June 2026
24.
I’ve hardly known life apart from writing. I began carrying a notebook and pen with me before I was even allowed to sit in the front seat, eager to tell stories with beauty. I was only seven or eight when Still Hollow Farm in Greeneville had a family day, and I went around to strangers asking them about how they were feeling, what their favorite part of the day was, and what made them happiest. I scribbled words, misspelling most of them, onto the pages of the black-and-white composition book that matched my Daddy’s. I eventually upgraded to glitter gel pens, sponsored by my Mimi herself, that kept the most extroverted girl you’ve ever met alone in her room with her journal.
I spent most of my time writing from tree branches, though. And before I had language like “embodiment” or “discipleship”, I wrote about how much I longed to be outside. I would ride my bike up and down the hill in my neighborhood as if the whole world belonged to me. So much of my childhood included the wind stinging as it hit my face and callused hands from climbing trees. I carried a blue rope with me through my stomping grounds to climb and swing, and I still envy the arm strength of childhood Emma.
All of life to me was adventure, as I’ve hardly known life apart from it, either. I really only got in trouble for wandering too far or for staying out after the streetlights came on.
I think I climbed every tree I physically could, going much higher than I should have, until the branches thinned out and everything on the ground looked small. I sat in the leaves and spoke with God out loud, closed my eyes and pictured Him next to me. I would pull out the journal and glitter gel pens here to write about what I was seeing, as writing and adventure felt so inexplicably intertwined. I felt so near to Christ here, like He was present in the wind and the leaves and the height.
But as I grew older, my limitless body that offered me the key to adventure became fragile. By twenty years old, it was something I had to monitor and negotiate with. There were so many years that movement cost more than it gave back. Adventure became risk, calculation, limitation. And with these, fear became an intimate companion.
As my writing career went public, I found myself overflowing with words about grief. This very blog became a platform to discuss suffering and joy, both being deeply intertwined, inseparable even.
I am coming up on a year of what I’m calling “miracle health”. I spent so long being sick—and sickness being my identity—that this year has been made up of the tender work of rediscovering myself. As I first began to feel normal again, I thought I needed to fight for the girl who existed before sickness: the girl who was fearless and a little naive. But this is important and a recap from May’s blog:
Healing is not just “going back” to who you were. I don’t think suffering leaves us untouched enough for simple return. Life “on the other side” comes with new priorities, new community. In this season, the pages where I used to write about grief have been replaced by words about fear. I have a new set of fears that don’t necessarily need to be eliminated, but I do need to learn how to move through life with the trembling.
This was real for Christ, too, just before the cross in Gethsemane. Fear is not hidden in His story, not spiritualized, not cleaned up for the sake of appearance. He comes trembling honestly before God: overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Fear is not foreign to holiness, and Luke’s account of this story is a perfect example:
“And he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, and knelt down and prayed, saying, ‘Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.’ And there appeared to him an angel from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” (Luke 22:41-44)
Being faithful often feels like shaking, rather than strength. Jesus moved toward the cross as a whole, embodied human who was terrified of what was in front of Him… and still chose to go.
Nashville is where so much of my Mom’s family lives, so we often find ourselves there for major events. We met together recently for my cousin Elijah’s graduation, all huddled together on the bleachers of the high school football stadium, unsure of whether it was going to storm on us or not. As Elijah hugged family and friends after the ceremony, I wandered the now-empty bleachers with my little cousin Everett. “Do you wanna race?” I asked him, desperate to move my body after sitting still for so long. His lanky, little seven-year-old legs took off. I hurried to run after him. But my skirt got caught underneath my feet, and I took a tumble down the bleachers. It was a legs-getting-thrown-over-my-head ordeal, and for a brief moment, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to walk.
About 36 hours later, I had gnarly bruises on my knees and hips, and my head was absolutely killing me. I tried to go to the bouldering gym with my friends Liz and Lauren, but I kept getting dizzy and nauseous. It wasn’t until I pulled over to vomit on the drive home that I realized I probably had a concussion from the bleacher-disaster.
The next several days, I tried to keep to a dark room and rest. I was overwhelmed with cabin fever and just so angry that I was being held back by my body yet again. In the stillness, my mind just spun, thinking of all the adventures I wanted to do.
A few days later, I sat surrounded by my closest gal pals in discipleship group, and I said, “Guys, I think I want to go skydiving.” A few of them jumped up and immediately agreed to go with me, while the others said, “Not a freaking chance.” I couldn’t help but laugh because of how much the idea of jumping out of an airplane terrified me. I’m actually quite scared of heights, but I’ve clung to the idea of being scared and doing it anyway because I don’t want to live my life missing out anymore.
I think I grew up believing, without ever being told directly, that spiritual maturity meant becoming less afraid. Almost like holiness was emotional distance from the body. Gethsemane refuses that idea and shows us that courage is movement through fear. Not escape from the body, but obedience in it.
I keep seeing this phrase on Instagram reels that is sticking with me: No one is doing more than a girl who’s making up for all the time she lost to surviving. That’s what 2026 has been for me, full of adventures, laughter, concerts. I have tried new hobbies and jumped back into old ones. After years of saying “no” to keep from making my health worse, I just can’t bear the idea of fear keeping me from saying “yes” ever again.
I turned 24 a few days ago. I used to reach milestones like this one and drain them of their joy with comparison to my parents, to my friends, to what I had dreamed for myself for years. But as I sat with the reality of turning the age that my Mom was when she had me, I found myself at peace and content. I’m loving the season of life I am in, and I love being able to return to the adventure I craved when I was a kid.
I spend many afternoons now going by myself to the state park by my house to run, but often end up climbing the rocks and trees. My hands are covered in scrapes and dead skin, just like a little kid, because I really am returning to the roots of who I was at six (despite not being the same because of what I have been through). Being in the woods alone is scary, and I find joy in it anyway. Climbing taller rocks terrifies me, and I feel so grounded while clinging to them anyway.
I’m able to really be myself when I do it afraid, anyway.
Probably because the very act of leaning into our fears is the embodiment of Christ’s strength in us. What we call bravery is often nothing more than weakness that has learned to lean its whole weight upon God. We often imagine His power as a shield from fear, when it is truly a hand that leads us forward, despite it.
I don’t know what tree you need to climb, what creek you need to swim in, or what fears are holding you back from them. But I do hope you will embrace adventure, afraid.
And find joy there.
Until next time, friend—
Emma B