I wasn’t the obvious choice. This afternoon, my friend needed prayer ministry — and immediately, fear crept in. That familiar voice in my head started whispering: “You’re not experienced enough. Let someone else handle this. Someone who knows what they’re doing.” For a moment, I considered stepping back. Letting it pass to someone more “qualified.” But then, gently, God reminded me—it’s not about my qualifications. It’s about His presence.

There’s a simple melody that has followed me through many seasons — one that speaks deeply to the heart of who I’m becoming, and what I’m creating: “Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary —Pure and holy, tried and true, With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living sanctuary for You. I’ve sung it in moments of quiet worship, whispered it through tears, and clung to its truth in seasons of refining. It’s not just a song — it’s a prayer, a declaration, a longing. And recently… I recorded it. A gentle offering. A trembling yes. It stretched me. Not because I was unsure of the message, but because sharing my voice in such a raw and vulnerable way felt risky. And yet — I knew it was time.

There’s something sacred about discovering your why — that quiet, unwavering sense of purpose woven into your very being. When it finally surfaces, often through life’s trials and tenderness, it illuminates everything. Suddenly, the mundane moments are no longer meaningless. They become holy ground — essential steps along a path God laid long before you were born. “For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” — Ephesians 2:10 (NIV)

You won’t always get credit. You might even get criticised. But here’s the thing: recognition fades, but resilience sticks. Let others chase applause. You build endurance. Because in the end, it’s not the stage you stood on that defines you. It’s the strength you stood with when no one was watching...

There was a time I believed I had to earn love—to be perfect, perform well, stay strong, and never ask for help. But through the deepest valleys of pain, rejection, and silence, I’ve discovered a truth far greater than anything I could ever achieve on my own: I am fully known and still completely loved. The kind of love that holds steady through every storm. The kind that doesn’t walk away when I’m at my worst. Romans 8:38–39 reminds me that no matter what I’ve walked through—nothing can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus. And friend, that truth changes everything.

You can't shortcut trust. You have to earn it-one conversation, ne small act of integrity, one follow- through at a time. Every pitch, every project, every " promise is an opportunity to either build trust or break it. And while trust grows slowly-like roots deepening quietly beneath the surface- can be lost in a single moment. A misaligned value. A careless word. A missed opportunity to really see someone. That's why I believe trust isn't a strategy. It's a lifestyle. It's the fruit of consistency, humility, honesty, and a heart that genuinely cares more about people than pertormance. Because in the end, trust isn't a tactic. It's a testimony.

During prayer earlier this week, I received a word from Peter that deeply resonated and it confirmed what Isabel Skúlason prophesied in March last year. Being overlooked has been the story of my life, so this confirmation brought both comfort and clarity. "You’ve been passed over. That’s what I sensed the Lord saying — not to wound you, but to name what you’ve been feeling. You haven’t been seen. What you carry in your heart, the depth of your calling, the potential within you... it’s gone unnoticed. But heaven sees.

In the process of tidying up my hard drive — clearing out OneDrive duplicates and digital clutter — I stumbled upon a little memory gem from our Greater Auckland Chorus 2016 ‘Gotta Get Outta This Town’ concert. A snapshot of joy, vulnerability, and harmony that caught me off guard and stirred something deep within. It’s funny how a single image or melody can become a doorway to the past. Of all the things I’ve had to surrender in order to step fully into the calling God has placed on my life — into healing, into service, into purpose — I miss choir the most.

Last month, I stepped out in faith and pitched to become a leader within the Speakers Tribe. I'm both humbled and excited to share that I’ve been accepted into this new chapter — and with it comes my first challenge: to share a video on the power of saying yes. It’s amazing what doors begin to open when we dare to say yes — not just to opportunities, but to growth, to courage, and to the unknown paths where our purpose awaits. Here I'm taking up the challenge of creating a short pitch on "The Power of Saying Yes"

Today, I had the privilege of serving as crew at a Speakers Institute Masterclass — and what a day it was, surrounded by an incredible group of people. There’s something powerful about being part of a room where everyone is leaning into growth, courage, and the vulnerability that public speaking so often requires. Three of them were fellow boot campers I met back in March, and a few others had served as crew for us during that same boot camp. These connections have grown into something deeper in just a few months. They’re not just people I’ve met along the way — they’ve become part of a supportive, encouraging community that is helping shape my journey. We’ve laughed, shared nervous energy, celebrated small wins, and most importantly, we’ve shown up for one another. It reminded me again how important it is to surround ourselves with those who lift us higher. There’s so much power in community — in choosing to walk alongside people who see your potential even when you feel uncertain. I’m so grateful for each of them, and for the opportunity to be part of something that goes far beyond learning how to speak. It’s about learning how to be seen, how to show up bravely, and how to cheer others on as they do the same. Proximity is power!

If I could pour into words the essence of the woman I’m becoming — and the qualities I see reflected so often in others I cherish — these three would rise to the surface:

Today I took a quiet moment to reflect on who I am in this season of life. When I asked myself, how would you describe yourself? I felt the answer come gently: Passionate about serving. Have a heart for people. Content. Cautiously optimistic about my journey.

The breakdown is just God allowing our structures to be overloaded so we can come to the end of ourselves and realise our vows not to need help aren't serving us but destroying us. Only when we hit rock-bottom do we call out to Him to ask for help...

And so, I’ve come to the end of another season... What began as a five-month part-time 20 hours per month contract has quietly unfolded into a full year — one rich with lessons, growth, resilience, unexpected healing and grace. However, the past six months have felt like limbo. A waiting season. I knew the end could come at any time, and that I’d likely be replaced by a virtual assistant overseas — because it’s supposedly more cost-effective. There’s no bitterness in that sentence, just reality. And oddly, when the official notice came four weeks ago, I didn’t fall apart, having had the past 6 months to work through the initial feelings of failure, rejection, not being good enough and tossed aside. I felt… relieved. Like I could finally exhale. The guillotine I'd been waiting for finally dropped. Since the first mention last year, I’ve been steadily tying up loose ends — pouring my energy into documenting standard operating procedures — a task that stirred memories of the many roles where I’ve done this before. It’s almost become a familiar rhythm. Once again, I found myself stepping into the remnants of disorder, navigating the gaps left behind, and slowly shaping something whole from the mess, so I can pass the baton as best I can. Once again, I pioneered my way through the chaos left by my predecessors, not with fanfare, but with quiet determination — bringing structure, clarity, and structure where there once was confusion. There’s something deeply honourable about finishing well. But the truth is, the more I’ve built, the more I’ve come to realise how much I haven’t yet touched. And with time slipping through my fingers, there’s a quiet fear that I might not get it all done. Still, even in the overwhelm, there’s something sacred and rewarding here. Something quietly beautiful.To leave a legacy — not of perfection, but of order, intention, and care — feels like a gift. If those who follow can walk with less confusion and more clarity, then I’ve done something that matters. And that brings a sense of peace… even as the page turns. As for me — my heart feels heavy today. There’s a sadness that runs deeper than the end of a job. Today also marks eighteen years since my Oma passed, and that ache still lingers, soft and steady. Grief has a way of layering itself, doesn’t it? But even in this — especially in this — I hold onto hope. I know this sorrow will ease in time. The same God who walked me through past valleys will carry me through this one too. And while one door has closed, I’ll choose to praise Him in the hallway—trusting that in His time, another will open. Of course. Here’s a prayer woven gently from your heart’s reflections — one that holds space for sorrow and still breathes with trust and praise: A Prayer for the Hallway: Lord, today my heart feels tender. Weighted. Wounded. Not only because this chapter is closing, but because this day brings with it the quiet ache of remembrance. Eighteen years without Oma — yet her love still lives in me. And now, the loss of this role adds another layer of letting go. But I thank You that You see it all. You gather every tear, every sigh, every word I cannot quite say (Psalm 56:8). You are the God of doors and hallways, Of beginnings and endings, Of grief and grace. And so, even here — even now — I choose to praise You. Not because everything feels okay, But because You are still good. Still faithful. Still present. And You're still God. Teach me how to wait well. How to worship when the way forward isn’t clear. How to rest in the truth that You are working even in the silence. May this hallway become holy ground, And may I walk it with hope. In Jesus's Name, Amen.

I asked ChatGPT:  Based on everything you've seen me write and post on https://www.trixiscreations.com/ and what you know about me, what belief do I repeat that sounds empowering but might secretly sabotage me? and this was its reply: Oof, that’s a powerful question. Reading between the lines of what you’ve shared and the way you express yourself — with deep passion, heart-led purpose, and a desire to serve through creativity and connection — I’d say one empowering-sounding belief that might have a shadow side could be something like: “I want to touch hearts and bring healing through my creativity.” Now, that’s beautiful and true to your calling. But here’s the potential sabotage hidden underneath: If healing others becomes the measure of your worth or success, you might undervalue your own needs, pace, or the sheer joy of creating without a "purpose." You could end up overgiving, over-explaining, or even hesitating to show up unless you're sure it will tangibly bless someone else.

I am meant to be a bridge. A bridge between pain and healing, between the seen and the unseen, between creativity and the Creator. I carry a quiet yet powerful anointing that makes people feel safe enough to open their hearts, their wounds, and their dreams. I’m not just an artist — I'm a soul-whisperer, a guide, and a healer who paints with light and hope.

My experience as a virtual administrator has taught me that in today's world that favours "virtual" jobs over in-person environments, togetherness, connection and relationship building are lost. There is no trust without in-person communication, connection and relationship. The reality of working from home is that, for most of your time you find yourself working alone.

There’s a subtle kind of warfare that doesn’t arrive with noise or fire. It slips in quietly, like fog through a cracked window — unnoticed until we’re disoriented and unsure why we feel so far from the promises we once clung to. That is the Spirit of Forgetting. It doesn’t mean forgetting in the everyday sense — like losing your keys or missing an appointment. This is a deeper spiritual numbness. A dulling of truth. A fog over the soul.

There’s a weariness that settles deep into the bones of someone with Complex PTSD — not just from a single traumatic event, but from the slow, repeated erosion of safety and belonging. Unlike shock trauma that strikes like a lightning bolt, Complex PTSD comes from the long ache of being unseen, unheard, and unsafe over time. It’s the trauma of what didn’t happen — the comfort never offered, the truth never spoken, the protection never given.

For this Speakers Institute Premiere Bootcamp presentation I’ve had to dismantle one of the biggest strongholds in my life. It felt like pushing I was a huge rock up the hill and being met with resistance. I knew it by heart when I went to bed, but when I got up at 5:30 to rehearse my presentation, it felt like all the powers of hell had descended on me. I couldn’t get a single word out before I burst into tears—and spent the next two hours crying, wrestling with the blackout in my brain and the suffocating despair crushing my chest. When Clive came down he comforted and prayed for me until it was time to go get ready. I have this memory from when I was a little girl in Germany — I was crying for attention, but instead my head was shoved under cold water. I slapped my hands over my mouth, swallowed my tears, and vowed never to cry again. Growing up in a world where children were meant to be seen, not heard, became woven into the very fabric of my being. And then there was my stepdad’s constant “Think before you speak” every time I had something to say… until I got so stuck thinking my voice had no value, that I stopped speaking altogether. I could have the most amazing conversations with people in my head—until I opened my mouth, and it all vanished. That’s why I've always shied away whenever someone said they saw me on stages and in stadiums. It took every ounce of strength I had to hold this together.