Hey Dana Jane

Author: heydanajane

  • Are We Defending Our Beliefs — or Ourselves?

    I think I’ve finally figured out one of the things that bothers me most about politics right now.

    It’s not even that people disagree with me.

    I actually like when people disagree with me. It makes life interesting. I don’t need everyone sitting around nodding their heads at everything I say.

    What bothers me is when someone’s political beliefs become so intertwined with their identity that admitting they’re wrong becomes almost impossible.

    Because then politics isn’t:

    “I believe this policy is better.”

    It becomes:

    “I am one of the good people.”

    And that’s a completely different thing.

    Once you’ve convinced yourself that your political beliefs are proof of your moral goodness, questioning those beliefs suddenly feels personal.

    If I admit my side was wrong, what does that say about me?

    If I admit the person I’ve been defending actually did something terrible, maybe I’m not as compassionate as I thought.

    If I admit someone from my political tribe is a hypocrite, maybe I’m a hypocrite for defending them.

    If I acknowledge that the other side occasionally has a legitimate point, does that mean I’m betraying my people?

    And THAT is where I think things get really weird.

    Because I’ve watched progressive people bend themselves into absolute pretzels to defend things they would find completely reprehensible if the political labels were reversed.

    I’ve watched people demand that we “believe women” until the woman happens to be accusing someone they politically support.

    I’ve watched people scream about systemic injustice while excusing horrific individual behavior because the perpetrator belongs to a group they’ve decided is oppressed.

    I’ve watched people preach compassion for criminals while having absolutely zero compassion for their victims.

    I’ve watched people demand tolerance while treating anyone who disagrees with them as morally defective.

    And I’ve watched people insist that we must respect someone’s identity while simultaneously telling everyone else that their understanding of reality is hateful and invalid.

    That’s not tolerance.

    That’s “agree with me or you’re a bad person.”

    And here’s the part that really fascinates me:

    Some of these same people seem genuinely convinced they’re the most open-minded people in the room.

    That’s the hypocrisy.

    And before the conservatives start high-fiving themselves…

    We’re not innocent.

    I’ve watched conservatives do the exact same damn thing.

    We talk about personal responsibility until one of our own screws up.

    We talk about family values while excusing terrible behavior from politicians we like.

    We complain about government censorship while wanting to silence things we find offensive.

    We demand law and order until the person breaking the law is someone we’re politically sympathetic toward.

    We scream “fake news” when the facts don’t fit our preferred narrative.

    Same disease.

    Different symptoms.

    Because the real addiction isn’t liberalism or conservatism.

    It’s moral identity.

    There is something incredibly intoxicating about believing you’re on the right side of history.

    You get to be the enlightened one.

    The compassionate one.

    The defender.

    The person who “gets it.”

    And once that becomes part of your identity, you don’t necessarily care about being right anymore.

    You care about being good.

    And those aren’t always the same thing.

    Sometimes the most morally courageous thing you can do is say:

    “I was wrong.”

    Sometimes it’s:

    “I don’t like this person, but they’re right about this.”

    Sometimes it’s:

    “The person I voted for screwed up.”

    Sometimes it’s:

    “The person I disagree with isn’t evil. They just see the world differently than I do.”

    And sometimes it’s:

    “Holy shit…I’ve been defending something I wouldn’t tolerate if the other side did it.”

    That’s growth.

    That’s intellectual honesty.

    And honestly, I think we need a lot more of it.

    Because I don’t want a political identity that makes me feel like I’m one of the good people.

    I want beliefs that can survive being questioned.

    I want to be able to change my mind without feeling like I’ve betrayed my entire identity.

    I want to be able to call bullshit when my own side is full of shit.

    And I want to be able to recognize something good when it comes from the other side without feeling like I’ve joined the enemy.

    Maybe that’s the real problem.

    We’re so busy trying to prove we’re the good guys that we’ve stopped asking whether what we’re actually defending is good.

    And those are two very different questions.

    Being a good person isn’t about always being on the right side.

    It’s about being willing to admit when you’re not.

  • Learning to Let Them Hurt

    I believe one of the hardest parts of parenting is learning to let our children hurt.

    Not because we don’t care. Not because we’re cold. And certainly not because we want them to suffer.

    Quite the opposite.

    Sometimes we let them hurt because we love them enough to understand that pain can teach what protection cannot.

    I want my children to know that their choices matter. That actions have consequences. That apologies don’t always erase the damage. That sometimes you lose the privilege, face the disappointment, repair the mistake, or sit with the uncomfortable reality that you were wrong.

    And yes, sometimes I will be the one enforcing that consequence while every instinct in me is screaming to make it go away.

    Because I am their parent—not their escape route from every uncomfortable consequence of being human.

    I could step in. I could call the teacher. Fix the mistake. Make the excuse. Replace what they broke. Blame someone else. Smooth everything over so they don’t have to feel embarrassed, disappointed, or ashamed.

    And believe me, there will be moments when I desperately want to.

    Because watching your child hurt is one of the most painful things a parent can experience.

    But I have to ask myself: Am I protecting my child from pain, or am I protecting them from learning?

    There is a difference.

    I don’t want to raise children who believe that someone will always rescue them from the consequences of their choices. I don’t want them entering adulthood expecting the world to bend around their mistakes.

    I want them to become adults who can say, I did this. I was wrong. I hurt someone. I need to fix it.

    That requires something more difficult than unconditional comfort.

    It requires accountability.

    Accountability doesn’t mean withholding love. It means refusing to confuse love with rescue.

    My children will never have to earn my love. But they will have to take responsibility for their actions.

    I will stand beside them while they face consequences.

    I will help them learn from their mistakes.

    I will hold them when they’re hurting.

    But I won’t always remove the thing that’s hurting them.

    Because sometimes the most loving thing a parent can say is:

    “I know this hurts. I’m here. And we’re still going to let you learn from this.”

    That may break my heart in the moment.

    But I’d rather have my heart break now than watch the world break them later because I never taught them how to take responsibility for themselves.

  • From Static to Stillness

    Last night I had one of those dreams that lingers.

    I pulled two metal antennae out of my head.

    Not gently. Not surgically. I just reached up and removed them, like they had always been there. I remember touching the holes afterward, feeling where they had been attached. It wasn’t bloody or dramatic. Just… aware. Curious. Almost relieved.

    And then, much later in the dream, I was nursing a baby.

    When I woke up, it felt symbolic. Not random. And the more I’ve sat with it, the more it feels like a picture of what this season of my life — and this season of Lent — has been.

    For a while now, I’ve felt mentally overloaded. Not just busy — overloaded. So many voices. So many opinions. So many expectations. Family systems. Politics. Faith conversations. Social media. Cultural narratives. Old childhood beliefs. New revelations.

    It’s like I’ve been walking around with antennae, constantly receiving signals.

    Constantly scanning.

    Constantly processing.

    And if I’m honest, some of those signals weren’t even mine to begin with. They were installed in childhood. Fear-based interpretations of God. Family patterns. Ideas about authority. Ideas about women. Ideas about obedience and worth and silence. Things I absorbed before I was old enough to evaluate them.

    The antennae in my dream felt metal. Mechanical. Not organic.

    That’s what struck me.

    They weren’t part of me. They were attached to me.

    Pulling them out felt like a quiet act of fasting.

    Because that’s what Lent is, isn’t it? Not just giving up chocolate or wine, but removing what doesn’t belong. Detaching from what feeds the ego, the noise, the fear. Stripping away what has attached itself to us over time so we can hear God more clearly.

    “I don’t need to receive every signal anymore.”

    That sentence has been sitting in my spirit this morning.

    Lent invites us into the desert. And the desert is quiet. No constant updates. No crowd noise. No performance. Just you, your thoughts, and God.

    Maybe the antennae had to come out so the static could stop.

    Touching the holes afterward felt like examen — noticing where those messages used to enter. Not pretending they were never there. Just acknowledging them. Naming them. Offering them.

    That’s what growth has felt like lately.

    Not rebellion.
    Not rejection.
    Revelation.

    I’ve been having these “aha” moments — the kind that don’t feel condemning, but freeing. Like God gently saying, “You weren’t ready to understand this before. But you are now.”

    Lent isn’t about shame. It’s about clarity.

    And here’s the part that moves me most.

    After removing the antennae, I was nursing a baby.

    That image feels holy.

    Because once you stop absorbing everything from the outside, you finally have the capacity to nurture what’s growing inside.

    Nursing is slow. Quiet. Intentional. Protective. It’s life-giving. It’s intimate. It’s not loud or performative.

    It feels like this softer version of me I’m growing into.

    I’m still strong. Maybe stronger. But softer. Less reactive. More grounded. More protective of my peace. More selective about what I allow into my mind and spirit.

    Maybe the baby represents a new understanding of God — not the fear-based version I inherited, but the faithful, patient, revealing-in-seasons God I’m coming to know.

    Maybe it represents my inner child finally being cared for instead of corrected.

    Maybe it represents faith that is chosen, not installed.

    Lent is a season of subtraction before resurrection.

    You clear out.
    You detach.
    You fast.
    You sit in the quiet.

    And in that space, something small and vulnerable is born.

    What if the goal isn’t just to give something up — but to make room to nurse what God is forming in us?

    If there’s anything someone else might take from this, maybe it’s this:

    You are allowed to question what you were handed.
    You are allowed to disconnect from voices that exhaust you.
    You are allowed to refine your faith instead of abandoning it.
    You are allowed to grow into revelations you weren’t ready for at 20.

    And Lent is not punishment.

    It’s pruning.

    Sometimes you have to remove the antennae before you can nourish the baby.

    This morning, my strange dream doesn’t feel strange at all.

    It feels like the desert.

    And it feels like new life quietly beginning.

  • Enraged

    The assassination of Charlie Kirk has left me shaken in ways I can hardly put into words. I don’t want to draw comparisons that don’t belong, but the words of Anne Wilson’s song echo in my mind: “Who changed the world when His blood was spilled? Who takes His own cross up a hill?”

    In so many ways, I believe the world will be changed by Charlie’s blood being spilled. He bore his cross with courage and conviction, carrying it faithfully and wholeheartedly in the name of Christ. He was hated for his beliefs, mocked for his boldness, and yet he never wavered. For that, he paid the ultimate price. Charlie was martyred.

    And yet, what deepens the wound is not just the loss of his life, but the cultural numbness that followed. To see people sharing the graphic video of his attack—carelessly, thoughtlessly, as if it were nothing more than shock-value content—is an act of cruelty in itself. One day, Charlie’s children may stumble across that video. That thought makes my stomach turn.

    This is not just brutality. This is sickness. This is a world so desensitized that we cannot even recognize the sacredness of life. And it enrages me.

  • A Nation in Mourning: Charlie Kirk’s Tragic Assassination

    I am overwhelmed with sorrow. I am seething with anger. Today, our brave, devout conservative friend Charlie Kirk was assassinated—struck down in cold blood while standing firmly for truth and faith at Utah Valley University. He wasn’t just a figurehead; he was a young father, a passionate believer, a warrior for Christ—and he fell victim to the hatred and division that poison this country.

    Charlie was brilliant. His mind was sharp, his insight clear. Whether he was debating on stage, speaking to students, or encouraging fellow believers, he had an ability to articulate truth in a way that cut through the noise. He was a leader who inspired countless young conservatives to think critically, live boldly, and never apologize for their faith. He had so much of life ahead of him—a life that should have been filled with more books, more speeches, more debates, more moments as a father and husband. That future was stolen.

    At approximately 12:10 p.m. MDT, a single gunshot rang out from a building roughly 200 yards away—hitting Charlie in the neck during a live public event. Within hours, he succumbed to his injuries and died at age 31, leaving behind a grieving wife and two young children.

    This wasn’t random violence—it was a savage act of political hatred. The perpetrators of this cruelty are the extremists who have poisoned our national conversation, who preach division, who despise Christians and conservatives, who incite fear and violence with their vitriol.

    To those who revel in chaos, who whisper that such violence is justified—know this: you have crossed a moral line. You have torn a family apart, left two children fatherless, and extinguished a vibrant life dedicated to faith and courage.

    I mourn Charlie’s life. I mourn the light he brought into conservative youth movements nationwide. I mourn his bold voice, his unapologetic Christianity, his unyielding commitment to truth. But I will not be silent.

    Let this crime spark a turning point. Let us confront and reject the hatred that divides us. We must stand united—Christians and conservatives in the face of extremist violence, in defense of free speech, in honor of Charlie’s legacy.

    Rest in peace, Charlie. Your brilliance, your faith, and your courage will not be forgotten.

  • Unlearning the Lie: A Journey Out of Dysfunction

    Disclaimer:
    To my family members who may be reading this—this is not a personal attack. This is a raw and honest account of my experience growing up in a dysfunctional family system. This is the result of years of therapy, painful reflection, and personal growth. If this makes you uncomfortable, I encourage you to sit with that discomfort. These things happened to me. Your discomfort is yours to manage. I won’t be gaslit, dismissed, or silenced.

    For as long as I can remember, I lived in a house where appearances mattered more than authenticity, where silence was safer than speaking up, and where love came with conditions. The air was often thick with unspoken expectations, repressed anger, and inherited trauma, disguised as tradition. There was little room for individuality—only conformity.

    The voice in my head that doubted me, shamed me, told me I was “too much” or “not enough”? It wasn’t mine. It belonged to a chorus—my parents, some aunts and uncles, a grandparent. Their values were imposed on me like scripture: obey, conform, suppress, believe. I was conditioned to accept their version of religion, success, womanhood, and morality without question. I spent decades chasing their ideals, only to end up exhausted and empty.

    It’s taken five years of therapy—deep, soul-level work—for me to realize that voice was never mine. That guilt and shame? Not mine to carry. Those expectations? Not my responsibility. My therapist once told me, “Just because they handed you the script, doesn’t mean you have to keep reading from it.” That was the moment everything began to shift.

    At 46, I’ve never been clearer. I no longer pretend. I no longer force myself to align with values that don’t fit. I don’t exist to be a mirror for someone else’s version of the “right” life. I now extend the compassion to myself that I so freely gave everyone else. That’s the most sacred, powerful gift I’ve ever given myself.

    Yes, my philosophies have shifted. Yes, my goals and beliefs look different. And no, I will no longer contort myself to please people who can’t—or won’t—see me clearly. I’m no longer afraid to stand up for what’s right for me.

    And if this disappoints my parents, siblings, or extended relatives—so be it. That disappointment is theirs to hold. I was never equipped to be the manager of everyone’s emotions, and I’m done trying to be. I have finally stepped out of the shadows of who I was told to be, and into the light of who I actually am.

    This is my truth. And I won’t apologize for it.

  • What 46 Feels Like

    On March 17, I turned 46.

    It’s a strange number. Not quite a milestone, but far enough along the timeline to make you pause. People ask, “How does it feel?” and I honestly don’t know how to answer that. I don’t feel 46. But then again, what should 46 feel like?

    There’s no textbook description for this age. No clean, universal definition. Some of us are raising children. Some are burying parents. Some are reinventing careers or navigating health issues. Some are chasing dreams we set down years ago, now finally brave enough to pick them up again. Forty-six doesn’t come with a rulebook—it comes with stories. Lots of them.

    That’s the most profound realization I’ve had this year: my greatest strength is not in how young I can stay, or how much I can still do, but in what I’ve lived through. The experiences. The heartbreaks. The doubts. The faith. The lessons I learned the hard way and the ones I learned by watching others fall and rise again. That’s where my real power lies now—in the hard-earned wisdom of all the ages I’ve already been.

    I don’t resent getting older. I don’t want to go back. But I am becoming increasingly aware of my mortality, of the finite nature of all this. The clock ticks louder in midlife, not in a panicked way, but in a purposeful one. Time feels like it’s speeding up, and suddenly every moment is asking to be noticed.

    I’m trying to slow down where I can. To be present. To laugh without distraction. To see the people I love more clearly. To soak in the ordinary. Because these are the days I’ll want back someday—the ones I’m living right now.

    46 isn’t old. It’s not young either. It’s a bridge between who I’ve been and who I’m becoming. And standing in that in-between space is sacred. It’s humbling. It’s beautiful.

    So this year, my birthday wish isn’t for more time—it’s for deeper time. More intentional, more meaningful, more alive. I don’t want to just exist. I want to live—fully, truthfully, and gratefully.

    Because I’ve never felt more me than I do right now.

    And maybe that’s exactly what 46 feels like.

  • Blog Post: “Wait…Am I the Narcissist?”

    Let’s talk about a hard truth today—narcissists, and what it’s like when one calls you a narcissist.

    It’s jarring, isn’t it? You’re standing there, trying to explain your feelings or set a boundary, and suddenly—boom—you’re accused of being selfish, dramatic, attention-seeking, or even worse: a narcissist.

    And for a split second, it works. You start to spiral. Am I really like that? Do I make everything about me? Am I the problem?

    Let me stop you right there. The fact that you’re even asking yourself those questions is a huge red flag in the other direction. Real narcissists don’t wonder if they’re narcissists. They don’t question their intentions or worry about how they affect others. That kind of self-awareness? Not in their playbook.

    Narcissists are often incapable of true introspection. They don’t believe they’re flawed or that they could be the cause of hurt. If they ever say things like, “I know I have my faults” or “I guess I’m just the bad guy,” it’s almost always part of a strategy. It’s manipulation disguised as humility. It’s them fishing for reassurance, guilt-tripping you, or trying to flip the script so they can get what they want—your silence, your apology, your compliance.

    So let’s be honest: dealing with a narcissist is emotionally exhausting. They project, they gaslight, and they rewrite reality in a way that makes you look like the villain for simply having needs or drawing a line. And when you finally push back, when you say “Enough”—that’s when they panic. That’s when the accusations start.

    But here’s the truth: if you’ve spent time questioning yourself, reflecting, even reading this blog post because it struck a chord—you’re not the narcissist. You’re likely the empath, the peacekeeper, the overthinker. And narcissists love those types because they’re easy to manipulate. Easy to guilt. Easy to confuse.

    Here’s your reminder: setting boundaries is not selfish. Asking for respect is not narcissistic. Walking away from toxic behavior is not a character flaw. It’s called growth.

    If someone keeps calling you the problem every time you stand up for yourself, it might be time to consider who really has the problem.

    You’re not crazy. You’re not selfish. And no—you’re not the narcissist.

    Keep shining your light. The right people will never try to dim it.

  • The Only Real Control We Have (Spoiler: It’s Not Over Other People)

    Let’s be real for a minute.
    You’re not going to fix that egomaniac in your life.
    You’re not going to outmaneuver the narcissist.
    And you’re definitely not going to “change” that toxic person who’s been draining your energy like it’s their job.

    I know, I know—this isn’t what you want to hear. But it’s what you need to hear. Because here’s the deal:
    The only realistic form of control you have in this life is self-control.

    That’s it. That’s the truth, in all its uncomfortable glory.

    You can’t control how other people treat you. You can’t control how they twist your words, push your buttons, or show up with all the emotional intelligence of a brick wall. You can scream into the void, lose sleep, spiral with overthinking, and still—they’re going to do whatever the hell they want.

    But here’s your superpower: you can control how you respond.
    That’s not weakness. That’s not giving up. That’s strength. That’s freedom.

    Setting boundaries isn’t about changing someone else’s behavior. It’s about saying, “I’m not available for this kind of nonsense anymore.”
    Walking away doesn’t mean you lost. It means you’ve decided your peace matters more than trying to win a battle you never signed up for in the first place.
    Choosing silence doesn’t make you passive. Sometimes, it’s the loudest thing you can do.

    And I get it—we all want justice. We want accountability. We want people to see the light and finally say, “You were right. I was the problem.”
    But you’ll wait forever for that moment with some people. And in the meantime, you’re sacrificing your sanity.

    So here’s the challenge:
    Stop trying to control what’s outside of you, and start mastering what’s within.
    Your thoughts. Your choices. Your reactions. Your energy.

    Because when you stop trying to change toxic people and start changing how you show up around them, something wild happens:
    You get your power back.

    And trust me, that feels a hell of a lot better than banging your head against the wall trying to fix people who don’t want to be fixed.

    You want control? Take it.
    Not over them—over you.
    That’s where the real magic is.

  • Life Lately: Work, Travel, and Sleep Deprivation

    Well, it’s been a minute, hasn’t it? I didn’t mean to disappear, but life has been a whirlwind lately. Work has been busy, I spent a week in Texas, and things haven’t slowed down since I got back. I keep waiting for a lull, but at this point, I think I need to accept that my “normal” is just organized chaos.

    Between keeping up with work, making sure the boys are where they need to be, and attempting to maintain some level of order in my house (a battle I’m slowly losing), I feel like I’m running on fumes. And just when I thought I had a handle on things, Owen left for his class trip to Washington, D.C., early Sunday morning—right as daylight saving time ended. Nothing like losing an hour of sleep and sending a kid off on a big trip to completely throw off my schedule.

    So, yeah, I know this isn’t the most exciting update. No dramatic stories, no major catastrophes—just the usual hustle of work, parenting, and trying to keep my head above water. But honestly? Sometimes the mundane is better than total chaos.