The Hidden Life | 2.
@storyboardc.
I really don’t like onions—the smell, the taste, the crunch. To me, they always overpower a dish, especially when they’re raw. They mask the good stuff underneath.
Which is why I find it almost ironic that, as I walk with Mary through The Rosary in a Year (currently on Day 120: Be the One), onions have become my unexpected badge.
Layer by layer, she’s gently peeling back years of hurt, pain, selfishness, and even sin. It’s not always pleasant. It makes my eyes water and burn—as if I’m slicing the onion myself. But with each layer removed, I sense something more honest. More authentic. Something hidden but whole. Something worthy of being uncovered.
Most of my life, I’ve felt unworthy and different. I learned early on how to “fake it until you make it”—trying to fit in, or at least pretend it didn’t bother me when I didn’t.
Even in my faith life, I’ve never quite felt like the typical Catholic adult—especially the kind so often spotlighted on social media. Married couples. Big families. Polished, curated lives. And honestly, I feel it at church too. Like there’s a mold I never quite fit. It leaves me quietly wondering: is there room for me at the Catholic table?
That feeling surfaced again recently when I saw a Catholic influencer share about an upcoming retreat for single women. At first, I was curious—maybe even hopeful. But the more I looked into it, the more that familiar ache returned. The speakers were mostly well-known Catholic “it” couples, and the retreat was limited to an age range I’ve aged out of. As a divorced woman without kids, I didn’t see myself reflected anywhere. Once again, it felt like a space I wasn’t really invited into.
But that’s the thing about Mother Mary—she doesn’t ask me to fit a mold. She isn’t looking for perfect. Through her intercession, she’s not curating a highlight reel in me. She’s meeting me in the middle of my real life—in the quiet, in the mess, in the middle of the story still being written.
Through the Rosary—bead by bead, layer by layer—she’s been helping me peel back old beliefs: that I have to be more, or different, or farther along to belong. She’s showing me that I don’t need a certain title, season of life, or story that checks all the boxes. I don’t need to change who I am to be loved. She’s already making room for me at the table—no proving necessary. And with her, I’m learning that being hidden doesn’t mean being forgotten. That not fitting the mold doesn’t mean I’m uninvited. I am already seen. Already loved.
I keep thinking of Dorothy Day during this season of my life. She lived fully rooted in the Church, and yet completely outside its expected mold. She reminds me that holiness is not neat—and that being fully ourselves, especially in the tension, is often where real sanctity begins.
She was faithful, bold, and deeply misunderstood. A woman who didn’t fit the mold, but still made room for others. I want to find that same quiet courage. To be more myself. To believe that there’s holiness even here—in my story, just as it is.
I think about how my grandmother once told me that her own mother (a Methodist) loved Dorothy Day. Living all the way on a farm in Iowa, she admired Dorothy's story unfolding back in New York City. She was even inspired to help feed the homeless men looking for work in the last year of her life. I didn’t realize it then, but that kind of quiet witness has shaped me. That kind of inheritance matters. Dorothy’s life wasn’t polished, but it was faithful. And maybe that’s what I’m being invited into too—not to fit in, but to root deeper. To carry on that quiet defiance of love. To find the courage, like Mary and Dorothy, to walk with God in the hidden, unpolished places—and call it holy.
Thank you for reading, sweet friends. I'm still learning, still saying yes to letting Mary allow her Son to peel those layers back and back. Please also know—if you ever feel like you don't belong—there's a place for you too. Especially here.
Love, Cynthia