The Journey To A Great Surrender

I heard some words last Thursday that I haven’t heard in almost a whole year from my dietitian—the dreaded, “Did you know your weight is down?”—and I stared at my computer screen feeling like my entire world had just shattered, like every bit of progress I had made in my recovery had somehow disappeared in that one sentence.

Three weeks before a milestone in my eating disorder recovery, I got hit with a setback. And isn’t that just the way life works sometimes? You can get so close to something you’ve been working toward for so long, only to suddenly feel like you are farther away than you were before. For a moment, it can make you question whether all of the hard work has really mattered.

The milestone I’m talking about is September 26th, the day last year that I hit my goal weight and really began to see a different kind of hope for my recovery. And now I find myself three weeks away from that date again, having to remind myself that having a hard couple of weeks is not the end of the world.

It does not erase the months of work, the brave choices, the meals I’ve eaten when I didn’t want to, the conversations I’ve had when I wanted to shut down, or the ways I have fought to choose life over my eating disorder again and again.

Has it been hard? Absolutely.

Has it felt like a setback? Yes.

Does it make me sad? Absolutely.

But I also know that a hard two weeks does not automatically mean a relapse. Progress is still progress even when it doesn’t look the way I hoped it would, because no one likes feeling like they are going backward after working so hard to move forward.

I wish I could say recovery has been this beautiful, steady climb where every day feels easier than the one before, but that wouldn’t be honest. And I’m not about telling lies just to make recovery look prettier than it really is.

Recovery is hard, and it is anything but a straight path forward. Sometimes you take five steps forward and then suddenly find yourself standing in a place you thought you had already left, wondering how you got there and whether you have to start all over again.

The last two weeks have brought a lot of change, and when change comes, Mr. Eating Disorder seems to come right along with it, ready to convince me that food is pointless, that maybe I don’t need as much, and that maybe I should go back to the things that used to make me feel safe.

And if that sounds exhausting, it is.

ED doesn’t exactly know how to be quiet and reasonable. He likes to create drama and make everything feel like an emergency.

There have been moments lately where I have felt completely overwhelmed by everything happening around me and everything happening inside of me. In those moments, that familiar voice of my eating disorder has tried to convince me that maybe going backward would actually be easier, that maybe I should hold onto the things I’ve been learning to let go of, and that maybe I’m not as strong as I thought I was.

And if I’m being completely honest, there is a part of me that wants to look at this dip and immediately assume it means I’m failing—that I’m losing all of my progress, that I’m doing recovery wrong, that somehow because things feel harder right now, I must be going backward.

But I’m learning that hard does not mean failure.

A difficult season does not erase the work I have already done.

One hard week doesn’t erase the brave choices I made last month, and one difficult moment doesn’t take away the progress that has taken so much courage to make.

Struggling does not mean I’m back at the beginning.

It means I’m human.

And I’m in the middle of something that is really, really hard.

There are days when I feel strong and confident in my recovery. Days when I feel tired and scared and unsure. Days when choosing recovery feels almost natural, and other days when it feels like the hardest choice in the world.

Honestly, most days I feel all of those things somewhere within the same 24 hours.

There are moments when I can clearly see how far I’ve come, and then there are moments when all I can see is how far I still have to go.

I’m learning that both can be true at the same time.

I can be incredibly grateful for how far I’ve come and still acknowledge that something feels hard right now.

I can be proud of my progress and still need support.

I can be healing and still have hard days.

I can be choosing freedom while simultaneously grieving the comfort and familiarity that my eating disorder once gave me.

Because the truth is, my eating disorder has been a safety net for a very long time. It convinced me that I needed it, that it was protecting me, that it gave me something to control when everything else in life felt out of control.

But I’m beginning to understand that something can feel safe and still be keeping you trapped.

And I don’t want to be trapped anymore.

I want my life back.

I want freedom.

I want to be present in my own life instead of constantly living in my head—calculating, analyzing, questioning, and wondering if I’m doing everything “right.”

I want to experience life without constantly measuring my worth against numbers, food, my body, or whether I have somehow earned the right to enjoy something.

I want to laugh without my eating disorder interrupting the moment.

I want to make memories without wondering if I deserve them.

I want to wake up and think about what life has to offer instead of immediately thinking about what I need to control.

I want to keep becoming the person God created me to be and live the life He has given me instead of allowing ED to keep shrinking my world.

And that is why this bump matters.

Not because it means I’m failing, but because it gives me another opportunity to choose differently.

I can give up and go backward, or I can tell my ED to zip it, and keep fighting.

Because while my eating disorder is screaming, “Let’s go back,” God is reminding me, “It’s not worth going back there.”

I know where that road leads.

And I have lived enough of it to know that I don’t want to go there again.

God is not only present when I’m doing well. He isn’t only with me when I feel strong, confident, and victorious.

He is with me here, too.

Right in the messy middle.

Right in the uncertainty.

Right in the moments when I’m scared.

Right in the moments when I don’t know what the next step looks like.

Right in the moments when I feel like I should have this figured out by now.

That’s where faith becomes real—not when everything makes sense and the road is easy to see, but when I choose to trust God even when I don’t understand what He is doing, even when I don’t know how everything is going to work out, and even when I have to take the next step without knowing what comes after it.

I don’t know exactly what these next three weeks will look like.

I don’t know what challenges might come or how many more bumps there will be along the way.

But I do know this:

I don’t want to turn around.

I don’t want to go back to the place I fought so hard to leave, and I don’t want to let one difficult season convince me that freedom isn’t worth fighting for.

I don’t want to confuse discomfort with danger.

I don’t want to let fear make my decisions anymore.

So today, I’m choosing recovery.

Not perfectly.

Not without fear.

And certainly not because I suddenly have everything figured out.

I’m choosing recovery because I know where I want to go, and I know where I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go back.

This bump is just a part of my story. It is not the ending.

God is still here. He is still working. He is still leading me.

And I am still choosing recovery, even on the days when choosing recovery feels hard.

Maybe that’s what progress looks like sometimes. Not feeling strong, but choosing the right thing even when I don’t feel strong.

Getting back up when I fall.

Reaching out instead of isolating.

Sitting down at the dinner table with my favorite people and enjoying every minute.

Taking the next right step without needing to know where the entire road leads.

Reminding myself that I don’t have to win the entire battle today. I just have to keep choosing the next right thing.

It is saying:

“I’m scared, but I’m still here.”

“It’s hard, but I’m not giving up.”

“I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I trust God with it.”

So I’m taking this one day at a time, one choice at a time, one prayer at a time, one step at a time, and yes, one meal at a time.

And when September 26th comes around, I will still be here. And I will still celebrate how far I’ve come. Not because recovery has been perfect. Not because I never struggled along the way. But because I kept choosing recovery even when it was hard, even when ED got loud, even when fear told me to turn around, and even when taking another step forward felt easier said than done.

Maybe the biggest milestone isn’t a number on a scale or a date on a calendar. Maybe it’s realizing that I have a life worth fighting for, and that I am finally willing to fight for it.

I know where going backward leads. I know what it costs me. And I refuse to romanticize a place that took so much of my life from me just because it feels familiar.

ED may still have a voice, but he doesn’t get the final say anymore. Fear may show up, but fear doesn’t get to make my decisions.

A hard season may knock me down, but it does not get to convince me that I belong on the ground.

I am not starting over. I am not back at day zero.

I am still the girl who has fought, who has healed, who has grown, who has learned, who has chosen herself and her life over and over again.

One difficult season cannot erase that.

I am facing this bump in the road with my people beside me, with God leading me, and with the reminder that I don’t have to be fearless to keep moving forward.

I just have to keep choosing.

Choosing the meal.
Choosing the support.
Choosing the uncomfortable thing.
Choosing the life I want.
Choosing freedom.
Choosing God.

Because I am done letting ED convince me that staying stuck is safer than becoming free. I’m done letting fear make my world smaller. I’m done believing that I have to earn the right to live, eat, laugh, rest, enjoy, celebrate, and take up space.

So here I am, three weeks from a milestone, standing in the middle of a hard season, and instead of turning around, I’m putting one foot in front of the other and continuing forward.

I’m scared. I’m tired. And I don’t know exactly what the road looks like.

But I’m still here.

And I’m not going back.

God is still writing my story, and this bump is not the ending. It’s just another place where I get to decide if I choose recovery.

And I choose it.

Today, tomorrow, and every day after that, until freedom isn’t something I’m fighting for anymore, but simply the life I’m living.

– Taylor Kate

I’ve been home from vacation for a few days now, and while the jet lag is still very real, my heart feels incredibly refreshed and grateful.

Standing in the same places in Arizona that I stood 3 years ago, I couldn’t help but reflect on how far I’ve come.

If someone had told me all those years ago that I’d be where I am today, I probably would have laughed.

Back then, my world felt so much smaller.

My eating disorder had stolen so much from me—my energy, my freedom, my confidence, and countless experiences that I never thought I’d be able to enjoy fully. So much of my life revolved around fear, rules, and the constant mental battle that seemed to follow me everywhere.

But today looks different.

Today, I get to hike, explore, travel, and make memories without that battle controlling every single moment. Sure, there are still hard days, I struggle, I get tempted to go back, but recovery has given me back pieces of my life that I once thought were gone forever.

One of the most meaningful parts of this trip was getting to see my dietitian—the woman who has walked alongside me through some of the hardest seasons of recovery.

Through setbacks, surgeries, tears, victories, and everything in between, she has continued to believe in me, even on the days when I struggled to believe in myself.

And sitting with her this time around felt so different. Because I wasn’t frozen, unsure of what to say, or how to feel. Instead, I could talk about what was really happening, ask for what I actually needed, and be honest about the hard parts of where I am right now. I was reminded so clearly what a gift it is to have someone like her in my corner.

As I was walking out of her office on Saturday, I heard her say, “I’m so proud of how far you’ve come in your eating disorder recovery.”

How. Far. You. Have. Come.

I didn’t get here by accident. Those words stayed with me.

They followed me onto the plane, back home, and into my kitchen—where recovery continues in the everyday choices that no one else sees. The choices that still matter. The choices that continue to build a life of freedom. The choices that lead me to continue to follow my meal plan, even when I don’t want to.

Recovery isn’t always a straight path. There have been unexpected detours, difficult seasons, and moments when the road felt much longer than I wanted it to be.

Even now, this season hasn’t been easy. I’m still navigating eating disorder recovery and the aftermath of my hysterectomy. Some days are filled with hope, and other days I find myself wondering if I have the strength to keep fighting.

But being back there reminded me of something important: healing happens one step at a time.

It’s often slow. Sometimes messy. Rarely linear.

But it is worth it.

Today, I’m especially grateful for the people who have helped me get here—for the professionals, friends, and supporters who have encouraged me along the way. Most of all, I’m grateful for a God who continues to write a story far bigger and more beautiful than I could have imagined.

There are chapters in my story that I never would have chosen for myself. Chapters filled with pain, uncertainty, loss, and waiting. Yet God has faithfully used every one of them to shape me, grow me, and remind me that He is present in both the valleys and the victories.

Looking back, I can see His faithfulness woven through it all.

And looking ahead, I’m choosing to trust Him with whatever comes next in my road to recovery.

So here’s your reminder—and mine—to pause and celebrate how far you’ve come. The road ahead may still be long, but don’t forget to acknowledge the progress you’ve already made.

God is still writing your story.

If this season has taught me anything, it’s that God’s plans are better than my own…..and that there will always be someone in your corner, proud of the person you’re becoming.

-Taylor Kate

“I’m fighting a battle You’ve already won.”

These words were sung during worship at church today, and although I’ve heard this song countless times over the years, today it hit differently.

Today, those words found me in the middle of a battle I never asked to fight.

A battle between my heart and my reality.

A battle between the life I imagined and the life I’m learning to accept.

A battle between deep grief and deep faith.

Today is Mother’s Day, and although I have a mother, this year the day felt heavier than ever before.

As I sat in church surrounded by mothers holding babies, children wrapped around their legs, and families filling the rows beside me, I felt the ache of loss in a way I hadn’t expected.

Last Mother’s Day, I sat in that same church dreaming about the day I would finally get to have my own baby.

This year, I sat there trying to process the reality that after my hysterectomy; I will never experience motherhood the way I once pictured it.

And if I’m honest, some days that reality breaks my heart all over again.

People lovingly remind me, “You can still be a mom. It will just look different.” And I know that down to my core.

I know that motherhood can still be part of my story.

But grief has layers.

Because I’m not only grieving motherhood—I’m grieving the version of it I carried in my heart for so long.

I’m grieving the pregnancy announcements I imagined sharing.

The baby kicks I dreamed of feeling.

The experience of carrying a child I prayed for.

There are days I feel strong in my faith. And there are days I feel angry. Days I feel confused. Days I wonder why this had to be my story.

Before my surgery, my reality was endometriosis and adenomyosis. The doctors didn’t know if I could ever have children naturally, but there was still hope.

Still a chance.

And sometimes that chance was enough to hold onto: A chance to try. A chance to pray.
A chance to believe God might work a miracle in the way I had imagined.

But now, my story looks different than I planned, and I’m learning that trusting God sometimes means trusting Him while grieving. It means believing He is still good, even when life feels painfully unfair.

It means surrendering the future I pictured and trusting Him with the future I cannot yet see.

I don’t know whose womb may one day carry my child.

I don’t know how God will write this story.

But I do know this:
God is still faithful in my heartbreak.
And maybe faith isn’t pretending the pain doesn’t exist. Maybe faith is choosing to believe that even here—even in disappointment, even in grief, even in unanswered questions—God is still holding me.

So today, on Mother’s Day, I’m allowing myself to grieve what was lost while still trusting God with what’s ahead.

Because there is room for both.

Room to be heartbroken. Room to hope. Room to wrestle.

This is just another opportunity to trust God with my future, a future only He can hold.

-Taylor Kate

Six months.

Six whole months.

That’s how long it’s been since my hysterectomy.

It feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago that I said yes to the surgery that would change my body, my life—and, in so many ways, deepen my faith.

The 6-month mark hit me harder than I expected. I thought I’d move through it quietly, going about life and work without thinking much of it.

But feelings don’t work that way. They ask to be felt—sometimes gently, sometimes all at once.

And yes, grief showed up.

But so did grace.

There I was early one morning, texting a friend, trying to put words to what my heart was carrying—not even sure it made sense. And I was met with gentleness, love, and truth.

Her response felt like a warm hug, reminding me of the goodness of God. How kind is He to give us people who walk alongside us? People who remind us we are seen, cared for, and deeply loved. People who gently point us back to who we are in Christ.

Hard seasons aren’t the ones we would ever choose—but even here, there is something beautiful: the kind of friendship and faith that is formed right in the middle of them.

I’m learning that a hysterectomy isn’t just a medical procedure; it’s also a surrender. A letting go of what once was—and, in some ways, what never came to be.

I’ve had to release a future I once imagined and trust God with the one He’s writing instead. And while that hasn’t been easy, it has been meaningful.

In these past six months, there were days I expected strength and found exhaustion.

Moments I thought I’d feel like myself again, only to realize that maybe God wasn’t bringing me back to who I was—but gently leading me into who I’m becoming.

And even in the discomfort, the questions, and the grief—I’ve met Him there. In ways I never would have chosen, but now deeply treasure.

Because this season has taught me to trust more deeply.

To trust when my body feels unfamiliar.

To trust when results feel scary.

To trust when healing takes longer than I hoped.

To trust when emotions rise that I don’t yet have words for.

And maybe that’s the quiet miracle of these six months: not just that my body is healing, but that my heart is too.

Learning a steadier, deeper kind of faith.

The kind that isn’t built on how I feel—but on who God has always been: faithful, present, and unchanging.

No matter what we face, He sees it all. The test results, the worries, the unknowns—none of it catches Him off guard. He holds it all, even when we don’t understand it.

And maybe that’s exactly what we need—not all the answers, but a God who sustains us through every question. A God who carries us, strengthens us, and faithfully brings us through.

Looking back, there have been so many moments I didn’t think I would make it through. More than I could ever count.

And yet… here I am.

Still here. Every single time.

Because God gave me strength.
He gave me people.
And yes—He even gave me ice cream (I’m ready for my dessert that’s awaiting me upon finishing this post)

Six months later, I’m still here.

Still standing.
Still learning.
Still growing.
Still becoming.

God hasn’t just been restoring me—He’s been reshaping me. 

And I’m learning, slowly and sometimes reluctantly, that this version of me is still able to be used by God & is just as good as the me who once had a uterus. 

Not the life I planned—but still held by a God who doesn’t miss.

-Taylor Kate 

The last five months have felt like a marathon.

I used to run distance when I was younger… partly because I was a little crazy, but that’s beside the point. What I remember most about those long cross-country meets was how completely exhausted I felt when they ended. The moment I crossed the finish line, I had nothing left. All I wanted to do was sit down and be still.

This season of life feels a lot like those days. Like I’ve been running for miles without stopping. Pushing through pain. Wondering somewhere around mile three how much longer the course really is.

Back then, I thought the marathons would end when I quit the track team in high school. But it turns out the real marathons were waiting for adulthood. The kind that don’t happen on a track, but in the quiet places of healing, loss, and learning how to keep moving forward when you’re tired.

Healing is a marathon. And if I’m honest, I’m tired.

I wish the process were smooth and easy. I wish healing didn’t demand so much endurance. But faith keeps reminding me that even when I feel like I have nothing left, God is still running beside me. The pace might be slower than I want, and the road harder than I expected, but He hasn’t left me in the middle of the race.

Looking back on the five months since my surgery, there is so much I can thank God for. I’m still here. I’m not living in constant, overwhelming pain anymore. And by His grace, I’m making real progress in my recovery from my eating disorder. So many things have improved, not because I’ve been strong on my own, but because God has carried me when I couldn’t find the strength myself.

Five months ago, I had no idea what life would look like on the other side of surgery. Some days it has been harder than I imagined. Trying to balance and adjust hormones without crashing into menopause, nights where sleep still comes and goes, and emotions that show up like a hurricane I didn’t see coming.

And in this season, I’m watching friends have babies. Sometimes my mind starts to spiral and whisper, “See? This is what you lost when you had your hysterectomy.”

The enemy says it’s loss. God says “wait until you see what I can do.”

Faith reminds me of something deeper: loss does not mean my story is over. God is still writing it. And even in the miles I never would have chosen, He is still present, still faithful, still giving me the strength to take the next step.

So for now, I’ll keep running the race that’s in front of me. Not perfectly. Not without tears or questions. But with faith that the One who called me to this road will also sustain me through it. And maybe the finish line isn’t just the end of the race—but the moment I look back and realize that every exhausting mile was met with God’s grace, carrying me farther than I ever could have gone on my own. 

-Taylor Kate

Grief has a way of stripping life down to its essentials.

The things that once felt urgent in my life fade, and my heart is left asking quieter, heavier questions: What really matters now? Who am I without what I’ve lost? Where is God in this?

It quiets the noise of what I felt was certain in my life and leaves me standing with questions I never planned to ask. 

& Let me tell you one thing. I am the queen of questions. I ask God, “Why” 153 times a day. 

Why did I have to have a hysterectomy? Why do I lose family members? Why does my eating disorder kick my butt in seasons of grief? 

Granted, that’s only 3 of the 153 questions that I have about life on this side of Heaven. 

But I don’t have all night to write, I am tired. 

In the moments of my questioning, my faith feels less like a steady foundation and more like a fragile thread—something I’m not sure will hold, but that I cling to anyway. 

Faith feels fragile right now. Like it could shatter at any moment. 

I used to think my faith would protect me from this kind of ache. And I wish it would. 

Instead, it has met me in it. 

Not with easy answers or clear explanations, but with presence: the permission to cry, to doubt, to speak honestly into the silence and trust that God is still there, even when I can’t feel Him. 

I wrestle with grief and faith. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that they can exist together. Grief makes me feel like I’m failing in the faith department. 

BUT God sees me here. In the middle of the messy parts of life. And He still cares about my heart. 

How do I know?

Because in the midst of what feels impossible, He provides. He doesn’t rescue me from my grief…even when I beg and plead….but He gives me friends who are present, who love me well, encourage my heart, let me talk about all the things, and remind me that I’m never alone. 

& that makes such a difference in every season. 

And since I don’t have the secret to skipping through the hard parts, I’ll be here waiting, feeling all the feelings, and eating ice cream. 

• Taylor Kate

I’ve been sitting with a question these last two days: What do you do when the new year doesn’t really feel new? 

I’ve been asking myself that question for the last two days. This new year feels different, in an uncomfortable way. 

Everyone is talking about goals, and resolutions, and everything that comes with a fresh 365 days….

And I’m sitting here, still in survival. My goal isn’t a list of ambitious resolutions this year. It’s simply to sleep. To be able to get through a day without regretting my hysterectomy. To be able to live the life God has for me. 

But right now, He has me here. In a slow season. In a season where I don’t feel strong. In a season of healing, still. 

January 1st doesn’t magically take me out of what I’ve been walking through. I wish healing could be wrapped up in a sparkly bow and handed to me with a “Happy New Year!” But it doesn’t work like that.

I’m still in the middle of the long wrestle of hormonal chaos that wakes me up at 3am every night begging to be felt. I feel you. I don’t want to feel you at 3am. I want to sleep. 

Leave. me. alone. 

Heaven feels so silent. I can’t even count the amount of times I’ve uttered the words:

 “God, please just let me get rest” 

I don’t understand how I could be doing everything right and still be struggling. I’m taking all my supplements, staying on top of all my hormones, getting morning sunlight in my eyes, drinking water, and following my meal plans. 

And yet, things still feel hard. 

But God isn’t asking me to do 100 things. 

He is just asking for my surrender. 

He’s asking me to trust Him. But guess what I’m really bad at? Yeah. Trusting God in the hard moments. In the moments where I feel like I could do it better. Or faster. 

He sees me trying to sprint through this season, and He’s forcing me to surrender. To stop trying to take matters into my own hands. 

I’m not God, and truly I don’t really want to be Him. I just want to feel better. But feeling better only comes with letting Him take over & lead the way. He knows the plan. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I get rather frustrated with that sometimes. Insert control here.

He is making me wait. And waking me up at 3am knowing out of desperation I’m going to start praying. 

I know my recovery is not an overnight thing. As of mid next week, I’ll be at month 3. It’s a whole 6-12 month process. 

Girl, you have a long ways to go. Buckle up. 

Deep down, I believe there is goodness waiting on the other side of this struggle. This season I’m in will not last forever. My hysterectomy was not a mistake—it was part of the plan God has for me, even if I can’t yet understand why. Though the path feels confusing and heavy, I hold onto the hope that purpose lies in this journey, and one day the reasons will become clear.

Slow healing is still real healing. And although the middle of the story hurts, it’s not the end. 

I might have had to leave my uterus in 2025, but I didn’t leave my hope there with it. 

• Taylor Kate  

I’m still not where I want to be.

This thought has been running on a hamster wheel in my mind for 6 weeks as I have been trying to figure out my recovery.

I say figure out, because I have absolutely NO idea what I am doing here.

I am in uncharted territory.

It seemed way easier at the beginning when I was sleeping all the time, and all I had to worry about was managing pain meds.

I still had fresh hope in week two.

And now? Fresh out of that hope.

Weeks three and on came and were not as friendly as the first two weeks of this journey. I have entered into the realm of no sleep, emotional roller coasters, and the hormone crashes. And it’s not as fun.

I have caught myself thinking a lot in the last few days that I want my uterus back.

Girl, no, you don’t. You just don’t want to feel any of what you are feeling right now. Be real.

Welcome to my inner dialogue. We don’t like feelings in the current moment.

But whether I like them or not, they are still coming, and I am letting it happen. Because the stronger, wiser people in my life are telling me not to bottle them all up right now.

Thank you to the friends who have held hope for me, and reminded me that God is still here, and there is still good.

The brokenness that comes with having a hysterectomy feels never-ending most days.

It’s most in the days when I randomly remember that I will never carry a baby.

It’s felt in the moments when I am standing in church, worship music in the background, that’s proclaiming the faithfulness of God. When I am standing there in a puddle of my own grief, wondering how a good God could let this happen.

It’s felt in the doctor’s office when my surgeon goes over the biopsy results once again and reminds me how dysfunctional my uterus was.

Today as I was sitting in her office I was equally hopeful and discouraged. Hopeful for a future of no more endometriosis surgeries (fingers crossed) as she didn’t find much disease in this 4th surgery – but also discouraged because she didn’t clear me yet due to a trip to the ER that I took last Saturday.

She looked at me and said “historically, we know your body takes a long time to heal.” Yes, we do know that, but I’m not thrilled about those reminders.

So here we are, two more weeks before I can lift, carry a work bag, workout, and live a somewhat normal life again.

Long live the Fanny pack.

-Taylor Kate