A Life Update and a New Goal

It’s been awhile since I’ve written a “life update” blog, but here goes. Honestly, not sure if I’ve ever written a purely “life update” blog. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

In June, I spent a few weeks in Portugal and Spain. Highlights? Driving down the Portuguese coast from Lisbon to Lagos. It was one of the most beautiful drives, with plenty of stops along the way for me to frolic a little too dangerously close to the edges of cliffs (at least, my travel companions thought I was getting too close). Another highlight was the FOOD in Spain. So. Much. Good. Food. Portuguese food wasn’t great, but they did have good pastries (pastel de nata 4 lyfe!) and 2! Euro! Bottles! Of! Wine!

Since I’ve been home, things have been busy, but more or less happy. There are always painful days with the good days. I’ve come to realize how much my life is high highs and low lows (where my Enneagram type 7’s at). This means even when I’m at my happiest and healthiest, a really terrible day can hit out of nowhere. But, like I said, overall, things are good right now, and I am good right now.

I’ve been spending time with family, I’ve been involved at The Living Room, I’ve prepared for some upcoming transitions in my life. Things have felt fast-paced, but I’m trying to slow down and not pack my schedule quite as full so I can leave room for spontaneity.

Clearly I haven’t been blogging lately. But I have been writing some. I am working on two different books but I’m not sure if either of them is something I want to pursue. One of them I started back in early 2017, and I’ve been wanting to finish it for a long time but just have not put in much writing time in 2018.

When people ask me if I’m writing, I’m embarrassed. Because I’m not writing enough. I see myself as a writer. I have seen myself as a writer for a long time. But writers write. Writing is the one thing that I’ve consistently wanted to do. So why don’t I act like it?

I have made a goal to write fiction for at least an hour every day of August. It’s not a big goal, but I know it will be a challenge. I work full time, and I’ll be doing a tiny bit of traveling for a wedding at the end of the month. But there will ALWAYS be stuff. If I wait until my life is slow and empty to start writing, I’ll never start. Ideally this 1 hour goal will stretch to writing 1,000 – 2,000 words a day in September. I’m not even sure exactly how many words I write in an hour, so I guess I’ll try to figure that out this month. I do know that once I get in the zone and just go for it, without stopping to edit anything, I can pound out a lot in a short time.

I also want to read at least one chapter of a book a day in August. I’m tricking myself with this one, because I don’t think there’s ever been a time in my life that I’ve picked up a book and read only one chapter. It’s just the act of picking up a book and starting to read, rather than opening my MacBook and watching Netflix. Some recent reads I’ve enjoyed are Little Fires Everywhere and Beautiful Ruins. I’m currently reading Stephen King’s The Shining, which is interesting, but not all that scary yet, and I’m over halfway through. Hopefully the scare factor turns up a few notches in the last 300 pages.

What else is going on?

I’ve become consumed by the Enneagram. I love it. I’m obsessed with it. It has revealed so much to me about why I make the decisions I do. It reveals who you are at your worst, but also who you are at your best. I’ll probably write a blog post about it soon, because it’s been life-changing for me and has made me much more self aware.

Okay, that’s it for now! Feel free to message me and ask if I’m writing this month. You can be my accountability partners! Deal? Deal.

Okay byeeeeeeee.

Carrie Sue


Beautiful Surrender

Surrender is a theme I always seem to come back to.

What does it mean to surrender everything, my will, my dreams, my desires, my everyday actions, to Him?

When I look at my life, I wonder if I’ve ever done it – truly surrendered. I know I’ve done it in moments; I know I’ve even done it in seasons. As often as I let God take control, I always end up coming back, taking the reins back from Him, and saying, “Hey God, thanks, you’re great, but I’ve got this.”

I kicked myself a few times lately, because I face different situations in my life, and I’ve been wrecked by anxiety to the point where I can’t sleep because I just lie there letting the anxiety wash over me in waves. It’s been hard because that’s Old Carrie. Old Carrie couldn’t sleep because of fear. New Carrie can’t even stay awake to read a book for 5 minutes in bed. Old Carrie is the one who had to control everything. New Carrie’s supposed to be good at trusting. New Carrie knows the only way to get rid of the anxiety is to give the reins back to Him.

Each of those situations – the anxiety causing ones? Yeah, they worked themselves out. Really well. And I’m left sitting here with the reins in my hands, wondering why I’m holding them when honestly I couldn’t control a horse or a buggy or whatever else has reins, for the life of me.

A wise man once told me, you can get by without God. There are some things you can even do really well, without God’s help. You might look fine, or even great, and you might feel like you’ve got it, and you might be able to control things and make things happen for a long time, on your own. Look at yourself. I mean, you’re kind, and skilled, and good-looking, and you work hard, and you have amazing qualities and things you’re really good at. But when you let God actually step in and help you, you will do so much more. You WILL do so much more. So why limit yourself? Why limit Him? You can step from being fine and getting the couple things you see in front of you done, to doing things you never even imagined for yourself.

Esther (from the Bible, look it up) was a pretty cool lady. She seems smart. She was beautiful. She spent a year just literally making herself prettier. A year at a spa. (How do I get one of those?)

On her own, I bet she could’ve gotten Xerxes to fall for her. On her own, she could’ve hidden her Jewish heritage, and stayed safe in the castle, letting the spa life continue until Xerxes got tired of her, ‘sup Vashti?

With God, Esther was able to save her entire people, and herself, even though I’m sure it was terrifying and looked too big. Honestly, crazy. What a woman. What a God.

A fun thing about God is He doesn’t dream small.

He created a world that is creative, and surprising, and VARIED. He could’ve built us 5 mountains and an ocean or two, maybe a couple animals, maybe a few hundred stars, and we probably would’ve been amazed and inspired by it, and never needed EVERYTHING ELSE.

But it wasn’t enough for Him. He’s like, I want to create bioluminescent bays for Carrie to kayak through. I want to give her wasteland and waterfalls in Iceland and Scotland that she’ll look at and feel simultaneously big and small, ancient and newborn, all at the same time. I want to create a massive, grimy, red sand desert on the continent of Africa, and then, even though Carrie would be awed enough by just that, I’m going to create her a beast twice as tall as her, with a hump on it’s back that carries enough water for it to last in the desert for days, that’s also pretty comfortable for her to lean against, and then it’s going to carry her out into the desert. (Although, really, God, the hump could’ve been a little more comfortable, but it’s fine I’m fine.) I want to create languages that will inspire Carrie, and no matter how many words she reads, she’ll never know them all. She will learn her whole life and never learn all the things I have for her. I’ll give her red sand beaches, and black ones, and pink ones, and I’ll give her rivers of hot water she can jump into after long hikes through Icelandic tundra. God didn’t need to give us hot springs. We would’ve been fine with normal cold springs. But He did. Because He doesn’t dream small.

All your dreams and hopes? He sees that.

Yours are probably different than mine. He knows that.

He wants them for you. I mean, first and foremost He wants you to walk with Him, and that doesn’t mean everything is instantly given to you. Sometimes it means heaviness and sorrow and tears, but it never means He doesn’t see you. It never means He isn’t rooting for you. It never means He won’t see your dreams, and raise them.

Recently, when I’m worshipping and having quiet time with Him, I hear Him speaking all of it over me. All the dreams He’s brought to fruition for me, and all the ones He’s going to. I hear Him rejoicing over me, and I hear all the things He wants for me, and I get so excited and overwhelmed I can barely move.

I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow, or in a year from now. I have NO IDEA. But I don’t feel any anxiety about it, and I don’t feel like I need to plan it all, because I know He’s dreaming better for me than I know how to do for myself. I know it’s going to be crazy and better than I can imagine, if I just give Him the reins.


People dream small. God dreams big.

Be more like Him.



FEZ! (or that time we probably almost died or were almost kidnapped 5 or 10 times)

FEZ! (or that time we probably almost died or were almost kidnapped 5 or 10 times)

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…”

If you don’t know where that quote is from, you might know even less about Morocco than I did a few months ago.

How familiar was I with this country before I got on a flight from Barcelona to Fes?

I’d seen Casablanca 5+ years ago.

I’d done a bit of research on, ya know, Pinterest.

I’d skimmed through a couple books.

I was vaguely familiar with the culture.

I’d checked out a Morocco travel podcast.

That was pretty much it.

The North African country wasn’t super high on mine or my friend Rosie’s bucket list, but when we were researching Spain and realized we could hop on a plane down to Morocco for almost no money at all, we knew it had to happen.


(or Fes. Both are okay, and there’s a solid chance I will switch back and forth between the two spellings.)

Fez is overwhelming.

The sites, the sounds, the maze of tight streets within the walled city. The spices, the people who stare and shout and rush by in waves and, before you know it, are giving you a tour you never asked for or have sold you something you definitely don’t want.


First Impressions

My friend Rosie and I arrived in Morocco late one Thursday night in October. Before we even got through customs my personal space bubble had expanded (by force, not by choice #strangerdanger). I was determined NOT to let the pushy family behind me swoop in front of us in the customs line, and I managed to block them off.

So proud.

Rosie didn’t even notice the full scale attack they were mounting against us, nor did she see my impressive counter-attack. She lives in India and is used to people not respecting lines (or other people, for that matter, at least by my reckoning). But the middle eastern/African culture is still fairly foreign to me.

Or, maybe I should say “was still fairly foreign.” Because I got a crash course in a new culture over the course of that long weekend.

When we finally made it out of the Fès–Saïs Airport (which is beautiful and funky, btw), we looked around for a line of taxis that I’d read would be waiting for us.

Except… there were no taxis. Just a line of men.

Uh, cool. 

“Should we have gone out the other entrance of the airport?” Rosie asked.

“No, no. It’s probably fine.” I said.

(It’s not fine, it’s not fine, it’s not fine.)

I was feeling a little uncomfortable as scenes from Taken rushed through my mind, and I thought of the warnings I’d heard many times not to get into an unmarked taxi.

One of the men came up to us. He was the only one who seemed fluent in English, and he used this skill to acquire customers for the line of taxi drivers. After fighting with him on a price for awhile, we decided to trust him, and went off with the cute little old man he told us would be our driver.

The little old man led us down some steps to a line of what did, in fact, appear to be taxis.

Ok. Sweet. Maybe we won’t get kidnapped tonight.

We began to drive toward the city (Probably. I mean there was no way for us to really know). We drove through some police check points and soon were in a city, at least. The interior of Fez is walled, and the very interior (the ancient city, the medina), is inside another wall.

After driving around for awhile we arrived at a spot that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. There were some parks and athletic fields nearby, but it was just outside the interior city wall. Our driver pulled up to a group of men standing beside the wall and began to talk to one of them through his window.

Uh. Ok. It’s fine, right? It’s fine. He’s definitely not negotiating a sale of… us, right now. Right?

The man he was talking to ended up getting into the car with us. He was a young guy, probably 18 or 19, who spoke some English. It became evident that he was giving the man directions.

To our hostel, I hoped.

The cute little old taxi driver dropped us off jut outside the interior wall of the medina, (where cars can’t go). We thanked him, paid him, and began our first experience with an unwanted and unneeded guide.

I knew the way to the hostel from the place the man had dropped us off, but the kid he’d picked up happily grabbed both our large backpacks and began to lead the way. After about a minute he gave up and said he could only carry one bag.


Finally, we arrived at Riad Verus, our hostel!

I boldly gave our guide/unneeded helpful friend a tip, because whether we needed him or not, we had allowed him to help us.

Keep in mind this was my first experience with Moroccan Dirham. I think I literally gave him about 2 MAD which would be about 20 cents in USD. I knew it probably wasn’t enough, but I promise I wasn’t sure about the exchange rate and was just hoping for the best.

He was, understandably disgusted, after all the unwanted help he’d just given us. “This is nothing to me!” He said.

I gave him a little more. He left. I felt good about the amount I gave him. We had a good laugh over the “This is nothing to me!” comment and chewed it for the rest of our trip.


Our Hostel

Ah, the Riad Verus. So much I could say about this place! We had the best experience, although we spent a lot of time wondering what was going on, and laughed A LOT, both with the guys who ran the place and at our interactions with them. They were super helpful to us, but weren’t as kind to all their customers. We were even involved in an awkward fight between the hostel manager and two enterprising German customers on our last night there.

A riad is a traditional Moroccan house or palace built around an interior garden or courtyard. It was one of the prettiest and most unique “hostels” I’ve stayed in. Not sure if it can even be classified as a hostel.

The first night, they welcomed us with this incredible meal of couscous (FAVE), chick peas, vegetables, cabbage, and fresh Moroccan mint tea. Then, before long, Nor, the guy who ran the hostel, came and sat with us and asked us if we were planning on going to the desert.

We told Nor we wanted to, but it was so far and we only had about 3 full days in Morocco and we wanted to see Fez too. We were considering going to the blue city, Chefchaouen instead of the desert. Nor was the first person to inform us that while the blue city is great for potheads (it’s surrounded by hashish fields) and people who are only traveling for the gram, the desert experience would be one we would remember for the rest of our days.

Well, let’s just say Nor was quite the salesman, because by the next morning at 7:30, we were in a car bound for the Sahara Desert.

(More on that coming in my next post.)

When we came back from the desert a night early, we actually ended up sleeping on the roof of the hostel, because they were fully booked. 10/10 did not mind at all, even though it seems pretty shady in hindsight.

Exploring the Medina

We spent our last day in Morocco aimlessly exploring. We knew Fez was a maze of a city, and we allowed ourselves to just get lost in it.

Chouara Tannery

Fez is home to the world’s oldest leather tannery.

We both knew we wanted to get a leather bag, so a big destination of the day was the leather “souk.” Souks are markets, and they run together in the center of the city. Leather souk, metal souk, spice souk, etc.

The first thing that tipped us off to the fact that we were nearing the leather souk was the smell. The smell of animal hides and strong dyes and so much more.

Soon we had a man trying to force us to allow him to be our guide. (These “guides” are paid by leather shops to bring in tourists.) We told him no, of course, but I’m pretty sure he did end up leading us to one of the main leather stores even though we ignored him. We walked up steep stairs, past several floors worth of premium leather goods.

Somewhere along the way, we were handed sprigs of mint. When we reached the top of the building and stepped out onto the veranda we saw (or should I say smelled) why. The smell was pungent, and the tannery spread out below us.

Animal skins were spread out to dry. Workers hopped back and forth precariously over vats of dye, pigeon poop, and other gross things that the animal skins would be repeatedly dipped into.

We spent some time looking down in awe, and took some photos.

Then came the truly difficult part of the day: trying to find the perfect leather bag. One of the leather shop employees brought us mint tea, which we sipped as we looked at the many different bags, jackets, and everything in between.

We walked down the many stairs, and then back up. On the top floor, I asked to see many different bags, and eventually, we both found our ideal bag. When you know, you know. You know?

Then came the bartering. The attendant started out at for just my bag. Rosie, using her Indian skills, bartered him down to for both bags. It was entertaining to watch. And it felt good to leave having spent so much less money than we would’ve had we purchased similar bags in the states.


Fez was exciting, but I think we were both ready to leave. I could tell you a million other stories about this place, especially about our hostel and the people we met there.

A couple things that stood out to me: there were so few women out and about. Working in shops, restaurants, cafes, even our hostel? Men. Sitting outside cafes? Men. It definitely gave the whole city a creepier vibe than if there had been women out and about or children playing.

Second, you will get attention. People will try to take advantage of you. People will say creepy things to you, or leer at you, especially if you’re a woman in this environment. Especially if you’re a foreign woman in this environment. I think it would’ve been worse if we had dressed immodestly (I bought two longer dresses specifically to wear there, and wore leggings even though it was hot). It also might’ve been worse if we hadn’t been brunettes. Some people even mistook me for Moroccan! (This is a common theme in most places I travel, except, ironically, Germany/Austria/Switzerland, where I actually have roots!)

But, if you make smart decisions and keep your wits about you, you should be fine. You just need to learn to be rude and say solid NO’s to people.

Over all, Morocco is beautiful and exotic. If you get the chance, GO. If you don’t get the chance, go out of your way to go! And if you have questions, please ask.

Much love,

Carrie Sue


24 hours in Barcelona

24 hours in Barcelona

Sangria and juices and tapas, oh my!

I’ll be the first to tell you, 24 hours isn’t enough time to get to know ANY city. Not really. Especially a city as big and full and exciting as Barcelona. But that’s what we had, so we tried to make the best of it.

We walked. Everywhere. We hoped to see as much of the city as we possibly could, and walking is the best way to do that.

Our hostel was beautiful, tucked down one of many sunny, airy Barcelona streets. It was a great first hostel for this trip. They must have been overbooked because they stuck us in a room with the male hostel workers! We didn’t realize this until we saw them moving our beds out of the room before we had even left the building. Lol.

The city is full of tall, stately, white buildings lined with balconies on balconies on balconies. It has a quirky vibe, too.

We happened to be there over the time Catalonia (the area of Spain where Barcelona lies) was trying to split off from the rest of Spain. We saw signs and some graffiti referencing the referendum, but not much else (no protests or anything).

We also walked down La Rambla, a beautiful tree-lined street with space on both the sides and in the center for pedestrians to walk. Two months earlier, a terrorist plowed through the pedestrian walking area in a van, killing 15 people and injuring many more. On the day we visited, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Barcelona was enjoyable, but we wished we had more time. We were able to try the food and see some of the main sites, but we didn’t leave feeling like we truly knew the place. Instead, the day after we arrived we took the bus back to the airport and caught a flight to Morocco. One day, I’ll return and see it all. (Ok but really, who wants to go to Spain with me tomorrow?)












“Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk”

This morning on the way to work I realized my right rear tire was flat. I was about two minutes from work so I just kept driving. (Bad? Probably.) I’m hoping there’s just a wee hole in the tire, and at most, I’ll only have to replace the tire, not the actual wheel (UGH).

It doesn’t seem like a big deal, right? It’s just a flat tire. It happens to thousands of people every day, and it could have happened to me in a much less convenient time and place.

It could have been something much worse. I could have had an accident, or my tire could’ve flown off into opposing traffic. You know, normal, every day occurrences.

Yet, here I am, trying to start my day at work, but I can’t stop thinking about that dang flat tire and whether fixing it will be a big or small bill. A flat tire first thing in the morning may not seem big but it has the potential to ruin my day. I can either let this start a flurry of “bad day” events, or I can stop it right here, and say not today, Satan.

So I have two options. I let it ruin my day, or I don’t.

I let it, or I don’t.

It all stems from whose voice I decide to listen to today. Do I listen to Satan’s voice, which tells me to make it a big deal, which pushes me, frightens me, discourages me, worries me? Or do I listen to God’s voice – a voice that calms me, reassures me, tells me I can?

Today I choose to listen to the second one.


Hope ya’ll have a good day. I know I’m planning to!