I got laid off.

And when that happened, the last label I was holding onto went with it.

Who are we without the title? I didn’t have an answer.

What I had left: wife, mom, child of God. I’m still learning what that means.

Twenty-two years in recovery. Five years into faith. Baptized.

And then less than a year ago something shifted that I didn’t have words for. There’s a friend I didn’t know I had, one who had been with me the whole time. Through the wreck. Through the wilderness. Through every year I didn’t know His name. Once I was cracked open, I could finally see Him. And I haven’t been the same since.

Someone who entered through the wreck rather than the front door of a church. No framework. No language for what was happening inside me.

This is me writing my experience. The winding road of how I got here, the way I’ve interpreted it. I’m thinking about the one who doesn’t know where to go or how to start. The one who’s afraid to step into a church. The one having an identity crisis, just like me, and needs the words I couldn’t find.

I’m writing for the ones who thought no one was writing for them.

I’m obeying the nudge to write boldly. To be my authentic self. The dark before the promise. The grit before the blessing.

I’m dropping moments. I don’t have a theology degree. I have stories. The way I want to tell it.

I want you in the moment with me.

The full story is here, if you’re ready for it.

- Daniela

No one is too lost to be saved.