NicholasBranch

A gentle, soft-lit mirror with reflection of water—symbolic, peaceful There was a period in my childhood when the mirror felt like an enemy. Not because of my appearance, but because of the ache behind my eyes. I didn’t feel worthy. I didn’t feel lovable. And as young as I was, I already felt shame that made it difficult to look at myself at all. So I did what a child does: I created a strategy to survive it. Every day, I’d force myself to look into the mirror—one second, the

A journal on a table, pen, soft light — inviting creativity There are moments in life when we realize we’ve been living a story that was never ours to begin with. One of those moments happened for me during my second year of engineering school. I was sitting in a classroom surrounded by equations, formulas, and circuit diagrams, and something inside me whispered—a quiet truth I had been ignoring: “This isn’t who you are.” Everyone told me engineering was the sensible choice.

Water, river imagery, soft blues—gentle There are moments in life that split us in two: the “before” and the “after.”For me, one of those moments happened when I was five years old. I drowned in a river. And in those final moments underwater—fighting for breath, lungs burning, fear screaming—I felt something far heavier than water: I felt unworthy of being saved. So instead of reaching out, instead of calling for help, I did something no child should ever feel: I asked God to

A medal with soft lighting, symbolizing achievement without heaviness There’s a strange moment in life when you’re celebrated publicly while breaking quietly. I’ve lived that moment. Years ago, I stood at a military ceremony receiving an award for outstanding performance. People clapped. Leaders praised me. The narrative sounded heroic. But inside, I was shattered. My marriage had fallen apart. My children lived far away. I had sacrificed everything in the pursuit of success—

A Return to Our Original, God-Given Self Nicholas Branch childlike joy There is a version of us that existed before fear, before pain, before trauma, before the world taught us to shrink. For me, that version lived in a little boy around age 2 or 3—wide-eyed, curious, bold, and completely unafraid of life. I recently revisited that memory while looking at an old picture of myself (the one above). In it, I look fearless. Joyful. Free. And I remembered an experience from about

There’s a moment in every healing journey where you finally exhale — not because everything is “fixed,” but because you’ve stopped running from yourself. For years, I thought belovedness was something you earned at the end of transformation. After you healed. After you grew. After you performed enough, proved enough, achieved enough to finally be “worthy.” But belovedness was never the finish line. It was the starting point  I had forgotten. A soft sunrise breaking through tr

Learning to Rest in Love: From Brokenness to Belovedness – Part 3 There was a time when I thought love meant constant motion. Doing. Serving. Performing. Proving that I was worth the breath in my lungs. Even after I learned that I was loved, I still tried to “live up” to it — to be the kind of person who deserved grace. But love doesn’t ask for constant movement. It invites stillness and trust. Because real love, divine love, doesn’t need to be earned — it’s received. A peace

Series: From Brokenness to Belovedness – Week 2 For so long, I lived like love had to be earned. If I prayed hard enough, produced enough, stayed strong enough — then  I might finally feel worthy of peace. Maybe you’ve felt that too — the quiet hum of “not enough”  running underneath everything. The lie is subtle, but powerful: that you must do  something to deserve being loved. And yet, when Jesus stepped into the river to be baptized — before He healed, taught, or sacrifice

Series: From Brokenness to Belovedness – Week 1 It’s easy to see ourselves through what needs fixing. What’s wrong. What’s missing. What could be better. That was how I learned to live for years — quietly carrying the question underneath everything: “What’s wrong with me?” Until one morning, while reflecting on the Garden of Eden and the idea that our bodies mirror God’s dwelling, I felt a gentle nudge in my spirit: “What if your starting point isn’t your brokenness, but your

In the stillness between breaths, I have felt it —that quiet, steady presence that holds all things together. The whisper that met me in both drowning and returning to life. The presence that pulled me from the river — not just out of water, but out of fear — and invited me to breathe again. That is what I’ve come to call spiritual presence : the awareness of God within and around us, the tender rhythm of Heaven that syncs with our heartbeat. It is not a distant experience re

When I close my eyes, I can still feel the weight of the river. The pull of the current. The desperate gasp for air. That day, as a child...

Our Bodies as the Garden of Eden Book Cover God trusts you. He always has. When I drowned as a child, I learned what it meant to lose...

Every spiritual journey is a little like stepping into a hidden garden—or like boarding a train that carries you from one breathtaking...

Every day, we are invited into a choice: will we live in love, or in fear? Love is the language of God. Fear is the language of the...

Sharing my story vulnerably and boldly has been a journey for me. My journey is not just a tale of faith but a gentle invitation to...

Every day holds an invitation to walk in the miracle. Not just in the extraordinary, but in the ordinary rhythms of life—our breath, our...

Precious child of light, There is a quiet place within you where heaven brushes earth. A gentle whisper that says: Be still. You are...

There’s something holy about standing in a place so beautiful that your breath catches. My wife and I have felt that impact on the shores...

It's 2:30 AM—the hour when Heaven often whispers clearest. What feels like a download might actually be an upload, as a friend once...

How do you see God? How do you see yourself? These are two of the most important questions we can ever ask—because they’re more connected...