Posted in Moments and Musings

Doubting Thomas, Loving Savior

Posted on by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

It It wasn’t an accident that Jesus went to the cross. Likewise, it wasn’t an accident that He returned with scars. In fact, those very scars became the proof one of His beloved disciples needed to believe.

John 20:24–27 (NLT) tells the story: Thomas, nicknamed “the Twin,” wasn’t with the other disciples when Jesus appeared. They excitedly told him, “We have seen the Lord!” However, Thomas replied, “I won’t believe it unless I see the nail wounds in his hands, put my fingers into them, and place my hand into the wound in his side.”

Eight days later, Thomas joined the disciples again. Although the doors were locked, Jesus appeared as He had before. “Peace be with you,” He said. Then He addressed Thomas directly: “Put your finger here, and look at my hands. Put your hand into the wound in my side. Don’t be faithless any longer. Believe!”

Doubting Thomas—Misunderstood

For much of my childhood, I learned to see Thomas as a cautionary tale. In other words, doubt equaled weakness. Faith meant blind trust. Teachers and Sunday school lessons framed Thomas as the disciple we should avoid becoming. Consequently, I judged him harshly. I convinced myself I would have believed immediately. I imagined my own courage and faithfulness.

However, I wasn’t there.

I didn’t witness the man I loved and trusted—my Teacher, my Messiah—beaten, mocked, and nailed to a cross. Moreover, I didn’t stand helpless while hope seemed to die. I didn’t live in fear that if they killed Him, they might come for me next. Furthermore, I didn’t navigate the confusion of grief colliding with rumors of resurrection. Finally, I didn’t have to walk into a locked room carrying longing, fear, and hope all at once.

Thomas did.

Jesus Meets Thomas Where He Is

When I slow down and examine the story, something remarkable stands out: Jesus never scolds Thomas. He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t shame him. He doesn’t compare him to the others. In fact, He doesn’t label him weak.

Instead, Jesus meets him exactly where he is. He doesn’t dismiss Thomas’s questions or doubts. Furthermore, He doesn’t hide His scars. He doesn’t rush him. Rather, He invites Thomas closer, offering the proof Thomas asked for generously and patiently.

“Put your finger here,” Jesus says. “Look at my hands. Put your hand into the wound in my side.”

This isn’t reluctance. Nor is it irritation. Instead, it’s generosity. Jesus wants Thomas to believe, and He uses His wounds as reassurance, not as a weapon of shame. He doesn’t rebuke him. In fact, He lovingly honors Thomas’s honesty.

The Joy in Belief Born From Doubt

I imagine Jesus rejoicing as Thomas’s doubt transforms into belief. After all, the Savior, who endured the cross and conquered death, delights in seeing His disciple’s faith come alive. Furthermore, Jesus doesn’t see Thomas’s need for proof as a threat; He welcomes it.

This truth completely changed how I view faith. I realized that faith doesn’t mean the absence of doubt. On the contrary, faith means bringing our doubts to Jesus instead of walking away with them. Thomas didn’t pretend. He didn’t perform faith he didn’t feel yet. Instead, he was honest, and Jesus honored that honesty.

The Lies We Believe About Doubt

How often do we believe the lie that God is disappointed when we question? How often do we think we must arrive with perfect faith? Yet Jesus, standing in a locked room, offers peace first and proof second. Likewise, He meets our searching hearts with open hands, not condemnation.

We don’t have to fear bringing our doubts to God. We don’t have to hide the questions that swirl inside us. Instead, Jesus draws closer. He meets us with patience and grace.

What Thomas Teaches Us About Faith

Thomas teaches us that doubt isn’t failure. Questions aren’t sin. Longing and fear aren’t disqualifications. Faith grows when we are honest, when we bring our curiosity, confusion, and need for reassurance directly to Jesus. Rather than scolding, Jesus meets us with love.

Moreover, those scars on Jesus’ hands and side carry the story of love, sacrifice, and victory. They aren’t reminders of failure. Instead, they are proof of faithfulness. They show us that every step toward belief matters—even the steps that come after doubt.

Faith isn’t perfect. Faith isn’t instant. Faith is a journey, a conversation, and sometimes a wrestling match. Yet Jesus stands there through it all, inviting us to trust Him, meet Him, and bring Him our questions.

Finally, Thomas reminds us that belief grows in the presence of love and patience. That’s a grace we can carry into every locked room of fear and uncertainty. That’s the Savior we follow—one who welcomes doubt, honors honesty, and celebrates every step toward faith.

Photo by Pisit Heng on Unsplash

Posted in Moments and Musings

My Irish Carol

Posted on by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

My mother loved St. Patrick’s Day.

Not in a casual, “Oh look, it’s March 17th” kind of way—but in the full-on, all-in, proudly Irish way. The kind of love that showed up in the details. Green everywhere. Clothes, jewelry, maybe even a little extra sparkle just for the occasion. If it could be green, she wore it. And she wore it well.

A green sweater. A shamrock pin. Earrings that caught the light when she moved her head just right. Sometimes even green beads layered over whatever outfit she had decided was festive enough for the day. It wasn’t over the top—it was joyful. It was intentional.

She loved being Irish. Not just the ancestry part of it, but the spirit of it. The storytelling, the humor, the pride, the sense that being Irish meant you were allowed to celebrate life a little louder than usual.

To her, it wasn’t just heritage—it was identity.

And St. Patrick’s Day was the one day of the year where the whole world seemed to join in on that celebration. For one day, everyone wore green, everyone talked about being “a little Irish,” and everyone seemed just a little bit lighter.

My mom leaned into that joy every single year.

The Shamrock Shake Tradition

Every year, without fail, she wanted a McDonald’s Shamrock Shake.

It didn’t matter if there was snow on the ground. It didn’t matter if the wind coming off the lake could freeze your eyelashes. March in the Midwest is unpredictable at best, but none of that mattered.

If Shamrock Shakes were available, she was getting one.

And she didn’t sip it politely either.

She drank that thing like it was the highlight of the entire day. Through the straw, with that unmistakable slurp-slurp sound when it got down near the bottom of the cup.

Some people might have tried to be subtle about it.

Not my mom.

She slurped every last drop with zero embarrassment and complete delight, like someone who understood that small joys are meant to be fully enjoyed.

Even now, that sound still makes me smile.

Our Own Kind of Celebration

We never did the traditional corned beef and cabbage dinner. That just wasn’t our family’s thing.

Instead, we made our own traditions.

Sometimes we’d stop by Jewel-Osco and pick up cupcakes piled high with thick, bright green frosting. The kind that turned your tongue green for hours afterward and left a little trail of powdered sugar wherever you set the box down.

Other years, Mom would make one of her famous Jello cakes.

If you grew up in the Midwest, you know the kind. A fluffy cake with lime Jello worked into it so the whole thing turned a vibrant, unmistakable shade of green. Sometimes topped with whipped topping. Sometimes with a little extra flair depending on what she had in the kitchen.

It wasn’t fancy.

It wasn’t Instagram-worthy.

But it was perfect.

Because it was ours.

The Movie That Made It Official

And then, like clockwork, we’d watch The Quiet Man.

Every single year.

It didn’t matter how many times we had already seen it. The movie was part of the day. Not optional. Not negotiable.

It was simply what we did.

We’d sit down together, plates or cupcakes in hand, Shamrock Shake cups somewhere nearby, and settle in like we were about to watch it for the very first time—even though we could practically quote parts of it.

There’s something about traditions like that. The repetition doesn’t make them boring. It makes them comforting. Familiar. Like returning to a place in your memory that always looks the same.

Watching that movie together became one of those anchors in time. The kind of moment that quietly says, this is what today means.

And now, years later, those scenes still feel tied to St. Patrick’s Day in my mind.

The Quiet Joy of Simple Traditions

Looking back, none of what we did was elaborate.

There were no giant parties. No elaborate Irish feasts. No decorations covering the entire house.

Just green clothes. A milkshake. A cake. A movie.

But that’s the funny thing about traditions. They don’t have to be grand to matter. In fact, the simplest ones often stick the longest.

Because they’re not really about the things themselves.

They’re about the feeling.

The sense that this day means something. That this moment belongs to your family in a small, quiet way.

My mom understood that instinctively.

She didn’t overthink it. She just celebrated.

When Traditions Change

Since she’s been gone, St. Patrick’s Day feels different.

Quieter.

The day still arrives, of course. The stores still fill with green decorations. Restaurants still advertise Irish-themed specials. People still show up in shamrock shirts and novelty hats.

But the center of it—the person who made it feel personal—is no longer sitting across the room.

And yet, the day doesn’t feel empty.

It feels reflective.

When I see green everywhere—shirts, shamrocks, decorations—I think of her immediately. I think about how much joy she found in something so simple.

And I realize something she taught me without ever sitting me down to explain it.

Celebrating who you are matters.

Honoring your heritage matters.

And joy doesn’t have to be complicated to be meaningful.

The Kind of Memory That Glows

Grief is strange that way. Some memories hurt when they surface. They carry the weight of what’s missing.

But others feel different.

They feel warm.

Her love for St. Patrick’s Day is one of those memories for me.

When I think about it now, it doesn’t come with sadness first. It comes with a smile. A little laugh. The echo of that Shamrock Shake straw hitting the bottom of the cup.

It feels familiar.

Almost like a gentle tap on the shoulder from heaven saying,

Hey… remember this?

And I always do.

Carrying the Tradition Forward

So I’ll wear green.

Maybe I’ll grab a McDonald’s Shamrock Shake.

Maybe I’ll even slurp it through the straw the way she did, without worrying whether it’s polite or not.

Because she would have loved that.

And because remembering her this way feels like a gift instead of a loss.

Some memories ache.

But some memories—like this one—don’t ache at all.

They glow. 💚

Photo by me. @vikkilynnsorensen. All rights reserved.
Posted in Moments and Musings

One Click Leads to Chaos

Posted on by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

You opened social media to check one thing. One.

Now, an hour later, you’re emotionally exhausted, spiritually confused, and oddly mad at a woman named Brenda.

We need to talk.

Why We Scroll

People use social media for many reasons. Some share a small slice of their day. Some run businesses. Some post for fun. Some just want to keep up with family members who live far away—but still somehow know when you rearranged your living room.

And then there’s the rest of us—The Scrollers.

We scroll in the morning.
We scroll while waiting on coffee.
We scroll while watching TV.
We scroll while pretending to listen to someone talk to us in real life.

Scrolling has become the background noise of modern existence.

The Tingle of Outrage

As you scroll, you will inevitably encounter content you dislike. Content you do not agree with. Content that makes you think, “Well… that’s not right,” or “Who asked for this?” or “This is why aliens won’t visit us.”

And suddenly—suddenly—your fingers start tingling.

Your thumbs get bold.
Your pointer finger feels righteous.
You feel a strong, spiritual urge to type a comment.

But here’s the excellent news: ✨ You do not have to. ✨

The Power to Keep Scrolling

Did you know—truly, did you know—that you possess the power to keep scrolling? You can swipe up. Swipe down. Swipe left. Swipe right. Any direction that leads you away from chaos and toward peace.

You can simply… leave it alone.

No debate.
No correction.
No “I’m just being honest.”

You are not required to attend every argument you’re invited to on the internet.

Learning the Hard Way

Ask me how I learned this.

I learned the hard way during the Year of Our Lord 2020—when fear, anger, and absolute nonsense reached historic levels. When people stopped being regular humans and became keyboard gladiators. When comment sections turned into the Hunger Games and civility died somewhere between a meme and a hot take.

Now, I believe we always had a little ugly in us. But 2020 said, “Go ahead. Let it out. No consequences.” And people said, “Don’t mind if I do.”

I spent hours scrolling through comments. Hours. Reading, reacting, getting angry, scared, and spiritually drained. And one day the Holy Spirit gently—but firmly—said, “Ma’am. Stop. This is not your assignment.”

Pulling Away from the Chaos

It wasn’t easy. I’d open a post, roll my eyes, and dive straight into the comments “just to see what people are saying.” For fun, I told myself.

It was never fun.

Eventually, the Holy Spirit had to pull me out of the comment section like a parent yanking a toddler away from a live electrical outlet. No. We don’t play here.

Curating a Positive Feed

These days, my social media diet is artistic, colorful, creative, and encouraging. I post to share what I’ve made or a moment from my life. Because here’s what we forget: social media is a highlight reel, not a documentary. A snapshot, not the whole story. A single square, not the entire quilt of someone’s life.

And yet… despite this gentle, happy, crochet-and-flowers corner of the internet, the ugly still shows up. Every time. Uninvited. Loud. Confident.

The Sally Effect

For example, a crochet artist I follow does absolutely stunning work. She’s been crocheting for years. She sells patterns. She creates literal fiber art. One day, she posts a short video of herself crocheting.

Enter Sally.

Sally has never crocheted a stitch. Not once. She does not know what a tension gauge is. She has never held a hook in her life. But Sally is deeply offended by what she sees.

Sally comments, “This is painful to watch.”

Sally.

Then don’t watch. No one made you stay. You are not being held hostage by yarn. Use your finger—yes, that one—and scroll on past. Freedom is yours.

When Critique Becomes Toxic

Another embroidery artist posted a video of her working up a gorgeous stitch—beautiful colors, smooth technique, a literal work of art.

The comments?
Not about the stitch.
Not about the creativity.
About her nails. Her nails.

Apparently, society decided that no creative work can be appreciated unless the artist has a fresh manicure. Michelangelo could never survive Instagram.

“This is what we’ve come to,” I whispered to my phone.

We lost the ability to simply say, “How lovely,” and move on. Instead, we scan for flaws, for mistakes, for something—anything—to critique, even when no one asked and no one cares.

Women Critiquing Women

What truly breaks my heart: most of the creative accounts I follow are run by women. And the ugliest comments? Also from women.

What happened to women supporting women? When did encouragement become optional but criticism mandatory?

And do not—DO NOT—get me started on comment sections under photos of women bottle-feeding their babies. Those threads are so ugly they make me want to unplug the internet, apologize to the Earth, and start communicating exclusively via carrier pigeon.

The Lesson

So why am I writing this?

Education.

It costs you nothing to be kind.
It costs you nothing to say nothing.
And it costs you absolutely nothing to keep scrolling.

But peace? Peace is priceless.

Final Advice

If you want to protect it, I offer this final, loving advice:

Stay out of the comments.

Photo by Samuel Angor on Unsplash
Posted in Moments and Musings

Faith Over Fear: Keeping Mentally Healthy in Today’s World

Posted on by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

Everywhere I look—online, in comment sections, in “art,” in think pieces, in endless rants—I see fear dressing itself up as righteousness and anger masquerading as concern for the world.

People claim they’re terrified about the state of things. They say their mental health suffers. They say they feel overwhelmed, exhausted, and anxious.

And then they point fingers. They blame this political party. Or that one. Conservatives. Liberals. “The other side.” Labels fly around like paper at a ticket tape parade.

Outrage as Performance

They post nonstop. They wield their talents not to clarify, calm, or illuminate—but to shout, insult, mock, and divide. They call it “speaking out,” but it functions as little more than venting rage. They share half-stories without context, half-truths without accountability, opinions soaked in fear and contempt.

And then they say, “let’s just be kind.”

If you agree with them, you join the misery club. If you don’t, they shame you, attack you, and label you.

Let’s be honest: this isn’t about justice. It’s about outrage addiction. And it’s exhausting.

Politics as a False Foundation

Here’s the hard truth people resist: they feel miserable, angry, and fearful because they put their hope in politics—and politics will always fail them.

I want to be very clear: I haven’t celebrated every election outcome. I haven’t always liked who got elected. I’ve worried about policies, priorities, and leadership.

But here’s what I did differently:

  • I didn’t let fear control my life.
  • I didn’t let anger consume my witness.
  • I didn’t weaponize my art, my voice, or my platform.

Why? Because of Jesus.

Taking My Anxiety to God

When President Biden took office, he wasn’t my choice. I admit I spiraled—I read article after article, obsessed over policies I disagreed with, feared where our country was headed.

I felt anxious. Frustrated. Afraid.

Then one day, while walking, I brought it all to God—not to social media, not to comment sections, not to people who might validate my emotions. I went straight to God.

And in that quiet moment, God spoke clearly:

“Vikki, why are you fearful? I am still God. I am still on the throne. You have two jobs: put ALL your faith in Me, and pray for those in power.”

It wasn’t gentle. It was corrective. And it hit hard.

Trusting God, Not Politics

God didn’t ask who I voted for. He didn’t ask if I agreed with every policy. He didn’t ask me to fret over the future. He reminded me who He is.

So I obeyed. I prayed for my president—whether I liked him or not, whether I agreed with him or not, whether I trusted his decisions or not.

Because my trust never belonged in a person or party. My trust always belongs in God.

Once I embraced that truth, fear lost its grip. I knew God had me if taxes rose, if policies passed against my values, if the cost of living increased, if the world felt unstable. God had me then. God has me now. God will always have me.

Life Without Jesus Leaves Fear in Charge

That is not denial. That is faith.

Here’s a truth many resist: the problem isn’t who sits in the Oval Office. The problem is trying to navigate a broken world without Jesus. Life without Him will always feel overwhelming, unstable, and produce fear, anger, and despair—no matter which party holds power.

If your peace rises and falls with election results, your foundation is wrong.
If your joy disappears every four years, your hope is misplaced.
If your mental health collapses whenever a politician speaks, politics has become your god.

Presidents will fail you. Governments will disappoint you. Policies will change. Leaders will lie. Power will shift.

But Jesus Christ remains on the throne.

True Peace Comes from Jesus

He ruled before any president. He rules before any political party. He will rule long after every name we argue over fades into history.

True peace does not depend on the right candidate winning. True security does not depend on the right laws being passed. True fulfillment does not depend on shouting louder than the other side.

It comes from knowing Jesus. Everything else will eventually let you down.

And that’s not political commentary—that’s eternal truth.

Photo by Katie Moum on Unsplash
Posted in Faith, Food and Forward Steps

Healthcare Beyond the Scale

Posted on by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

This morning, I went to the doctor for a routine yearly physical. Nothing dramatic. No flashing red warning lights about my health. Just the usual annual check-in that responsible adults schedule so we can pretend we have our lives together.

I arrived on time.

Actually, I arrived early—because that’s what responsible adults do. We show up ten minutes early, clutch our insurance card, scroll our phones, and mentally rehearse how to explain that weird pain in our shoulder that only shows up when we sneeze while holding a coffee mug.

And then we wait.

Thirty minutes, to be exact.

Now, let me be clear: thirty minutes is not the end of the world. I realize doctors run behind. Emergencies happen. Appointments take longer than expected. I understand the logistics.

But while I sat there, staring at the same outdated magazine about Mediterranean diets and “10 Ways to Tone Your Core,” my brain started doing what brains do best.

It started thinking.

And what I kept coming back to was this: how are we still this far behind when it comes to women’s health in 2026?

Because once I finally got called back and the appointment actually began, the conversation went exactly where it always goes.

My weight.

When Every Conversation Comes Back to the Scale

Let me start by saying something obvious.

I’m overweight.

I know it. My scale knows it. My doctor knows it. The jeans in the back of my closet that I keep hoping will magically fit again definitely know it.

I could probably stand to lose fifty pounds. Maybe more.

But here’s the part that frustrates me: I have never had a medical conversation that didn’t eventually circle back to my weight.

Not once.

When I’m sick, we talk about my weight.

When I’m healthy, we talk about my weight.

When I ask a question about something unrelated—my joints, my sleep, my headaches, menopause symptoms—the conversation eventually loops right back around.

Weight.

It’s like every road in women’s healthcare leads to the same destination.

And this morning was no exception.

Good Numbers, Same Conclusion

Here’s the ironic part.

My numbers are good.

My blood pressure is good. My labs come back normal. My cholesterol behaves itself. Nothing in my chart screams emergency.

Yet despite all that, the recommendation remains the same.

Weight loss medication.

Diabetes medication “as prevention.”

Weight loss surgery.

Those suggestions come up again and again, even when the tests don’t actually point in that direction.

Now, let me clarify something important: there is nothing wrong with those treatments. For many people, they are life-changing and necessary.

But when they become the only conversation?

That’s when the problem begins.

Because eventually you start wondering whether anyone is listening to anything else you’re saying.

Are Women’s Bodies Still a Medical Mystery?

Maybe I’m wrong about this. Maybe it’s unfair to say it.

But sometimes it feels like men’s healthcare has progressed further than women’s.

Maybe that’s not because men’s bodies are simpler.

Maybe it’s because for decades medical research focused more heavily on men.

Historically, clinical trials often excluded women because researchers believed hormones would “complicate the data.” As a result, huge portions of modern medicine developed using male bodies as the default template.

Even today, many conditions affect women differently. Symptoms present differently. Pain gets interpreted differently.

And yet we still find ourselves in exam rooms explaining the same things over and over.

Or worse, being told the same solution regardless of the question.

The Family Tree of “Short and Fluffy”

Another thing doctors don’t always account for is genetics.

There’s not really a thin woman in my family.

We weren’t built that way.

My family tree is full of women who are strong, short, and—let’s call it what it is—fluffy.

We’re sturdy. Solid. Built like we could carry groceries, grandkids, and emotional baggage all at the same time.

Could we all benefit from healthier habits? Sure. Who couldn’t?

But there’s a difference between encouraging healthy lifestyle changes and reducing someone’s entire medical experience to a number on a scale.

Because weight alone doesn’t tell the full story of a human body.

And yet far too often, it becomes the only story doctors read.

The Anxiety Nobody Talks About

Here’s something I realized this morning while getting ready for my appointment.

I have developed anxiety about going to the doctor.

Not panic attacks. Not anything debilitating.

Just that quiet, persistent dread.

The kind where you already know how the conversation will go before you even walk through the door.

I know the moment I step on the scale.

I know the look.

I know the notes that will get typed into the computer.

And I know the conclusion waiting at the end of the appointment.

“Lose weight and come back in six months.”

That’s it.

Conversation over.

When the Investigation Ends Too Soon

Here’s the real problem with that approach.

It stops the investigation.

Sometimes I have aches and pains. Nothing severe. Just the random annoyances that come with getting older and possibly entering the rollercoaster known as menopause.

But when I bring them up, the conversation often stops before it really begins.

“You probably wouldn’t have that pain if you lost some weight.”

Maybe that’s true.

But maybe it’s not.

Maybe there’s inflammation. Maybe there’s arthritis. Maybe there’s something hormonal happening that deserves attention.

Yet the moment the weight explanation appears, the curiosity disappears.

And curiosity is supposed to be the heart of good medicine.

The Shame Cycle That Helps No One

Ironically, the constant focus on weight doesn’t always motivate change.

Sometimes it does the exact opposite.

The guilt creeps in.

The shame follows right behind it.

You leave the appointment feeling like you failed a test you didn’t even know you were taking.

Then six months pass.

You didn’t lose the weight.

The pain still exists.

And now your mental health feels worse than it did before the appointment.

So you go back, bracing yourself for the same conversation again.

Round and round it goes.

The Myth That Fat People Caused Healthcare Costs

At some point in my life, someone actually said this to my face:

“You know, people being overweight are the main reason healthcare is so expensive.”

Apparently, I personally destroyed the American healthcare system by enjoying bread.

The wild part is that statement usually comes from people who know nothing about my health history.

They don’t know my labs.

They don’t know my lifestyle.

They don’t know my genetics.

They just see a body and make a judgment.

And unfortunately, sometimes that same judgment slips into medical spaces too.

A Simple Request: Listen

Let me be clear about something.

I am not asking doctors to ignore weight.

Weight absolutely can affect health. It would be ridiculous to pretend otherwise.

But it should not be the only lens through which my health gets evaluated.

Because bodies are complex.

Pain has causes.

Hormones fluctuate.

Joints wear down.

And sometimes symptoms deserve investigation even if the patient happens to be overweight.

The Truth That Needs to Be Said

So let me say this clearly enough for the people in the back.

Fat women deserve proper healthcare.

We deserve to be heard.

We deserve real conversations, not automatic conclusions.

We deserve tests that search for root causes instead of assumptions that stop the investigation.

We deserve doctors who see a whole human being, not just a number blinking on a scale.

A Better Future for Women’s Healthcare

Women’s health has come a long way, but clearly we still have work to do.

We need more research that includes women of every body type.

We need medical training that addresses bias—both conscious and unconscious.

And we need healthcare environments where patients feel safe asking questions without fear of being dismissed.

Because when patients feel heard, they engage more in their care.

When they feel respected, they trust the system.

And when they trust the system, everyone benefits.

The Ending We All Deserve

I walked out of my appointment today thinking about something simple.

Healthcare should not make people feel small.

It should not make people feel ashamed.

And it certainly should not make people feel invisible.

Instead, healthcare should start with listening.

It should continue with curiosity.

And it should end with partnership—two people working together to figure out what a body needs in order to thrive.

So here’s my closing thought.

If you work in medicine, please hear this:

The number on the scale is not the whole story.

Behind that number sits a woman with a history, a family, a body, a mind, and a voice that deserves to be taken seriously.

And until every woman—no matter her size—can walk into a doctor’s office without fear of being dismissed, the conversation about women’s health is far from finished.

Photo by me. @vikkilynnsorensen All rights reserved.