The Bathroom Layout I Never Appreciated

Sometimes we don't recognize a blessing until years after we've received it.

For the past three months, I have been working on recovering from an injury. Recovery has a way of changing your perspective. Things you never gave a second thought to suddenly matter. Things you took for granted become things you're deeply grateful for.

One of those things for me has been a bathroom.

Our house has a second bathroom that is quite small and has a layout that seems a little odd. When you walk in, you're immediately at the sink. The toilet sits tucked into a cutout beneath the vanity counter. The shower is right next to it and a large mirror stretches across the wall above the counter.

I've looked at that bathroom and wondered what the designer was thinking.

Then I got injured.

All of a sudden one morning I realized that because of the layout of this bathroom, everything I needed was within easy reach. The cutout beneath the counter allowed me to sit while getting ready each morning and still see myself in the mirror. Getting into the shower was easier as I could just slide into it. On days when getting dressed and ready took more effort than I wanted to admit, that small design detail made life easier and helped me maintain a little more independence.

What I had occasionally viewed as poor design turned out to be exactly what I needed.

That morning, as I sat there getting ready, I found myself looking around that little bathroom with a completely different perspective.

I got to thinking about how long it had been there.

Years before my injury.

Years before I knew I would need it.

Years before I could have imagined the challenges I would face.

Then a simple thought came to my mind:

Heavenly Father knew.

Not that He caused my injury.

Not that He designed my bathroom.

But He knew.

He knew there would come a day when that unusual layout would be a blessing to me. He knew things about my future that I couldn't possibly know and for a moment, that small bathroom became a reminder that my life has always been in His view.

A scripture came to mind: 1 Nephi 9:6:

"But the Lord knoweth all things from the beginning; wherefore, he prepareth a way to accomplish all his works among the children of men."

The older I get, the more I realize how often that scripture is true.

Sometimes the Lord prepares the answer long before we recognize the need.

A friendship forms before a difficult season.

A skill is learned before an opportunity arrives.

A lesson is taught before it becomes necessary.

And sometimes a strangely designed bathroom sits quietly waiting for years before it becomes exactly what you need.

Looking back, I can see so many examples of Heavenly Father's preparations in my life. At the time, they often seemed random or insignificant. Only later did I recognize His hand.

My injury wasn't something I would have chosen. There have been hard days, frustrating days, and days when progress feels painfully slow.

But even in those moments, I wasn't alone.

While Heavenly Father had prepared the way long before I knew I would need it, Jesus Christ walked with me through the experience itself. Through His grace, I found strength when I felt weak, comfort when I felt discouraged, and hope when recovery seemed to be taking longer than I wanted.

The more I reflected on that little bathroom, the more I felt gratitude for both of Them: for a Father in Heaven who sees the end from the beginning and for a Savior who helps us through the middle of the story.

Maybe for you it's not a bathroom.

Maybe it's a relationship, an opportunity, a skill you've developed, or a door that opened unexpectedly.

Maybe it's something you've never thought much about until now.

Take a moment and look back.

You may find evidence that Heavenly Father has been preparing the way far longer than you realized, and you may discover that Jesus Christ has been beside you through every step of the journey.

Sometimes the blessings we need most have been quietly waiting for us all along.

We just don't recognize them until we finally need them.

XOXO

Tiffanee

Mountains We Cannot Decend Alone

What a broken ankle, a broken wrist and a mountain trail taught me about strength.

"And I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders..."

Mosiah 24:14

Sometimes the Lord teaches us lessons we could never learn any other way.

For me, one of those lessons came on a mountainside at Big Sky Ski Resort.

After spending so much time in the car, I was grateful for the chance to stretch my legs and enjoy some fresh air. We took the tram to the highest peak, hiked along the ridges and made our way back down. Even though wildfire smoke hung in the distance, the scenery was still beautiful. When the opportunity came to ride the tram up another ski hill and hike down that side as well, I eagerly agreed.

I was enjoying the peaceful surroundings, the beauty of nature and the company when everything changed in an instant.

On a steep section of the trail, I slipped. My leg caught on a rock and I felt my ankle snap. As I looked down and saw my foot pointing in the wrong direction, I immediately knew there was no way I was getting myself down that mountain.

As I sat waiting for help, the reality of the situation began to sink in. The mountain suddenly felt much bigger than it had only moments before. As I fought to stay calm and tried not to pass out from the pain, a sobering thought entered my mind:

Would I make it off this mountain?

My family had no idea where I was.

Wanting them to know how much I loved them, I pulled out my phone and sent a simple text:

"I just broke my ankle. I love you all."

Looking back, that text says a lot about where my mind was in that moment. I didn't know what would happen next and for the first time all day, I felt completely dependent on someone else to get me to safety.

There wasn't much else I could do except wait, pray, and trust that help would come.

A short time later, five men carried me more than a mile down the mountain in a rescue tarp before transferring me to an ATV to get the rest of the way down. As they carried me down a trail I had fully intended to walk on my own, I had no choice but to trust them.

At the time, I was simply grateful someone was coming to help me. Looking back now, I can see the Lord's hand in that experience. He knew exactly where I was, exactly what I needed, and He provided it through the kindness of others.

What I didn't realize then was that the lesson was only beginning.

The very next day, I broke my wrist. and tore the tendon to my thumb. Suddenly, even the simplest tasks became difficult. Things I normally did without a second thought now required help from someone else. I had no idea how much I would rely on family, friends and loved ones in the days, weeks, and months that followed.

I've always valued being independent, so accepting help has been humbling. At times, it's been frustrating. I wanted to do things for myself. I wanted to keep my normal routine. I wanted to maintain some sense of control.

I've spent most of my life trying to be the person others could count on rather than the person who needed help. But this experience reminded me that needing help isn't failure. Sometimes it's exactly how the Savior teaches us to trust Him.

Again and again, He has answered my needs through the people around me. Through family members who stepped in without being asked. Friends who checked in, offered encouragement, and found simple ways to help. Medical professionals who cared for me. Even strangers who helped me when I couldn't help myself.

The Savior didn't take away the mountain, but He has helped me every step of the way down.

As I've reflected on this experience, I've realized that we all face mountains we cannot descend alone. Some are physical. Others are emotional, spiritual, or deeply personal. Whatever the challenge, the Savior never asks us to face it by ourselves.

During my recovery, I've become more aware of how often He answers our needs through other people. Through family, friends, medical professionals, and even strangers, I've felt His love in very personal ways. Simple acts of kindness that might have seemed small to others came exactly when I needed them most.

I've come to realize that one of the ways the Savior ministers to us is through the people He places in our path. Sometimes we are the ones helping to carry a burden. Other times we are the ones being carried. Both require humility. Both require love. And both teach us to rely more fully on Him.

This experience has taught me that true strength isn't found in doing everything ourselves. True strength is found in trusting the Savior, accepting the help He sends, and recognizing His hand in the people who lift us when we can no longer move forward on our own.

The  Savior didn't remove the mountain before me, but He didn't leave me there either.

Looking back, I think about that moment on the trail when I wondered if I would make it down the mountain. At the time, all I could see was the pain, the uncertainty, and my own inability to move forward. What I couldn't see was that help was already on its way.

Isn't that often how the Savior works in our lives?

There are moments when the path ahead feels impossible and we can't see how we're going to make it through. Yet He sees what we cannot. He knows where we are. He knows what we need and in His own way and in His own timing, He sends strength, comfort, and people to help carry us.

I'm still recovering, but one thing I know for certain is this: the Savior was with me on that mountain, and He has been with me every step since.

If there's one lesson I hope to carry with me long after my bones have healed, it's this: when I come to a mountain I cannot descend on my own, I can trust that the Savior already knows the way down.

                           XOXO

                          Tiffanee

One Imperfect Step at a Time

I was having a particularly hard day when my son reminded me of something I needed to hear.

"It's okay to have hard days."

Then he repeated a phrase I've heard for years:

Embrace the suck.

It's easy to say when life is inconvenient. It's much harder when life is genuinely hard.

Recently, I broke my ankle while hiking. The next day, while learning to navigate crutches, I broke my wrist and tore a tendon in my dominant hand. Overnight, simple tasks became complicated. Walking requires a modified walker and everyday activities now take far more time, patience, and energy than they should.

The physical challenges are obvious, but the hardest part hasn't been the pain.

It's been the loss of independence.

I've always been someone who gets things done. These injuries forced me to slow down and rely on others in ways that felt uncomfortable and, at times, heartbreaking.

What no one really prepares you for is the mental side of recovery: the frustration, the isolation, and the constant reminders of what you can't do. By the time I've gotten dressed and navigated the house, I often feel exhausted. Recovery has taught me that healing is work and sometimes simply making it through the day is enough.

One of the biggest lessons has been humility. I've always taken pride in being independent, so asking for help felt uncomfortable at first. But I've learned that humility isn't weakness. It's accepting support when you need it and recognizing that strength and vulnerability can exist at the same time.

On the hardest days, it's easy to focus on frustration, fear, and everything I've lost. But I've learned that what we focus on grows. That doesn't mean pretending everything is okay. Some days simply suck. It means acknowledging those feelings without letting them define the day.

Instead, I try to focus on gratitude, progress, and the reminder that this chapter is temporary.

I couldn't have gotten through this without my mom, my kids, and the people who have checked in, encouraged me, and reminded me I wasn't alone. My mom has been my lifeline through the daily challenges, and my kids have stepped up in ways that have made me incredibly proud.

This experience has taught me that sometimes strength isn't about doing everything yourself. Sometimes it's allowing the people who love you to show up for you.

At first, I spent a lot of energy wishing things were different and replaying the decisions that led me here. Eventually, I realized I had a choice.

I could focus on everything I'd lost, or I could focus on taking the next step forward.

That doesn't mean pretending everything is okay.

It means acknowledging that this situation sucks and moving forward anyway.

I'm still healing. I'm still learning. I'm still having good days and hard days.

But progress is happening.

One day I'll hike again. I'll run again. I'll walk without a walker and use my dominant hand without a second thought.

Until then, I'll keep moving forward.

Not because it's easy.

But because I know this chapter is temporary.

The injuries will heal. The walker will be gone. But the lessons about resilience, humility, gratitude, and strength will remain.

I'm not through this chapter yet.

But healing is happening. Growth is happening. Progress is happening.

It’s one imperfect step at a time and for now,  I need to realize that's enough.

Xoxo

Tiffanee 

The Bucket on My Head

When Shame Told Me to Hide and Love Opened the Closet Door

When I was in third grade, my teacher had a rule: if you got caught chewing gum in class, you had to stick it on your nose.

One day at recess, my best friend and I put a giant piece of pink bubble gum in our mouths. We spent the entire recess blowing bubbles and laughing. We were having so much fun that we completely forgot to spit it out when the bell rang.

Within moments of returning to class, our teacher noticed.
"Put the gum on your noses," she said.

That large piece of sticky pink gum covered a good portion of my nose and even blocked part of my vision. I glanced over at my friend. She wore hers almost like a badge of honor.
I, on the other hand, felt something very different.

I felt shame.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the tears from coming.

It was probably only a few minutes before the teacher let us throw the gum away, but to me it felt much longer. My dad was the assistant principal, and I was convinced the teacher would tell him what I had done. I just knew I was going to be in trouble.

The shame followed me for the rest of the school day.

By the time I got home, it had grown so large in my mind that I went upstairs, grabbed a bucket, climbed into my closet, shut the door, put the bucket on my head, and cried.

Looking back, it's a little funny. But at the time, it felt devastating.

It wasn't long before my mom found me.

I can still picture what she saw when she opened the closet door: her daughter sitting in the dark with a bucket on her head, convinced she had done something terrible.

To her credit, she somehow managed not to laugh.

Instead, she sat beside me and listened while I poured out the whole story.

Then she did something beautiful.

She comforted me.

She wasn't worried about the mistake. She was worried about her daughter.

She explained that chewing gum in class wasn't the end of the world. Everyone makes mistakes. Everything would be okay. Most importantly, she reminded me that I was still loved.

Later, when my dad came home, we told him what had happened. I expected disappointment.
Instead, he was more concerned that I had been publicly embarrassed. He reassured me. He loved me.

There was no shame coming from either of my parents.

I've thought about that experience many times over the years.

What stands out to me now is that the shame I felt that day didn't come from my parents. It didn't come from my teacher either and honestly, it didn't really come from the gum.
It came from the story I started believing about myself.
Somewhere between wearing that gum on my nose and putting a bucket on my head, I stopped thinking, I made a mistake, and started believing, I am the mistake.

Now, when thoughts like that creep in, I've learned to ask myself a simple question.
Who told me that?

Because that certainly wasn't my Heavenly Father.

The Holy Ghost lovingly helps us recognize when we need to repent or change. The Spirit teaches, guides, and invites us to become better.

But shame speaks differently. Shame convinces us that because we made a mistake, we are the mistake.

It tells us to hide.

I've come to believe that's one of Satan's greatest lies, that after we've made a mistake, we should hide from the very person who can heal us.

When Adam and Eve partook of the fruit, they hid. I've always found that interesting.
It wasn't Heavenly Father who hid from them.
They hid from Him and then Heavenly Father did something beautiful.

He came looking for them.

I think that's still what He does.

When we're carrying embarrassment, regret, or shame, He doesn't wait for us to become perfect before coming closer.

He comes looking for us.

One of my favorite parts of this story is imagining my mom opening that closet door.
The older I get, the more I think that's what Heavenly Father's love looks like.

He doesn't shame us into coming back.
He opens the door.
He sits beside us.
He reminds us we are still loved.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us are still sitting in metaphorical closets wearing buckets on our heads.
Maybe it's because of something that happened last week.
Maybe it's because of something that happened years ago.
Maybe we've listened to the voice of shame for so long that we've forgotten what our Father's voice sounds like.

If that's you, can I ask you a question?
Who told you that?

Because I don't think it was Heavenly Father.

Sometimes I think about that little third-grade girl sitting alone in her closet with a bucket on her head. If I could sit beside her today, I'd put my arm around her and ask:

"Sweet girl... who told you that?"

Because it wasn't her mom.
It wasn't her dad.
And it certainly wasn't her Heavenly Father.

He's not standing outside the closet waiting to remind her of her mistake.
He's the One opening the door.
He's the One sitting beside her.
He's the One reminding her she is still loved.
Maybe that's the question we all need to ask when shame starts telling us who we are:
Who told you that?

My amazing parents

XOXO

Tiffanee

Keep Walking Through the Fog

Sometimes clarity doesn’t come when we stop and wait.  It comes as we keep going.

Last fall, my son came to visit for his birthday. He had two things he really wanted to do: go to a couple of Mariners games and make the drive to Mount Rainier to complete a pretty challenging hike.

We left early that morning, hopeful but a little unsure. The weather wasn’t great. It was raining, and the fog was so thick we could barely see anything around us. As we drove higher and higher, the fog only grew denser. It felt like we were just driving deeper into it, not out of it.

At one point, we started to question it.
Should we keep going? Is this even worth it? Are we going to get all the way up there and not see anything?

There was a real pull to just turn around and go home.

But then, almost instantly, everything changed.

We turned a corner, and there it was....Mount Rainier, clear and breathtaking, sitting under a bright blue sky, with sunlight breaking through in a way we hadn’t seen all morning. It honestly felt like someone flipped a switch. One moment we were surrounded by heaviness and uncertainty, and the next we were standing in light and clarity.

As we hiked that day and climbed higher, one of the most striking things was looking out and seeing that same thick fog and cloud layer sitting below us. Everything that had felt so heavy earlier was still there, but now we were above it.

I’ve thought about that experience so many times since.

Because honestly, life can feel a lot like that drive.

There are times when we feel surrounded by fog, spiritually and emotionally.  We feel unsure, discouraged, or just not feeling the clarity we’re hoping for. Sometimes we’re doing all the “right” things, and still, we just can’t see very far ahead.

In those moments, it’s easy to start questioning:
Is this working? Should I keep going? Why can’t I feel what I used to feel?

That fog narrows our view until all we see is what’s right in front of us.

But just like that experience on the mountain, the fog is not the whole story.

Christ is.

He is the source of light and clarity we’re searching for. Often, instead of removing the fog immediately, He invites us to keep moving forward, walking with Him.

That idea of continuing forward feels so real to me. It doesn’t mean everything is clear. It doesn’t mean it’s easy. It simply means choosing not to turn back.

I’ve found that turning to Christ in those foggy moments takes intention. It often looks simple:

• A quiet, honest prayer when words feel hard to find
• Opening the scriptures, even when it feels routine
• Choosing to believe He is there, even when we can’t feel Him clearly
• Slowing down long enough to notice small reminders of His love

Sometimes it’s less about doing something big and more about not turning back.

Because that’s the temptation. When we’re in the fog, we want to retreat. We want clarity before we continue because it feels uncertain, even scary.

But what if, like that drive, the clarity comes because we continue?

That day on Mount Rainier became a gentle reminder to me that the fog can feel overwhelming, but it is not permanent and it is never greater than Christ.

As we press forward with Him, little by little, He lifts us and gently helps us see.

And often, we come to realize that the light was always there.
We just needed His help to rise above what was blocking our view.

 I’m so grateful that He never asks us to find our way through the fog alone and that He walks with us every step of the way.

It was a tough hike that day, but I am thankful for that time I had with my son and the memories and lessons learned.

XOXO

Tiffanee