Mid-Year Reflection: The Silence didn’t Win

This year wasn’t only about getting things done—it was about being there.

For myself.

For the people who matter.

It meant showing up, even on the days I wanted to disappear.

Holding on, even when it would’ve been easier to let go.

And maybe most importantly, it was about walking through the dust—not perfectly, but with my head up—because deep down, I knew what I was standing for.

I’ve written more than I ever have in a single stretch, including launching my first four-part blog series, When the Dust Settles. That title wasn’t just poetic. It was personal. The dust I’ve written about is real—physical, emotional, spiritual. The kind that clings to your boots long after you’ve left the demolition site. The kind that settles into the cracks of your heart, so fine you don’t even realize it’s there until the light hits just right. And somehow, even after everything, I’m still standing in it.

With reverence.

And now, there’s movement. Momentum…

I’ve entered a well-known writing competition—two categories. I’ll find out next month if I place. There are cash prizes on the line, yes—but also something more enduring: opportunities to meet with agents, to land spreads in national magazines and online platforms, to keep stepping forward into what I believe I’m being called to do.

This fall, in just a few weeks, I’ll be back in classes again, working toward long-term goals while also working full-time. Thank God, my professors are tough, but they are encouraging. And also, thank God, I have gained solid ground at home. So if you don’t see me much—or when you do, I’m floating by like a ghost with no makeup and drywall dust in my hair—just know, I’m still here. Still building.

At home, the rebuild continues, too. I’ve got major renovation projects still underway—a near total transformation of my living room and two bedrooms. Progress is messy. Sacred, but messy.

Earlier this spring, I wrote a piece that stayed with me long after I hit publish: When the Walls Came Down. It was about an old Pentecostal church, long abandoned, now reduced to rubble. I had walked those halls before the wrecking ball ever came...camera in hand, quiet awe in every step. At the time, I thought I was just documenting a story. But that day, standing in the ruins of the old sanctuary, something deeper broke open inside me.

That’s when it hit me: sacred spaces aren’t just made of bricks and stained-glass.

They’re spiritual.

They’re passed down through generations.

And when we stop tending to what’s holy—whether it’s a church or a calling—it doesn’t collapse overnight. It starts to erode. Quietly. Slowly. Imperceptibly. Until one day, all we’re left with is silence and regret.

Revisiting that story reminded me why I fight so hard to protect what still stands:

My faith. My dignity. My voice. My son’s future.

My community’s voice.

And it reminded me of a different kind of sacred space I once visited with my lens and my heart wide open: the Carmelite Monastery in Iron Mountain.

I was so grateful for the opportunity to film its beauty. And to be found inside the kind of silence that has depth and meaning.

A place cloistered, hidden from the world, and yet—so profoundly present.

The Sisters’ lives, lived in quiet prayer and chosen solitude, aren’t flashy or televised. But they are felt by their community. And loved, deeply. 

When I first covered that story last fall in your local TV broadcasts, —Carmelite Fall Fest draws crowds to support the monastery in Dickinson County—I didn’t know how much it would stay with me. Or how much I’d need to return to it. I just knew I wanted to do the story justice, and to honor their privacy, while still showing how their lives impact their community in real, tangible ways.

At the time, I was quietly working on a grant that could finally transform the shell of my house into a true home. I was new to the grant-writing process—navigating unfamiliar forms, gathering letters of support, learning how to advocate for myself in language that felt both precise and personal. I didn’t know if it would come through. But I was praying. Hard.

I remember finishing the monastery story and feeling something shift. Something deeper than relief. I sat down in a very brief exhale and wrote the sisters a “Thank You”. I can’t remember the exact words of the letter, but I know I asked them for two prayers:

A new roof.

And for my son to come home.

That was it. My home and my family. That was all I was asking God for at that moment.

And now, as I write this, I can say—thanks to God—the roof was finished last fall.

And the last time I spoke to my son, he told me he’s coming to visit this August. In just a couple of weeks.

Prayer works.

Even when it feels like nothing is moving, something is.

Even when all you can do is whisper into the quiet, it’s heard.

When I returned to the monastery this July—just last week on the 15th—I was invited to take part in the Triduum, the three days of solemn prayer leading up to the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

This time, I wasn’t just reporting.

I wasn’t standing behind a lens.

I was standing inside the story. Kneeling inside of it, actually.

Carrying more silence.

But also more strength. And I wasn’t giving it up.

I never forgot Teresa Obst, the Holocaust survivor who traveled nearly a hundred miles to thank the sisters in person. I had first met her during Fall Fest — clear in spirit. I had read ‘The Diary of Anne Frank’ in middle school and never let it go. But Teresa didn’t just confirm the horrors we learn about in textbooks. She reminded me what it means to live through the unthinkable and still choose grace.

She sent me emails after the story aired—short, sincere, full of kindness. She had been through Auschwitz. I had only been through betrayal and burnout. And somehow, our stories met in the monastery that day.

I held space for hers. Teresa and I had connected.

And she reminded me that resilience isn’t loud.

It’s faithful.

The on-air intro to that story might not have been my finest. It wasn’t perfect, and people in charge let me know it—harshly. By then, I knew I was being quietly undermined by people who held more power than integrity. Still, I said nothing. I kept it to myself. And I continued paying out of pocket to make those broadcasts happen.

That week, when the story aired, the studio hosted a big event—a live broadcast open to the Marquette community. I made a special trip to be there in person, just like I had always showed up when executives visited, or when there were workshops, trainings, or any opportunity to learn. I wanted them to see I was serious about growing. I even had my eye on getting certified to fly drones, to add aerial shots to my stories.

So I drove all the way to Marquette and sat in the studio as the ‘Fall Fest’ story from the monastery aired live.

And I stood by that story. I gave that story justice. And that was the mission there.

Because it honored the sisters.

It honored Teresa.

It honored the community.

It honored the truth.

That was what mattered to me.

Even then, I was beginning to understand what it meant to look publicly polished while privately unraveling. I kept showing up. Kept producing. Even as the gaslighting grew louder and the rooms grew colder.

I didn’t shout.

I kept writing.

I kept praying.

I kept filming—one sacred frame at a time.

Maybe that’s when I first started to feel it—a deeper pull, a quiet resolve forming around my own nearby church: Immaculate Conception.

I had loved it from a distance before I ever stepped inside. The small fountain out front reminded me of my first public-facing job at fifteen. I worked in a gourmet restaurant called Smackwater Jack’s (I’ve learned it was later renamed Sweetwater Gourmet Deli instead) it was part of a newly built complex designed to resemble a historic European village. The Smackwater development contained an art gallery, a dinner theatre, and even an old English pub. The owners had always treated me with kindness and respect, but they weren’t always around. In their absence, the manager—a woman in her fifties—made my life miserable.

Smackwater Jack’s (Now named Sweetwater Gourmet Deli) Photo courtesy: TripAdvisor

She found fault in everything I did. I worked too fast. I put the pepper on top of the microwave—exactly where she’d told me to put it the day before—yet now it was wrong. Each week, she seemed to choose a new girl to single out and break down. I never wanted to be a part of that gossip cycle, and maybe that’s why she came down harder on me, because I had stayed out of it. I’d come home crying almost every night. Closing shifts were always the worst to endure, because there were less eyes on her.

One day, I talked to my aunt in private—who is also my godmother—about it. I remember telling her how the woman had loudly, and almost proudly, announced to everyone that she was an atheist. At the time, I barely even knew what that meant. My aunt explained it, then smiled and said, “Next time she says that, cross yourself in front of her and gasp, loudly.” We both burst out laughing. It was just a joke, but it gave me something—a sense of sacred humor, a sense of strength. Like, maybe, I wasn’t so powerless in that environment after all. 

Still, it was troubling and disappointing to say the least. My mom had been seriously upset by how the job was affecting me, but I begged her not to step in. Quietly, I suspect she did anyway. The woman’s name was Linda. Eventually, the owners pulled Linda aside and told her plainly: if she didn’t change how she treated me, she couldn’t continue working there. She’d been with them for over six years, so I never expected them to take my side. But they did.

Linda was given a few more weeks to adjust. When she didn’t shape up, she was let go.

I was relieved. And changed. Maybe some people still choose to do what is right over what is convenient... 

The gardens around Immaculate Conception always seemed to bloom in bold, unapologetic reds. The Italianate architecture reminded me that some things—faith, authenticity, truth—are built to last. Brick by brick. Season by changing season.

When I first moved to Iron Mountain, I used to run right past the church on my usual route. Every now and then, I’d slow down, sit by the fountain, and toss in a few coins—like little prayers I didn’t say out loud but definitely felt. Other days, I’d just keep moving, quiet, letting the steady presence of that place ground me—even from the sidewalk.

What I didn’t realize? Someone besides God was paying attention.

One morning, a drone had followed me from my back door nearly all the way to the church. I’d seen it before—hovering like a mosquito, uninvited, its wings humming with intent. It didn’t feel curious. It felt invasive. I couldn’t prove who flew it. But I had my suspicions at the time.

And it wasn’t the only time I felt unsafe.

A job I had taken early on in this community—something I’d hoped would offer a fresh start and a measure of stability—ended up breaking me in ways I still struggle to articulate. I knew from the beginning that the role was well beneath my qualifications, but it was one of the few decently paying jobs in the area, and I was intentionally seeking something low-stress due to a stress-related health condition. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong about the environment. It was toxic from the inside out, and leadership didn’t just tolerate dysfunction—they weaponized it. I did my best to work with integrity, to set boundaries, and to stay purpose-driven. But some people only know how to lead by controlling, and some only know how to manage through manipulation.

The Human Resources director played clear favorites, going so far as to change entire company policies based on petty complaints from a few toxic salespeople. One day, I wore business slacks and a dressy white golf t-shirt—standard professional attire—with my company name tag around my neck. Certain individuals, already part of what I recognized as a quiet mutiny against me, seized the opportunity to attack. They claimed I was violating dress code, arguing that salespeople were required to wear company-branded t-shirts. But the policy explicitly stated that rule applied only to public-facing roles....and that day, I hadn't been assigned to a public-facing duty.

Despite the clear wording of the policy, HR sided with the loud minority, choosing appeasement over principle. It was an absurd decision, and one I refused to quietly accept. I stood my ground—not out of stubbornness, but because I believe in holding the line against arbitrary power and manufactured conflict. I still stand on that principle today.

Eventually, I gave my two weeks’ notice and excused myself—quietly, professionally, but absolutely done. I didn’t draw any attention to the fact that I had teaching credentials to fall back on. The women in middle-managerial roles who had surrounded me in that workplace already seemed so insecure and mentally unstable, I didn’t want any more attention on my exit than was necessary at the time. 

But it didn’t end there.

One of the women who had misused her power and made the workplace unbearable showed up outside my house. I had never given her my address. I had maintained my professionalism with her while keeping my distance. Thankfully, I didn’t have to interact with her much in the workplace, if at all. Yet she circled the block for days. She would drive past slowly at times, and other times drive past at speeds that far exceed the legal speed in a residential neighborhood. Not satisfied that her bullying tactics had ended at the office door, she tried to carry it into my private life. I stayed silent. But I took note.

And then later—there was the other one.

Different woman. Same spirit. From the same old job site.

She tried to follow me into my next professional space, after I had fully moved on with my life and started a new career as a local TV news reporter for an affiliate of a major television network, CBS. 

I remember the city council meeting clearly. I was there in full reporter mode—taking notes, speaking with the city manager—focused and in my element, as I always had been. I regularly attended meetings and had good working relationships with my council, the Mayor, and manager. I had never seen her in attendance before. She was already in the room, seated somewhere in the middle of the crowd. When she saw me, she got up, stepped forward, and locked eyes with me like she owned the air between us. It wasn’t just a glance. It was a stare-down—calculated, threatening, unmistakably hostile. She had never once taken the time to speak with me in person at my previous workplace, but for some reason, had it out for me that night. It was completely uncalled for.

Later that day, I picked up the phone and called the CEO I had once worked under. We hadn’t spoken for quite some time since I left, but on that particular evening, I had reasons of personal safety. This needed to be addressed. I told him directly what had unfolded, and he couldn’t deny the fact that I had never had any interaction with the woman prior to this city council incident, and I asked him plainly and directly, “Is there a problem with her?”

He said he didn’t know why she behaved that way. But then he shared something that told me everything I needed to know:

The same woman, who had outwardly displayed such malicious behavior toward me, had recently been asked to attend a Sportsman’s dinner on behalf of the company. At the event, she was presented with a firearm—a symbolic gesture intended for the CEO, who was the actual invitee but couldn’t attend. She was supposed to hold it temporarily as a company representative. Instead, she insisted on keeping it, transported it across state lines, and had it registered in her own name—blatantly and deliberately ignoring instructions to return it. She defied clear orders and crossed multiple professional and legal boundaries. I objected immediately once I learned what had happened.

The CEO, however, seemed resigned, as if nothing could be done. I couldn’t understand why her decision to essentially steal a firearm from a corporate event involved me—aside from the insecurity it revealed on her part. But with my background in security, I’d already been tracking who was watching my social media accounts. I had noticed several familiar accounts from my previous job, and hers was among the most frequent—alongside that of a known stalker. This only heightened my concern about being in a public-facing role, especially given how things unfolded the day I tried to quietly exit my previous position.

Some months later, the first bully started showing up again at my residence. I can only assume it’s because she finally realized I was gaining public recognition on televised broadcasts, and wanted to continue her threatening behavior. This time I called the police, and confronted the CEO, who confessed that he never told her to stop harassing me in the first place, which was not the picture he had been painting all along when he communicated to me. I applied for a protective order from the woman harassing my home, but it was declined since the person harassing me was technically never told to stop as I had been, falsely, led to believe by the CEO. I told the police about both the woman showing up at my residence repeatedly, and about the other woman who had gone to the ends of the earth to obtain a firearm in direct defiance of a directive from her superior.

It wasn’t just about the job for the unlawful gun grabber.

It was about power.

About control.

About intimidation disguised as professionalism.

And still—

When people ask me how I survived, I tell them the truth:

God.

Prayer.

And the small, sacred choices that seemed so insignificant at the time—but weren’t.

Like doing the right things when you think no one is watching.

Like walking into my church—alone, uncertain, but willing to grow.

Like showing up to film the Carmelite Fall Fest when my community needed someone to honor that sacred space.

I wasn’t chasing a headline.

I was following something deeper. Always.

Back then, I truly believed the news world was where I’d finally belong. On paper, it made sense—camera in hand, my voice in the story, the community at the center.

But it also made sense on a soul level, at least for a season. I had a quiet knowing that CBS—yes, the same station that once aired the TV series Touched by an Angel—was where I was meant to be positioned. There were reasons for that pull—deeper ones I haven’t fully written about yet. Maybe one day I will. I’ve thought about writing an autobiography for a while now.

Because stories have always saved me.

Books like Joyce Meyer’s The Confident Woman, The Diary of Anne Frank, Once a Dancer by Allegra Kent, and Hawaii’s Story by Queen Liliʻuokalani—those voices helped shape me. They taught me how to endure. How to elevate. How to be both soft and unshakable.

Queen Liliʻuokalani had traveled the world as a monarch, representing her nation with grace—only to be overthrown and imprisoned in her own land. She didn’t lose her dignity. She documented it. That mattered to me. They all did. Those women taught me that even in silence, truth holds its ground.

But I quickly learned that what the news world often values most isn’t truth.

It’s control.

Image over integrity.

Noise over nuance.

Carefully edited soundbites with no space for silence.

No freedom for feeling.

No value for depth.

I fought to find my voice in a place that preferred me quiet. Preferred me small.

In a way, they wanted stories that made people feel—while simultaneously insisting there wasn’t time for stories that made people feel.

But I knew better.

So I kept writing.

I kept praying.

I kept fighting for what was real.

I held the line.

And when God said it was time to go, I didn’t just walk out of that world.

I ran.

And the freedom I’ve found since then has been nothing short of sacred.

As I have previously shared, not long after I left the news world, I found myself walking into Mass carrying a cardboard box—nine little miraculous medals tucked inside. I didn’t even know it was First Communion day. The pews were full. The kids were glowing.

And me—clutching my tiny offering—felt strangely whole.

That box wasn’t just full of medals.

It held quiet victories and whispered prayers I didn’t even realize had been answered.

This year’s been all about rebuilding.

Not just rewriting stories.

Not just finding a stronger support system.

I’ve been building a home.

And that house? It’s more than just walls and a roof. It’s part of my healing.

I’ve painted over pain.

Carried out demo debris while carrying grief.

I’ve taken it back—one room at a time.

Now, this fall, I’m applying for another grant—one that might finally help my home cross the finish line.

And still, I’m moving.

I’m running races again, because it’s that season—the Pine Mountain 500. The Iron Mountain Half Marathon.

Photo Courtesy: Kate Burie, my awesome friend. And owner of https://www.opendoorclc.com/ and The Essential Oil Apothecary, in the Downtown Iron Mountain Farmer’s Market.

Not for medals. Not for time. Okay, YES for medals and for time. 

But also as a quiet rebellion:

That this body still holds strength.

That this life still holds promise.

I’m training for the fire department agility test. It no longer feels like a far-off hope. It feels like not a matter of if, but when I pass that test. I’m working toward joining the Iron Mountain Fire Department part-time. By the time I graduate with my master’s degree, I want to be standing in that space, too—having met that goal, and ready to serve.

And maybe the most sacred return of all—

My son.

Thirteen now.

Wiser. Quieter. Taller.

We talk about flying. About patience. About purpose.

And even when the planes are grounded for maintenance, and he just wants to take flight, we remind each other:

Sometimes the delay is the blessing.

Because when I look at what I’ve shared this year—

When the Dust Settles. When the Walls Came Down. Red, White, and Bloom.

The monastery. The medals. The roof. The races.

And now, the echo of Fall Fest and Teresa’s strength—

I don’t just see stories.

I see evidence.

That I didn’t quit.

That others who came before me didn’t quit.

That I didn’t disappear.

That I didn’t let the silence, the betrayal, the broken bones, or the bank account define me.

I kept going.

And somehow, grace kept pace with me.

I still carry the dust.

But now, I carry it as proof:

Of the storm I walked through.

Of the truth I stood on.

Of the God who never left.

And I’m still here.

Still entering new arenas and meeting new challenges.

Still blooming.

Still blessed.

And still singing: Last fall, God asked me to join the church choir. I didn’t want to when I first got the call. I liked the background, the quiet places, the unseen work. I wasn’t trained. I didn’t read music well. But I knew the songs. I couldn’t deny that. And more than that, I knew I was being asked. Beckoned. A little bit pushed. Kind of pressed. Gently, squeezed.

So I obeyed.

I joined. I listened. I learned. I showed up.

And something sacred began to take root.

This group—this choir—became a place of peace for me. A place where no one was trying to shut me up or shut me out. They didn’t compete. They harmonized. They led with kindness. They taught with grace. They prayed with purpose. I know without a doubt, I survived this past winter because of their inner, quiet warmth. And my quality of life, magnified.

They encouraged me.

They worked with me.

They made room for me. They made time for me.

And just this month, I cantored my first responsorial psalm during a Sunday mass.

I stood up, nervous, but steady.

And I heard my own voice cry out to God in front of everyone—in a cadence I didn’t know I had.

And at that moment, I didn’t feel alone.

I felt seen.

I felt held by my community. 

Most of all, I felt like He was proud of me.

They are my people. And they know me by name, because He called me by name. On January 1st I know He called me by name at least 4 times in a row, in just one short mass reading. Beloved. Beloved. Beloved. Beloved. Repeated in a reading that leaped out of the page, and into my heart. It wasn't the first time I had heard the word ‘Beloved’ in a mass reading. But it was the first time I heard it repeatedly. Someone else was expressing the words, but He was speaking directly to me. My name means Beloved. 

This is my place.

And somehow, in all the noise of the world, I’ve found a harmony again. 

So yes—this year has brought more than transition. It’s been tiring at times.

It’s brought transformation.

From newsroom to Northwestern Mutual.

From camera to chapel.

From studio to monastery.

From silence to sacred clarity.

From poppy seeds to full bloom.

From fear to song.

The silence didn’t win.

God did.

And I’m still here—

Still standing, still singing, still kneeling, still praying.

Still elevating,

Still His.

Let’s keep going.

—Aimée Lee

P.S. Ladies: Also, DON’T be a Linda. Be a Teresa. You know who you are, and YOU get to choose!

To catch my story on the Monastery, written two years ago, when I was just trying to learn the news world, visit: https://wzmq19.com/news/318557/carmelite-fall-fest-draws-crowds-to-support-monastery-in-dickinson-county/