Welcome to My Messy, Beautiful Beginning

If you and I were sitting across from each other right now, I’d probably start by saying, “Well, bless your heart.” And I’d mean it in the best possible way. Because if you’ve stumbled onto my corner of the internet, I already know two things about you: you’re curious, and you’re looking for something a little more real than the polished highlight reels we scroll past all day long. Looking for more than the “good christian Mamma who has been through it all and gonna load you up with a thousand scripture to tell you how to be perfect and get through it too. 

So let’s start with real.

I’m Kimberli. Once upon a time, I was a little girl who wanted to be an actress because my family said I was “dramatic.” That dream fizzled the moment someone told me I couldn’t read well enough to memorize scripts. (Never mind that by sixth grade I was in the advanced reading group — the label had already stuck.) Instead of Hollywood, I turned my “too muchness” into ignoring high school and selling shoes and those hand painted legging sets everyone loved in the late 80”s. After some family cajoling I set my sites on a career as a fashion designer. . Because what is fashion design, really, if not drama stitched in fabric and paraded down a runway under glaring lights?

Fast forward: I became a fashion designer in New York City. On paper, it sounds glamorous. In reality, it was more like Survivor: Fabric District Edition. Days started with black coffee and ended with panic about whether the hemline detail I invented at 2 a.m. was about to betray me on the runway. My easel was sometimes a sketchbook balanced on my knees on the subway, sometimes the fluorescent-lit back corner of a design studio, sometimes just my imagination because fabric samples were too expensive.

And of course, because God has a sense of humor, my most cinematic New York moments were not the glamorous ones.  Like the  day I face-planted on a sidewalk on platforms — knees bloodied, palms scraped, dignity shattered — right in front of a Hollywood star, spending some time on Broadway. Yes, that was a well known icon . He offered his hand, his face caught somewhere between confusion and compassion. And me? I shook my head, muttered something awkward, and scrambled up on my own. Why? Because sometimes pride  and embarrassment is stronger than pain. And because, honestly, I didn’t want a memory of me floating around to be “woman who can’t walk on a flat sidewalk.” (even though there was cracks and unseen trip hazards.

The truth is, that moment could be a metaphor for a lot of my life. Falling, not laughing it off, refusing help, and insisting I could stand up on my own — even when God Himself was holding out a hand.Trying to write my own story, when I had the writer of the universe available to pen mine. Stupid girl, why did I continue to steal the pen? 

Spoiler Alert: Life didn’t slow down after that. I married, lost, grieved,mourned, rebuilt, hustled, failed, got bitter , got angry, tore it all down, spiraled into major depression, rebuilt again, succeeded, moved, and started over more times than I can count.Lost and gained more pounds than you can count.  I raised kids, buried loved ones, launched businesses, lost jobs, endured trauma, healed slowly, entered pageants at 50, 

,looking over the edge of the empty-ish nest, peri- meno (need I say more) lost faith in The Lord , gained faith in the Lord and did it all again and again. Somehow collected enough stories to fill three memoirs. Which is probably why I finally decided to write one or three..

The first book is called Unzipped. It’s written as a conversation between my younger self — the wide-eyed, insecure, stubborn girl who walked into Parsons School of Design carrying way too many sketchpads and way too much fear,  completely empty pockets and little family support— and my older self, the woman I am now: scarred but faith-forged, a little wiser, hopefully a little funnier and still a mess, still on the rollercoaster, still trying to steal God’s pen. It’s about the threads that hold us together, and the ones that fray when life yanks too hard. It’s about faith and failure, fashion and faceplants, identity and redemption. And above all, it’s about the God who never walked away, even when I did.

But here’s why this blog and book matters to me: the story isn’t finished yet. The book might be in progress, but life doesn’t wait for final drafts. And maybe, if I share the messy middle here, you’ll see echoes of your own story in mine. You might even find encouragement and a kernel of faith and trust in God yourself. 

So that’s what you’ll find on this blog — the real stuff. The faith that I ignore when it’s supposed to steady me.  The struggles that build character, perseverance, faith and hope. Romans 5  when I feel like unraveling. The power of the Holy Spirit giving sight to  my blinded eyedThe fashion stories that prove life isn’t all sequins and stilettos. The funny, sarcastic moments that remind me not to take myself so seriously. And the reflections on what it means to be a woman still becoming.  Still Finding my place in the palace of the King .

So here we are, at the beginning of something new. A blog. A book. A conversation.

Grab your coffee (or Diet Coke, or kombucha, tequila — no judgment here). Pull up a chair. Let’s laugh a little, cry a little, and remind each other that we don’t have to fake it — even on Sunday mornings.

And because I can’t resist a teaser, let me leave you with this:

There was a night in New York when I was twenty-one years old, standing on the rooftop of a building I had no business being in, wearing an outfit I couldn’t afford, shoes I definitely couldn’t afford, staring at a skyline that felt like both a promise and a dare. That night changed everything. I’ll tell you the whole story soon — but for now, let’s just say it involved a stranger, a question that stopped me in my tracks, and a decision that would ripple through the rest of my life.

Stay tuned. The best stories are still coming.