Today, I sat with a subtle restlessness and quiet nudge that refuses to let me settle where I’ve outgrown. I know this feeling. It’s the same pull that meets me at the edge right before everything changes. And I’ve never been afraid of the edge— I know how to measure the fall, how the wind shifts before I leap. Calculated risks have always recognized me. But lately… I’ve been still. Not the sacred kind of stillness— not the resting, restoring pause— but the kind that lingers too long, where hesitation disguises itself as wisdom and time slips quietly through my hands. I’ve stayed past the moment of release. And I’ve learned— disrespect is a door slammed shut from the inside. No apology, no backtracking, no carefully chosen words can rebuild an entrance where honor has been evicted. Some endings don’t negotiate. And me? My closure has never been loud— No announcements. No final speeches. No echoing exits designed to be heard. I disappear in lowercase. Because when I go silen...
Recently, someone called me “insecure”— and for a fleeting moment, my spirit flinched. Not because the word fit, but because it echoed something I once trusted him to hold gently. See, when we first crossed paths, I was still stitching myself together— learning the weight of my worth, untangling rejection from identity, trying to believe I was enough without asking permission. And isn’t it something— how people will weaponize the very wounds you trusted them with? But patterns… they linger like unfinished prayers until you let God close the door completely. Still, there’s something unsettling about a grown man mocking a chapter God already delivered me from. That kind of smallness doesn’t touch my worth— but it does reveal his. I felt the tension rise, a lethal response forming on my tongue, but disappointment… sent me higher and shifted my posture. Straight to the Upper Room. And there, in that quiet sacred place, God whispered both clarity and correction: Everything doesn’t dese...