As the year comes to a close, many of us are reflecting on where we are versus where we hoped we’d be. This season can feel uncomfortable — especially when it seems like everyone else is celebrating while you’re quietly waiting.
But waiting doesn’t mean wasted.
God equips us for the uncomfortable seasons. There is purpose in the pause, growth in the stillness, and assignment even when life feels at a standstill. You can thank God for now while still trusting Him for next.
If this season feels heavy, stay encouraged. God will show up, your tears will turn to joy, and His promises will manifest — right on time.
A dim flashlight becomes my companion as I search — again and again — for my blackout sleep band. My heart feels heavy, my body aches, and my tears are on standby — ready to fall, ready to say what words sometimes cannot.
Lightning cracks. Thunder shakes the walls of this house. Everyone else sleeps.
But not me. Not tonight.
Maybe not even this morning.
Pain — sharp, relentless — runs up and down my back. But here I am, writing — not because I want to, but because I have to. I need to get this out of me before it drowns me on the inside.
This is real.
This is raw.
This is me.
I find myself in a place I never thought I’d see again — a familiar yet foreign space. It’s hard when those around you — siblings, family — think they know what’s best for you when they’ve never walked a day in your shoes.
They question my decisions like they lived my journey.
They critique my choices as if they’ve held my pain.
Where were you when I lived oceans away?
Where were your calls of understanding?
Where was your compassion then?
And now, because I’ve returned — temporarily — to my birthplace, I find myself wanting to erase my number, hide away in a cave, disappear in peace.
It’s not isolation — it’s preservation. It’s healing.
Only those who have walked with me — those from the community I’ve built and grown to love — understand the depth of this season I’m in. They get the silent victories. They know the dark nights. They understand what survival with grace looks like.
But those who never knew my first chapter now want to narrate my story? No.
If you haven’t lived it with me, don’t try to rewrite it for me.
I am tired of the noise.
I am exhausted from assumptions.
Sometimes the best thing you can offer me is silence. Let my slow responses speak volumes. Let my absence be my boundary.
Blood may connect us — but that doesn’t mean you’re aligned with this season of my life.
I know who leads me — Jesus.
I know who holds me — Jesus.
I know who heals me — Jesus.
And I am fine with just Him.
He speaks — I listen.
He leads — I follow.
He restores — I recover.
There is no greater peace than knowing I am in His will — even when others can’t understand it.
So let me exhale.
Let me be.
Respect my space. Respect my voice.
I am not who I once was. I am evolving. I am becoming. And whether or not you choose to see me or hear me — that’s on you.
Lesson in Everyday LLC 