2025 is bittersweet to say goodbye to.
Part of me wants to say good riddance—because this has been the hardest year of my life. And yet, I never want to wish time away, because time is precious. This year brought deep growth, but it also brought grief, exhaustion, anxiety, and pain. If you know me personally, you may not have known just how heavy this year truly was. While those closest to me know pieces, only my very close family knows the full weight of what I carried.
In 2024, we welcomed our second son just days shy of 34 weeks after another long, high-risk pregnancy. With both pregnancies, I had intrahepatic cholestasis of pregnancy (ICP)—a rare pregnancy-related liver condition where bile acids build up in the bloodstream. The hallmark symptom is intense, relentless itching without a rash, often starting in the hands and feet and, in severe cases like mine, spreading everywhere. The itching robbed me of sleep and rest completely. ICP is considered high-risk, and after experiencing it once before—ending in a 30-week delivery and six weeks in the NICU—I knew exactly what was at stake.
So when I became pregnant again, I was determined to do things differently. And I did. We caught the ICP early—just five weeks into the pregnancy. In fact, part of how I knew I was pregnant was because I started itching. If you’ve ever had ICP, that itch is unforgettable. The PTSD was immediate. The itching is unbearable, physically. But knowing the misery that lied ahead? Knowing what was inevitable? That took a huge toll on my mental health. The first time, I had no idea the battle I would face, but the second time…I did—and this time, I was also caring for a two-year-old.
But through every sleepless night, I somehow made it. And we got our boy here safely. He spent two weeks in the NICU, and when we finally brought him home, I truly thought, Okay… now we can breathe. Now we can settle into life as a family of four.
I had no idea what was coming next.
He wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t lay down. He spit up after every feed—until it turned into full projectile vomiting. I was nursing and couldn’t understand what was wrong. Then came months of painful skin issues—severe cradle cap on his head and face that broke my heart to see. From his late-September birth until the week before Thanksgiving, we searched for answers. Finally, we got one: a cow’s milk protein allergy. I was consuming dairy. That was the cause.
I cut out dairy immediately. We tried every formula available—he vomited every single one. Slowly, the vomiting stopped. The blood disappeared from his diapers. We were able to taper off reflux medication. But the sleep still didn’t come. The discomfort lingered. And the only way he would rest was being held.
I was exhausted. He wanted to nurse constantly, and there was no time in between to pump. I was everything—day and night. I cannot remember the last time I slept through the night. In 2024, my body was worn down by relentless itching and fear. In 2025, my body was worn down by complete depletion.
There were days—very hard days—when I genuinely didn’t know how I was still alive. How I was still standing upright. How I was even remotely functioning. The phrase “surviving, not thriving” wasn’t just a saying for our family this year—it was our reality.
And yet—in the midst of all of this—an opportunity presented itself.
An opportunity to grow something I had been passionate about for a long time.
Charlie & James.
A wellness and gift shoppe rooted in intention, faith, and care for growing families. When the opportunity came, I dove in wholeheartedly. I truly believed that by the time the doors opened—after Liam’s first birthday—his struggles would be behind us. That life would feel lighter. More settled. More “normal.”
But it didn’t.
Liam was still struggling. I was still exhausted. And yet, in the middle of sleep deprivation, constant nursing, doctor visits, and emotional overload, I was also building a business. Making decisions. Pouring heart and energy into something bigger than myself. There were days when it felt impossible—when I wondered how I could nurture a child who needed me constantly while also nurturing a dream that had been planted in my heart long before.
But somehow, both lived side by side.
Charlie & James became more than a shoppe—it became an extension of everything this season was teaching me: resilience, surrender, faith, and endurance. It was built in the margins. In contact nap windows. In late nights. In moments where I had nothing left but still showed up.
In the middle of all the exhaustion there was light.
One day, my mom was helping me with Liam and turned on a praise and worship playlist. Something shifted. When Liam wouldn’t sleep or settle, I played it again. Over time, I realized he would usually calm to Way Maker. That song became our anthem—filling our home day and night. And eventually, my three-year-old began singing it whenever Liam cried. Even now, that brings tears to my eyes.
One night, completely defeated, I sat in the recliner nursing Liam—the only way he would sleep—with worship music playing softly. God, You’re So Good came on, and I had a moment of clarity. I had spent so much time asking God why He would allow my baby to suffer… and why He would allow me to suffer alongside him.
And suddenly, the answer wasn’t spoken—it was felt.
God was still good.
Even in the storm.
My baby was alive. He was here.
And instead of questioning God, I realized He was using this child—the one who wouldn’t sleep—to draw me closer to Him. I never would have played Way Maker on repeat without Liam. I never would have been awake in the middle of the night being quietly ministered to through worship. And in that moment, I told God I would do it all over again just to have that realization.
Because of Liam’s struggles, life felt very small for a long time. Church felt impossible. I couldn’t pump milk. He wouldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t tolerate the nursery. But one day, my husband and I decided we were going to try anyway. I stayed up until 3 a.m. trying to pump milk just so we could go. It wasn’t perfect—but it was a beginning.
I worried about what people thought. I noticed the looks when we dropped Asher off at nursery but not Liam. I didn’t need the judgment or guilt. As Liam got older, it became impossible to bring him into services or Sunday school—but he still couldn’t go to nursery either. I still can’t pump consistently enough. He still struggles with strangers. He still can’t tolerate dairy at fifteen months old.
I long for normalcy. I long for everyday things not to be so hard. I hold myself together well in front of others—but the internal battle is constant.
Recently, the word resilient stopped me in my tracks. That word is me this year.
“There are storms you never ask for.
But some things bend and never break.”
Like the branches of a willow tree, resilience doesn’t mean standing rigid or untouched—it means bending low, swaying with the wind, and still remaining rooted. This year bent me deeply—but it didn’t break me.
As I close the door on 2025, I don’t do so with bitterness. I do it with gratitude—for growth I never would have chosen, strength I didn’t know I had, a business born in the hardest season of my life, and a God who met me in the quiet, sleepless hours and never once left my side.
I’m not the same woman I was at the beginning of this year.
I’m softer. Stronger. More grounded.
I am resilient.
And that is how I step into whatever comes next.
”We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed.“
2 Corinthians 4:8-9