I didn’t know the last thing I would do before my life as I knew it unraveled was send my devotional manuscript to the printer.

I had no idea that moments later, I would walk into a situation that would alter the trajectory of my life so deeply that I would not touch that phone again for over a year.

And I certainly didn’t know that the Fruits of the Spirit devotional I had spent four years writing would become one of the very things that carried me through the wilderness that followed.

But perhaps that is how God works sometimes.

Quietly preparing us long before we realize survival will be required.

I think sometimes we wait too long to tell our stories. We wait until healing is complete, until the ending is clean and until the testimony sounds polished enough to inspire someone else.

But some stories are still trembling while they’re being told. I know this storyteller (me!) is trembling inside with each key stroke.

My name is Brittany Miles. I am a mother, educator, storyteller, and someone learning that testimony does not always arrive wrapped in clarity or clean and polished. Sometimes it arrives in whispered prayers through heartbreak, and in the fragile decision to keep walking when life no longer resembles the picture you once painted in your mind.

These writings will make up a series I’ve called…The Threads I Followed Through the Wilderness.

Threads of obedience.

Of surrender.

Of transition.

Of continuity.

Of redemption.

And woven through each of them: faith, prayer, motherhood, scripture, memory, hope, identity, and the slow, sacred work of becoming.

They aren’t abstract theological ideas packaged safely after survival, but the actual things I clung to while walking through the wilderness itself.

Just before leaving behind the life I had built for what would become over a year, I was finishing Growth Plan, a Fruits of the Spirit devotional I had worked on for nearly four years.

Side note before I continue: yes, I know this passage of scripture is traditionally referred to as the Fruit of the Spirit, singular, not Fruits, plural. The choice to intentionally frame it as Fruits was symbolic for me. A metaphorical depiction of how we would slowly break down and “ingest” each attribute one at a time, allowing every fruit to be individually explored, digested, practiced, and cultivated within our lives.

Okay… back to it.

Four years of writing. Four years of dreaming. Four years of curating and investing in graphics long before Canva was even a thing. Four years of slowly gathering the threads God had been weaving through my life to create the finished work:

The Growth Plan: A 9-Week Journey Through the Fruits of the Spirit.

And then suddenly, everything around me began to unravel.

What I did not realize at the time was that God was preparing me before the wilderness fully arrived.

At the beginning of that transition and heartbreak, while driving through my town with tear-streaked cheeks, I was listening to a woman on a podcast share her story of walking through heartbreak and rebuilding. In the middle of describing her unraveling, she explained that she had asked God what she should do next.

And His response was this:

“Make the last thing I had you doing in that season the first thing you do in this one.”

Hearing those words emotionally and spiritually stopped me in my tracks. I felt them deep inside, almost as if they were an instruction meant specifically for me.

And the last thing He had me doing… was completing that devotional.

That realization felt like marching orders.

No matter how tumultuous my external circumstances felt, I knew I needed to dig in and get a tangible draft completed. I even joined a mini online masterclass about getting your “thing” printed because something inside me knew I needed to move quickly and obediently.

When that instruction settled into my spirit, mixed with the deep knowing that a shift was coming, I spent the next two days preparing a sample draft to send to the printer. I edited. I formatted. I prepared pages I had poured years of my heart into.

And then, quite literally, the VERY last thing I did before standing up, walking out of my room, and stepping into a moment that would completely pivot the trajectory of my life… was send a message to the printing company.

I set my phone down.

Little did I know, I would not touch that phone again for over a year.

Almost as if the devotional itself had not been interrupted by the devastation… but had instead been preparation for surviving it.

What I thought was ending was, in many ways, training.

The pages I had written about peace suddenly had to become the peace I practiced.

The words I wrote about joy had to survive sorrow.

The lessons on patience, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control were no longer devotional concepts sitting safely on paper. They became the thread I followed through the wilderness itself.

And perhaps that is the beauty of the fruits of the Spirit.

Love.

Joy.

Peace.

Patience.

Kindness.

Gentleness.

Self-control.

These are not just devotional concepts meant for easy seasons of life. They are steadying things to become familiar with no matter what we find ourselves walking through.

And so, over the coming weeks, I would love for us to walk through this journey together. We will attune our hearts and minds to the attributes of the Spirit one thread at a time.

If you would like to begin the Growth Plan journey alongside me, you can visit The Fruits in Bloom Collective Facebook page below to learn how to get started and follow along through the accompanying video reflections and community discussions.

Link: Fruits in Bloom Collective Facebook page

Because this was only the first thread… if obedience was the thread that carried me into the wilderness… Then surrender along with patience (sometimes stated as longsuffering) was the thread that met me once I arrived there.

Thread Two: Surrender… coming soon!

Our Daily Thread is a collaborative space. If you want to be a contributor, we would love to chat with you about it. Subscribe & send us an email at info@iamwellwoven.com!

For a long time, I exhausted myself trying to fit into rooms where I never fully felt safe, seen, or understood. I kept thinking if I just worked harder, explained myself better, stayed quieter, achieved more, or made myself easier to accept…maybe I would finally feel like I belonged there.

And honestly? Sometimes the answer is not that something is wrong with you. Sometimes the table is wrong.

Neuroscience keeps showing us that rejection and exclusion are not small things to the brain or body. The nervous system processes social rejection through some of the SAME neuro pathways as physical pain.

For me, this manifests as:

• Overexplaining.

• Overperforming.

• Masking.

• Code-switching.

• Staying hyperaware of everyone else’s comfort.

• Shrinking myself to avoid being “too much.”

• Silencing parts of myself to stay accepted.

And the dangerous part is that, in the past, sometimes I confused proximity with belonging. Just because I am allowed in the room does not mean the room is healthy for me. Some tables only value what I produce. Some only tolerate edited versions of me. Some reward self-abandonment. Some have forced me to betray my convictions just to stay included.

I don’t want belonging that costs me my nervous system.

I want spaces where I can breathe.Where I don’t feel the need to perform. Where my body is not constantly bracing.

I’m learning that every opportunity is not alignment. Sometimes rejection is protection. Sometimes exclusion is redirection.

We were not designed to spend our whole lives begging for belonging.

We were designed for connection, yes, but healthy connection. Mutual connection. Honest connection. Spaces where we can be fully human and still fully loved.

My new goal is not to sit at every table. The goal is to find the ones where I do not have to abandon myself to stay seated.

We are always told, “Don’t forget where you came from.”

While that message is rooted in humility, it rarely addresses how to handle growth. It also suggests that if your thinking evolves beyond how you were raised, you risk becoming the odd one out.

The foundation built in your adolescence serves as your initial GPS for growth. The MapQuest directions you started with will not get you to a destination that requires Google Maps. If you used printed directions from 2002, you might still arrive, but what would you miss along the way? Roads change. Cities expand. Traffic patterns shift.

The cast you were molded from was meant to be a starting point, not a destination.

As we grow, our maps update. We learn alternate routes. We navigate around obstacles. We adjust for delays. We share our location. This is our natural inclination to break the mold, even when it is uncomfortable.

Change is constant, but tradition is comfortable. As a Southern-raised man, I know how strong that pull can be. There is a certain way things are done, and not much room to deviate. Many environments are built on compliance more than curiosity.

So what happens when that mold no longer fits your destination?

Some people never step off that track. Over time, they become their own roadblock.

We Are Meant to Be Reformed

We are meant to break molds, and sometimes to be reshaped entirely.

There are many things my current wisdom would redo from my younger years. My faith, my family, and my career have all shaped me into a different man. Still, some people only see the old version.

Scripture reminds us:

“But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred… so the potter formed it into another pot.” Jeremiah 18:3–4

Life will mar you. The question is whether those experiences define you or refine you.

You are not confined to your past. But you do have to accept that not everyone will respect your growth. Some people will always see you as who you were.

The Molds We Inherit and Repeat

The mold you lean into is often the one you replicate.

I see this clearly as I raise my children. I catch myself asking, “Why am I doing this?”

Is this what my child actually needs, or is it just what I know? Is there a better, more informed way?

We do the same thing in our careers.

We label molds as policy, SOPs, best practices, or “this is how we’ve always done it.” Before you know it, you are operating like a floppy disk in a cloud-based world.

In the Army, we often say we can add to doctrine but not take away. At its best, that mindset should push leaders to build on the past while shaping something better for the future.

Leadership requires the ability to re-sculpt. You have to adjust your approach based on the environment, the people, and the mission.

When Life Forces a New Mold

I thought having a second child would be easier. We already had our parenting mold, right?

Wrong.

We had a foundation, but the details were completely different. Each child requires a different approach.

Marriage works the same way.

The person you married years ago is not the same person today. Interests evolve. Priorities shift. Life changes. One of the biggest mistakes we make is trying to force a new version of someone into an old mold.

“Remember when you used to…”

“When did you start doing that?”

“You never liked that before…”

If you find yourself saying those things, recognize what is happening. The potter is still working.

The new version will not fit the old mold, and it is not supposed to.

The Danger of Staying the Same

Not every pot gets formed.

Pride and ego are two of the biggest disruptors of growth. They create an environment where accountability and coachability disappear.

We dress it up as “standing our ground” or “sticking to our guns,” but the truth is simpler. We are choosing comfort over growth.

You have to embrace new techniques, new perspectives, and new ways of thinking. If you do, you will be surprised by what you can create.

Like any work of art, not everyone will appreciate your evolution. Your new mold will not be for everyone. But that is the point.

Beauty has always been in the eye of the beholder.

This is a collaborative space. If you want to be a contributor, we would love to chat with you about it. Subscribe & send us an email at info@iamwellwoven.com!

I was 29 years old when my first husband passed away. He was 30. It wasn’t a quick loss. Since meeting him when I was 14 years old, I felt like I watched him slowly slip away from me little by little.

I grew up in the church. In fact, it’s where I met him. Youth group, choir, “Holy Ghost parties…” he was an integral part of my adolescent years. When he died, it felt like the carpet was pulled out from under me, and with it, my identity. I was angry. I was angry at him, and I was angry at God. I mean, life was hard enough, and now I was a 30-year-old widow. I spent a good part of my youth acting as his caregiver, and I had nothing to show for it…no husband, no career, no children, nothing.

Frankly, this was probably the time I was the most honest with God. Growing up as a “church kid,” you learn how to pray a certain way — the fancy words, the poetic cadences, memorized Scriptures, moans — but in this season of my life, none of that seemed to matter. It felt empty, and I was desperate to be rescued from the despair I was encountering.

Feeling like my prayers were hitting the ceiling and catapulting back down over my head like cracked eggs, I decided I needed a “faith break.” It was time to go out and find ME. Since I spent the better part of my youth doing what I felt was the right thing to honor my late husband and God, I decided it was time to explore the things I never had a chance to. If you knew me during this season, you know it got messy and risky, and if I’m honest, pretty exhilarating. I won’t bore you with the details…I’ll save that for another post. But I definitely had my loved ones biting their nails, worrying about me.

What started off as rebellion turned into a beautiful love story of encounter. I was taught that God is so holy you leave Him behind when you partake in unclean things, so imagine my surprise to be running away from my faith and seeing Him chase after me.

One of the places I visited often during this season of my life was New Orleans, LA — or NOLA, as we call it. I lived in Canada at the time, but I would find ways to escape to NOLA more times than I care to admit. If you’ve ever experienced Bourbon St., you’d know how wild it is. Though it has its hallmarks of debauchery, it’s also full of beautiful culture, history, diversity. I loved it — the musty smell, the people, the drinks…especially the drinks. It was a good escape.

On one of the nights we were there partying, we ended up in a hole-in-the-wall strip club. And when I say “hole-in-the-wall,” I mean it. From Bourbon St., you could barely see it. These types of adventures were not uncommon for me back then. After all, I left my faith and my grief in Canada — or so I thought.

This time was different, though.

As soon as I walked in, I felt uncomfortable. I just chalked it up to the libations (Grenades, anyone!). There was a woman on stage dancing while our group was laughing, drinking, and having a good time. Despite my many attempts to ignore this gut-wrenching feeling that something wasn’t right, I just couldn’t shake it. As the woman was dancing, I couldn’t stop staring at her — don’t get me wrong, she was beautiful, but my eyes couldn’t stop seeing her sadness. Deep sadness. I could identify it because I know it well…I felt it, too.

And that’s when it happened. The Holy Spirit showed up and spoke to me. Can you imagine thinking you’ve thrown your faith to the wind, and God shows up uninvited to remind you that He sees you…but not just you — the half-naked woman on the stage, too?

The Holy Spirit ministered to my soul that night right there in the strip club. So much so that it was one of the initial sparks that led me to become a therapist, my marketplace ministry, and why I can share it today.

I left the strip club changed that night. Not immediately, but gradually. Then, I don’t think I had the capacity to fully unpack what happened. God in the strip club? Nope, that didn’t track with my version of Christianity at the time. God is with me, but only as long as I’m “acting right.” It didn’t compute.

It’s funny because the Scriptures are filled with stories of God running after His children… but our brains are wired to see threat, not pursuit.

We scan for danger, not love. We remember pain more than provision. We brace for abandonment…even when we’re being chased by grace. That’s why His pursuit can feel unfamiliar…even unnoticeable…even uncomfortable.

In Matthew 18, Jesus talks about the Good Shepherd leaving the 99 sheep to find the one that was lost. I’ve heard this passage preached every which way but loose growing up, but I never heard many people talk about where the one lost sheep may have been. A cave, maybe?

On that night, Jesus didn’t go after His long-lost sheep in a cave. He met me in a strip club. How scandalous is that? Not the altar, not Sunday School, not a prayer meeting…but a STRIP CLUB.

As I continue to unpack that time in my life with the Lord through therapy, it’s becoming quite clear that God does not run from our pain but into the fire with us. He’s not scared of the mud — He conquered it.

That night in the strip club reframed everything I thought I knew about God.

He wasn’t waiting for me to clean myself up. God wasn’t standing at a distance with His arms crossed, disappointed. He wasn’t confined to church walls or “holy” moments. He came for me. Right in the middle of my grief. Right in the middle of my anger. Right in the middle of my running. And not just me…He saw her, too.

The God I thought I had to perform for…was actually pursuing me. The God I thought I left behind…never left me. So now, I read those Scriptures differently.

God doesn’t just leave the 99. He steps into the places we think disqualify us. He walks straight into the mess, the confusion, the rebellion…the chaos…and calls us by name.

Not to shame us. Not to expose us. But to bring us home. And if He met me there…in a rinky-dink strip club, in my grief, in my anger…there’s no place He won’t go to find you.

This is a collaborative space. If you want to be a contributor, we would love to chat with you about it. Subscribe & send us an email at info@iamwellwoven.com!

I’ve been doing this long enough to know that routine saves lives.

Not just in the Army…at home too. When our first kid was born, we became almost obsessive about it. Bath time at seven.

Dinner together when I’m not working late. Saturday mornings daddy cooks breakfast. Small things, but they mattered. They still do. Our oldest doesn’t fully understand why we do half of it, but she knows when something’s off. Kids that age are more perceptive than we give them credit for.

And after nearly two decades in uniform, I can tell you…a man without structure is a man without a foundation. I’ve seen it in Soldiers and I’ve seen it in fathers. Same result either way.

So, I believe in routine. I’ve built my family and career around it. But I’ve also learned that routine has a cost.

For the most part, it gives structure to our days and predictability to our lives. And it creates a rhythm we can rely on. A quiet assurance of what comes next. And in a world that often feels chaotic, that kind of predictability is powerful.

For a man leading his family, routine is more than convenience, it’s responsibility.

Your wife and your children should be able to depend on you. They should feel the consistency of your presence, your leadership, your protection. There’s an unspoken confidence that forms when a family knows: “Daddy’s got us.” And in that confidence, there is peace.

But here’s what we don’t talk about enough: The cost of it all.

Because life doesn’t remain predictable. Challenges come. Pressure builds. Circumstances shift. And suddenly, the very routine that once created stability now becomes a standard you’re expected to uphold no matter what.

That’s where the weight sets in.

You’ve built trust. You’ve established consistency. Now you must deliver, even when life doesn’t go according to plan.

And it won’t.

Scripture reminds us that “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” We all have moments where we miss the mark. The question isn’t if you’ll fall short, it’s: Who do you become when you do?

What version of you shows up when the plan breaks? What tone do you set in your home when things go wrong? What temperature do you create in moments of stress?

Because your family doesn’t just experience your routine, they experience your response.

Consistency, discipline, and grace are the currencies that sustain a healthy routine.

• Consistency builds trust

• Discipline sustains performance

• Grace repairs what inevitably break

Without grace, routine becomes pressure. Without discipline, it becomes chaos. And without consistency, it becomes meaningless.

In the Army, we don’t just call it routine, we call it a battle rhythm. In garrison, a strong battle rhythm brings order and predictability. It aligns teams, clarifies expectations, and keeps operations running smoothly.

However, in combat, we must disrupt the rhythm. If you stay predictable, you become vulnerable.

So you adapt. You adjust. You change tempo to stay effective in a dynamic environment.

Life requires that same awareness.

Not every season of life is the same. Some seasons are peacetime, where consistency and structure are exactly what your family needs. Other seasons are war, where flexibility, resilience, and adaptation become essential.

The mistake many of us make is trying to apply the same routine to every season.

But strong leaders at home and in uniform must understand this: You don’t abandon routine. You adapt your battle rhythm.

With that, I find that routine is a gift but it’s also a responsibility. It creates peace, but it also creates expectation. So the real question isn’t just whether you have a routine…

It’s this: Do you have the awareness to adjust it when life demands it and the character to lead well when it breaks?

Because in the end, your family, your Soldiers, or your team won’t remember your perfect routine. They’ll remember how you showed up when it wasn’t.

We’ve all heard it, whether whispered in a church pew or shouted across social media:

“You don’t need therapy. You just need to pray.”

Or its cousin:

“You just need more faith.”

Let’s pause there.

Needing help doesn’t mean your faith is weak… it means you’re human. God didn’t design us to do life alone. Even Moses had Aaron. David had Jonathan. Jesus had twelve.

Therapy offers a sacred space to process the parts of life that can’t be fixed with a social media quote or a Sunday sermon. It’s where you can unpack grief, explore trauma, set boundaries, and discover how your story is still unfolding…with God right in the middle of it.

Sometimes we treat faith like a bypass around suffering, as if being spiritual exempts us from sadness, anxiety, or burnout. But Scripture shows us something different.

Elijah was so depressed he asked God to take his life. Job lost everything and sat in silence for days. Jesus Himself wept and sweat blood in the Garden.

Faith isn’t about pretending things are okay. It’s about trusting God even when they’re not. And therapy can help you walk through those “even when” moments with tools, truth, and support that align with your values.

What Faith-Informed Therapy Isn’t

Let’s clear up a few misconceptions:

• It’s not Bible-thumping or behavior-policing.

• It’s not someone lecturing you on how to be a “better Christian.”

• It’s not a replacement for church, prayer, community, or your relationship with Christ.

Faith-informed therapy is simply this: a space where your beliefs are respected, your spiritual questions are welcome, and your healing is approached holistically from a Kingdom persoective — body, mind, and soul.

So, can you talk to God and a therapist? Absolutely.

In fact, a therapy session can be used to create space to hear from God with a trusted ally.

Matthew 18:20 says wherever two or three people come together in Jesus’ name, He is with them. It doesn’t say “two or three… unless it’s therapy.” Somewhere along the way, we decided Jesus belongs in sanctuaries but not in sessions.

But if His presence is tied to people gathering in His name, then He shows up wherever that happens. Even there. Especially in vulnerable spaces like therapy.

While prayer changes things, therapy helps you process them. While faith gives you hope, therapy offers you the skills and accountability to be steadfast in the healing.

God can heal your body. But if your habits don’t change, you won’t know how to carry the healing. A miracle isn’t meant to replace stewardship. This is where therapy can help.

Prayer and therapy can work together…with a therapist who lives and honors Kingdom values.

Looking for values-informed therapy that aligns with your faith and worldview? WellWoven Integrative Care would love to walk with you. Call us at 502-430-1404 or email us at info@iamwellwoven.com

I used to be really good at cutting people off. Like… really good. Oftentimes, no explanation. No second chances. I just stopped engaging.

If something felt off, if I felt hurt, misunderstood, or uncomfortable, I was out. I was stayed polite, but disengaged emotionally. And if I’m honest, I wore it like a badge of honor. It felt like strength. Like self-respect. Like I had “boundaries.”

But healing has a way of shifting how you see things. And, boy, have I shifted on this. Because what nobody told me is this: Sometimes cutting people off is not always boundaries. Sometimes it is avoidance. And avoidance has teeth.

As I’ve done my own work, both personally and professionally, I’ve had to sit with something uncomfortable.

The times I cut people off were not always about protecting my peace. I was protecting myself from discomfort, vulnerability, and the possibility of having to repair something. Cutting people off meant I never had to say “Hey, that hurt me.”

It meant I did not have to sit in awkward conversations or work through misunderstandings. It meant I did not have to risk being disappointed again.

But it also meant I never gave relationships a real chance to grow. And that part is harder to admit. Somewhere along the way, everything became “toxic.”

And to be clear, some relationships are unhealthy, unsafe, and harmful. Those absolutely require distance or ending the relationship. But if we are honest, sometimes we use the word “toxic” a little too quickly.

Sometimes what we are experiencing is miscommunication, emotional immaturity, unmet expectations, different personalities, our own past traumas or triggers, or simple discomfort. And discomfort is not always danger.

When cutting people off becomes the default, we can miss out on things we actually need in order to build healthy relationships — especially the beauty of being fully known, not just in our easy moments. Not always, but sometimes.

Over time, this can quietly lead to something we do not always expect. Isolation. Not the peaceful kind of solitude we talk about on social media, but the kind where relationships feel short-lived, fragile, or hard to maintain.

One of the biggest shifts in my life has been learning about repair. And honestly, teaching it. In the work I do with individuals and couples, I see this all the time. People are not struggling because conflict exists. They are struggling because they do not know what to do after something goes wrong. Repair is what happens after the rupture. And rupture is normal.

Repair sounds like:

“I didn’t realize that hurt you. Can we talk about it?”

“I see how I showed up, and I want to do better.”

“That was not my intention, but I understand the impact.”

“Can we try again?”

It is not always clean. It is not always comfortable. But it is where trust is actually built. Not in perfection, but in how we come back to each other. Without repair, even good relationships fall apart.

Even as a therapist, I am not writing this as someone who gets it right each time. I am human.

I am writing this as someone who is continuously rejecting the instinct to immediately leave the moment when something feels off without being curious, speaking up, and working through things when it is safe to do so. And I challenge my clients to do the same.

I have had to grieve some relationships I cut off too quickly. Relationships that, looking back, might have been really meaningful if I had the skills I have now.

That is a hard realization. But it is an honest one.

This is not a message to stay in situations that are harmful, unsafe, or abusive.

There are absolutely times when the healthiest thing you can do is walk away.

Discernment matters.

There are ways you can learn to tell to tell the difference between when to repair and when to let something go, because that line can feel really blurry. I’ll post some resources about that soon…stay tuned.

If this is something you are navigating

If you are in a situation where you feel unsafe, overwhelmed, or unsure, please do not navigate that alone.

Some resources:

• National Domestic Violence Hotline (U.S.): 1-800-799-7233

• 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline: call or text 988

• Or reaching out to a trusted friend, therapist, or local support. Feel free to reach out to us if you’re looking for therapy or coaching support.

Boundaries matter. But so does connection.

And if every relationship ends the moment it gets uncomfortable, it might not be peace you’re protecting…it might be our capacity to stay, be known, and build something real.

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