. 😪 My heart is speaking so loudly in the stillness. When the world quiets down, the soul finally has space to feel — and that’s when the tears return, soft and fierce all at once. This isn’t just about the wedding. It’s everything it stirred up. I’ve witnessed something sacred — the kind of moment that gently brushes against all the years behind it: The letting go. The holding on.

And now… it’s all over. You’re married. My heart is full — overflowing, really — with gratitude, wonder, and love. What a joy-filled, sacred, stunning day it was. A day woven with laughter, promises, and the tangible presence of God. The kind of day that lingers in memory like the scent of a garden after the rain — soft, holy, and deeply alive. Ice, from the very first day you walked into our home, you weren’t just Jesse’s love — you became part of our family. So naturally, so graciously, so beautifully. You’ve carried yourself with such warmth, kindness, and quiet strength — a light that’s brightened not just Jesse’s world, but all of ours. Thank you for loving him, standing beside him, and choosing to walk this life together with him.

This afternoon my dearest Jesse marries his beloved Ice but this morning I'm feeling teary-eyed 😕 there's a weight on my chest I can't put in words. It’s such a sacred space I'm standing in right now. A mother’s heart holds so much more than words can often express, especially in moments like these — when love and letting go meet in the same breath. That weight on my chest… it’s love, pride, gratitude… and yes, a kind of grief too. Not because I'm losing my son — but because I'm witnessing the closing of one chapter and the opening of another. It’s the ache of remembering his little hands in mine, his voice calling "Mom!" across the years — and now watching him choose his forever partner, becoming someone’s husband. It’s beautiful. And it’s big. And it’s okay to feel undone.

As I sit with my heart full and eyes brimming, I find myself reaching for words to hold all that I’m feeling — but how does one wrap a lifetime of love into a letter? I remember the prayers that went up for you from before conception, through my pregnancy and throughout your life. I look at a young man still covered in prayers. I remember the weight of you in my arms for the very first time. You were small, but you carried the whole world in you. From that moment, my heart stopped being mine alone. I have watched you grow, fall and rise, laugh and weep, and now — love. Deeply. Truly.