Category: Health Reflection and Coaching

What Teaching Has Taught Me About Growth

Most of us don’t stay stuck because we’re not trying.
And even when we start to see what might be holding us back, we are not always sure how to move forward.

I’ve been a teacher for years. In this role, you are expected to have the answers.

When I moved from working with middle school students to graduate students, something changed. I couldn’t just deliver content or instruction anymore. That approach didn’t go very far.

I had to become more of an encourager, a facilitator, a coach.
It took time to stop thinking about what I needed to say and start paying attention to what they needed.

Over time, I realized this wasn’t just about the classroom.

The moments that mattered most were not when I was doing the talking. They were when I was walking alongside someone in the middle of their learning, their questions, and their growth.

I didn’t grow up with a lot of memorable coaches, but I did have one in ice skating, Coach Jim. And he said something that stuck with me:

“The more you fall, the harder you’re trying.”

At the time, I remember thinking…HUH?
The more I fail, the better I become?

Now I get it.

Lately, I’ve also been watching Friday Night Lights, and I’m fascinated by Coach Taylor. His style is different. He’s tough, but his players know he has their back no matter what. There’s a partnership there. He leads, but he also sees them. He reads them. He believes in them, sometimes more than they believe in themselves.

And that’s what I keep noticing. The focus isn’t on the coach. It’s on the person in front of them.

Right now, I mentor new faculty at GCU. In many ways, it feels like coaching. I sit in on their classes, often like a fly on the wall, present but unseen.

But here’s the hard part. Coaching means calling things out, even when someone doesn’t want them called out.

Most of us don’t see our own blind spots. And even when we start to, we don’t always want to name them. It’s just not in our nature to focus on them.

That’s where the right person can make all the difference. Someone willing to point it out and then stay with us through the growth.

We can call it teaching, coaching, mentoring. They all overlap.

But at the core, it’s about having someone who sees what we can’t or aren’t willing to look at.

Because while we’re all equal in our worth, we’re not all equal in our strengths. And sometimes a weakness can quietly become a stronghold, a blind spot, or something that holds us back physically, mentally, or emotionally.

For me, it showed up physically. I was stuck in something that kept me sick for years. And if I’m honest, I didn’t fully see it at the time, or maybe I wasn’t willing to see the whole picture. It took a long, winding road to even begin to understand what was going on.

Looking back, I can see how much I would have benefited from someone who could see what I couldn’t. Someone willing to say it and then walk with me through it.

It might not have taken so long. But looking back, I can see God was doing something in it, even when I didn’t understand it at the time.

We need each other. Not necessarily a formal coach or mentor, but someone willing to walk alongside us, someone who sees us clearly, tells us the truth, and doesn’t walk away.

Because sometimes, the difference between staying stuck and moving forward
is simply having the right person beside you.

And if I’m honest, this is what years of teaching have shown me. The real lessons don’t come from having the answers.

Sometimes it’s about being willing to be a student, to face your own blind spots and do the hard work of getting unstuck.

Only then can you truly walk alongside someone else in theirs.

The Endless Cycle of Trying One More Thing

I recently started reading fiction again for the first time since high school, when it was required. That might not sound like a big deal, but for me, it is.

I am a recovering information junkie.

For a long time, I believed every minute needed to be productive. If I was reading something, listening to something, or spending time on something, it needed to teach me something or be useful. Reading just for fun felt like a waste of time.

And when you are wired that way, and you are dealing with a health issue, it does not stay contained. It grows.

You start listening to every podcast, reading every book, following every expert, and buying into every promise until you become the expert yourself. That way, you can feel more in control of what is happening. To someone who likes to be in control like me, that actually sounds rational.

But somewhere along the way, it stops being helpful. And if I am honest, it starts becoming a little obsessive. Your health issue stops being something you are dealing with and starts becoming part of who you are.

But it is subtle. It does not happen overnight. But one day, you realize that if your input is constantly searching for the next answer, then your output is going to be more of the same.

There is always more. More supplements to try, more experts to learn from, more protocols to discover. It starts to feel like you are searching for something that is just out of reach, but everything begins to look the same.

And before you know it, you are not really living your life anymore. You are merely managing it.

It reminds me of remodeling a bathroom. One small change leads to another, then something else no longer matches, and before you know it, the project has expanded far beyond what you intended. That is what this started to feel like.

So I made a small change. I started reading fiction.

It was a tiny step, but it represented something bigger. It was a way of letting go, just a little. Letting my mind rest instead of constantly trying to figure things out.

What this looked like for me

From there, I began to simplify. I started to pare down my supplements, not out of fear but out of clarity. I kept what felt necessary and let the rest go. I focused on my sleep, not perfect sleep but consistent sleep, getting into a manageable routine. 

I also started going outside first thing in the morning (with Cooper, my dog) before coffee, just getting sunlight. Nothing complicated, nothing new, just something simple my body craved.

I stopped constantly trying to fix myself and started focusing more on gratitude, especially with my family. And I leaned into my relationship with Jesus, trusting that maybe healing was not something I had to control so tightly.

That gave me a sense of freedom, just enough to start creating again. Writing. Drawing. Doing something simply because it brought something back to life in me.

I told myself I would give it a year. A year to stop chasing every new answer and come back to what I already knew:

There is no magic solution.

My body just needed time and space to heal without all the extra noise.

Because the truth is, our bodies do not respond well to constant change. They respond to consistency, to rhythm, to safety. They respond to being cared for, not constantly managed.

I am not against information. If you are reading this, you probably are not either. Maybe you are even searching for something that will help you feel better.

But at some point, more information stops being helpful and starts becoming noise. And for me, healing did not begin when I found the next thing.

It began when I simplified, slowed down, and gave my body the chance to respond.

Why stillness might be exactly what our minds and bodies need

Let’s just imagine, for one day, the phone in your hand became lifeless.

I think the average person’s heart rate would increase. They’d feel anxious…maybe even a little panicked. And standing in something as simple as a grocery store line, they wouldn’t know what to do.

That first instinct would be: I can’t just stand here! Because just standing there? That would feel…

Boring.

I wonder if you took it a step further, and gave it a week. I wonder what would actually happen?
Maybe people would start to:

– stare into space and actually think
– talk to the person next to them
– process something they’ve been avoiding
– notice something right in front of them they’ve never seen before

Do you think fifty years ago, someone standing in a grocery store line would have said,
“I’m bored”; Or that they lived a boring life? Probably not.

People (I was one of them) were used to space that wasn’t constantly filled. It was just the way it was.

There’s a line I heard years ago that stuck with me:
“Boring people are bored.”

I don’t really like the word “bored.”
But I now understand what it was getting at: Not filling every moment and leaving space for just thinking and being. 

This simple line shaped the way I raised my daughter. If she ever wasn’t sure what to do, I did not hand her a screen or turn something on as a knee-jerk reaction. I would merely say,

“Go find something to create; imagine something; build something…or read!”

I think we all need to do this, and if I’m honest, I haven’t always done that for myself.

But lately I have been forced to sit in stillness. This has made me wonder what that has done to our health and whether all of this constant, distracted time we fill 24/7 has contributed to it.

Not just mentally…
but physically.

I learned the hard way that our bodies don’t separate those two systems, and our thoughts (usually negative) or lack thereof can make us more stressed. This in turn can affect our digestion. When there is no pause…no stillness…no space…our system never really settles.

Our gut, especially, is deeply connected to that. Another thing I learned the hard way is that it responds to stress; it responds to constant input, and it responds to nonstop activity. And not in a good way.

It’s not just about the foods we eat or avoid; it’s about how we live.

When something feels off in the gut, it’s somewhat like a dashboard of a car. It’s a warning light. It’s information that something needs attention. The key is tuning in to what it could be. Perhaps it’s our constant need to fill every quiet moment. Our bodies might be telling us this all along.

I do believe people are craving true nourishment. Not just from good food but from real connections in real time. Real experiences with real people. That might be what our guts are trying to tell us. Slow down. Smell the roses. Enjoy real food. Be still. 

Maybe it’s not boredom we’ve been trying to avoid. Being still may be more of the challenge. But stillness shouldn’t be something we escape; it could be what we have been missing. As I’ve navigated healing, I’ve learned to embrace the room to think, the room to notice and observe. It’s not always comfortable, but it feels better than filling up with mindless distractions.

And if I’m honest, part of healing can feel…boring.
It’s slower, less stimulating, and not filled with constant distraction.

I think God had a point when He said, “Be still and know that I am God.”

If we could just follow the first two words, perhaps our minds and bodies would have what they need.

Because when we never allow ourselves to be still…when we never allow space…
our systems stay in a constant state of activity.

And I can’t help but wonder if part of what we’re seeing today like the increase in stress, digestive issues, and nervous system support needs isn’t just about what we eat or what we aren’t taking. Perhaps it’s about the fact that we’ve lost the ability to simply be.

And maybe that’s what we’re learning again. Not how to do more…
but how to be still.

I used to stand in front of my middle school students after they finished an essay or story and ask one simple question:

“So what?”

They would stare at me, unsure what I meant. I wasn’t trying to be mean or sassy. I was trying to get them to find meaning behind their story. So I’d continue:

Why are you telling me this?
Why does it matter?
What’s your point?

I used to drill into my students that every good story needs a “so what,” a reason, a takeaway…a point.

But I’ve realized that question only works for essays, not for real life, especially in seasons of suffering. I’ve had health issues, and I still do. And when you go through a season like that, you don’t ask “so what?” You ask why. Not a “why me?” but more like, why now?

And there isn’t always an answer.

“What’s the point?” doesn’t feel like the right question when you’re just trying to make it through the day. It doesn’t feel meaningful in the moment.

And if I’m honest, for a long time my story felt like one big unanswered question:

So what is all of this for?

But today at church, something hit me. 

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ… who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction…” (2 Corinthians 1:3–4)

The pastor focused on those two words: 

So that.

Wow, he comforts me (which He always does), but comfort for me to give another. 

What if my life was never meant to be a “so what”…
What if it’s always been a “so that”?

So that I would slow down and pay attention. 
So that I would be humbled.
So that I would stop performing and moving so much.
So that I would actually feel what others are walking through.
So that I could sit across from someone in pain and not try to fix it, but to understand it.

So that someday, I could help someone else.
And so that I can give something I may have needed so deeply myself.

Everyone has a “so that.” It’s something bigger than you. A purpose. Maybe it’s the question we’ve been missing. Something may have been given to you, a struggle, a hardship, a challenge, a tragedy, and it can be devastating. Heartbreaking. It can change your life in ways you didn’t plan. 

But perhaps it’s time to finish the sentence:

This has been happening to me so that….

For me, it hasn’t explained everything, but it has given it meaning and purpose.

And for that…
I can trust Him.

Walking Up the Down Escalator

I’ve always loved escalators. 

When I was a kid, I had this strange fascination with trying to walk up the down escalator. I would step onto the moving stairs headed in the opposite direction and start climbing. Usually, an adult nearby would quickly reprimand me and send me back the right way.

But it was the challenge that excited me. The harder you pushed, the faster you climbed. At least that’s what it felt like. Eventually, though, you realize something strange: no matter how much effort you put in, you barely move. The escalator keeps pulling you back down.

For years, I approached my body the same way.

Eat to Move

As a kid, I spent a lot of time home alone after school. Being a latch-key child meant the kitchen became a place for experimentation.

My creations weren’t exactly gourmet since my mom didn’t buy the usual processed junk food. So I became a bit of a chemist: cocoa powder, Cool Whip, and a saltine cracker, for example. Sometimes the results were surprisingly good although weird. 

But somewhere in those years, a subtle shift happened. I began to realize that I had control over what went into my mouth, and that awareness created a powerful sense of agency.

Alongside that control, another habit quietly formed: if I ate more, I felt the need to move more.

At first it seemed harmless. Logical. But over time it became automatic.

Constantly Undernourished

I think many women can relate to this pattern because we are often sent the same message: if a little is good, then more must be better. Especially when calories increase for any reason, many of us feel the need to “balance it out” with more movement.

Over time, that thinking creates a familiar habit:

increase calories → increase activity → weight doesn’t change (or it does briefly) → reduce calories again.

The body begins to expect that whenever more food arrives, more movement will follow. So instead of allowing nourishment to stay, the system compensates.

It’s a seductive pattern, and many people can get stuck in it for years without realizing it.

What happens next is subtle but important: the body never fully experiences consistent nourishment. Calories come in, but they are quickly burned off. Instead of allowing nourishment to stay, the body is constantly trying to keep up. Over time, it becomes much harder to build the resilience, stamina, and lean strength that most women are working toward.

Over time this pattern can also keep the nervous system on high alert, relying more on stress hormones like adrenaline to keep energy moving instead of allowing the body to fully recover and rebuild.

Why the Body Needs Consistency

One of the most important shifts I made recently felt completely foreign at first. For years, I paired eating more with more activity. Any increase in food was quickly followed by more movement.

I had to change the pattern. 

For a period of time, I simply ate more, and I became far more sedentary than I had been in years. At first, this felt almost irresponsible.

Metabolically, however, it was an important signal to my body. I had to create a new pattern so my body could learn something different:

If food increases, movement does not automatically increase.

My body finally experienced something it hadn’t felt in a long time: Consistent nourishment.

When the body begins to trust that fuel will remain available, it can finally begin rebuilding energy, strength, and resilience. For me, this was the first time that had ever happened.

What Actually Builds a Strong Body

The physique many women say they want…lean, strong, and feminine…rarely comes from running more, walking more, swimming more, or simply moving more.

More often it develops through a much less glamorous approach:

adequate nourishment (yes, protein through whole foods)
good sleep
resistance training
walking and normal daily movement
lower stress hormones

and patience.

Sometimes the most disciplined choice is counterintuitive: allowing nourishment to stay long enough for the body to remember what strength feels like again.

And when that happens, something interesting begins to change.

The body begins to step out of “fight or flight.” Energy becomes steadier. Strength builds more naturally. Movement starts to feel productive again instead of punishment.

For me, it was time to turn around on that escalator.

Climbing up the down escalator led me nowhere fast. But it took me way too long to figure that out, and I had to learn the hard way. (and I’m not there yet).

So now I choose to step onto the right escalator and finally let my body work with me instead of against me.

The Ripple Effect of Illness on a Family 

She woke up today feeling like she had run a marathon. Her body felt heavy; her legs burned. A wave of nausea sat in her stomach, and she felt tranquilized, even after eight hours of sleep. She whispered to herself,

“C’mon… you have to get yourself together.”

Her wonderful husband makes the coffee as she packs the lunches.

They don’t talk much in the morning.

Not because there’s distance, but because there’s understanding. He doesn’t ask, “How did you sleep?” or “How are you feeling?” He waits for her to speak first.

There is so much love, but at times, it goes unspoken because right now, it shows up in other ways: in patience; in serving one another; in just presence.

Part of the heaviness she carries isn’t just physical.

It is the guilt.

It’s the constant guilt of not being the version of herself her family knows best: the one who sets the tone in the home. She knows that when she feels stuck in bed… when she has no energy, no spark, no desire to do anything but lie down… it’s hard not to wonder what that does to the people she loves most.

How do they feel it?

What do they carry because of it?

She wants to be better, and it is not about her anymore.

It’s for them.

Because when you love this deeply… it’s what makes you feel alive.

It’s where the joy is.

But on days like this…when her body won’t cooperate, the guilt gets louder than her symptoms.

Quiet Thoughts She Couldn’t Say

There were moments she didn’t say out loud, but she wished she could just be alone. It didn’t feel selfish to want to be alone… at least, that’s what she told herself. It also wasn’t because she didn’t love them. It was all about not wanting to be seen like this. She felt…. pathetic.

She would think, “You didn’t sign up for this… you can go.”

And she would fear that her daughter would remember this version of her…
the one in bed… instead of who she used to be.

She was tired… and tired of feeling like someone she didn’t recognize.

The Weight the Family Carries Too

No one really talks about the family in this situation. There are endless conversations about what the patient needs: physically, emotionally, mentally. But far less about the people living alongside it: the husband who must adjust, the child who grows up around it, and the family who slowly becomes more distant from it.

Life used to have things they could count on like beach trips, Sedona multiple times a year, date nights, hosted dinners and small groups, the chaos of playdates.

Now, it feels different, and she wonders if they feel the heaviness as much as she does.

Everything is more tentative. Plans are made carefully, often with an unknown answer: Will today be a functioning day, or will everything need to stop? Because of that, life becomes harder to predict, harder to plan, even harder to anticipate.

Over time, that unpredictability begins to shape the tone of the home. They learn to hold plans loosely and adjust expectations. There is still so much love, but there is also a profound loss….the loss of being able to fully count on how a day will unfold.

It’s no one’s fault, but she still feels responsible for all of it. And the weight of that makes it even harder.

The Emotional Weight No One Knows How to Talk About

There is also an emotional weight that is harder to explain.

She wonders if they feel like they have to be careful around her. If her unpredictability makes them pause and hold back parts of themselves. The last thing she wants is for her home to feel like it’s walking on eggshells.

She doesn’t want to be the one who needs; she wants to be the one they come to. The safe place. The one who holds it all together.

And yet, in this season, the roles don’t always feel that way. Sometimes she knows they are doing more (physically and emotionally), and she feels the weight of that.

Not just because it’s hard…but because she can’t be who she wants to be for them right now.

Setting a New Tone Together

The loss has been real. The adventures, the “fun” things they used to do… the life that once felt easy, and maybe even taken for granted. That’s a loss that has had to be grieved.

But over time, something has shifted. Not in a way she expected or would have chosen, but something meaningful has still taken shape. Her husband has become more than just her partner; he is her best friend in a deeper way. He knows her inside and out, and their connection is no longer built on what they do together, but on presence and showing up for each other in ways that fit this season.

The laughter is still there, but it has changed. Sometimes it comes through their pets, sometimes through a shared show, but they have learned to look for it. They allow it in the small, ordinary moments instead of waiting for it to come from a full life.

They’ve learned that comparison only makes it harder to see what is still here.

In an unexpected way, her presence has taken on a different kind of meaning in her daughter’s life. Even on the days she is in bed, she is still there.

Listening.

She may not be able to play hoops with her, but she is emotionally present in a way her daughter notices and values.

There is also a deeper sense of gratitude in their home now. Not forced, but practiced. At night, before or during dinner, they take time to say what they are grateful for; simple things, small things that might have once gone unnoticed.

It has become part of their normal routine, grounding them in what is still here.

There are still days she cries and mourns what is not, but now they have each other to gently bring the focus back to what is.

When Normal Digestion Becomes Ultra Sensitive

My favorite instrument has always been the bass guitar. 

The bass is that unsung hero in the background that makes the music rhythmic and adds depth without dominating the song. You don’t always consciously notice it, but you feel it.

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That’s how the body is supposed to work. You’re not supposed to feel every single moment of your digestion.

Many people don’t realize that digestion is constantly happening. Muscles contract, gas (yes, we all have it) moves, and food travels through the intestines. Even when we aren’t eating, the digestive system is still at work sweeping and cleaning through something called the migrating motor complex.

It’s actually quite amazing how much happens quietly in the background. And most people barely notice it; kind of like the bass playing in a well-balanced song.

But imagine if someone suddenly turned the amplifier all the way up.

You’d see the whole audience cover their ears and wince. The vibration takes over the room, and the rhythm becomes overwhelming.

Nothing about the instrument changed. But the volume did.

Doctors actually have a name for when the gut’s normal signals become amplified like this. It’s called visceral hypersensitivity. The digestion itself isn’t necessarily abnormal; the nervous system is simply perceiving those signals much louder than it should.

And that’s what it has felt like to live in my body.

How the Volume Got Turned Up

The strange thing is that I didn’t just wake up one day with a hypersensitive gut.

For most of my life, my digestion was pretty normal. Sure, I had stomach aches growing up, but nothing that interfered with daily life. I could eat salads, vegetables, and normal meals without thinking twice about it.

Everything changed about eight years ago when I was diagnosed with SIBO. Who knows if that is even what I had. What I do know is that the diagnosis opened the door to something many people in the health world eventually experience: the treatment spiral.

The protocol sounded simple: Remove. Replace. Reinoculate. Repair. Rebalance.

Easy. One, two, three. Or so I thought. 

But for me, it backfired: One protocol led to another. One treatment led to another. More supplements. More food restrictions. More tests. More, more, more.

At the same time, my lifestyle didn’t slow down. I was still disciplined, still exercising regularly, still pushing forward with a fast pace and high expectations of my body. Over time, the combination of constant treatments, restrictions, stress, and pushing through discomfort created the perfect storm for my nervous system.

My digestive system kept getting more attention, more correction, and more intervention. It started sending louder signals which of course I assumed needed even more correction.

The vicious cycle had begun. For years.

Slowly, my nervous system began amplifying every one of them just like the bass guitar. It was no longer quietly supporting the music. It had become the main instrument.

The volume was so loud that I felt like the audience at a concert covering their ears and wincing.

There were moments when I nearly gave up.

The Body Powered Down

One of the hardest parts isn’t even the discomfort. It’s the tranquilized feeling.

Fatigue is an understatement.

When the gut becomes active, the vagus nerve, a major communication pathway between the gut and brain, shifts the body strongly into what scientists call “rest and digest.”

Blood flow moves toward the digestive organs, and the body can suddenly feel heavy and sleepy. Sometimes it feels like a wave of exhaustion hits out of nowhere. It took me a long time to understand that this isn’t from lack of sleep.

It’s simply the nervous system reacting to signals that are turned up too high.

Learning to Turn the Volume Down

Honestly, I just wanted to stop the song. It was and still is too much sometimes. However, I cannot stop digestion. The goal has been to turn down the volume.

For me that has meant stepping off the endless cycle of fixing and giving my body something it hadn’t had in a long time: consistency.

Regular meals that are gentle on my digestion
Steady nourishment
Little to no intervention

There are medications that can help calm the nerve pathways between the gut and brain called tricyclics. A low dose of one of these can truly be a life saver. The nervous system sometimes needs help resetting its sensitivity.

Living While the Volume Is Still Loud

It’s still a concert inside my body with the bass booming. But I’m learning something important. The system isn’t broken; it just needs to learn a new rhythm, and the volume just needs time to come down. It’s an extremely slow process, but I believe with all my heart that God desires it to be slow. This way, we learn to appreciate the little things. We learn to truly embrace simplicity. Doing less. Saying no more often. Living with love and gratitude.

Slowly, with patience and consistency, the concert begins to soften into something closer to a symphony. One day those signals will return to where they belong; quietly in the background, like the bass in a well-balanced song.