The Unexpected

I didn’t plan to create anything today.

But days like the last 24 hours 

don’t leave you empty—

they leave you holding something

you have to do something with.

So I did.

The project I released this week

feels a lot like life imitating art.

The songs on that project weren’t written for today.

They came from a retrospective—

a collection of moments

I had already lived through.

But somehow…

they still found their way here.

Not to explain it.

Not to make sense of it.

Just to give it somewhere to go.

For me, sleep is a precious commodity.

Often comes in short supply.

I’ve been negotiating with it for the last few months.

Yesterday was heavy.

We were hit with unexpected news—

the kind that doesn’t knock,

just lands.

And the truth is…

I was already tired.

Mentally taxed

for reasons I won’t name.

Just know—my plate is full

in more directions than I can neatly explain.

We’ve been working through that.

Carrying it. Managing it.

Doing what you do when life doesn’t pause.

And then today came

like a ton of bricks.

There’s never a good time

for things like this.

But this one—

it didn’t wait for space.

It just added weight.

And it took me a minute…

to even sit with it.

To breathe.

To release anything at all.

Because my instinct isn’t to stop.

It’s to hold.

To keep moving.

To keep functioning.

To keep everything from spilling over.

But nights like this—

they don’t let me pretend.

Because I don’t sleep well

to begin with.

Sleep and I—

we’ve never had an easy relationship.

I don’t fall into it.

I wrestle with it.

And when the day carries more

than I’ve actually processed—

night shows me the truth.

Everything I pushed through

comes back.

Not quietly.

Not gently.

Just… present.

And I’m left there

with a full mind

and a tired body

trying to figure out

how to shut it all off.

But I can’t.

Because this was never just about sleep.

It’s about everything I’m carrying

that I haven’t released.

And if I’m honest—

a lot of that

I’ve been trying to carry on my own.

Like I can manage it.

Like I can organize it.

Like if I just stay strong enough,

I won’t feel it the same way.

But that’s not how this works.

Because eventually—

it all asks for space.

And lately…

that space has been showing up

in the middle of the night.

So tonight,

I’m doing something different.

Not fixing it.

Not solving it.

Not even trying to make sense of all of it yet.

Just… releasing.

God, I don’t have the capacity for all of this right now.

God, I don’t understand why it’s happening this way.

God, I’m tired.

And I don’t need a full answer tonight. 

I just need you to carry it.

Because maybe rest

was never meant to come

from having everything figured out.

Maybe it comes

from finally letting it go.

Even if just a little.

Even if just for tonight.

Sleep still isn’t guaranteed for me.

But peace—

even in pieces—

is.

And maybe that’s enough

to close my eyes.

It’s in capable hands and being held.

In offering my mess, He offers rest…

-Louda 

Steady Too

A Quiet Release: Ramblings of a Misfit

Why I Released an Album Without Saying a Word

I didn’t announce this.

No buildup.  

No teasers.  

No “something big is coming.”

Just… a release.

An album, quietly dropped into the world.

And that was intentional.

Not just a name

This is Louda.

I didn’t always go by Louda.

Most people know me as Laura.
That’s how I introduce myself.
That’s the name that shows up in rooms, on paper, in conversations.

But Louda…
Louda sits different.

Louda is what a few people have always called me.

It started in high school.
A close friend of mine began saying my name in Spanish—Louda—the way my grandmother did.

And something about that stuck.

Not because it sounded different…
but because it felt different.

It felt like home.
Like heritage.
Like something rooted deeper than introduction.

Over time, a small circle adopted it.
That circle has shifted, naturally.

The people in it now are the ones who have seen me clearly—
not just who I am in a moment,
but who I’ve been becoming over time.

But Louda isn’t just a name.

It’s a realization.

And to this day, only a small handful of people call me Louda—
not because it’s widely known,
but because it stayed where it started… personal.

And I’ve never felt the need to make it more than that.

---

I grew up in leadership.

From the age of 16, I was already stepping into roles within the Hispanic Baptist Convention circles—serving, leading, showing up in ways that most people don’t see until much later in life.

By the time I reached young adulthood, I had carried titles, responsibilities, and expectations that shaped how others saw me…
and if I’m being honest—how I saw myself.

Then my dad became a pastor.

And just like that, I stepped into what many call “the glass house.”

Where everything is visible.
Everything is interpreted.
Everything is discussed—whether you’re part of the conversation or not.

I wrote about that season before—what it meant to live as a PK.

The pressure.
The assumptions.
The weight of navigating faith, leadership, and identity under constant observation.

And for a long time, I tried to find the “right” way to exist in it.

---

But here’s the truth I didn’t have language for back then:

I was never meant to blend in.

I’ve always been… disruptive.

Not for the sake of disruption—
but because I’ve never been able to sit comfortably with “good enough.”

I question things.
I challenge things.
I see gaps that others would rather ignore.

And that creates tension.

It always has.
And I’ve come to accept that it likely always will.

You’re either appreciated for it…
or you’re resisted because of it.

There’s rarely an in-between.

And for a long time, I wrestled with that.

Because when you grow up in environments where harmony is valued—
being the one who disrupts it doesn’t always feel like strength.

It feels like misalignment.

---

Time—and experience—have a way of clarifying things.

There was a season where everything shifted for me.

When my brother-in-law received a terminal diagnosis,
my focus became very clear.

Family.

Not in theory.
Not in words.
In presence.

I stepped away from ministry circles, from expectations, from roles I had once carried—and chose to be where I knew I was needed most.

And I remember asking myself:

What business do I have serving others… if I’m not serving my own family in their time of need?

That decision wasn’t understood by everyone.

There were assumptions.
There were conversations—just not with me.

But I had peace.

And I’ve learned that peace will teach you more about alignment
than approval ever will.

---

That season didn’t pull me away from my faith.

It made it my own.

Because when everything external quiets down—
titles, roles, expectations—

you’re left with what actually sustains you.

And for me, it wasn’t performance.
It wasn’t perception.

It was a deeply rooted, personal faith
that had nothing to prove to anyone else.

---

And somewhere along the way…
I stopped trying to make myself easier to understand.

That’s when Louda fully emerged.

Not as a nickname.

But as clarity.

As natural to me
as daughter,
sister,
wife,
aunt.

---

Louda is the part of me that:

doesn’t shrink to keep things comfortable
doesn’t settle for surface-level answers
doesn’t perform for acceptance
and doesn’t apologize for seeing things differently

Louda is rooted in where I come from—
my culture, my faith, my family.

But she’s also shaped by where I’ve been—
the pressure, the tension, the growth, the choosing.

---

And the truth is—
I’m not widely known as Louda.

It’s stayed with a small circle,
and that’s never felt like something I needed to change.

---

And if I’m being honest—

some may say this looks late.

But I chose quiet.
I chose private.
I protected my peace.

---

And part of why I’m choosing to write now—
is because over the last few years,
I’ve had more conversations than I can count
with people navigating the same tensions.

Different details.
Same weight.

And that stayed with me.

Because if what I’ve walked through
can help someone move with more clarity,
more confidence,
or even just a little less hesitation—
then the experience wasn’t in vain.

“Experience is learning from wisdom—preferably not your own.”

---

So this space—this writing, this expression—
this is Louda.

Not louder in volume.

Clearer in truth.

Grounded in faith.
Unapologetic in identity.
Still learning.
Still becoming.

Still moving forward.
— Louda

Ten Toes Down

Deadman walking

It’s been a while—about two years since my last post.

I tend to oscillate in how transparent I am about what’s going on in my life. I think part of that comes from being a PK and spending much of my young adult life in leadership roles. You learn quickly what needs to be protected when you’re living in a bit of a glass house.

I used to write more regularly—mostly as a form of catharsis. But life has been heavy for a while now across a number of fronts and I felt the need to keep things under wraps. Some of that is my own doing. I won’t go into details, but I fully accept responsibility for my choices.

I’ve come to believe that not everything requires an apology. If you didn’t mean to do or say something, then it shouldn’t have happened in the first place. And if you did mean it, then the responsibility isn’t to apologize—it’s to own the consequences that follow.

Lately, we’ve been focused on one thing: peace.

Chasing peace has meant letting go of things—and people—that haven’t served us well. For too long, we tolerated behaviors we shouldn’t have. So we started setting boundaries and choosing a different direction.

It hasn’t been without friction.

But the unnecessary drama? It’s largely gone.

And in its place—there’s peace.

And no, it hasn’t been easy.

But I wouldn’t trade that peace for anything.

Life has also been moving quickly. Our youngest nephew is graduating from high school, and the oldest is finishing college this year. It feels like just yesterday I was driving 3–6 hours to babysit or spend a day with them. Now they’re grown young men.

Watching that transition has been incredible—and bittersweet. They’re not babies anymore. Recently, I found myself going through old videos, and I felt nothing but gratitude. I was aware, even then, that those moments were fleeting. I chose to be present. I chose to show up.

I have no regrets.

I’d make those same choices again.

On another front, I’m wrapping up my third master’s degree and currently applying to a doctoral program. That path has always been part of the plan—it’s just been about timing and finding the right program.

Like many things in my life, it comes down to trusting the Lord’s timing. When He moves, it’s often quick, clear, and decisive. This next step unfolded just like that—within a matter of weeks, everything aligned.

There’s still a lot of work ahead.

I’ve been spending time with mentors and doing a lot of reflection on what comes next. Some people are content staying in the same role for 20+ years. That’s never been me.

The project I’m focused on right now is exactly what I need for this season.

But I can feel it—something is shifting.

And I wouldn’t be surprised if that change comes before the end of the year.

This past year has been about coming out of burnout. It’s been heavy. At times, I felt lost—like I wasn’t quite myself.

Life has been turned upside down in a number of ways over the past few years. But through it all, I’ve been reminded of the importance of faith and the reassurance that there is a greater purpose at work.

I’ve also been reminded that the work matters. What we put in doesn’t return void. And He who began a good work will be faithful to complete it.

If the decisions I made in my early 20s had the final say, I wouldn’t be where I am today. That perspective has deepened my gratitude—for second chances, for growth, and for grace.

None of this happened by chance.

It’s been built through perseverance—through hard work, discipline, and resilience.

There was a time when pursuing a doctoral program felt out of reach.

Now, I can say with confidence: but God.

I don’t believe in coincidence.

Only in grace—and the quiet, steady work of becoming.

This past year has been a season of resurrection.

What lies ahead is elevation—moving forward with clarity and purpose.

Deadman Walking