Tag: family

Journal Entry

The Alchemist’s Amen: A Declaration of Repentance

Reba Nietert

There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying a past you’ve already outlived. Lately, I’ve been wrestling with the ghosts of my own choices, feeling the weight of things I thought were buried. This post is my exhaling. It is a declaration of where I’ve been, what I’ve done, and the mercy I am finally choosing to accept.”

If you are carrying a weight that was never meant for your shoulders, I invite you to leave a piece of it here. What is one thing you are ready to forgive yourself for today? Let’s walk toward the light together.

For days, my mind has been a battlefield where peace went to die. I have been breathing the stale air of a “past long gone,” dragging old ghosts into the present until my soul became heavy with the haunting. I felt it in my marrow and in the “second brain” of my stomach—a rising acid of remorse, a conflict of the ego that no medicine could soothe.

I realized that to swallow this bitterness any longer would be to drown.

Today, I choose the only way out: The way of the Alchemist. I am turning my culpability into a present accountability. I am not merely apologizing for my struggle; I am honoring it by allowing it to become a testimony.

The Confession

I walked a path of shadows and ill repute,

Weaving webs of manipulation for a life of gilded ease.

I cost men their kingdoms to furnish my own,

Trading integrity for a view few ever see.

I asked for love, and when the Great Provider gave a seed,

I let fear bloom where a child should have grown.

I cast away the miracle to keep the ghost of my freedom,

Choosing the cold silence of “no” over the warmth of “yes.”

I have been the architect of my own envy,

Comparing my reflection to a world of curated lies.

I have been lazy in my promises and a shortcut-taker in my craft,

Slandering the innocent and dismissing the weary with a judge’s gavel.

I have lacked the very character I claimed to possess,

Wounding the seen and the unseen with the sharp edge of my ego.

The Surrender

But the acid has reached the brim, and I am finished with the burning.

Heavenly Father, I stand before You stripped of my pretenses.

I confess the stains, the shortcuts, and the intentional hurts.

I ask for the blood of Jesus to act as a holy solvent—

To wash the “ill repute” until only the “reputation of Grace” remains.

Forgive me for the pain I caused that I cannot see.

Forgive me for the years I spent coveting what was never mine.

Take the lordship of every broken room in my heart.

The New Spirit

I exchange my “second ego” for Your first-rate Peace.

I thank You for the courage to look at my reflection without flinching,

And for the mercy that refuses to run dry, even when I am parched.

Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.

The struggle is honored. The sin is covered. The testimony begins.

I’ve learned that my body was never meant to be a warehouse for my regrets. It was meant to be a temple for my peace. How are you tending to your temple today?

Journal Entry

The Long Goodbye: Navigating Anticipatory Grief and Chronic Illness

Reba Nietert

When we think of grief, we often think of it as a destination—a place we arrive at only after a loss has occurred. But for those living through the chronic or terminal illness of a loved one, grief doesn’t wait for a final breath. It settles in early, making itself at home in the quiet corners of the caregiver’s heart.

This experience is known as anticipatory grief, and it is one of the most complex layers of the human experience. At The Soft Armor, we believe in acknowledging these heavy truths so we can better equip ourselves for the journey.

Understanding the “Invisible” Loss

Anticipatory grief is unique because it isn’t just about the fear of the future; it’s about the losses happening in the present. It is the trauma of watching someone’s world shrink. You might be grieving:

• The loss of a role: Moving from partner or child to full-time caregiver.

• The loss of shared dreams: Letting go of travel plans or future milestones.

• The loss of personality: Navigating the way illness can change a person’s temperament or cognitive abilities.

The Trauma of the “Wait”

Living in a state of constant high alert—waiting for the next phone call, the next scan, or the next dip in health—creates a specific kind of physiological trauma. Your nervous system stays “on,” prepared for a crisis that hasn’t fully arrived but feels inevitable.

This sustained stress can lead to “caregiver burnout,” but it’s more than just exhaustion; it’s the soul’s reaction to holding onto someone who is slowly slipping away.

Finding Your “Soft Armor”

How do we protect ourselves while remaining open and present for those who need us?

1. Grant Yourself Permission: Understand that feeling grief right now doesn’t mean you’ve given up hope. It means you are processing the reality of the situation.

2. Acknowledge the Secondary Losses: It is okay to be sad about the “small” things—the lost Sunday morning coffee routines or the quiet house. These are the threads of your daily life being pulled away.

3. Create Pockets of Stillness: When the trauma of illness feels loud, find a ritual that grounds you. Whether it’s a heavy blanket, a specific scent, or five minutes of intentional breathing, find the “armor” that makes you feel safe.

4. Seek Community: Grief is isolating, but you are not alone. Sharing your story with those who understand the “long goodbye” can lighten the emotional load.

Moving Through, Not Over

There is no “getting over” the trauma of sickness and loss. There is only moving through it, one heartbeat at a time. By acknowledging the grief we feel before the loss, we honor the depth of our love and the difficulty of the path we are walking.

Be kind to yourself today. You are doing the hardest work there is.

Inspiration

Thirty-Two Years of the Leap

Reba Nietert

I look at this picture and I can still feel my knees shaking. I remember the weight of the question hanging in the air: would this marriage last for months, for decades, or for a lifetime? Behind my smile, I was a whirlwind of emotion—deeply honored to be Scott’s wife, yet breathless from the whirlwind of it all. “Do you want to get married today?” he had asked just hours earlier.

An elopement at the Rockwall wedding cottage, a quick trip to Dillard’s Travel, and suddenly we were on our way to San Antonio. We didn’t have much then, just a weekend at SeaWorld and each other. In this photo, I was four months pregnant and, if I’m honest, I was scared to death. I was terrified that I wasn’t ready for motherhood—that I wasn’t up to the monumental challenge of raising a child.

And yet, I felt safe.

Wrapped in his arms, I found a sanctuary. Scott brought with him a history of steadiness that I leaned on completely. I trusted that he could navigate us through the unknown; I believed he was capable enough to help rewrite the parts of me that felt broken. I took the leap because of the man he was—a product of a home filled with honor and intentional love. I saw his mother, a woman born to parent, and his father, a jovial and present man whose every move was rooted in kindness. I knew Scott would bring that legacy into our home.

For thirty-two years, he has done exactly that.

Our journey hasn’t been perfect. Anyone who truly knows us can attest that there were seasons of selfishness, moments where we prioritized our own interests over the “us.” But whenever level heads prevailed, the love that sparked that first impulsive “yes” brought us back to center. It kept us learning, growing, and moving in the same direction.

Today, he is my absolute best friend. Our lives are a tapestry of shared ideas, a common moral compass, and a deep, aligned faith. Whether it’s our hobbies or our values, we simply enjoy life more when we are doing it together. Looking back at that shaking girl in the photograph, I wish I could tell her: Don’t worry. You chose well.

Human Interest

When Others Judge – Holding it Together

Reba Nietert

These past weeks have been a DOOZY for me. While I used to be a bad ass during stressful situations, I have come to learn with experience that loss, real loss, devastating – change – your – life -loss can happen in a moment. Sometimes I think I am one more change away from losing my mind. The older I get the more the fear of loss is real. There’s been a great deal of trauma involved, and that lends itself to more anxiety. Faith. I must have it. God’s got this I tell myself. Naturally, I must learn to believe that.

People often get mad when they’re afraid because anger can be a defense mechanism to cope with the uncomfortable feelings of fear and a sense of vulnerability. If trauma has taught them they cannot trust an unknown outcome, this can be very scary for the people on the other side of that fear. Both fear and anger trigger the “fight-or-flight” response, releasing stress hormones and preparing the body for action. When the nervous system is activated by fear, an individual may unconsciously choose to express this heightened energy as anger, a way to regain a sense of control and protect themselves from a perceived threat.

Anxiety and anger activate the body’s fight-or-flight (stress) response, which triggers the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis to release cortisol, the primary stress hormone. Specifically, the hypothalamus releases corticotropin-releasing hormone (CRH), which signals the pituitary gland to release adrenocorticotropic hormone (ACTH). This, in turn, prompts the adrenal glands to produce and release cortisol into the bloodstream, providing energy to deal with the perceived threat.

I am not sure what the answer is to make sure people around me feel loved. If I lose my shit, something awful has just happened. I am in the thick of cortisol jet streaming throughout my body, and I am one comment away from either losing my mind or walking away because the emotion is too great for me. Horrible but true.

Breathe Beck. Just Breathe.

Journal Entry

Chaos, Coffee, and Canines: A Morning on the Road

Reba Nietert

Traveling with dogs should come with a disclaimer: “Warning—may cause extreme chaos, laughter, and moments of pure panic.” Take this morning, for example. Picture it: 5:15 AM, a pitch-black hotel room, and two high-octane pups staring at me like I’m their personal sunrise. Thanks, time zone switch—you really know how to keep a girl on her toes.

I’d barely opened my eyes before both dogs were vibrating with excitement, ready to launch into their own version of the Indy 500 around our 500-square-foot hotel room. I’m tiptoeing around, trying to keep things quiet, but every paw thump and tail wag echoes like we’re rehearsing for Stomp. The suspense? Will we wake up the entire floor before sunrise? Odds are not in my favor.

Once I’m wrangled into my clothes, it’s time for the next challenge: the great outdoors. Except, plot twist, it’s been raining so hard I’m half-expecting to see a pair of giraffes lining up outside. The parking lot has become a small lake, and I’m wading through puddles like a contestant on a reality show—Survivor: Hotel Edition—just to reach the grass.

The dogs, of course, are living their best lives, zooming across the soggy grass with reckless abandon. I’m just trying to keep them from breaking the sound barrier or the property line. Photos are snapped, business is done, and I’m thinking, “Surely, the worst is over.” (Spoiler: it’s not.)

Time to head back in. Remi, my youngest, launches at the door like he’s auditioning for America’s Got Talent. Dakota, the elder stateswoman, tries to beat me inside—only to get her toe caught under the door. Suddenly, the scene turns into a canine opera: Dakota screeching, leashes flying, and me—somewhere between tears and laughter—trying to keep both dogs from reenacting a prison break.

At one point, Remi is locked inside, Dakota’s outside wailing, and I’m juggling leashes, guilt, and the creeping suspicion that I’m about to be evicted. I manage to calm Dakota, get everyone back inside, and—miraculously—no lasting damage. Remi, ever the good boy, is still tethered and waiting patiently. The dogs are loaded into the car, and I finally get a moment to chase down the holy grail: coffee. All this before my first cup. Send help.

Meanwhile, my phone is buzzing with texts from my husband and daughter, worried about my eye issue (which, by the way, is still a thing). I’m grateful for the love, but how do you even begin to explain this dog-fueled circus before breakfast?

And, of course, I still haven’t finished the contract I promised to send last night. I was so exhausted when we checked in at 11 PM that I collapsed face-first onto the bed. Now, I’m staring down a four hour drive to the airport to pick up the hubby and then another two-hour drive, running on empty, praying I can hotspot my laptop and work while my husband drives us home. 

But hey—dogs are fine, I survived, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get that coffee before the next episode of “Traveling with Dogs: Chaos Unleashed.” 

It’s not even 8 o’clock a.m. yet!

—

Have you ever had a travel morning like this? Share your funniest (or most suspenseful) pet travel stories below—bonus points if they involve coffee deprivation!

Inspiration

The Heartbeat Between Visits: A Mother’s Grateful Reflection

Reba Nietert

There’s a quiet blessing in the closeness of grown children—  

Not the kind measured in miles,  

But in the gentle sharing of stories,  

The casual texts, the laughter over dinner,  

And the way they still let me peek into their worlds.

I am grateful for every moment they choose to share—  

For the late-night phone calls,  

The photos of new adventures,  

And the simple, “Love you, Mom,”  

That lands soft as a sigh at the end of a busy day.

Yet, even as I watch them stride into their own lives—  

Capable, clever, carving out their dreams—  

A mother’s worry lingers,  

A silent oversight,  

Hovering over their struggles and challenges,  

Wishing, sometimes, to shoulder the weight

Or to smooth the path ahead,  

Even when I know they must walk it themselves.

There are days when the house feels too still,  

The echo of their laughter fading between visits,  

And I am left with a quiet emptiness—  

A hollow shaped by memories  

Of rebellion and mismatched socks,  

Of tea parties with teddy bears,  

And race tracks built from matchbox cars  

Winding through the living room.

I remember the moments of exasperation—

The slammed doors, the stubborn glares—  

But more often, I recall  

The giggles over spilled tea,  

The sticky hands clutching mine,  

The bedtime stories and whispered secrets  

Shared in the hush of night.

There are regrets, of course—  

Words I wish I’d swallowed,  

Hugs I wish I’d held a little longer,  

But they are outnumbered  

By the moments that brought great joy:  

The pride in their first steps,  

The warmth of their sleepy heads on my shoulder,  

The unexpected “thank yous”  

That melted the hardest days.

Now, as I look back—  

My life feels cherished, blessed, fulfilled.  

I see the tapestry woven from  

Small kindnesses,  

Shared laughter,  

And the simple, enduring love  

That grows, even when we are apart.

My heart is full—  

Grateful for every visit, call, and memory,  

And for the privilege of being  

A mother, always.

Inspiration

Breaking the Mold: A Woman-Owned, Veteran-Led Approach to Home Watch in North Dallas

Reba Nietert

When you think of home services—especially those involving security, property inspections, and emergency response—most people picture a man showing up with a clipboard. It’s a stereotype that’s been around for decades, and it’s still surprisingly common. But at LoneStar Home Watch, we’re proud to do things differently.

Challenging Expectations in Home Services

As the owner of LoneStar Home Watch, I’ve seen firsthand that the world of property care and home inspection is still very much a “boys’ club.” Many clients—even those who support women in business—are initially surprised when they realize the person inspecting their home is a woman. Some even admit they’d assumed or preferred a man for the job, simply because that’s what they’re used to.

But here’s the thing: professionalism, attention to detail, and trustworthiness aren’t defined by gender. They’re built through training, certification, and a genuine commitment to client care. I am a certified Home Watch professional, and LoneStar Home Watch is only one of two accredited and certified companies in the Dallas metroplex. Our team brings expertise, reliability, and a personal touch to every vidual inspection—qualities that matter far more than outdated expectations.

Why Representation Matters

Having a woman at the helm of a home services business isn’t just about breaking industry norms—it’s about bringing a fresh perspective to client care. Women often bring a unique attention to detail, empathy, and communication style that helps build trust with our clients. I take pride in being approachable, thorough, and always available to answer questions or address concerns.

Our clients benefit from a service that’s not only professional, but also personal. We understand that letting someone into your unoccupied home is a big deal. That’s why we prioritize transparency, digital reporting with photos, and immediate communication—so you always know what’s happening with your property.

Proudly Veteran-Owned

LoneStar Home Watch isn’t just woman-owned—it’s also veteran-owned. Scott, my husband and business partner, is a proud veteran. His experience instilled in us both a sense of duty, discipline, and commitment to service. These values are at the heart of how we operate: with integrity, respect, and a mission-driven approach to protecting your property.

Setting the Standard for Home Watch Services

We know that trust is earned, not given. That’s why we go the extra mile to be A+ Accredited by the BBB, bonded, insured, and certified through NHWA. Our proprietary software ensures every inspection is confidentialy documented, and any issues are reported immediately—with photos and recommended actions.

We’re here to show that the best person for the job isn’t determined by gender, but by dedication, training, and a true passion for service. At LoneStar Home Watch, you get the best of both worlds: the expertise of a certified professional, and the values of a veteran-owned, family-run business.

Ready for peace of mind?
Contact us today for a flat-fee estimate and experience the LoneStar difference—where professionalism, trust, and care come standard, no matter who’s holding the clipboard.

Contact us today: 972-214-4720
Info@lonestrarwatch.com

Inspiration

Too Big for My Britches: Rethinking the Rules We Live By

Reba Nietert

In the six decades I’ve spent on this earth, I’ve heard the phrase “you’re too big for your britches” more times than I can count. It’s a phrase that, at its core, is meant to keep people—especially women—quiet, compliant, and small. It’s a way of saying, “Don’t draw too much attention. Don’t challenge the status quo. Don’t make anyone uncomfortable.”

The rules that come with it are familiar:  

– Don’t laugh too loud.  

– Don’t cry too hard.  

– Don’t speak up unless spoken to.  

– Forgive, forget, and never hold anyone accountable for how they make you feel.  

– Above all, don’t make waves.

When these unspoken rules didn’t keep me in line, I faced other consequences—distance, abandonment, or even outright hostility. The message was clear: tow the line, or else. Your value is only as much as your willingness to comply.

But here’s the thing: I’m tired of it. And I know I’m not alone.

Why Do We Accept This?

Why do we accept a world where one person’s comfort is valued above another’s authenticity? Why is it considered noble to shrink ourselves so others don’t have to face their own discomfort?

It’s easy to internalize these expectations, to believe that speaking up is the problem, that our feelings are “baggage,” that our voices are too much. But what if the real issue isn’t that we’re “too big for our britches,” but that the britches were never made to fit us in the first place?

The Courage to Challenge

It takes courage to question the rules you’ve been handed. It takes even more to refuse to play by them. I’m learning that honoring my own voice isn’t an act of rebellion—it’s an act of self-respect. And it’s something we owe not just to ourselves, but to those who come after us.

Imagine what would happen if we all stopped bowing to the opinions of those who want us small. What if we held space for each other’s voices, even when they challenge us? What if we measured our worth not by how well we comply, but by how authentically we show up in the world?

An Invitation to Reflect

This isn’t just my story—it’s a challenge to all of us. Next time you find yourself tempted to silence someone, or to shrink yourself for someone else’s comfort, pause and ask:  

– Whose rules am I following?  

– Who benefits from my silence or my compliance?  

– What would it look like to honor my own truth—and allow others to do the same?

Let’s be the generation that outgrows those too-small britches. Let’s encourage each other to take up space, speak up, and live fully—no matter who it makes uncomfortable.

Because real progress doesn’t happen when we all stay quiet. It happens when we dare to be heard. If that “triggers“ some, then so be it. Maybe they just need to look in the mirror. Maybe they’re not self-aware enough to know they’re part of the problem.

jounal entry

America- A Rat Race: Do We Win or Do We Lose?

Reba Nietert

Walking into Marshall’s, a humble Taylor among the curated chaos. The shades of fabric whisper secrets of their conversions—once coveted, now discarded, their allure fleeting. Feverish hands rummage through the racks, each item a fleeting muse, soon to be forgotten. 

And yet, isn’t this the dance we know so well? Women, like these garments, often appraised for their utility, their sheen, their ability to fit into spaces designed by others. A fever runs through the air—not of admiration, but of judgment. The cold gaze of expectation lingers, as if each thread, each seam, must prove its worth before it’s deemed worthy of a second glance.

We dive into each other’s lives, don’t we? One after another, like garments pulled from the rack, only to be tossed aside when the novelty fades. “Good night,” we say, as if the cold over our shoulders isn’t the chill of being reduced to an emoji—smiling, waving, performing. The items we touch, the lives we pass, will likely find themselves in Goodwill’s embrace before they’ve ever truly been seen.

But isn’t that the status quo? A man’s world, where women are the fabric of the mundane—stitched into roles, hemmed by expectations, and unraveled when deemed too much or too little. Each thread, each glance, each judgment, a reminder: the world appraises, but rarely sees.

Do we need? Should we buy? Is it social? Are we bored? This is something I struggle with releasing hard earned money for things I don’t need. I’m the kind of woman who appreciates a good fishing pole, a running motor in a boat, a good tug on the line, a great muscle car with clean lines, a home that feels welcoming, Dogs by my side, kitties to cuddle, closeness with someone you can truly trust, and maybe a little laughter from a child. There’s my value… And something I feel worth building every single day. What’s yours? 

Inspiration

The Sunburn Catastrophe: A Weekend in the Big Easy

Reba Nietert

Ah, New Orleans for Easter Sunday. The land of jazz, beignets, and apparently, never-ending blisters. Never ending emergency sirens. Never ending abusively loud noise. Let me walk you through (pun intended) what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend getaway but quickly turned into a comedy of errors—complete with sunburns, stale bread, and the kind of exhaustion that makes you question every life choice.

Thursday Night: The Calm Before the Chaos

We rolled into town around 8 or 9 PM, starving but too tired to care. The hotel bed won the battle over dinner, and we called it a night. Little did I know, this would be the last moment of peace for the next 72 hours.

Friday: Fishing, Friendship, and Fried Knees

The alarm went off at 5:00 AM because apparently, vacations are for sleep deprivation. We headed out for a fishing trip, which was lovely… for the first five minutes. I spent hours bonding with Whitney, Sheldon’s new wife, while getting smacked around by the wind like it owed me money. Meanwhile, the guys lounged under the awning, oblivious to our slow descent into sunburned madness. By the end of the trip, my knees were scorched, my back ached from the boat’s relentless rocking, and all I wanted was a shower.  

But wait, there’s more! Dinner at Mr. B’s was supposed to be the highlight of the day. Instead, it was a symphony of stale bread, disappointing entrees, and an impromptu nine-block hike in heels because Scott apparently moonlights as a tour guide. By the time we got back to the hotel, I was blistered, sunburned, and officially over it.

Saturday: Lettuce, Leather Bars, and Bathroom Emergencies

Saturday started with a lovely visit to see Dave and Debbie—honestly, the highlight of the weekend. But then it was back to the hotel to prepare for another round of walking and dining. Dinner with Wayne and Cindy was fun, but the wedge salad? Let’s just say it was more “lettuce” than “salad.”  

And then came Bourbon Street. Oh, Bourbon Street. Picture this: me, fighting off a fish-induced stomach rebellion, being dragged from bar to bar while dreaming of a bathroom. The Montleone Bar finally gave me the relief I needed (bless their plumbing), and I made my escape back to the hotel, leaving Bourbon Street to the younger, more resilient crowd.

Sunday: Crawfish and Crawling to the Finish Line

Sunday brought a crawfish boil at Sheldon’s. The food was good, the company was better, but the sheer exhaustion of making small talk with strangers left me longing for my couch. By the time we hit the airport, my blisters had blisters, and my knees were still radiating heat like a bad sunlamp experiment.

The Verdict 

Sure, there were some lovely moments—catching up with friends, the crawfish boil, and the occasional laugh—but overall? I think I’ve outgrown the whole “city party” thing. Your dad’s not thrilled with me because he thinks we turned in at 8 PM every night (spoiler: we didn’t), but honestly, I’m okay with that. I came back sunburned, blistered, and with a newfound appreciation for my own bed.

So, New Orleans, thanks for the memories—and the blisters. Next time, I think I’ll just stay home.  

Moral of the Story: 

Sometimes, the best vacations are the ones where you don’t leave your zip code. And always, *always* pack sunscreen.