Truth.

I was raised in the church, as they say. Ours was a very large, very formal one. Every Sunday began with Sunday School, was followed by “big church,” and then a return for evening church.

The services ran like clockwork — a series of rituals, some seated, some standing. I could recite each part by heart. Everything built up to the sermon, the main event. The pastor at the time was an older gentleman (or so he seemed to me), and about as dull as they come. I don’t remember him ever telling a joke or even smiling. His sermons felt long, and some must have gone even longer — I’d catch my mother checking her watch, maybe thinking about the Sunday Chicken casserole waiting in the oven.

I did my best to listen — really listen — almost desperately searching for something I could hold on to. Even as a young girl, I was looking for truth, relevance, meaning. Where were the pearls I could carry forward?

I don’t remember finding them in his words. I think I always felt a little disillusioned, or maybe ashamed that I couldn’t find what everyone else seemed to. I must have been missing something.

Where I did find something was in the music. Some of the old hymns struck a chord deep within me. One of my favorites was “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.”

At the time, I didn’t understand the lyrics, but the music alone could undo me. I’d choke back the ugly cry so no one would see how emotional I was. Later, I learned the lyrics spoke of divine grace in the face of struggle — something the composer had experienced firsthand. Funny that it wasn’t the words that hit me then, but the feeling.

Through that song, and many others, I began experiencing something I can only describe as bigness — my own word for truth. That’s how it felt, even if I couldn’t explain why.

Truth is everywhere. We feel it in our bodies — when our throats tighten, our eyes brim with tears. We feel it in the ache of loss. We see it in the seasons changing, or night becoming day. It shows up when our gut whispers to us, when something feels off, or surprisingly right.

It saddens me how many of us are drifting from the truth. We’re surrounded by false narratives — fed to us daily — and so many of us are accepting them without question. It happens when we assume the worst of others, or when we react out of old, learned behaviors instead of presence.

I wonder what would change if more of us lived in our truth. What if we admitted when we were wrong instead of getting defensive? What if we spoke honestly, even awkwardly?

What if we let go of what holds us back — the masks we wear, the roles we think we need to play — and got clear within ourselves? About what we say yes to. What we say no to. What we actually want, and what we’re done pretending we do.

What would happen if we brought that kind of truth into our art? If we made work that felt deeply like us, even if we couldn’t explain why?

Maybe it starts with getting quiet. Listening.
What’s there, beneath the noise?
What wants to come forward?
What’s standing in the way?

I'd love to know: what truth do you want more of — in your life, or in your art?