Without Love, Where Would I Be Now?

Lauren Nixon-Matney • December 11, 2025
Without Love, Where Would I Be Now?

The Doobie Brothers: Long Train Runnin'


Part 1. A Name to Keep Me Safe


Whenever I called my Uncle Michael, for a while I’d hear Long Train Runnin’ by The Doobie Brothers on the other end of the line. That song became the one that reminded me of him, representing everything he was to me;protective, steady, and constant. The line “Without love, where would I be now?” resonates with me every time I think of him, because his love and presence in my life were always something that kept me safe, even from miles away.



Uncle Michael was my Dad’s older brother someone everyone loved, someone who had a reputation. He wasn’t a Pentecostal guy himself, but his childhood best friend Sam had become the pastor of the local Pentecostal church in Normangee, Texas. Michael’s influence wasn’t confined to bloodlines, though. He married into a family with strong ties to the church, and many of his friends, nieces, and nephews were part of that world. Even though he didn’t live in town anymore, everyone knew him. He was this rock-solid, dependable figure, and no matter where he went, his name had a ripple effect.



Growing up in a tiny Texas town where the church and school were the heartbeat of life, I was surrounded by that community one that loved my uncle. Even people who hadn’t seen him in years would ask about him when I’d walk through the doors of that old church. “How’s Michael?” they’d always ask. It was as if his presence lived there, in the words spoken, in the love that flowed from the church pews. That love and protection became something bigger than just him. His name kept me safe.




When I was 15, life wasn’t stable. My mom and my stepdad’s relationship was turbulent. We lived out in the country, moving from place to place, no car, no phone, no way to reach out if something went wrong. And something did. Two of my stepdad’s sketchy, drunk, drugged-out friends showed up one day. They cornered my Mom and I in the bathroom. They were much older, and they said things I didn’t know how to respond to. Calling me beautiful and making inappropriate advances. I was just an awkward, prepubescent looking scared 15 year old kid. The situation felt dangerous, unsettling, and I didn’t know what to do.


But then, my mom stepped in. I’ll never forget her words, spoken calmly but with a strength that changed everything in that moment. She said, “Would you like to tell Michael Nixon that? This is his niece… Kerry Nixon’s daughter!”


I’ve never seen grown men’s faces shift so quickly, as if their souls had left their bodies for a moment. Their eyes got wide with fear, like they had just been caught in something they couldn’t escape. “Michael Nixon? The Nixon Boys?” They ran out of that room so fast, out the door, into their car, and down that dirt road like they were in a race. I’ve never seen fear like that. I don’t know if it was the power of his name or what they knew about him, but I was safe.


Without him, without his love, without the reputation that came with it, where would I have been? What might I have gone through in that moment? What would have happened if his name hadn’t been that shield?



Without love, where would I be now?


That question echoes every time I think about him...Michael Nixon, who kept me safe with his love, his reputation, and the fact that he was just, well, him. Even when he wasn’t around, his love ran like a long train, steady and unyielding. The love I felt from him wasn’t just from his actions but from the very idea of him—his name, his reputation, the people he had touched. And I was one of those people.


Now, when I hear that song, I don’t just think of the cool, dependable guy I knew. I think of the legacy of love he left behind. I think of how his presence, even when he wasn’t physically there, always kept me safe. And I wonder, what would my life have looked like without that kind of love? Without the protection and care he made sure I had?


Without him, where would I be now?



Part 2. Wisdom in the Storm



When I think about the Pentecostal Church in Normangee, Texas, it feels like something out of a story a community so tight knit that it seemed almost magical. Brother Sam Manning wasn’t just a pastor—he was the heart of the church, and his wisdom and love permeated everything he did. But it wasn’t just him. The entire church, the community, was like a family always looking out for me. The women of the church many were schoolteachers many had gone to high school with my mom and I always felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. Everyone there seemed to be related in one way or another, and that created a sense of connection that made it feel like home.



 I was just a kid, trying to figure out where I fit. Punk Rock Indie Chick (whatever that is) was my identity, my way of expressing my frustration with the world. I wore my jeans and makeup to church, feeling like an outsider in a place where the dress code and customs didn’t quite match who I was. But Brother Sam, despite the differences, never made me feel like I didn’t belong. I was always treated like family, and his sermons weren’t just words they were the foundation of some of my teenage years. His messages spoke directly to my heart, reminding me of faith, love, and the light in the darkness—lessons that still stick with me today.


During those formative years of learning what love really meant. Brother Sam’s teachings weren’t just about words they were about action. And what amazed me most was the way the women of the church his sisters, his family showed that love in everything they did. When my mom was with my stepdad, and we had nothing, it was these women who showed up. They didn’t just preach love; they lived it. They made sure we had food, presents for Christmas, and, most importantly, a reminder that God loved us. They didn’t ask they just showed up. They were there to pray, to offer encouragement, to remind me to look for light, even in the darkest moments.


I can still see their faces, their warmth, their unwavering faith. They didn’t just make sure I had what I needed physically...they made sure I knew I was loved, no matter what. They showed up, day after day, letting their godly light shine without hesitation. Their faith wasn’t just something they talked about it was something they lived. And for that, I’m eternally grateful. 


Without love where would I be now?


Without that Pentecostal Church, without Brother Sam’s wisdom, I know I would’ve been lost. I’m not sure I even saw it at the time. Their love didn’t come with conditions. It wasn’t about fitting in; it was about being accepted as you were, about knowing that no matter what, you weren’t alone. Brother Sam’s sermons were part of the foundation for my faith, and his wisdom shaped the way I approached life. And the women of the church they embodied love in the purest way. Their actions, their constant support, showed me that love is a light, one that never fades, no matter how dark things may seem.



It’s not just that their love kept me safe in some of those pivotal moments. Their love became a core part of who I am. The many messages of Brother Sam. The steadiness of Michael’s presence, even from miles away, taught me that I could always be grounded, no matter how turbulent life got.


When the pandemic hit, it was as if the world suddenly tilted off its axis. Fear gripped everyone around me, and it felt like the ground beneath us was constantly shifting. I, too, found myself questioning everything; my future, my safety, the stability of it all. The isolation, the uncertainty, and the overwhelming sense of dread felt like a storm I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to weather. But it wasn’t just the pandemic itself that shook me it was losing my Uncle Michael. His passing in August of 2020, during the height of the chaos, felt almost surreal. He wasn’t just my uncle; he was my Dad’s big brother, his best friend, the man who had been a constant in his life since childhood. Watching my Dad fall apart at the funeral, seeing him lose the one person who had always been his rock, was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to witness. His heartache was gut wrenching, and I couldn’t help but feel helpless as I watched him lose his stability. The pandemic, with its isolation and fear, only magnified that loss. It felt like we were living in an era where stability, love, and connection were disappearing, and the pain of losing Michael made everything feel even more fragile.


But then, Brother Sam’s teachings came rushing back to me, as if they were meant for this exact moment. He had always spoken of staying strong in faith, of trusting that even in the darkest times, God’s light would show us the way. He’d warned us about tough times, but somehow it always felt like he knew this kind of chaos was coming. It wasn’t just a feeling—it was the way he talked about resilience, about holding on to God’s love when everything seemed to be falling apart. His words, almost like prophecy, stayed with me through the uncertainty, and in those moments of fear, I found myself clinging to his wisdom as though it had been prepared for this very storm.



Part 3. The Weight of Love and Loss



Brother Sam’s wisdom and Uncle Michael’s light became a guiding compass through life’s storms. The love they gave me, steady and unshakeable, continues to be a source of strength when I face challenges. Whenever I find myself questioning my path, their teachings are quiet whispers I rely on. I hold on to their lessons about resilience, about embracing faith even when it feels distant, and about the kind of love that doesn’t falter in adversity. They taught me to protect others, to nurture relationships, and to love without hesitation. Without them, I truly can’t say where I’d be now.



As if losing Uncle Michael wasn’t enough, life’s weight came crashing down even harder. Just near two months after we laid him to rest, we lost my cousin Alisha, Michael’s only child. Alisha was someone who carried Michael’s strength and love with her every day, and to see her taken so soon was a painful reminder of how fragile life can be. The air felt constantly heavy as I tried to process one loss only to be hit with another, even more unexpected. To say the grief was suffocating would be an understatement. We had no time to breathe, no space to process. Just one loss after another, each one feeling like a blow that knocked the wind out of me.


But even in those darkest moments, it was some of my memories of Michael and Brother Sam that I clung to. They had always been pillars of strength, and now, with both of them gone, it felt like the ground beneath me was crumbling. Watching my Dad in his grief, seeing my dad’s heartache made me question how we’re supposed to keep going when the people who loved us most are no longer here.


12 months later, my dad’s time came. The pandemic had already taken so much, and now I was losing the last of my anchors. Losing my Dad felt like the final blow. He was the one who had carried me through the hardest parts of my life, and now, I was left to face this cruel world without him. His heartache from losing Michael and Alisha, his struggles with everything changing around him, a cure that only made him sick, his body just couldn’t bear the weight of it all. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through, and it’s a pain I’ll carry with me forever.


I lay broken, bruised and destroyed metaphorically for quite some time but eventually the lessons Michael, Alisha (get up, dress up, show up!), and my Dad had instilled in me, well I guess they kept me going. Their love and wisdom never left me, even when they did. Their guidance, the way they lived with strength and love, and the way they endured even when life threw them hard punches it all became part of my foundation. They taught me to keep going even when it feels impossible, to keep looking for the light even when all you see is darkness. And through their wisdom… though it took time, I found the strength to carry on

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DRIFT THROUGH A CONSTELLATION OF MEMORY

Searching For Stars

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By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
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Good, Strong Words That Mean Something: A Letter of Light Through Pixelated Waves (for Heidi Clements)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
My favorite literary phrase of all time is spoken by Josephine March, written by Louisa May Alcott in Little Women. “I like good, strong words that mean something.” You, my dear, you say good, strong words that mean something. You put good, strong words that mean something into the world, and I thank you so very sincerely for that. You have made such an incredible impact on my life, and on my outlook on beauty and aging. ⸻ I stumbled across your incredible fashion sense on Instagram and was completely hooked on your vibe. I absolutely love fashion. I always have. I’ve definitely had my own kind of zany style over the years. So when I saw you, I was like, OK, yes, she is amazing. I love this energy. ⸻ The way you put things together, the confidence, the energy, it makes you wanna get up, go into your closet, and actually enjoy getting dressed again. And for a woman approaching 40, who’s had three children and has had many of her own struggles with who am I, what’s my fashion, what’s my energy, or what’s my style, You just felt so damn refreshing and inspiring. So I hung around, but what really hooked me wasn’t just the style, it was you, the essence of you. The way you talk, the honesty, the fact that you just say things straight, no fluff, no sugarcoating, no trying to be anything other than exactly who you are.. and somehow that makes everything you say sound even more profound. ⸻ The impact your message was having in my life became undeniable. It wasn’t just something I watched for enjoyment anymore, it was something I actually began feeling, and carrying with me. I grew up in a time where it felt like there was an expiration date on women. Like if you didn’t fit into a certain mold, or size, or type… your worth somehow became less. And then life happens. You grow up. You age. Maybe have kids. Your body changes. Your priorities change. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can kind of lose your sense of… who am I now? What’s my style? Who am I supposed to become? Am I too late for something? What even feels like me anymore? So for a while, I think I actually bought into that idea without even realizing it. The idiodic notion that maybe I had passed some invisible point where things were supposed to quiet down. Tone down. Fit into something more “acceptable.” Or the grand illusion that I was out of time to follow my passions! But watching you… that narrative just started to fall apart. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you move through the world so fully as yourself… it made me realize that aging isn’t something to fear or shrink from. If anything, it’s where things start to get really good. It’s where you get bolder. More comfortable. More you. More beautiful. ⸻ What you’re doing matters so much. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you fully own who you are, it doesn’t just stay on a screen. It carries through pixelated waves. It reaches people like me, in real life, in real moments, and shifts something quietly but powerfully within us. So I just wanted to say thank you. For your honesty, your energy, your style, your voice… all of it. You have inspired me, Searching for Stars, and undoubtedly countless women all over the world more than words can truly translate. Thank you, for being you!

Getting Your Pink Back: Answered Prayers, Quiet Signs, Bluebirds and a Business Professional Poodle (A Letter of Light for Lindsey Gurk)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.
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