The Journey To A Great Surrender

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

Trust God.

Two words that I literally had to cling to all week. & thanks to a sticky note from a coworker I had this reminder in front of my face everyday – to ensure that I would actually remember to trust even when I felt like my faith was off roading. Because that’s what it has felt like lately; faith is anything but solid.

Trauma breaks trust. My medical trauma has broken trust with doctors. It has also broken trust with God at times. How can I trust that God is still good even when circumstances feel otherwise? Pain comes, and God allows. But I stay in the wrestle. Sticking it out in the tension of the now and not yet.

This last week was the week that I had equally been waiting for and dreading. I knew it was going to come with some heaviness, but ultimately some answers too. At least that’s what I hoped. We all want answers and after a month + of waiting for results, I got mine.

What a sense of relief when I heard my doctor say “you have an autoimmune disease”. Weird huh? That I would be relieved by that. But only because for months I’ve been feeling like my body has been working against me in different ways than my endometriosis already does. It was validating to know that there was an explanation for the new pain.

Don’t get me wrong, there was still a rush tears in the middle of the parking lot after the appointment, followed by thoughts of okay what now? What do I do with this information and how is it going to impact my day to day life? There was anger, and grief, and a rush of fear. It was in the parking lot that I was reminded that strong faith weeps. I have faith, and I believe that Jesus can heal, but He hasn’t chosen that to be part of my story.. yet. So tears fall as I thank God for the answer, but pose the question of why this?

The Bible reminds us that Jesus wept. And that is encouraging to me in this season, because I know that it’s okay for me to be sad in the midst of the things I wouldn’t choose for myself. I have to make the conscious decision EVERYDAY to trust God with my life, even when it makes zero sense to me to still trust. He knows I wouldn’t choose this for myself, but He also knows what I need, and I am just over here in my corner of the world trying to wrap my brain around His plan. Hoping that healing in some capacity is still in the plan… somewhere.

Navigating endometriosis & rheumatoid arthritis & an eating disorder is anything but simple but I know God gives me the strength day in and out to keep moving forward, because I’m still here walking it all out.

Fear not, easy to say, not easy to do. In the fire, in the waters, Lord fixate my eyes on you.

– Taylor Kate