A butterfly sticker.

For the third consecutive morning I have been woke prior to the sun. Tiny hands grabbing at the sheets, while finding leverage to pull her tiny-tot frame up into my bed. I had been dreaming about Chopped—the Food Network television show that presents a basket of mystery ingredients for chefs to concoct. I was in the Chopped kitchen having been given a huge cod fish that I could never finish filleting—a nightmare. I rolled over to find my face in her sea of curly blond hair, thankful in the moment that my slumber had been cut short: I would have been chopped for sure.

I had hoped that the next hour (at least) would continue with tiny-tot cuddling. Naturally it didn’t, and there was no persuading otherwise. “Come-on! Come-on!” she energetically asked while bounding for the edge of the bed—the quick movement looked unappealing. I kicked off the covers and more-or-less toppled out of bed.

Finding my way to the bathroom, she followed behind. With my eyes still closed I sat. Tiny-tot began giggling, followed by the touch of her hand on my cheek. I thought how sweet, and then felt a quick tear of my flesh. She had ripped off a butterfly sticker that had been placed on my cheek the previous evening that I never got around to taking off before crashing like a sack of potatoes in bed. She laughed, and so did I.

As she ran into the kitchen for her morning bowl of cereal I began to think of it all.

Who would have thought?

Eight years ago, no amount of guessing would have pegged me in the place of being a mama and wife. My eyes had been fixed on the Hollywood sign, and the plan would be if that didn’t work-out then I would find myself a lead role in New York City on Broadway. I dreamed of a Sex in the City life—endless opportunities to be wined and dined by rich men, in addition to having my face printed on the magazines lining every grocery checkout stand.

Writing that all out makes me laugh out loud in a sad sort of way. The reality of who I was back then makes me cringe. My aspirations where dead, as too was I.

In a recent article that graced the top news on yahoo I set my cursor over the face of Lady Gaga. Not clicking on the article I read the subtext about her reaching the ultimate low of depression in 2013, to the point she explains that she no longer could feel her heart beat.

I used to envy her. At one point I had grown my hair to the middle of my back, bleached it blond and cut blunt bangs to match. The world loved her, and when you are entrenched in nothing but the world, who wouldn’t want that? The parallel is, you can have all the beauty, talent, money and fame and no longer feel the beating of your own heart.

Which is worse?

At one point I believed that my heart had been removed all together from my chest. Nothing I could do would lift the dark cloud over my head. While I looked put together and perfect on the outside I was nothing more than a walking zombie, each foot forward, leading to nowhere but down. It was the life I had created by the worlds standards and it became all to normal and real.

But the reality of this life is that no true life exists apart from Him.

Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. John 15:4-5

And let me tell you. The fruit is unlike any found on a tree. Able to nourish the deepest inwards of your heart giving way to feeling its beat. The bonus—it has ways of coming labeled with a sparkly butterfly sticker.