Finding My Footing in a Year of Upheaval

What's holding me up in this season

Dec 04, 2025

The house was too quiet.

I stood in the kitchen on a Thursday evening in mid-November, and the silence just felt…foreign. No ESPN commentators yelling on the TV. No empty water bottle, backpack, or laptop on the counter. No dinner negotiations or carpool logistics or the low hum of someone else’s life happening in the next room. Just me, the refrigerator, and an unsettling sense that the ground beneath me had shifted when I wasn’t paying attention.

It’s not the first time I’m saying this, and it won’t be the last: 2025 has been a doozy of a year. (Doozy—a delight of a word.)

Rebekah, my oldest, got married. Elijah, my middle kid, graduated from college and started working full-time. Elliana, my youngest, graduated from high school and left for college 150 miles away, thus ending a 21-year stint of having kids at home on a traditional school schedule. And Jon, my husband, spent four months at home after being downsized—only to land an interim CEO position 2,400 miles away. He’s now gone most of the time.

A whirlwind of celebrations and milestones and travel and shock and uncertainty and change. Honestly, it’s felt like emotional whiplash—from Oh my gosh, everyone’s home and I’m smothered to Okay, wow, no one’s home and I’m… not bored, not lonely… just unexpectedly untethered.

If you know me at all, you know I love structure. I thrive in routine. It’s not that I need things to remain unchanged—I actually like change. I even looked forward to most of what’s happened this year. But I want change to emerge from a solid foundation. When everything shifts at once, it feels like an earthquake—chaotic and dangerous. I lose my footing and start grasping for something stable, something steady.

Something like a trellis.

Back in 2017, I spent a full year immersed in John 15—a stretch of time I lovingly refer to as “My Abide Year.” What began as a simple Bible study on the Vine and the branches evolved into a full-blown nerd-fest on viticulture. Pruning techniques, fruit production, vineyard maintenance… I geeked out on all of it.

The part that fascinated me most was the trellis—the structure the Vinedresser uses to support and guide the vine as it grows.

Here’s what I learned: A grapevine left alone will sprawl across the ground, tangle itself, shade its fruit, and attract pests. Down there, it’s vulnerable to mold, rot, and decay. Any fruit it manages to produce gets eaten, trampled, or diseased. A vine simply can’t flourish without structure.

So the Vinedresser builds a trellis. He trains the strongest shoot straight up a stake, ties it loosely with natural materials—jute, raffia, soft ties—anything that won’t cut into the stem. This becomes the True Vine, the single strong trunk that will support decades of growth.

As branches grow from the Vine, the Vinedresser ties them to wires or strings. He must tie them just right:

Too loose → the wind snaps them
Too tight → the tie cuts into the shoot
Not tied at all → grape chaos

This rhythm of inspecting, adjusting, and tying keeps the canopy upright and open so each branch can bear fruit. It’s intentional, patient, and hands-on. And it’s done with the full expectation of fruit.

The trellis lifts the vine off the ground and allows light and air to reach every cluster. It protects the fruit. It gives the branch a backbone. A trained vine can produce for decades.

Of course, the branch is first and foremost abiding in the Vine itself—that’s where it receives nutrients and strength. The Vine sustains everything.

But without the trellis, even a healthy branch will sprawl.

In the last few months, nearly every trellis in my life—my structures, rhythms, routines—has either shifted or vanished. So I’ve been asking myself: What do I still have? Where am I lacking? What’s next?

Right now, this is me: firmly attached to the Vine, but searching for the trellis.

I don’t have all the answers (do we ever?), but I’m beginning to see what remains. Here is my trellis:

Morning Coffee and Prayer

This is my “alone time” before I speak to a single human being. Yes, it involves actual coffee—obvi. But it’s really about slipping away for the first hour of the day to talk to Jesus and get my head on straight.

I accidentally tested the removal of this practice during a June trip to Italy with Jon, Elliana, and 25 chorale members plus their parents. No in-room coffee. Tiny European cups. A bustling hotel dining room at 6 a.m. Jet lag. I essentially stood at the carafe chugging espresso, wild-eyed and desperate, while teenagers watched with concern.

It did not go well. The fruit of the Spirit was nowhere to be found. I might—might—have a caffeine addiction, is what I’m sayin. But the pre-people Jesus time is what I needed the most.

Tie me to the Morning Coffee and Prayer Trellis all the days of my life, Lord. I cannot function without it.

Scripture Memorization

I’ve tried for years to memorize Scripture and mostly failed because I kept relying on verbal repetition. Turns out, I needed to remember how I studied in college: by writing. Not flashcards. Not mental gymnastics. Just writing verses out—over and over—until they take up residence.

Right now I’m working through Colossians 1:15-20: He is before all things, and by him all things hold together…

Yeah. That one’s hitting differently this year.

It’s been unexpectedly stabilizing, giving my soul something solid to cling to when my emotions want to sprawl in every direction.

Daily Movement

Walking, mostly. It’s officially the most wonderful time of the year in Northeast Florida—not the holidays (also wonderful), but the weather! After three months of hell-like heat, we now have nine months of perfection. I can walk anytime of the day without melting…or dying.

Last week I walked the same loop I’ve walked for five years. The old houses haven’t moved. The live oaks are dropping their leaves on schedule. But I’m the one who’s changed—lighter in some ways, unmoored in others. Walking doesn’t fix anything, but it steadies my breath and reminds my body that it still knows how to move forward.

This has become a trellis because my body and soul aren’t separate gardens—they’re intimately intertwined. A thriving body gives my soul space to flourish.

Boundaries Around Daily Output

I have what I call my “Cycle of Overwhelm”:

Space in my schedule → Fill it with good things → Add more things because people I love have needs → OVERWHELM → Drop everything and breathe → Space reappears → Repeat.

Right now, I’m in the “space in my schedule” phase. I keep having thoughts like, “I should volunteer somewhere,” or “I should start/lead/join something.”

But you know what? I’m not filling it. I’m just not.

I’m moving slowly, taking longer walks, going to bed early, reading books on my quiet couch. I’ll add something eventually, but for now, these boundaries keep my heart from tangling itself in noise, hustle, and hurry. Silence and solitude are shaping my interior life and keeping me rooted.

Sabbath and Rest

I love my work. I get to interact with brilliant women daily. It’s meaningful and energizing, and I lose track of time doing it. But without school pick-up or Jon coming home every evening, I’ll stay in my office indefinitely and forget to shower and eat.

So I’ve implemented a firm daily shutdown routine and a weekly day of rest. A grapevine doesn’t bear fruit nonstop—and neither can I.

Community and Connection

As an introvert and writer, I can easily embrace all this sudden solitude. When caring for kids consumed my days, I was constantly hunting for my next “alone fix.”

But the danger now is slipping into isolation without noticing.

So I maintain daily connections with a few close friends and weekly touchpoints with others. Every day, I receive at least one message from someone checking on me…checking on my heart. That’s the kind of trellis that keeps a girl upright.

Community offers encouragement and perspective—something no vine can give itself.

These simple practices aren’t glamorous, but they’re holding me steady while everything shifts. They’re keeping me lifted, supported, and exposed to the sun where fruit can grow.

I don’t know yet what that fruit will look like. I’m still standing in the too-quiet kitchen most days, still adjusting to Jon’s and Elliana’s empty chairs at dinner, still learning what it means to be a woman whose primary job isn’t “mom” anymore.

But I’m not sprawling on the ground. I’m not tangled in my own chaos. I’m tied—loosely, gently—to practices that keep me reaching toward the light.

Fruit comes in its season. For now, I’m letting myself be held.

If you’re looking for something to act as a trellis in 2026, I highly recommend this annual guided journaling practice called A Year of Reflection, written by my friend, Erin Loechner. It’s a gentle, reflective practice designed to help women slow down, listen inward, and rediscover their own pace.