04/17/2026
Hey fam! Andrea here. 👋
With Easter still in the rearview and the business’s first birthday(!) upon us (more on that in a later post), God nudged me to share a bit of our backstory in lieu of your usual WEEKLY WORMHOLE.
Before I get into it, please know that I’m talking to you as fellow human beings rn, not as potential customers — just wanna underscore that. So, even if you never step foot in our little bookstore after this, that’s okay; if you know someone on the verge of giving up, I encourage you to keep reading, bc maybe this is meant to speak to them.
And one more thing to note before I bare my soul: I’ve spent the past two weeks writing, deleting, and re-writing drafts of this very personal story, not wanting to publish anything else to social media until I get it right and properly out there. I prayed for the Holy Spirit to guide me as I crafted THIS message, in particular, considering the gravity of the subject matter, bc I don’t wanna get it wrong.
((Tl;DR: If you love it, give God the glory. Hate it? Give ME the finger. Agreed? 😉))
Okay, so.
I’m not gonna bore you with the nitty-gritty about my genetic condition, bc that isn’t what’s important here. All you need to know, for the purposes of this story, is that I spent almost 10 years battling increasingly debilitating pain with little to no help from more than a dozen doctors. They failed for years to even diagnose me, let alone alleviate my pain, w/ many treating me like a drug-seeking ju**ie or “hysterical woman”/hypochondriacal head-case.
Sometimes I even questioned my OWN sanity.
The opioid crisis did me no favors, either. Even the compassionate doctors - which were the exception to the rule, in my experience, sadly - didn’t wanna risk the DEA scrutiny that came w/ writing a script, and I’d need 2-3 more limbs to count the number of times I left a medical facility or hospital room still writhing in the fetal position, w/ nothing to show for my visit but discharge papers and a big, fat bill (and I’m talkin’ morbidly obese, in some cases ).
Anyway, after years of physical anguish and trying to juggle motherhood and a high-pressure career on increasingly little sleep, my mental health was, as you might’ve guessed, non-existent.
I was hanging on by a thread.
Every single day felt like a year, and those days in the hospital (I was getting admitted about once a quarter, on average, by 2023) felt like decades, watching out the window as the world kept spinnin’ without me...
The pain became so all-consuming that I eventually had to jump off the professional ladder I’d been climbing for 15 years, abruptly and tearfully abandoning a really good job that I was really, really good at...
Many friends stopped bothering to invite me places, too, and frankly, I didn’t blame them. I’d canceled plans so many times already, after all… And anyway, how could they begin to FATHOM the true depths of my pain when I’d gone out of my way to hide it from them?
I was also missing my kids’ events — basketball and soccer games, recitals and band concerts, even, once, a birthday party 😔.
While my angel babies put on a brave face, telling me they understood and only wanted Mommy to get better (whew, reliving this part is harder than I thought it’d be…), I could see the disappointment behind their big, beautiful eyes.
It gutted me.
“Poor Joe has to do everything for our household alone now, AND be my nurse on top of it,” I found myself thinking, the familiar pit of guilt and dread growing in my belly. “I’m racking up hospital bills with no end to this pain in sight, I can’t earn money bc I can’t concentrate enough to write, and witnessing these ‘attacks’ has probably traumatized my kids. Will they even remember what their mom was like BEFORE this? Do they recall any of the fun, spontaneous moments I tried so hard to create?”
It dawned on me that, not only was I a net-negative to the world now, but the only way I’d ever escape the intense, gnawing pain eating at me — barring, like, a full-blown he**in bender, which… can’t say I didn’t consider it, in my darkest hours — would be the grave.
“Maybe it’s better for everyone if I just end it now, on my own terms,” I thought, sobbing uncontrollably.
Ever the list-maker, I began compiling reasons to kill myself:
- No more pain and scary adrenaline surges
- My kids won’t see me suffer anymore
- Joe will be free to find someone healthy (AFTER a 35- or 40-year mourning period, natch)
- Funeral expenses still less than future hospital bills
- I can say goodbye to friends & family beforehand…
- … and while they won’t understand at first, an autopsy is the only way to get answers and redeem my reputation, even if posthumously, at this point
Now, to be clear: I didn’t WANT to leave my husband and our babies and the once-lovely life we’d built in the little pink house tattooed on my bicep…
I VERY much WANTED to stay.
I WANTED to see my girls graduate and toss their caps in the air on that football field…
To plan their weddings and watch their dad walk them down the aisle, carefully dabbing at my waterproof mascara from the front row, looking glamorous…
To eventually become a Mamaw, bouncing chubby, giggling grandbabies on my knee and feeding them sugary sh*t before sending them home…
I WANTED to watch the remaining flecks of Joe’s black hair slowly turn white…
To clink our glasses at sunsets all over the world, celebrating my seven-figure book deal with a Big 5 publisher…
I didn’t WANT to die, you see.
I HAD to die.
The most soul-crushing moment of my life was scribbling individual goodbyes in a spiral notebook. How do you begin to say everything you’ll ever want someone to know in a single, defining letter?
“Those girls are gonna be angry at you, no matter how hard you try to ‘mentally prepare’ them or explain yourself in a tear-stained note,” said a nagging voice. “They can’t comprehend your pain. They’ll think you’re weak for not holding on longer.”
I tried to ignore it, but the voice was relentless, taunting me.
“You’ll upend their lives, idiot,” it continued. “They’ll hate you for making them THOSE kids at school. Joe will have to sell your precious little house to start fresh somewhere new.”
I threw the pen across the room, filled with overwhelming sadness and impotent rage.
I knew the voice was right, but I really could not take much more; my tank was on ‘E’ and sputtering.
I had another good, long cry or three. Then, eyes brimming with tears, I spotted the dusty, brown Bible beckoning me from the bookshelf.
While I considered myself a Christian w/ a solid spiritual foundation, and had memorized a few Bible verses in my youth (thanks, Grannie Jewell! 🥰), I’d never sat down and read the gospel from start to finish.
I wiped my eyes. Now felt like as good a time as any.
I grabbed the Bible and cracked open the New Testament. Perhaps I’d find a passage to absolve me of my guilt.
Reading Jesus’s story and words was comforting in and of itself, the red text giving me a warm hug on the inside.
But this passage hit different, as the kids say:
“And a woman who had been suffering from a hemorrhage for twelve years, came up behind Him and touched the fringe of His cloak; for she was saying to herself, ‘If I only touch His garment, I will get well.’ But Jesus, turning and seeing her, said, ‘Daughter, take courage; your faith has made you well.’ At once the woman was made well.” — Matthew 9:20-22
In that moment, my mistake became clear: I’d misplaced my trust all along.
I’d turned to a batch of imperfect, human doctors instead of their maker, without whom they cannot help me (or anyone else, for that matter). I should’ve been praying, but I’d cast my pearls before swine.
I begged God’s forgiveness and renewed my faith in that moment. The more I read, the more God’s fingerprints came into focus.
In the Apostle Paul’s letters, it crystallized — how and why God had orchestrated the past few years of my life, all culminating in THIS moment:
“Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” - 2 Corinthians 12:7-10
The words leapt off the page. I sat with them, re-reading them slowly.
Digesting the passage, I now understood:
I was becoming “choked by the weeds of the Earth,” as Jesus so eloquently put it, and not prioritizing my faith above all. So, to direct my attention back to Him, where it should be, God humbled me with a “thorn in my flesh.”
This thorn slowly shred all points of worldly pride in my life, including my ability to:
- work/generate income or focus on writing
- tend to my appearance (I struggled to sit through hair/nail appointments at the end)
- foster friendships and a social life
- be romantic or take on equal domestic duties w/ my husband
- show up for my kids and be emotionally present
Wow.
I surrendered everything to Him, then and there, praying for relief one way or the other. If He wanted me to live, I prayed for another chance to do His will. If He didn’t, well… at least I was right with God and knew I’d be in a better place when this thing finally killed me.
The next (and 786th) doctor I tried nailed it.
He (an amazing GI at UC) ordered a genetic test, which finally diagnosed me with a rare pancreatic condition. Some of the statistics were scary to hear, sure, but I felt ecstatic and validated -- we finally had answers! I wasn’t insane!
In late 2024, God also gifted me the relief I’d so desperately prayed for, in the form of a pain pump implanted into my spine. There were bumps in the road with the surgery, and I still have some bad days and always will, but for the most part I can say I’m finally pain free!!
The best part? I got to be baptized by my baby brother (a preacher) in early 2025, just before God blessed us with the keys to your favorite neighborhood bookstore. 🥹
That was less than 18 months ago, y’all.
Of course, God isn’t a genie who will grant your every wish if you just pray - that’s not what I’m saying. But He WILL provide you the words you need to hear, IF you know where to look…
So, even if things are hard and your prospects look bleak, please don’t tap out just yet, okay? We have a free booklet called “The Daily Bread” - pop in and grab one from the front counter, no questions asked.
Thank you guys for listening. I’m sure some people will say “TMI, lady!!!” but if even one soul finds solace in my story, it will have been worth it.
God bless you.
