We often speak of life as one continuous journey, but looking back at my own, it feels much more like a collection of distinct lives—each one beginning so abruptly that the world before it felt like a distant memory.
There was the day I got hit by a car, a stark boundary line drawn between who I was before the impact and who I had to become in order to heal. Physical recovery stripped life down to its absolute essentials, teaching me the fragility of every breath and revealing a strength I didn’t know I possessed.
There was the day I boarded a plane and flew from West Virginia to Texas, leaving behind familiar hills and everything known for a vast, open horizon. It was a step into the unknown, learning to trust that God was already standing in the places I had yet to reach.
There were the miraculous days I brought each of my children into the world—moments when my heart expanded in ways I never imagined possible, and my entire existence reshaped itself around theirs. With each child, a new version of myself was born: a mother learning a deeper kind of patience, sacrifice, and unconditional love.
Years later, there was another plane, another flight, leaving Texas behind to plant new roots in Tennessee. Another home, another chapter of learning how to build a life in unfamiliar surroundings.
And then came that terrifying evening Kevin suffered a cardiac arrest right in our backyard—a single, earth-shattering moment where time seemed to stop entirely. In an instant, every priority, every breath, and every prayer was reshuffled. Facing the stark reality of almost losing him reframes everything you thought mattered.
Yet, these are only a few of the major landmarks along my road. There have been so many other new starts—the quiet, hidden ones that don’t make headlines. The new beginnings that happen when a career season closes, when a long-held role changes, or when you simply make up your mind to let go of an old burden. There is a new start in learning a new skill, in choosing to open your heart again after disappointment, or in sitting quietly on the back porch in the early morning stillness, holding a warm cup of coffee and choosing grace over worry.
How many times do we start a new life?
We step across these threshold moments—some chosen with hope, others thrust upon us without warning—and find that the landscape on the other side is completely transformed. We are forced to adapt, to rebuild, and to carry on as a different version of ourselves.
Yet, through every shift, every move, and every sudden storm, there is a profound, unshakeable truth that holds me steady:
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” — Hebrews 13:8
We are the ones who change. The world reshapes us, trials test us, and seasons push us forward. But as the ground shifts beneath our feet, the real question isn’t how many times our lives will restart—it is how we allow those restarts to transform us.
Are we changing for the better?
Are we bending toward His purpose?
Are we allowing each new beginning—whether monumental or quiet—to soften us, refine us, and draw us closer to who He designed us to be?
When I look around at my life today, I don’t see a life that was broken by change, but one that was built by it. Every move, every scar, every miracle, and every narrow escape was simply another turn in the path. I may not know how many more chapters lie ahead or what new starts are waiting around the corner, but I know the One who walks beside me into every single one. And in His constant, unchanging presence, every new beginning is simply another chance to step closer to home.
