I think I’ve spent the last few years trying to convince myself that I don’t and shouldn’t want love so much.

Every time I caught myself imagining marriage or relationships...

Wondering what it would be like to build a life with someone...

Feeling that ache when another engagement announcement popped up...

I’d immediately rebuke myself.

“Don’t idolise relationships.”

“Just focus on God. God is enough”

“Be content.”

So I tried, tried to become the girl who didn’t need anything. The girl who never yearned.

But lately I’ve started wondering if I’ve been fighting the wrong battle.

What if yearning was never the problem?

Maybe the problem is what we do with our yearning.

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GROWING UP AROUND LOVE

I grew up in a family with both my mom and dad.

And I didn’t understand love till I got much older.

My parents weren’t very PDAy, so it didn’t click early. To be honest, I was a very slow kid. More especially when it came to social cues. How I wish for that innocence back.

But here’s what I did understand, even then:

Growing up around happy couples wires your brain in a way you don’t fully understand till you’re much older. They become the unconscious baseline. The standard. The thing you expect for yourself.

My parents loved each other quietly. Steadily. In ways I couldn’t see as a kid but felt everywhere. In how my mom looked at my dad. In how he showed up for us. In the way they built something together.

I watched that. And somewhere deep down, I wired it into my system as the goal.

PLAYING ALONG

Now that I think about it, growing up, I don’t think I was the kind of girlie girl that dreamt of her wedding and marriage like everyone else did.

Half the time I played along because I didn’t want to be left out.

I’d sit with the other girls talking about their dream proposals, their future husbands, and I’d nod and smile. But inside? I didn’t feel it the way they did. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I just knew I didn’t want to be alone in my uncertainty.

So I performed. And through all that heart was asking different questions:

Will I be seen?

Will I be safe?

Will I know myself enough to not lose myself in someone else?

I didn’t know it then, but I was already asking about the difference between yearning and idolizing.

THE GONE GIRL MOMENT

Then came my early twenties.

And I fell. Hard.

You know that realization when you look yourself in the mirror and realize: It’s chai…It’s over…. You are gone.

A Gone Girl.

That’s what happened to me.

I met someone and decided he was the answer to questions I’d been asking my whole life.

Will I be seen? He saw me.

Will I be safe? I felt safe with him.

Will I be loved? He loved me.

But somewhere between being seen and being consumed, I lost myself.

I didn’t just want him. I needed him.

My worth became contingent on his attention. My happiness depended on his affection. My identity started shrinking to fit whatever he needed me to be. I began believing that without him, I was incomplete.

I was anxious when he didn’t text. I changed myself to keep his attention. I made his love the foundation of everything my confidence, my joy, my sense of value. I idolized him because I’d made him responsible for filling a hole inside me that only I could fill. And only after did i understand that, did I realize he used that to his advantage with him controlling me in the palm of his hands.

When he left (and he did), I didn’t just lose a relationship.

I lost myself, my world shattered.

Because I’d never actually had myself to begin with.

THE QUESTION WE’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO ASK

Here’s where it gets complicated.

Growing up there is this constant chatter of what kind of wife are you going to be, what kind of mother are you going to be. Almost like they were grooming us for marriage.

And then now that we are older we’re told, constantly, to stop idolizing marriage and relationships. To decentre men. To focus on ourselves. To be whole alone.

And all of that is true.

We should know our worth independent of a relationship. We should build our identity on something stronger than someone else’s love.

But then there’s this other truth that nobody talks about:

We yearn.

We see our parents together and we yearn for that.

We watch couples in love and we yearn for connection like that.

We get older and we yearn for someone to see us, to be with us us, to build something with us.

And we’re supposed to... what? Be stone cold about it?

Pretend the desire doesn’t exist? Shame ourselves for wanting what we’ve watched be beautiful our whole lives?

That’s the gap nobody addresses.

We’re told: Stop idolizing.

But our hearts ask: Is it wrong to yearn?

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God Created the Longing

When we talk about singleness in Christian spaces, we usually swing to one of two extremes.

Everything becomes about finding “the one.”

Or... Everything becomes about pretending you don’t want anyone at all.

Neither feels honest.

Because the truth is...

Some of us really do long for marriage, we genuinely want companionship and dream about building a home, raising children, growing old beside someone.

That doesn’t automatically make us idolaters.

In fact, the first time we see the need for relationship in Scripture, it wasn’t Adam who noticed it.

It was God.

“It is not good for the man to be alone.” - Genesis 2:18

Before sin entered the world.

Before brokenness.

Before idolatry.

God Himself acknowledged that longing for companionship wasn’t a flaw.

It was part of His design.

The desire isn’t the problem but the direction of the desire is.

God created the desire before sin ever entered the world.

THE DIFFERENCE IS SUBTLE. BUT IT’S EVERYTHING.

This when I understood the difference between yearning and idolizing.

A few years ago I dated a guy that I realised I wanted but way more than I needed. To be honest it was a very interesting experience, a bit jarring, but also wholesome. I was so used to an idolising relationship that one scared me so much.

When I was with him, I felt myself expand. Not shrink.

I could be myself and also be loved.

That’s yearning.

But before? Before him?

My entire life end existence didn’t depended on him.

I think the difference comes down to this...

I spent years thinking yearning and idolizing were the same thing.

They’re not.

And the difference matters more than you think.

Idolizing is what I did in my early twenties.

It looks like needing someone to feel complete and believing your worth depends on being chosen.

Becoming anxious without them and seeking their validation to know your value while making them the foundation of your lif and thus you lose yourself in order to keep them

Idolizing comes from emptiness. It’s desperation wearing a pretty dress.

It says: Without you, I am nothing.

Yearning is what I learned much later.

It looks like wanting someone because they add to your life, feeling safe, loved, seen and desired in their presence. Missing them but not falling apart without them and wanting their love but knowing your worth exists independent of it

Making them an addition to an already meaningful life, not the foundation

Being fully yourself and still being loved

Yearning comes from wholeness. It’s desire coming from a full cup.

It says: With you, my life is fuller. But without you, I am still me.

WHERE THE DIFFERENCE REALLY LIVES

The difference between yearning and idolizing isn’t in the feeling.

It’s in the foundation.

It’s in how you see yourself when nobody’s watching.

A healthy sense of self allows you to desire love without depending on it for your identity. With love or without it, you know who you are.

Your worth isn’t a question mark waiting for someone else’s answer.

Your value isn’t on trial, waiting for their verdict.

You can want someone and be complete without them.

I didn’t understand this till I started rebuilding myself after that relationship fell apart.

Therapy. Prayer. Time. Slowly learning to be alone without feeling abandoned by myself.

And somewhere in that process, I realized:

I had never actually loved him. I had worshipped him.

I’d confused intensity for love. Desperation for devotion. Idolization for yearning.

When Love Starts Looking Like Validation

If you’ve been reading my writing for a while, you’ll know I’ve been unpacking this theme over the last few months.

In The Christian Pick Me, I realised how much of my identity had quietly become tied to being chosen.

Then in The Coveting Problem, I realised I wasn’t always seeing people for who they were.

Sometimes I was seeing what they represented.

Validation.

Security.

Proof that I was enough.

And that changed everything.

Because when someone becomes the answer to your loneliness…

Your insecurity…

Your need to feel worthy…

They stop being someone you love.

They become someone you need.

And love cannot grow where possession is living.

That’s what Scripture warns us about.

Not desire.

Disordered desire.

Yearning opens its hands. Idolatry closes its fists.

WHAT SCRIPTURE ACTUALLY SAYS ABOUT THIS

I think the Bible speaks to this tension more clearly than we give it credit for.

There’s Proverbs 31:11 a verse about a woman whose worth is so solid, so rooted in herself, that “the heart of her husband trusts in her.”

Notice what that’s not saying: It’s not saying your value comes from being trusted by a man.

It’s saying: When you know your value, when you’re grounded in who you are, then you’re actually trustworthy. Then love becomes addition, not desperation.

There’s also 1 Peter 3:3-4, which says:

“Your beauty should not come from outward adornment... Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.”

Your worth is already established. Before anyone chooses you. Before anyone loves you. Before you’re in a relationship.

It’s of great worth in God’s sight.

And then there’s Song of Solomon, which the Bible includes to show us that healthy desire is holy. That wanting love, wanting to be desired, wanting connection these aren’t sins. They’re human.

God doesn’t condemn yearning. He condemns idolizing.

He wants you to want love. He just wants you to want it from a place of wholeness, not from a place of emptiness.

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THE PERMISSION YOU ACTUALLY NEED

So here’s what I want to say, especially to the young girls who are asking this question:

It’s not wrong to yearn for love.

It’s not weak to want to be chosen.

It’s not unfeminist to desire connection and partnership.

The world will tell you to pick: Either be fiercely independent (and alone), or be in love (and lose yourself).

But that’s a false choice.

You can be whole and yearn for someone.

You can know your worth and want to be desired.

You can have a full life and want to share it with someone.

The difference isn’t in whether you feel it.

The difference is in whether your foundation is built on them or on yourself.

Ask yourself honestly:

Am I yearning for someone because they expand my life? Or am I idolizing them because they fill a void?

Do I want them? Or do I need them to feel okay?

Can I be myself around them? Or do I have to shrink to keep them?

Would I still know who I am if they left?

If the answer to the last question is no if you’d be lost without them then you’re not yearning.

You’re idolizing.

And the work isn’t about stopping the desire.

The work is about building yourself up so solid, so grounded, so real, that when love comes, it’s an addition to something already whole.

Not a Band-Aid on a wound.

Not a replacement for self-love.

Not your entire reason for existing.

FINDING THE LINE

I think about my parents and siblings sometimes.

About how they built something together while staying whole as individuals.

How they loved quietly but steadily.

How I could feel the stability of it without feeling the desperation.

That’s what I’m learning to want for myself.

Not the fairytale I played along with as a kid.

But the real thing.

The kind of love that doesn’t require you to disappear.

The kind where you can yearn without idolizing.

Where you can be chosen without being consumed.

Where the other person adds to your life instead of becoming your life.

It takes time to build that kind of foundation.

To learn that your worth doesn’t need a witness to be real.

To believe that being loved is wonderful, but being yourself is non-negotiable.

To understand that the line between yearning and idolizing is really just the line between wholeness and emptiness.

And wholeness? That’s the only thing worth building.

Holding the Dream with Open Hands

Psalm 37 says,

“Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.”

For years I read that as a promise that if I loved God enough, He would eventually give me everything I wanted.

Now I wonder if it means something deeper.

Maybe delight reshapes desire.

Maybe the closer we grow to God, the less tightly we grip the outcome.

Not because we stop wanting it.

But because we trust Him with it.

There’s freedom in that.

Freedom to hope without demanding.

Freedom to dream without obsessing.

Freedom to yearn without worshipping the thing you’re yearning for.

I don’t want God to remove my longing. I want Him to teach me how to carry it.

Maybe This Is What Waiting Is For

I’m beginning to think waiting isn’t God’s way of punishing us.

Maybe it’s His way of preparing us.

Teaching us to hold beautiful things without making them ultimate things.

Teaching us that love is a gift.

Not an identity.

Not a rescue mission.

Not proof of our worth.

Because if I can’t believe I’m loved before someone chooses me…

What happens if they leave?

What happens if they disappoint me?

What happens if life doesn’t unfold the way I imagined?

A relationship was never meant to carry that weight.

Only God can.

So Let Me Yearn

I’m done pretending I don’t want love.

I do.

I hope I get married one day.

I hope I build a beautiful home.

I hope I experience the kind of partnership I’ve prayed for.

And I don’t think those hopes make me less faithful.

They make me human.

The work now isn’t learning how to stop longing.

It’s learning how to long well.

To carry the desire without letting it carry me.

To hold it with open hands instead of clenched fists.

To trust that if God gave me the capacity to love so deeply…

He also knows how to steward it.

The One-Line Truth

God never asked me to stop longing. He simply asked me not to lose myself in it.

Perhaps that’s the invitation for all of us.

Not to become people who never yearn.

But people who yearn without turning the gift into a god.

Because love is a beautiful thing.

It was always meant to point us back to the One who loved us first.🤍

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Thank you for reading. Writing these reflections is personal to me, so if this spoke to you, feel subscribe and to pass it along..

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K,

When will it ever be enough?

That’s the question that’s been sitting with me lately.

Not in a peaceful, reflective kind of way.

In an exhausted kind of way.

The kind that comes when you realise you've spent so much of your life chasing the next thing that you've forgotten why you started running in the first place.

Because lately I’ve been looking back on the last few years of my life.

Especially university.

And if I’m honest, part of me wants to go back.

Not because everything was perfect.

It wasn’t.

I was stressed, broke, confused about the future and constantly worried about what came next.

But standing outside of those years now, something hit me:

I was living in the good old days and didn’t even know it and at the time, I thought life would finally begin after graduation.

When I got the job.

When I made money.

When I became successful.

When I got to the next stage.

When I finally got to wherever “there” was supposed to be.

So I spent most of those years looking ahead.

Waiting.

Planning.

Chasing.

And in doing that… I missed parts of the life I was already living.

Yoh… That realization hurt a little.

Because it made me wonder:

And then a second question followed it.

How much of my life am I doing that with right now?

Because if I’m honest, I still catch myself doing it.

Still telling myself life will start when...

When I get the job.

When the business grows.

When I reach the next milestone.

When things finally settle down.

As if life is standing on the other side of achievement waiting for me.

But what if that’s the same lie I believed at twenty?

One thing about me is that I am a dreamer.

Always have been and I want to live a big life.

Not necessarily a famous life or a wealthy life, although I won’t complain if those things happen. I just don’t want to get to the end of my life and wonder what could have been if I had been a little braver.

So I dream.

Big dreams.

Career dreams.

Creative dreams.

The kind of dreams that keep you up at night because you’re excited about what’s possible. The problem is that dreamers can become chasers and I think that’s what I’ve been doing.

I’m surrounded by people doing incredible things. People building careers, businesses, ministries, and lives they can be proud of.

And if I’m honest, part of me wants that too. Sometimes I want it so badly that I forget to enjoy where I am.

A good example?

A few years ago, I was praying desperately for a job.

I wanted independence.

Stability.

The ability to support myself.

Now I have that job.

And instead of sitting down long enough to appreciate the answered prayer, I’ve already moved the goalpost.

Now it’s micro-degrees.

Courses.

New certifications.

The next opportunity.

The next level.

The next thing.

And none of those things are bad.

Growth is good.

Ambition is good.

But somewhere along the way, I realised I was spending so much energy preparing for the next season that I wasn’t fully living in the one God had already given me.

What’s scary is that most of this happens subconsciously.

I don’t wake up and decide to be dissatisfied.

I just slowly drift into believing that where I am isn’t enough.

That who I am isn’t enough.

That I’ll finally be able to rest when I get to the next milestone.

But the next milestone always becomes another starting line.

And the cycle begins again.

The Goalpost Problem

Life has become one long achievement race.

Everyone is building something.

Chasing something.

Trying to become something.

And somewhere in all that movement, we’ve forgotten how to simply live.

We’re constantly praying and crying to God:

“I need this.”

“I want that.”

“If only I can just get there.”

And then, when we finally get there, we either don't realize we're living in the life we prayed for, or we're too busy chasing the next thing to notice.

And before we can even breathe, we're already looking ahead.

The goalpost moves.

Again.

Better.

Bigger.

Higher.

And again.

The funny thing is, I don’t think the goalpost is the problem.

I think we are.

Because we keep believing the next thing will finally make us feel settled.

And every time we arrive, we discover that the feeling doesn’t last.

So we move the goalpost again.

The Lie We Keep Telling Ourselves

My dear, let me hold your hand while I say this:

It doesn’t really get better than this.

I know that sounds crazy.

But hear me out…

Yes, some things will become easier with time. Life becomes more convenient with more accessible and problems get solved.

But at the same time, new problems, pressures, and distractions arrive too.

Every achievement comes with new expectations.

Every win comes with new pressure.

Every level has its own chaos.

So here’s the thing about the goalpost moving:

It’s not actually the goalpost.

It’s us.

We keep moving it because we think the next thing will finally be enough. The next achievement will finally make us feel whole. The next moment will finally be the one where we can rest.

But the reason I say life doesn’t magically get better is this:

We keep postponing joy.

That’s the problem.

Not ambition.

Not goals.

Not growth.

Joy.

We keep treating happiness like a reward we’ll receive later instead of a gift we’ve already been given today.

Which means there is no magical destination where everything finally settles down and becomes perfect.

The Postponement Problem

The problem is that we keep postponing joy. We tell ourselves:

"I'll enjoy life when things calm down."

“When things settle down.”

“When I make more money.”

“When I finally get there.”

“When I get married.”

“When I have kids.”

“When the kids are older.”

“When I retire.”

And the goalpost keeps moving.

So here’s what happens:

We miss our meals because we're thinking about the next meeting. We miss time with friends because we're planning for the future. We miss moments because we're chasing moments we think are better.

The good old days weren’t some distant future you were trying to reach.

They were right here.

And you missed them.

The Things That Actually Matter

So please.

Enjoy your meals.

Really taste them. Don’t eat while scrolling or planning or thinking about what’s next.

Go out with your friends, not to network or make connections that benefit you. Just to laugh. Just to be.

Take the pictures.

Live in the moment enough to capture it, but not so much that you forget to experience it.

Fall in love.

Not because it’s the right time or the right person by external standards, but because your heart is calling you to.

Laugh loudly.

The kind of laugh that doesn’t care who’s listening.

Rest when you need to.

Not because you’ve earned it or because you’re waiting until you’ve achieved enough. Just rest.

Invest your money too, please. (Your grandkids will thank you for that.)

But most importantly, live in the moment.

One day you’ll realize these were the good old days.

There is no season where life suddenly starts.

Life is already happening.

I hope you don’t miss them while waiting for a better life that was already happening.

What Scripture Actually Says About Tomorrow

“But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” -Matthew 6:33-34:

I’ve read Matthew 6 more times than I can count.

Most of the time I read it as a command not to worry.

But lately I’ve been wondering if Jesus was talking about something bigger than anxiety.

Maybe He was talking about attention.

About our tendency to live in tomorrow while today slips through our fingers.

Because tomorrow always feels important.

Tomorrow feels productive.

Tomorrow feels responsible.

But while we’re busy living there, today keeps happening without us.

And before we know it, the season we couldn’t wait to escape becomes the season we miss the most.

The Question Nobody Asks

How do we achieve the balance of ambition and contentment in this fast-paced world?

That’s the real question.

Because we can’t just stop being ambitious. Drive isn’t a character flaw, it’s what moves us forward, what makes us grow, what pushes us to become more than we were yesterday.

But ambition without contentment is just endless chasing.

It’s a treadmill that never stops.

And the faster you run, the more exhausted you become.

The Balance We’re Not Talking About

So how do we balance ambition and contentment?

I don’t think it’s about choosing one or the other.

I think it’s about holding both at the same time.

Ambition: Keep moving forward. Keep growing. Keep becoming.

Contentment: But enjoy where you are while you’re moving forward. Notice the good. Rest when you can. Celebrate the small things.

The goalpost doesn’t have to stay still.

But you do. For a moment. Long enough to see where you are.

Long enough to be grateful for it.

Long enough to live it.

The One Thing I Know For Sure

Here’s what I know now:

The next achievement won’t feel the way you think it will.

The next milestone won’t bring the peace you’re chasing.

The next level won’t be the place where you finally feel like enough.

But this moment?

Right now?

This is where life is actually happening.

This is where the good old days are being lived.

And you can either be present for them, or you can spend them chasing something that doesn’t actually exist.

Because the “better life” you’re waiting for?

It was always this one.

Permission to Stop Chasing

If you’re exhausted from moving the goalpost.

If you’re tired of chasing the next thing.

If you’re realizing that you’ve been so focused on the future that you’ve missed the present.

I’m giving you permission to stop.

Not to stop growing, dreaming and not to stop moving forward. But to stop treating today like it’s a practice run for some better day that’s coming.

Today is not practice.

Today is it.

Enjoy it.

Live in it.

Be grateful for it.

Because one day, sooner than you think, you’ll realize these were the good old days.

And I hope you’re not too busy chasing the next thing to notice.

A Final Thought

The goalpost will keep moving.

That’s not a problem to solve. That’s just life.

But you don’t have to keep chasing it.

You can choose to run toward it, yes, but you can also choose to notice what’s around you while you’re running. maybe even speed walking…lol

You can achieve and be content.

You can be ambitious and present.

You can want more and enjoy what you have.

Both.

At the same time.

And that’s where the real life happens.

Not in the future.

In this moment.

Right now.

Where you are.

“But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”

Matthew 6:33-34

One day you’ll look back at this version of your life.

This ordinary Tuesday.

This friendship.

This season.

This version of yourself.

And you’ll realize these were the days you were going to miss, not because everything was perfect but because life was happening, and you were in it.

So don’t spend today waiting for a better life.

This one is already here.

Today is enough.

Make it count.

There’s a season I’ve been in lately.

One that three years ago, I probably would have laughed at.

I’m in a season where I’ve stopped looking for someone and started looking for myself instead.

And I’m bearing myself a little naked here, but:

And if I’m being honest, it’s been uncomfortable.

Because I’ve had to ask myself a question I wasn’t expecting:

What if God is keeping me out of relationships because there are still parts of me that need healing first?

Not because relationships are bad.

Not because I don’t want one. Trust me, I’m a huge lover girl.

But because I’m starting to realise something about myself that I don’t particularly enjoy admitting.

I don’t think I fully understood the difference between loving someone and needing them.

And those two things can look frighteningly similar.

The Realisation I Didn't Want

I was listening to a podcast recently, I listen to way too many podcasts, honestly. Sometimes they’re educational. Sometimes they’re just expensive background noise.

But one comment stopped me.

The conversation was about loving people the way Christ loves us.

And suddenly a thought crossed my mind:

Maybe I’ve been trying to receive from other people what I struggle to give myself.

Then a few days later I came across a quote:

And Yoh… that one sat with me.

Because I couldn’t answer honestly without admitting something I’d spent a long time avoiding.

I don’t think I know how to fully love myself yet.

Not in the way that matters

.

Not in the way God does.

And if I don’t know how to do that... how can I fully love someone else?

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The Validation Trap

Here’s what I’ve discovered about myself.

For a long time, I believed I had to prove myself worthy of love, so I worked hard, I showed up, I gave and gave and gave.

And if I’m honest, somewhere underneath all of that was a quiet hope.

Maybe if someone chooses me, I’ll finally feel chosen and if someone loves me, I’ll finally believe I’m lovable.

It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.

I’m screaming internally even writing this.

But it’s true.

I had unconsciously tied my worth to being wanted and that’s a dangerous place to build your identity.

Because no human being can carry that weight.

The Coveting Trap

This is where the conviction came.

Because when I started looking deeper, I realised I wasn’t always seeing people clearly.

Sometimes I was seeing what they represented.

Comfort.

Validation.

Security.

Affection.

Proof.

And in coveting them, I was disrupting my ability to fully love them.

Because when we’re obsessed with what someone has, what they can do for us, or what they bring into our lives, we stop seeing them as a whole person.

Rather than someone to be known.

When we’re more focused on what someone has, we never really see them. We see a version of them filtered through our own needs and desires. We see them through the lens of what they can give us.

And if we never truly see them, we can never truly love them.

True connection requires seeing people beyond their usefulness to us. It requires curiosity about who they are, not just appreciation for what they provide.

The danger is that we become so obsessed with what we can get from someone that we lose sight of who they are entirely.

And if we’re not careful, we start confusing possession with connection.

Because when someone becomes the answer to our loneliness, insecurity, or need for validation, they stop being someone we love.

They become something we need.

And love cannot grow where possession is living.

The Scripture That Stopped Me

“Love your neighbour as yourself.”

Matthew 22:39.

I’ve read that verse a thousand times and I’ve always focused on the first part: Love your neighbour: Love your neighbour. Love people. Serve people. Care for people.

But Jesus sneaks something in there that I never really paid attention to: as yourself.

Which means I have to love myself first, and not in a self-care, bubble-bath, treating-yourself kind of way.

But in a deep, foundational, I-see-myself-the-way-God-sees-me kind of way.

Because if I don’t love myself that way, I can’t actually love my neighbor that way either.

I’ll just be performing love while internally begging for proof that I’m lovable.

Because Scripture also says:

We love because He first loved us.

1 John 4:19

And in loving ourselves, we need to understand this and that He loved us just because. For no reason. Without us proving anything.

That’s the kind of love we need to give ourselves.

The Season I Didn’t Plan For

Lately I’ve been struggling with romantic relationships and not because I stopped wanting them, I’m a human being and a huge lover girl.

But because I finally saw the pattern.

The pattern was: I was using other people to fill a hole in myself and I was considering others before I considered myself.

I was looking for someone to complete me. To validate me. To finally make me feel like I was enough.

I’ve noticed something in our culture, maybe it’s the age we’re in, or the environment, but we literally see relationships everywhere. It’s like we’re all hunting dogs sniffing out for romantic relationships. Where you can’t look at someone without having the thought: “Hmm... could this be something?”

But that’s not love.

That’s desperation dressed up as openness.

So I made a decision.

To step back. To stop looking. To reflect on why I was looking in the first place.

And it’s been one of the hardest and most necessary decisions I’ve made.

The Gap Between Knowing and Feeling

Here’s the thing nobody tells you:

You can know intellectually that God loves you and still feel like you need someone else’s love to prove it.

You can affirm that you’re worthy and still behave like you need romantic validation to confirm it.

You can believe in your heart that you’re valuable and still seek your worth from relationships.

There’s a gap between what we confess and what we embody.

And healing that gap? That’s the real work.

That’s the work that happens in the seasons where nobody’s choosing you.

Where you’re alone with yourself and God.

Where you have to learn to be enough.

Maybe God Is Protecting You

This made me think about this differently lately.

What if God isn't withholding something from me?

What if God is protecting me?

What if the reason certain relationships haven't worked out isn't because I'm unlovable?

Not because I’m broken or too much or not enough, but because I’m not ready to love them the way they deserve to be loved.

Because I’m still using romantic relationships to fill a spiritual void and I still think being chosen by someone will fix what only God can heal.

And a relationship built on that foundation isn’t love, it’s codependency dressed up as romance.

Because a relationship built on validation will always feel fragile.

And a relationship built on need will eventually feel exhausting.

The Growing Season

I think our culture celebrates relationships more than it celebrates preparation.

We celebrate engagements.

Weddings.

Anniversaries.

Relationship announcements.

But we rarely celebrate the quiet seasons.

The seasons where God is teaching you who you are, where you’re healing, learning how to be whole, and choosing growth over distraction.

And maybe that’s because growth is less visible.

Because this is where the real work happens.

What I’m Learning in the Quiet

In this season, I’m learning that my worth doesn’t come from being wanted.

I’m learning that being unchosen doesn’t mean I’m unlovable and I can enjoy my own company.

Girl, date yourself more… more of those solo dates.

I’m learning that God’s love isn’t conditional, and I’m learning that self-love isn’t selfish.

It’s stewardship.

Because if I don’t see myself the way God sees me, I’ll keep asking other people to do what only God can do.

The One-Line Truth

You can’t fully love someone else until you know how to love yourself.

And sometimes the kindest thing God can do is keep you alone long enough to learn.

A Hard Look at Coveting

Before I close this, I want to sit with one more thing.

The scripture in Psalm 32:8-9 says:

“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my loving eye on you. Do not be like the horse or the mule, which have no understanding, but must be controlled by bit and bridle or they will not come to you.”

We are not meant to be controlled by our desires.

And coveting, whether it’s a person, their attention, their validation, is a form of control.

It’s saying: “I need this from you to feel whole.”

And it chains both of you.

The person you’re coveting can never be free to be themselves, and you can never be free to be yourself either.

You’re both trapped in a dynamic that looks like love but feels like desperation.

If You’re in the Waiting Season Too

If you’re where I am right now. (Yoh I don’t like using the word “waiting” but then i am struggling to find a relevant synonym… )

If you’re wondering why the right relationship hasn’t come yet.

If you’re feeling the sting of being unchosen.

If you’re asking yourself what’s wrong with you that nobody wants you.

Can I offer you a different perspective?

Maybe nothing is wrong with you.

Maybe God is protecting you.

Keeping you in the safety of solitude until you learn to see yourself the way He does.

Until you can love yourself without needing someone else to confirm it.

Until you’re whole enough to be with someone and not need them to make you whole.

That’s not rejection.

That’s grace.

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Matthew 22:39

Before you can do this well, you have to do the second part first.

You have to love yourself.

Really love yourself.

Not someday.

Now.

In this waiting season.

That’s where healing begins.

Thank you for reading. Writing these reflections is personal to me, so if this spoke to you, feel subscribe and to pass it along..

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There’s a specific kind of guilt that comes from surviving instead of succeeding.

Especially as a Christian, because everyone around you seems to be posting breakthroughs.
New jobs.
Engagements.
Businesses growing.
Prayers answered.

And meanwhile… you’re just trying to make it through the week.

Trying not to fall apart.
Trying to keep believing.
Trying to stay afloat mentally, emotionally, spiritually and financially.

And the worst part?

You start feeling like you’re failing God and yourself because you’re not “winning.”

That’s why Philippians 4:13 used to frustrate me a little.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

Because the way we quote that verse makes it sound like Christianity is supposed to produce constant success. Like if you trust God enough, work hard enough, believe hard enough… you’ll always overcome.

You’ll succeed.
You’ll conquer.
You’ll achieve.

But when I actually read the verse in context… I realized Paul wasn’t talking about winning.

He was talking about surviving.

Nobody talks about the strength It takes to survive, we only celebrate Christians when they’re winning.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” - Philippians 4:13.

We use it like a motivational poster. I know I have… like a spiritual cheat code for achievement.

We quote it when we’re pushing through obstacles. When we’re grinding toward goals. When we want to prove that God’s strength is enough to help us succeed.

But here’s what I noticed when I actually read the verse in context:

Paul wasn’t talking about winning.

He was talking about surviving.

The Verse We Quote vs. The Verse Paul Wrote

Let me read you the full passage. Philippians 4:11-13:

“I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

Do you see the difference?

Paul isn’t saying: “I can achieve great things through Christ’s strength.”

He’s saying: “I can endure any situation through Christ’s strength.”

There’s a massive gap between those two things.

One is about success.

The other is about survival and contentment.

When Strength Looks Like Staying

We’ve weaponized this verse.

We use it to motivate people toward bigger dreams, harder work, greater accomplishment.

“You can do it through Christ!”

But what about the seasons where doing it means just... not falling apart?

What about the times when strength isn’t measured in achievement but in the ability to stay?

To stay faithful when nothing is working.

To stay present when you’re exhausted.

To stay believing when God feels silent.

To stay standing when everything in you wants to collapse.

That’s what Paul was talking about.

He wasn’t in a season of winning. He was in a season of barely holding on.

He’d been shipwrecked. Beaten. Imprisoned. Betrayed. Hungry. Cold.

And in the middle of all that, he’s not saying “Through Christ I’m going to achieve my dreams.”

He’s saying “Through Christ I’m going to survive this.”

The Season No One Talks About

As Christians, we often forget to talk about enduring.

The focus is always on coming out of the tunnel. On winning. On breakthrough.

But never on being in the tunnel. On struggling. On not being able to see the light at the end of it.

I’ve been in that position.

Everything was a blur. I was hurting. I was asking if I would even make it.

I was exhausted and wondered if I had enough strength just to endure and keep my head up.

No one told me that I would survive. (Well, kind of... lol). And I felt all alone.

Probably why I was angry with God.

If you are wrestling with these feelings right now, you might relate to my previous post, “It’s Okay to Be Angry With God”.

The Guilt of Not Winning While You’re Surviving

What hurt the most wasn’t the struggle itself.

It was that I stayed in the surviving season for a long time and was angry with myself and God for not achieving.

I was still job hunting, Depressed, Struggling, and Hurt.

And instead of celebrating the fact that I was still here, I was punishing myself for not succeeding.

But then I realized something:

Maybe God was helping me endure through it all.

Through challenges that other people would have buckled under.

And I needed to appreciate that.

Just trust Him.

The Strength We Don’t Talk About

We celebrate victory strength.

We post about accomplishments and breakthroughs and answered prayers, share the stories where God came through and everything worked out.

But we’re quieter about endurance strength.

The strength to show up to work when you hate your job but you need the income.

The strength to stay in a marriage that’s harder than you expected.

The strength to keep going in your faith when doubt won’t stop whispering.

The strength to keep job hunting on days when you have nothing left to give.

The strength to keep your business running when every quarter feels uncertain.

The strength to survive a season where nothing is succeeding, but you’re not allowed to quit.

This strength doesn’t make for good Instagram posts.

It’s not inspirational in the way we’ve been taught to define inspiration, but it might be the most important kind.

Maybe Strength Looks Like Staying, Not Succeeding

I think about Paul in prison.

Chained. Uncertain if he’d be executed.

No platform. No resources. No guarantee of a happy ending.

And he writes: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

Not: “I’m going to escape this prison.”

Not: “God is going to vindicate me.”

Just: “I can survive this. I can stay faithful. I can endure.”

That’s the strength we need to talk more about, because most of us aren’t in a season of winning.

Most of us are in seasons of surviving.

Surviving financial uncertainty.

Surviving relational conflict.

Surviving health crises.

Surviving the slow grief of unfulfilled expectations.

Surviving the weight of responsibilities that never seem to get lighter.

And in those seasons, the verse isn’t a motivational poster.

It’s a lifeline.

I can do all things through Christ.

Not all things successfully.

Not all things painlessly.

Not all things the way I planned.

But all things.

Including this. Especially this.

What Changes When We Read It This Way

When we stop treating this verse like a success formula and start treating it like a survival promise, something shifts.We stop measuring strength by outcomes.

We stop asking “Did I win?” and start asking “Did I stay faithful?”

We stop waiting for God to change our circumstances and start asking what it means to trust God within our circumstances. We stop punishing ourselves for not achieving and start honoring ourselves for enduring.

The One-Line Truth

Strength isn’t always about winning.

Sometimes it’s about staying.

So If You’re Just Surviving Right Now

If you’re in a season where you’re not succeeding but you’re still showing up.

Where nothing is breaking through but you haven’t broken.

Where you’re not thriving, but you’re still here.

Where strength looks less like victory and more like stubbornness.

That counts.

That matters.

That’s what “I can do all things through Christ” is actually about.

Not the breakthrough.

The faithfulness it takes to wait for one.

Not the victory.

The endurance it takes to keep believing there’s a point to the struggle.

Paul knew what he was talking about.

He wasn’t in a winning season.

He was in a surviving season.

And he’d learned something that we’re still trying to figure out:

Strength isn’t measured by what you accomplish.

It’s measured by what you survive and who you become in the process.

If you’re just surviving right now , you’re strong enough.

That has to be enough.

Philippians 4:11-13

“I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

There is a sentence I heard as a teenager that never left me.

“Doubt is the essence of faith.”

I remember sitting in Sabbath School hearing it for the first time and feeling almost uncomfortable.

Because it sounded wrong.

We had always been taught not to doubt. To trust God fully. To believe without wavering.

So hearing someone suggest that doubt could actually exist inside faith felt almost dangerous.

But at the same time…weirdly relieving.

Because if I’m honest, I had spent years quietly punishing myself for doubting.

Not always doubting God completely.

But doubting His timing. His silence. His decisions. Whether He was actually listening. Whether I was doing enough. Whether any of this was even working.

And every time those questions came up, I thought something was wrong with me spiritually.

Like real Christians were supposed to feel certain all the time.

But the older I get, the more I realize:

Certainty and faith are not the same thing.

Because certainty requires control.

Faith requires trust.

And trust only exists where there is room for uncertainty.

Otherwise it would not be faith at all.

The Phrase That Changed Everything

I grew up using a lesson guide called Cornerstone Connection which is weekly lesson plans for teens.

And one Sabbath, in the middle of a class discussion, I heard that phrase:

And I remember sitting there, confused.

Because we had been taught not to doubt.

To fully trust God. To never question.

And here was this lesson telling me that faith cannot exist without doubt.

At first, it felt wrong, but the more I sat with it, the more it felt like permission.

Permission to be honest about the questions I had been too afraid to ask.

The Faith We Inherit

I think a lot of us inherited a version of Christianity that treated doubt like failure.

Questions were dangerous.

Struggling was weakness.

And certainty became the goal.

So instead of wrestling honestly, we learned how to perform confidence.

We learned the right answers.

The right scriptures.

The right Christian language.

Even when internally we were confused.

And that creates a strange kind of loneliness.

Because now you’re sitting in church surrounded by people saying “God is good” while secretly wondering why He feels so distant to you.

And instead of bringing that confusion to God… you hide it.

But hidden doubt doesn’t disappear.

It just becomes shame.

What Doubt Actually Does

The thing that changed my perspective was realizing that doubt is not always the absence of faith.

Sometimes it is evidence that your faith is becoming personal.

Because inherited faith rarely survives unanswered questions.

At some point, everyone reaches a moment where belief has to be examined.

Not repeated.

Not inherited.

Not performed.

Examined.

And that process is uncomfortable.

Because doubt forces you to wrestle, search, questions, study deeper, and to stop relying on borrowed certainty.

And maybe that is why some of the strongest faith is born after seasons of questioning.

Because now your belief has survived honesty.

The Difference Between Doubt and Unbelief

Here’s what I didn’t understand back then:

Doubt is not the opposite of faith.

Unbelief is.

Doubt says: “I believe, but I’m struggling to understand.”

Unbelief says: “I don’t believe, and I’m not interested in finding out.”

Doubt is a hallway.

It’s meant to be walked through leading to truth.

Unbelief is a closed door.

It’s the decision to stop seeking altogether.

And the Bible is full of people who doubted.

Thomas needed to see Jesus’ wounds before he believed in the resurrection.

Job questioned God’s justice in the midst of his suffering.

David wrote entire Psalms asking God, “How long will you forget me?”

Habakkuk asked God, “How long will you tolerate injustice?”

Even Jesus cried out from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

And God didn’t reject any of them for being honest.

He met them in it.

Why Doubt Might Actually Strengthen Your Faith

I used to think doubt meant my faith was weak.

That if I was really committed, I wouldn’t have questions.

But I’m starting to think the opposite is true.

Because doubt forces you to examine what you believe.

And an examined faith is often stronger than an inherited one.

If you’ve never questioned your beliefs, how do you know they’re yours?

How do you know you didn’t just adopt someone else’s script without ever wrestling with it yourself?

Doubt pushes you to seek.

To study.

To move from shallow, secondhand faith to deep, personal conviction.

And maybe that’s the point.

The Trap of Certainty

Here’s what I’ve noticed:

The people who claim to have zero doubt often sound the most arrogant.

Not because they’re bad people.

But because certainty can sometimes feel like you’ve completely grasped God.

And if you’ve completely grasped God…

Then God is too small.

Because mystery is part of who He is.

And faith is not the absence of questions.

It’s the choice to trust Him in the middle of them.

“Nevertheless, I believe.”

That’s the posture of real faith.

Not “I have all the answers.”

But “I don’t fully understand, and I’m choosing to trust anyway.”

Healthy Doubt vs. Unhealthy Doubt

But here’s where I need to be careful.

Because not all doubt is the same.

Some doubt is searching. Some is fear. Some is exhaustion. Some is grief trying to understand disappointment.

Healthy doubt asks questions and brings them to God.

Unhealthy doubt uses questions as an excuse to walk away.

Healthy doubt says: “I don’t understand this. Help me see.”

Unhealthy doubt says: “I don’t understand this, so I’m done.”

Healthy doubt is faith asking when God is going to show up.

Unhealthy doubt is faithlessness deciding He never will.

Healthy doubt keeps bringing the questions back to God.

Unbelief stops bringing them altogether.

And I think the difference comes down to this:

Are you bringing your doubt to God?

Or are you using your doubt to justify distancing yourself from Him?

What the Bible Actually Says About Doubt

The Bible is filled with people asking God hard questions.

“How long, O Lord?” appears over and over.

In Psalms. In Lamentations. In Habakkuk. In Revelation.

God’s people have always wrestled with His timing, His methods, His silence.

And God doesn’t rebuke them for it.

He responds.

He engages.

He meets them in their struggle.

Because faith is not pretending you have it all figured out.

Faith is trusting who God is for you in your present and future…

based on who He has shown Himself to be for you in your past.

Even when you don’t understand what’s happening right now.

So Can You Be a Christian and Still Have Doubts?

Yes.

Not just yes, but maybe doubt is proof that your faith is real.

Because doubt means you care.

Doubt means it matters to you.

Doubt means you’re not just going through the motions.

You’re wrestling.

And wrestling with God is not the same as walking away from Him.

Jacob wrestled with God and was renamed Israel “one who struggles with God.”

And that became his identity.

Not “one who never questioned.”

But “one who struggled and stayed.”

The One-Line Truth

Certainty is not the same as faith.

Faith is choosing to trust in the middle of the mystery.

What's one question you've been afraid to ask God? Drop it in the comments — this is a safe space to wrestle.

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So If You’re Doubting Right Now

Bring it to Him.

Ask the hard questions.

Don’t pretend you’re okay when you’re not.

Because God is not afraid of your doubt.

He’s afraid of your silence.

He’s afraid of you performing certainty instead of bringing Him your confusion.

He would rather deal with your honesty than your pretending.

And maybe that’s where real faith begins.

Not when you finally have all the answers.

But when you admit you don’t and trust Him anyway.

Faith is not pretending you have no questions.

Faith is continuing to trust God while asking them.

It is saying: “I don’t fully understand this… but I’m still here.”

And honestly?

That kind of faith feels far more real to me than performative certainty ever did.

“Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, ‘I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!’”

- Mark 9:24

Even in the Bible, belief and doubt exist in the same sentence.

And Jesus didn’t reject him for it.

He healed his son

.

The anger.

Not confusion.
Not “waiting on God.”
Not disappointment disguised as spiritual maturity.

Actual anger.

The kind that sits heavy in your chest.
The kind you write in your journal but would never dare say out loud in church.

The kind that makes you feel guilty for even feeling it

Because somewhere along the way, we learned that good Christians don’t get angry at God.

We get sad.
We get tested.
We “don’t understand His ways.”

But angry?

That feels dangerous.

Like crossing a line you can’t uncross, and if you admit it out loud, your faith might completely fall apart.

And maybe that fear is why so many of us stay silent.

We perform peace instead of telling the truth.

Anger at God is not the opposite of faith.

Silence is.

I Was Angry

I’ve been journaling on and off for years now.

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Mainly because my brain moves at 180km/h and journaling helps slow it down just enough for me to hear myself think.

Recently, I started rereading journals from the past two or three years and yoh…

I was going through it.

One of the first things I found was the entire chapter of Isaiah 61 written across multiple pages.

And instantly I remembered the version of me who wrote it.

Exhausted.
Heartbroken.
Angry.

To be honest… angry with God.

I even found journal entries that started like this:

And even reading it back now still feels uncomfortable.

Because growing up, I never fully understood that you could talk to God like that.

I knew how to pray respectfully.
I knew how to worship.
I knew how to say the “right” things.

But lament?

Disappointment?

Questioning God honestly?

That felt wrong.

Especially growing up in an African Christian environment where authority figures are not really questioned.

And without realising it, I think I carried that same posture into my relationship with God.

I saw Him more as authority to fear than a Father I could be honest with.

So instead of processing my emotions with Him…

I learned how to suppress them around Him.

I didn’t plan to be angry.

I was in pain. Real, deep, suffocating pain.

And I kept praying. Kept trusting. Kept believing He would come through.

But He didn’t or at least, not in the way I expected.

And that’s when the anger came.

Not all at once. Slowly. Quietly.

Until one night I opened my journal and just… wrote it.

And I waited for the sky to fall.

For conviction. For shame. For that familiar voice that says “How dare you.”

But what came instead was stillness.

Not condemnation.

Just space.

Space to finally be honest.

The Season That Broke Me

At the time, I was chronically depressed.

For almost three years.

On and off medication.
Constantly exhausted.
Emotionally drowning.

Thank you for reading. Writing these reflections is personal to me, so if this spoke to you, feel free to pass it along..

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And I prayed.

Yoh, did I pray.

I prayed for healing.
For relief.
For God to pull me out of whatever darkness I was trapped in.

I kept believing He would show up.

But He didn’t.

Or at least… not in the way I expected.

And slowly, disappointment became resentment.

Then resentment became anger.

At some point I remember telling God I was done.

That depending on Him felt pointless.

That I didn’t even know if I believed anymore.

And strangely enough…

after saying all of that, I felt what seemed like His absence even more.

Like everything became darker.

And that was the moment something hit me:

Maybe He had been there the whole time.

The Wind You Cannot See

You cannot see the wind.

Only what it moves.

The trees bend.
The leaves scatter.
The atmosphere shifts.

You never actually see the wind itself.

And I think that’s what God was trying to show me.

Because I was angry partly because I couldn’t see Him.

I wanted the dramatic intervention.
The clear answer.
The burning bush moment.

I wanted God loud.

But He had been present quietly.

In the people who stayed.
In the small mercies I overlooked.
In the moments I survived when I genuinely thought I wouldn’t.

I was so focused on what God hadn’t done…

that I missed what He was already doing.

I was looking for the storm.

But He was the wind.

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The Question I Didn’t Want to Ask

And eventually I had to ask myself something uncomfortable:

Why was I actually disappointed?

Not why am I in pain. Not why didn’t God answer.

But why did I feel disappointed specifically?

And the answer was uncomfortable:

Because God hadn’t failed me.

He just hadn’t followed the script I wrote.

I had expectations.
Timelines.
Ideas of what healing should look like.

And when things unfolded differently, I felt betrayed.

And maybe that’s where a lot of anger with God actually comes from.

Not always His absence.

But the gap between what we wanted…
and what happened.

What the Bible Actually Says About Anger

If you’ve been taught that anger at God is sinful, let me remind you of a few people, because scripture never hides human emotion from God:

Job sat in the ashes and accused God of injustice.

David wrote entire Psalms asking God why He abandoned him.

The writer of Lamentations said:

“He ground my face into the gravel. He pounded me into the mud. I gave up on life altogether. I’ve forgotten what the good life is like. I said to myself, ‘This is it. I’m finished. God is a lost cause.’” — Lamentations 3:16-18 (MSG)

Moses asked God why He was making his life so hard.

Jonah got mad that God showed mercy when Jonah wanted judgment.

And none of these people were rejected for being honest.

God responded to them.

Spoke to them.

Met them in it.

Because God is not intimidated by human emotion.

He’s afraid of your silence.

He’s afraid of you pretending you’re fine when you’re falling apart.

He’s afraid of you performing peace instead of bringing Him your pain.

He would rather deal with your honesty than your performance.

And I think that’s something the church sometimes struggles with.

We know how to teach faith.

But not always how to teach lament.

So people end up thinking holiness means pretending.

Pretending you’re okay.
Pretending you’re not hurt.
Pretending you’re not angry.

Until eventually the silence becomes distance.

The Difference Between Feeling It and Staying In It

Now I also need to say this carefully.

Because yes, I think it’s okay to be angry with God.

But no, I don’t think you’re meant to stay there forever.

Because anger can quickly harden into bitterness.

Anger is a warning light on the dashboard; it tells you something needs attention. But if we stop bringing that anger to Him, it stops being a conversation and starts becoming a wall.

The goal isn’t to suppress the emotion, it’s to wrestle with it until the wall comes down.

But if you let it turn into bitterness and let it harden into resentment.

If you stop bringing it to God and start using it to justify distance.

Then it stops being honest and starts being destructive.

The goal is not to suppress the emotion.

It’s to bring it into conversation.

To process it honestly.
To wrestle with it.
To let God meet you inside it.

Because there’s a difference between feeling anger… and building your identity around it.

What Happened After I Got Honest

I told God I was angry.

And then I sat there, and slowly, He started showing me something I hadn’t seen before.

I wasn’t completely alone.

There were people who showed up. Small mercies I overlooked. Provisions I dismissed because they weren’t dramatic enough.

I had been so focused on what didn’t happen…

That I missed what did.

Not in the way I wanted. But in the way I needed.

And that didn’t erase my pain.

But it reminded me:

God doesn’t owe me the script I wrote.

He owes me Himself.

And sometimes, His presence doesn’t look like answers.

It looks like staying.

The One-Line Truth

Anger at God is not the end of your faith.

It’s the beginning of an honest conversation and honest relationship with Him.

So If You’re Angry Right Now

Bring it to Him.

Write it. Say it. Yell it if you need to.

Don’t sanitize it. Don’t dress it up. Don’t make it sound acceptable.

Just be honest.

Because God can handle your anger.

What He can’t work with is your silence.

He doesn’t need you to be okay.

He needs you to be real.

And maybe that’s where healing actually begins.

Not when you finally have it all together.

But when you finally admit you don’t.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” — Psalm 22:1

Even Jesus asked the question.

So you can too.

Have you ever felt like you had to 'perform' peace for God? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

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There comes a point where the God you inherited stops feeling real, kind of stops working.

Not because He stopped being real.

But because your experience of Him is. You realise that you don’t actually know him.

You’ve heard the stories.
You know the scriptures.
You can answer the questions and know exactly what to say.

Effortlessly.

Almost automatically.

And for a while, that feels like faith.

Until it doesn’t.

Because eventually, something shifts.

You realise you can explain God… without actually knowing Him.

You start noticing the gap.

Between what you know… and what you’ve actually experienced.

And it’s uncomfortable.

Because now you’re faced with a question you’ve been avoiding:

Do I know God…

or do I just know how to talk about Him?

I’ve seen this pattern in so many church kids.

And if I’m honest…in myself too.

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And this is the part people struggle to understand.

How can someone grow up in church… and still not understand salvation?
Still not understand grace?
Still not understand who they are in God?

It doesn’t make sense on the outside, but it does when you realise this:

Proximity is not understanding.

You can sit in the environment.
Hear the language.
Follow the routine and still never truly grasp it.

There is a limit to familiarity.

A point where closeness by proximity stops producing depth.

Where an environment you’ve been in your whole life… starts to feel strangely distant.

You grow up in church.
You are surrounded by God.
You are taught everything about Him.

And still… you reach a point where it all feels…

Routine.
Predictable.
Flat.

Not because it lacks truth, but because it lacks encounter.

But because it was never yours.

And maybe this is the harder truth to sit with:

You can inherit information about God… but not relationship with Him.

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That’s the part we don’t say enough.

A lot of us didn’t lose faith.

We just never owned it.

We inherited it.

Performed it.

Repeated it.

But we never built it and you don’t realise that… until the structure disappears.

Until no one is waking you up for church.
No one is calling you for devotion.
No one is watching what you do.

And suddenly… you are responsible for your own faith

That’s when everything gets exposed.

Because now… you’re not following a system.

You’re facing a relationship, and that’s where things start to fall apart or finally become real.

For me, it was subtle.

I realised the way I prayed… was borrowed.

My words sounded like my father’s.
My rhythm felt familiar.

But it wasn’t mine.

I was echoing something I had seen… not expressing something I had experienced.

And I had been doing it for years.

That’s when it hit me:

You can inherit information about God… but not relationship with Him.

And that changes everything, because relationship cannot be copied.

It cannot be enforced.

It cannot be transferred.

It has to be chosen.

And that’s the part that feels like a breaking point.

Because now the question is no longer:

“Did I grow up in church?”

It becomes:

“Do I actually know God?”

And for a lot of people… that’s where things start to look messy.

Distance.
Confusion.
Even rebellion.

And we panic when we see it.

More especially parents.

We think something has gone wrong.

But what if it hasn’t?

What if this is the first time it’s actually becoming real?

Because you cannot control someone else’s relationship with God.

And maybe this is where we have misunderstood something.

“Train up a child in the way they should go,
and when they are old, they will not depart from it.”
— Proverbs 22:6

We often read this as a formula.

Do everything right → get the right result.

But what if “training” was never about control?

What if it was about guidance, exposure, and foundation… not ownership?

Because you can train a child… and still not choose for them.

You can introduce them to God… without becoming the voice they follow forever.

At some point, what was taught… has to become chosen.

And the more you try to force it… the more it turns into performance again.

Not relationship.

And performance is exactly what got us here in the first place.

So maybe the goal is not tighter control.

Maybe it’s space.

Space to question.
Space to wrestle.
Space to choose.

Because God does not need your control to reach someone.

He just needs their willingness, and willingness cannot be forced.

It has to be formed.

Slowly.

Personally.

Honestly.

Because in the end… familiarity can introduce you to God.

But it cannot sustain your relationship with Him.

At some point… you have to meet Him for yourself.

A real relationship cannot be transferred.

It has to be formed

.

Thank you for reading. Writing these reflections is personal to me, so if this spoke to you, feel free to pass it along.

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We have different names for it depending on where we are.

In recovery circles, it’s called relapse.
In relationships, it’s going back to your ex.
In therapy, it’s a pattern.

But in faith?

We just call it… falling again.

And if you’ve been following along, you know I’ve been doing a lot of introspection lately.

Noticing where I fall short, where I keep going wrong and where things don’t quite align.

And I thought I was getting somewhere, I found myself going back.

Back to habits I thought I had let go of and to sins I asked to be free from.

And if I’m honest…

It hurts.

Not just because of the action itself,
but because I know better now.

And still…

I go back.

There’s a specific kind of disappointment that comes with that.

The kind that makes you question yourself.

Will I ever actually get this right?
Will I ever really change?

And I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.

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Keeping you in Cycles

Last night, lying in bed thinking about all of this, I remembered the song
Cycles.

There’s a line in it that stays with you:

“The devil learns from your mistakes…”

And for a long time, I believed that was the whole story, that maybe the reason I keep going back is because I’m being outplayed.

Outmaneuvered.
Studied.
Trapped.

The Strategy You Didn’t See Coming

Because here’s what we often assume:

That the enemy has to be constantly present, constantly interfering, and constantly pushing.

But that’s not how this works.

He studies your patterns.
Your triggers.
Your rhythms.

And then he strategically places his traps and steps back.

Because he doesn’t need to follow you everywhere…

If he already knows where you’ll go.

That’s what makes cycles so effective.

They don’t always require pressure.

Just predictability.

The Question That Stings

So now I have to ask something more honest.

Not:

Why does this keep happening to me?

But:

Why do I keep going back?

Is it because I don’t recognise my triggers?

Or because I do… and ignore them?

Is it because I’m unaware of the pattern?

Or because breaking it would require more from me than I’m ready to give?

Because if I’m honest… sometimes it’s not confusion it’s the craving of something that has been in your life for so long.

That action that feels almost natural.

That short moment of relief.
That familiar escape.
That thing my body already knows how to reach for
when everything else feels too heavy.

And this is the part that’s uncomfortable to admit:

Sometimes the sin is not just a mistake.

It’s a choice I return to.

And at some point, I have to admit something even harder.

The devil may know my patterns…

but I’m the one who keeps agreeing with them.

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The Trap vs The Throne

Here’s the difference between the enemy’s strategy and God’s response.

The enemy wants you to stay in the cycle to believe you’ve fallen too many times.
That you’ve failed too consistently and are too far gone to come back again.

So you stay down.

You delay returning.
You sit in the shame longer than necessary.

But God?

God is not counting.

He is waiting.

Because this relationship did not start with you and you cannot give up on a relationship you did not initiate.

God is the One who reached first.
The One who keeps reaching.
The One whose hand is still extended, even now.

His grace is not something you earn by finally getting it right and His love is not something you lose by getting it wrong too many times.

Somewhere along the way, we start believing that if we fail enough…
He will stop showing up, much like in the relationships around us.

That eventually, He will get tired of us.

But His love does not operate like that.

It is not conditional, reactive and it is not keeping score.

It is steady.
It is consistent.
It is still there.

And maybe this is something we overlook: The fact that you keep getting back up…matters.

Not as proof that you are doing everything right, but as evidence that you are not alone.

Because left to yourself, you would stay down.

The conviction.
The discomfort.
The pull to return.

That is not guilt.

That is the Holy Spirit.

Still nudging.
Still calling.
Still drawing you back.

And that changes the perspective completely.

Because maybe the goal is not just to stop falling.

Maybe it is to recognise the voice that keeps calling you back…and respond to it faster.

The One-Line Truth

You don’t just fall into sin.

You return to it.

And the enemy keeps you there by convincing you
that you’re too far gone to come back.

But God keeps calling you back
because you were never too far to begin with.

“If my people… will humble themselves and turn…”
2 Chronicles 7:14

So maybe the goal is not perfection.

Maybe it’s this:

Quicker returns.

And maybe this is the part I keep forgetting:

I cannot do this on my own.

Not by trying harder. Not by being more disciplined. Not by “getting it right” this time.

Because every time I rely on myself, I end up back in the same place.

Which is why surrender is not a one-time decision.

It is daily.

Letting go of control. Dying to what feels easier. Choosing God over what my flesh already knows how to run to.

Again. And again. And again.

Until the pattern of running to Him becomes stronger than the pattern of running back.

Because you are not stuck because you fall.

You are stuck because you stay down.

So get back up.

“Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord,”

‭‭Acts‬ ‭3‬:‭19‬ ‭NIV‬‬

If this piece sat with you, stirred something, or put words to what you’ve been feeling… you can support my writing here

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But the more I reread what I have been writing lately, the more something uncomfortable keeps surfacing.

I think I have control issues.

Not loud, obvious ones.

Quiet ones.

The kind that look like discipline.
Like responsibility.
Like “doing your best.”

But underneath all of that…

it’s control.

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God has been nudging me to let go.

Not in dramatic ways. Just small, consistent prompts. Like He keeps pointing at things I am holding onto and asking,

“Why are you gripping this so tightly?”

And I don’t always have an answer. Only a feeling… that if I let go, something might fall apart.

And that’s where the question shifts.

Not:

Do I have control issues?

But:

Why do I need control in the first place?

Because control is never random.

It’s learned.

Built slowly, over time, usually in response to something.

Disappointment.
Uncertainty.
Feeling unseen.
Feeling like things didn’t go the way they were “supposed” to.

And somewhere along the way, you make a quiet decision:

Next time, I’ll make sure it works.

For me, I think it started earlier than I realised. I remember Colossians 3:23–24 being taught to me as a child:

Colossians 3:23-24

²³ Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, ²⁴ since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord…”

And somehow…

that verse stayed with me, but not in the way it was meant to.

I turned it into pressure.

Into performance.

Into a quiet equation:

If I work hard enough,
if I give everything,
if I do my absolute best…then God will reward me.

So I did.

I studied hard.
Worked hard.
Pushed myself constantly.

I gave everything I had, because I thought that’s what faithfulness looked like.

I remember my final year of high school.

I barely slept.

Barely rested.

My parents would sneak into my room just to switch off my alarms because they could see I wasn’t taking care of myself. I wasn’t sleeping.

But I kept going, because in my mind, I was doing the right thing.

I was doing it “for God.”

And when the results came… they weren’t what I expected or what I felt I deserved, and I was completely broken.

Not just disappointed.

Confused.

Because in my mind, I had held up my side of the deal.

I had worked hard.

So why didn’t God come through?

But looking back now…

I see something I didn’t see then.

I was working hard.

But I was working alone.

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That quiet thought:

“I can do it.”

That was the problem. There was no surrender in it.

No dependence.

Just effort.

Just control.

And I’ve seen that pattern repeat itself.

Over and over again.

Thinking that if I apply myself fully,
if I push hard enough,
if I do everything right…

then I will earn God’s favour.

And every time that expectation wasn’t met… it led to disappointment.

But here’s what’s interesting. The moments where things actually shifted… were the moments I had no control left.

I remember my final semester in university.

My design dissertation had crashed two weeks before final presentation and defense.

I was scrambling.

Exhausted.

Panicking.

I hadn’t slept.

That morning, I was on the phone with my grandmother, crying.

Convinced I had failed. Ready to give up and not go, because i thought i knew the outcome.

And she said something simple:

“Whether you’ve failed or not, you will show up.”

Then she prayed and she surrendered it to God.

And that was the moment I let go.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I had nothing left to hold onto.

Later, during my defense, something unexpected happened.

A lecturer I was convinced didn’t like me… one who never really understood my design perspective and approach, defended my work.

Affirmed it.

Spoke on my behalf.

Work that I knew, personally, was not my best.

And the only way I can explain it is this:

God stepped in.

Not when I was in control.

But when I had surrendered.

And that’s what is unsettling me now.

Because I am starting to see the pattern clearly.

Maybe my need for control isn’t about strength.

Maybe it’s about fear.

Fear of things not working out.
Fear of being exposed.
Fear of making the wrong decision.
Fear of trusting… and being disappointed.

And now I see the tension.

Because the more I say I want to go deeper with God…

the more He asks me to release control.

What I want is:

To know Him more.
To trust Him more.
To walk closely with Him.

But what that actually requires is:

Letting go.
Surrendering.
Trusting without having all the answers.

And if I’m honest…

that feels like losing something.

Because control feels like safety.

Even when it exhausts me.
Even when it limits me.

It still feels safer than the unknown.

So now I’m sitting with a more honest question:

What am I actually afraid will happen if I let go?

Will things fall apart?
Will I lose direction?
Will I fail?
Will I be disappointed again?

Or maybe the deeper fear is this:

That I will no longer be the one deciding how my life unfolds.

And maybe that’s exactly the point.

Because every time God invites me deeper…

He’s not just offering more of Himself.

He’s asking for more of me.

And maybe this is where something is starting to make sense.

Because in design, we are taught that every element must serve a purpose. If you over-engineer a layout, it becomes cluttered. If you overwork a canvas, it loses its soul.

And I think I have been doing that with my life.

Treating it like something I can perfect if I just apply enough pressure. Enough effort. Enough control.

But growth, real growth, does not come from pressure.

It comes from space.

White space.

The kind that feels uncomfortable at first because nothing is being forced. Nothing is being managed. Nothing is being tightly held together.

And maybe that is what God has been asking of me.

Not more effort.

Not better performance.

But room.

Because the more I think about it, the more I realise something uncomfortable.

My need for control was never just about discipline or excellence.

It was protection.

A quiet way of trying to avoid disappointment.
Trying to manage outcomes.
Trying to make sure things go the way I think they should.

But that same control…

might be the very thing keeping me from experiencing God fully.

Because if my hands are full of trying to hold everything together,

how do I receive anything from Him?

And maybe that is what surrender actually is.

Not giving up.

But letting go of my right to decide how everything should turn out.

Not believing that God will do exactly what I want…

but trusting that He is still good, even when He doesn’t.

And maybe the reason I feel stuck is not because God is distant.

But because I have been holding on too tightly to make room for Him to move.

If you’re in this space too, learning to let go and trust God beyond what you can control… you’re not alone.

What is one thing you’ve been ‘gripping’ lately that you know, deep down, God is asking you to set down?

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Lately, I have been feeling a quiet tension slowly pulling know God more deeply.

A pull that i cannot ignore.

Not just to know about Him.
But to understand Him.
To experience Him in a way that feels real, lived and close.

And if I’m honest, I don’t fully know where to begin.

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I have experienced God before. I have seen Him move, felt His presence, and had moments that felt undeniable. But somehow, that hasn’t settled the hunger.

If anything, it has made it stronger.

And that is the part that confuses me.

Because I thought experience would lead to clarity.
I thought the more I encountered God, the more I would understand Him.

But instead, I feel like I want more… and don’t know what “more” even looks like.

It feels like being invited into something deeper, without being given a clear map.

And I don’t know if the problem is that I don’t understand…
or that I am hesitating.

Because if I am honest, there is a part of me that is not just confused.

It is cautious.

Careful.

Even resistant.

Recently, I have not been able to shake a particular moment in Scripture. A conversation between God and Moses that keeps returning to me.

In Exodus 33, Moses makes a bold request:

“Now show me your glory.”

It’s an interesting ask. Because this is not a man who has never experienced God.

Moses had already seen miracles, in Egypt and in the wilderness.
He had watched God part the Red Sea, The cloud of fire, Manna fall from heaven and even she small or unnoticeable ones where their clothes and shoes didn’t wear out.
He had spoken with Him directly.

And yet, he still wanted more.

More of His presence.
More understanding.
More intimacy.

There is something about that hunger that feels familiar.

Because I have found myself in that same place. A place where I have experienced God before, but still feel like I don’t fully know Him.
A place where I want more, but I cannot quite define what “more” even looks like.

And maybe that is what relationship with God does.

It deepens your hunger instead of satisfying it.

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But what unsettles me is not just his request.

It is God’s response.

God did not reject Moses’ request, but He also did not answer it the way Moses expected.

Instead, He said:

“There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock…
I will cover you with my hand…
then you will see my back, but my face must not be seen.”

God allowed Moses to experience His glory, but in a different way

And I have been sitting with that.

Because maybe my understanding of what it means to “know God” is limited.

Maybe I have been expecting something specific.
Something dramatic.
Something clear.

Something I can understand and control.

But what if intimacy with God does not look like that?

“I fed you with milk, not solid food; for you were not yet able to receive it. Even now you are still not ready.”

1 Corinthians 3:2

That verse has been sitting heavily with me.

Because it raises a question I have been avoiding:

Am I actually ready for what I am asking for?

Or have I quietly been telling myself I am not?

Not because I lack desire…

But because I am afraid.

Afraid of the unknown.
Afraid of the weight.
Afraid of what deeper intimacy might require of me.

Because if I am honest…

this does not just feel like confusion anymore.

It feels like hesitation.

I had a conversation earlier this week that confirmed something I have been sensing for a while.

That God is inviting me into a new season.
A deeper way of knowing Him.

And if I am honest…it is a place I have been avoiding, because it requires something I have not fully wanted to give.

Control.

And this is where something started to shift for me.

Because maybe the issue is not that God is distant.

Maybe it is that I am expecting Him to meet me in a way that that does not require me to change.

Or worse…

in a way that allows me to stay where I am.

Because deeper intimacy with God is not just about experiencing more of Him.

It requires surrender, trust, letting go of control, and I think that is where my hesitation really is.

Not in my desire for God…

But in what that desire might cost me.

My Realisation

Moses asked to see God’s glory.

God answered him…but in a way he could carry.

Not in fullness.

But in measure.

Not in exposure.

But in protection.

And that changes how I see my own prayers, because maybe God is not withholding from me.

Maybe He is answering me in a way I can sustain.

Maybe He is not giving me the full picture…because He is building the capacity to hold it.

So maybe my confusion is not actually confusion.

Maybe it is resistance.

Maybe I do not feel stuck because I do not know where to begin…

But because I sense where He is leading me,
and I am not fully ready to go there.

And that changes the question completely.

It is no longer:

“God, where do I start?”

It becomes:

“God… am I willing to follow where You are already leading me?”

Thank you for reading. Writing these reflections is personal to me, so if this spoke to you, feel free to comment and pass it along.

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Not because they are bad.
But because, in normal circumstances, they were never supposed to happen.

The past six months have felt… unreal.

I’ve received opportunities I could have only dreamed of.
And even then, they feel like the kind of dreams you don’t say out loud because they sound too big.

I’ve found myself in spaces I once imagined from a distance.
Spaces I hoped for, but never fully believed I would step into.

And now I’m here.

And if I’m honest… I feel overwhelmed.

Because with the opportunities came responsibility.
With the doors came expectations.
And I am still trying to figure out how to carry all of it.

I know I want more.

I want to grow.
I want to move beyond where I am right now.
I want to do something meaningful with what I’ve been given.

But at the same time…

I feel tired.

And that part is confusing.

Because this is what I prayed for.

I remember saying at the beginning of the year that I didn’t want to just survive anymore.
I wanted to thrive.

And I truly believe I am stepping into that.

But no one really talks about this part.

The part where answered prayers don’t feel peaceful.
They feel heavy.

The part where growth stretches you faster than you can adjust.
The part where you are grateful… but also exhausted.

So now I find myself asking a different kind of question.

Not “Why is this happening?”
But “Can I handle this?”

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And maybe that question is not about capability.

Maybe it’s about capacity.

Because what if the very thing I prayed for requires a version of me I am still becoming?

What if the tiredness is not a sign that something is wrong…

But a sign that I am growing into something bigger than what I was used to?

I don’t have a neat conclusion yet.

Just this quiet hope:

That God didn’t just open these doors…

But that He is also building me into someone who can walk through them without breaking.

Because right now?

I’m grateful.

I’m overwhelmed.

And I’m tired.

The more I learn about God, the more I realise that knowledge is not just enlightening. It is demanding, because once you know, you cannot unknow.

James 4:17 says:

“Therefore, to him who knows to do good and does not do it, to him it is sin.”

That verse does not just inform you, it confronts you. At some point in your spiritual walk, you realise that growth is not just about intimacy. It is also about responsibility.

You begin to understand more.
You discern more.
You see more clearly.

And with that clarity comes weight.

So the question becomes unavoidable:

Do I actually want that responsibility?

If I am honest, the hesitation is not just about readiness. It is about fear and not fear of God, but fear of what fully choosing Him might require of me.

Because if I fully follow Him, I risk losing something.

Comfort.

Control.

I risk losing the comfort of doing just enough to feel like I am still close to Him.

The comfort of praying, but without depth.
Reading, but without reflection.
Knowing what is right, but delaying obedience.

I risk losing control.

The ability to decide when to obey and when to wait.
The ability to follow God only when it makes sense to me.
The ability to stay in spaces that feel safe, even when I know I am being called out of them.

And maybe that is what lukewarmness really is.

Not confusion.

Not lack of knowledge.

But a quiet attempt to stay safe.

There is a kind of comfort in not fully surrendering. A space where you are not completely distant from God, but not fully committed either, where you still believe, still show up, still identify as faithful, but beneath that, something is slightly misaligned.

Francis Chan describes this kind of faith as lukewarm.

“Lukewarm people don’t really want to be saved from their sin; they want only to be saved from the penalty of their sin.”

That statement is uncomfortable because it exposes something deeper than behaviour.

It exposes desire.

Lukewarmness is not just inconsistency.

It is misaligned love, wanting God, but not fully wanting His ways.

It is wanting the safety He offers, but not the surrender He requires.

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At its core, sin reveals something uncomfortable, a lack of trust. A quiet suspicion that what God asks of me might cost more than it gives and that His boundaries might limit me instead of protect me.

So I hesitate.

I hold back.

I stay partially committed.

And the shift into lukewarmness is rarely dramatic.

It is subtle.

Almost unnoticeable.

Like falling asleep.

Your senses slowly dull.

Your urgency fades.

Even your hunger softens.

And without realising it, you become disconnected from the very life you once pursued and into a version of faith that feels easier to maintain.

We often say we do not feel God’s presence, but how much of that distance is shaped by what we are no longer pursuing? Not out of perfection, but out of intention.

The things we learned early on still matter.

Prayer.
Scripture.
Community.
Seeking God daily.

Not as performance, but as posture.

If I am honest, my lukewarmness has not looked like walking away from God. It has looked like doing the bare minimum, just enough to feel connected, but not enough to be transformed.

At some point, the question becomes unavoidable:

Is my faith actually different?

Or am I simply maintaining the appearance of devotion?

Am I pursuing Christ out of love?

Or am I motivated by the fear of consequences?

Maybe the reason I remain in this space is not because I do not love God, but because I do not fully trust Him enough to let go of control. Because there is no middle ground here, full surrender means I no longer get to decide the terms.

It means obedience even when it is inconvenient, trust even when it is unclear.
Movement even when it is uncomfortable.

And that is where it becomes real.

There is no true middle ground here.

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Revelation 3 describes a faith that is neither hot nor cold and the warning is clear.

Lukewarmness is not neutral, it is rejection disguised as comfort. We like to believe we can remain in between.

Partially surrendered.
Partially committed.
Partially obedient.

But that space does not truly exist.

Christ is either Lord of all, or He is not Lord at all.

So maybe the real question is not:

“Am I doing enough?”

Maybe it is:

What am I still trying to control?

What comfort am I not willing to release?

What obedience am I quietly avoiding?

Because the issue may not be that I do not know what God is asking of me.

The issue may be that I do, and I am still deciding if I am willing to follow.

And maybe that is the most honest place to start.

The past year was difficult for me spiritually. It felt like God was shaping me in ways that required me to trust Him more deeply than I had before.

That season was intense.

There were many moments filled with prayer, worship, and crying out to Him because I felt alone, uncertain, and desperate for direction. Seeking God felt urgent. Almost like survival.

But now something has shifted.

That season seems to have ended, or at least changed, and the quiet that followed has left me in unfamiliar territory. The silence feels strange, almost like something is growing in it.

I feel like I have reached a place with God where I no longer feel the need to cry and beg in the same way. I have a deeper understanding of how we work together.

And yet that shift has left me slightly disoriented.

I became so used to those intense moments of seeking Him that now I sometimes struggle with the quieter form of being with Him. Instead of crying out, I am learning how to simply sit in His presence.

I suspect many people experience this moment in their faith, the strange transition between the season where you desperately need God and the season where you must learn how to simply live with Him.

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This week I came across a Substack writer named Fiyin Olubiyi, who writes a newsletter called The Glass Cave. She has been writing about devotion, and something she said stayed with me.

She wrote:

“Devotion is not about impressing God with consistency. It is about learning to live in Him so deeply that you no longer know how to function without Him.”

She then referenced Jesus’ words in John 15:

“Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me.”

The Glass Cave

God Doesn't Want Your 30 Minutes Devotion.

You probably know what it looks like. Your Bible is open. Your timer is set. Maybe it’s early and the house is quiet, or maybe it’s squeezed in between getting ready and rushing out…

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5 months ago · 875 likes · 106 comments · Fiyin Olubiyi

What struck me most was her explanation of the word abide.

To abide means to remain.
To stay.
To continue.

It carries the sense of something permanent, not something you visit and then leave.

She compared it to a fish in water.

Water is not an activity for the fish.
It is the environment where its whole life unfolds.

Reading that made me realise that maybe my understanding of devotion has been incomplete.

Growing up, devotion meant something very specific. It was the structured time we set aside every morning and evening for prayer, worship, and scripture reading. It was something we did faithfully every day.

As I grew older, that structure stayed with me.

Even now, living on my own, I sometimes feel like I have neglected my relationship with God if I do not sit down and read scripture or worship in a structured way.

But lately something about that has felt… forced.

Almost like I am showing up at God’s doorstep and saying, “Okay, I’m here now. Let’s spend time together.”

And the more I reflect on it, the more I realise that devotion might be something deeper than a scheduled moment.

If abiding means remaining, then devotion is not only expressed in intense moments of prayer or long worship sessions.

Those moments are beautiful, but they cannot sustain the relationship on their own.

Real devotion is built in the small things.

The quiet conversations with God throughout the day.
The small moments of gratitude.
The choices we make when no one is watching.
The way we carry His presence into ordinary life.

Fiyin Olubiyi describes devotion this way:

“A lifelong abiding in God, expressed through intentional investments of time made in reverence to Him, with awareness of who He has made you, for the purpose of His glory through your transformation.”

That definition reframed something for me.

We often believe the most dramatic expressions of faith are the truest signs of devotion. A powerful prayer. A long worship session. An emotional encounter with God.

But maybe those moments are not the foundation.

Maybe they are simply highlights.

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True devotion is sustained through the quieter rhythms of abiding. The small, intentional ways we remain connected to God as we move through everyday life.

And maybe spiritual maturity looks less like constantly crying out to God and more like learning how to live with Him.

Not visiting Him.

But abiding in Him

When I think about the past season, I realise something important.

That difficult season trained me to depend on God.

When everything felt uncertain, prayer became instinctive. Crying out to Him was natural because I knew I needed Him. That dependence was built through pressure.

But now that the crisis has passed, I sense that something else is happening.

It almost feels like God is inviting me into a different kind of relationship. One that is less about desperation and more about walking with Him.

And if I am honest, I do not fully understand what that looks like yet.

For a long time my relationship with God was shaped by intense moments of seeking Him. Those moments were powerful and meaningful, but they were also tied to seasons when I felt lost, afraid, or overwhelmed.

Now things feel quieter.

Not empty, just quieter.

And I am beginning to realise that maybe this is what abiding starts to look like.

For me right now, abiding looks small and ordinary.

It looks like the quiet moments of reading and reflection that I find through other writers. Sometimes someone else’s words help me see something about God or about myself that I had not noticed before.

It looks like the music I play throughout the day. The worship songs on my Spotify playlist have become a kind of background conversation with God. When they are playing, something about my space feels settled, like home.

It also looks like the small, almost silly conversations I have with God during the day. The moments when I am unsure about something and I just say it out loud to Him.

They are not dramatic prayers.

They are simple and honest.

But maybe that is part of what abiding is.

Not always crying out from desperation, but learning how to include God in the ordinary flow of life.

Maybe the previous season taught me how to depend on Him.

And this season is teaching me how to walk with Him.

I may not fully understand it yet.

But I think I am slowly learning that devotion is not only found in the intense moments of seeking God.

Sometimes it is found in the quiet, steady decision to remain with Him.

Sometimes we force ourselves into lives that make us miserable because we are afraid to obey the small things God is asking of us.

I have noticed this in my own life more than once.

There are moments when I sense a quiet nudge to do something small, have that conversation, record that video, write that idea down., post the product or hare the work.

And yet I hesitate.

Not because the task is impossible, but because it feels exposing, embarrassing, even.

Sometimes I delay those small acts of obedience because they make me visible in ways I am not always comfortable with..

But what if that embarrassment is not a warning?

What if it is preparation?

What if that uncomfortable step is what makes you visible to the person who has been looking for exactly what you carry?

What if obedience is the very thing that builds your capacity?

Borrow the Jars

One thing I keep wondering about in the story of the widow in 2 Kings 4 is what it must have felt like for her to go around asking her neighbors for empty jars.

Elisha did not explain the miracle. He did not tell her the oil would multiply. He did not outline the full plan. He simply said:

Go borrow empty jars.
And not just a few, many.

Imagine that moment.

I often pause when I read this part of the story and imagine what that must have looked like.

Your husband has died, your household is drowning in debt, and children are about to be taken as payment.

Now you must go door to door asking people for empty containers with no explanation for why.

It must have felt embarrassing, felt strange and it probably did not make logical sense.

But she went anyway.

And that detail matters, because sometimes obedience looks like preparation for something you cannot yet see.

Obedience Before Understanding

I often find myself wanting clarity before obedience.

I want to know the full plan, the outcome explained and the assurance that the step we are taking will work. However God does not always operate that way. Sometimes He gives instructions that seem small, uncomfortable, or even unnecessary.

Send the message.
Start the project.
Record the video.
Write the idea.
Share the thing you created.

And if I am honest, many of the times I hesitate are not because I doubt God, but because I feel exposed. So I delay, but what if that small instruction is not the miracle itself?

James 2:17 “Faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.”

Praying alone is not always enough. Sometimes faith looks like taking the uncomfortable step.

What if that step is simply the container?

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Capacity Often Looks Like Obedience

In the widow’s story, the oil did not stop because God stopped providing. It stopped because there were no more jars. The miracle expanded exactly as far as her preparation allowed.

Which raises a question that feels uncomfortable but honest:

Do I sometimes pray for things I do not yet have the capacity to hold?

We ask for influence.
We ask for provision.
We ask for opportunity.

But where would it go if it arrived today? Capacity is the infrastructure that allows a blessing to stay.

And sometimes God builds that infrastructure through instructions that seem small, strange, or embarrassing.

Borrow the jars.
Start the thing.
Take the step.

Not because the step is the miracle, but because the step creates room for it.

The Quiet Work of Capacity

Building capacity rarely feels dramatic.

It looks like discipline.
Consistency.
Order.
Trust.

Sometimes it looks like doing something small that exposes you and maybe the embarrassment you feel is not a signal to stop. Maybe it is evidence that you are stretching into something new.

The widow had no idea what those jars would become. She only knew she was told to gather them, and when the oil finally flowed, it flowed into the space her obedience had created.

Sometimes the reason your prayer takes forever to be answered is because you have no capacity and God is building it in you, unbeknownst to you.

2 Kings 4:6–7 “When the vessels were full, she said to her son, ‘Bring me another vessel.’ And he said to her, ‘There is not another.’ Then the oil stopped flowing.”

The oil stopped not because God stopped, but because the containers stopped. The miracle expanded exactly to the size of her preparation.

Maybe that small thing that you are being nudged to do is what you need to build capacity or is the building steps to capacity.

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A Question Worth Sitting With

Maybe the real question is not:

“Why hasn’t God answered my prayer yet?”

Maybe the question is:

“What jars am I being asked to gather?”

Because sometimes the miracle is waiting for the containers.

And sometimes the thing that feels confusing, small, or even embarrassing…

is exactly how God is building your capacity.

“God laughs when we plan.”

We say it so casually. But what makes us believe that? Is it because we assume our plans are naive?
Too small?
Too human?

Or is it because, most of the time, we plan without even asking what God thinks. We plan with tunnel vision,
what we want,
what we think is realistic,
what we believe is “enough” for us.

But here is the harder question:

Do we actually know what we need? Do we know what is enough for us? Or have we settled for what feels attainable?

Self-Limiting or Self-Aware?

Proverbs 16:9 says, “In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.”

Sometimes I wonder if the phrase isn’t about God mocking us. Maybe it is about contrast.

We plan from exposure. God moves from omniscience. We plan from memory and fear. God moves from eternity. We call something “impossible” because we have not seen it. God calls it Tuesday.

Isaiah 55:8–9 – “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.

So when people say, “God laughs when we plan,” maybe it isn’t ridicule.

Maybe it is mercy.

Maybe it is the gentle amusement of a Father watching His child stress over something He already solved.

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What Forms What We Think Is Realistic?

Before we ask whether God laughs at our plans, maybe we should ask something deeper:

Who taught us what is realistic?

Because “realistic” is rarely objective. It feels logical, responsible, mature, but most of the time, realistic is just familiar. We plan according to what we have seen.

If you’ve only seen survival, you will plan for stability. If you’ve only seen struggle, you will plan for maintenance. If you’ve only seen conditional love, you will plan for tolerable affection.

Exposure becomes expectation. Expectation becomes realism. And realism quietly becomes a ceiling.

Environment plays its part too.

If your world has been small, your plans will be measured. If you’ve lived around fear, you will call caution wisdom. If you’ve experienced repeated disappointment, you will rename self-protection as maturity. Sometimes what we call realistic is simply fear in a respectable outfit.

We say: “I’m just being practical.” But are we being practical? Or are we protecting ourselves from the discomfort of hoping for more?

Trauma shrinks imagination. Comparison narrows possibility. Culture assigns limits. And over time, we internalize those boundaries so deeply that we mistake them for truth.

We stop asking, “Is this possible?” And start declaring, “That’s unrealistic.” But unrealistic according to who?

Our past?
Our environment?
Our exposure?
Our wounds?

Or God?

Maybe when we say “God laughs when we plan,” it’s because He sees the gap. The gap between what we think is reasonable and what is actually available. The gap between what we’ve normalized and what is possible. Because we plan from memory.

God moves from eternity. We plan from what we’ve seen. God acts from what we cannot yet imagine. So maybe the real question isn’t whether God laughs.

Maybe it’s this:

Have we mistaken familiarity for faithfulness?
Have we confused limitation with wisdom?
Have we decided what is realistic without ever asking what is possible?

Matthew 17:20 – “Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for yo

And if mountains can move…

Why do we keep planning around them?

Do We Even Know What’s Possible?

Another uncomfortable layer:

Are we exposed enough to dream properly?

If your environment has only shown you survival, you will plan for survival. If you’ve only seen lack, you will plan for maintenance. If you’ve only experienced conditional love, you will plan for crumbs.

But what if the limitation isn’t God interrupting our plans? What if the limitation is our imagination? Are we self-limiting because we don’t love ourselves enough to want more? Do we actually believe we deserve more? Do we believe the mountain is movable, or do we just quote the scripture?

Because saying “faith moves mountains” is easy. Planning as if mountains can move is different.

The Real Tension

Maybe God “laughs” because we think too small. Not because we are foolish. But because we underestimate what is available.

We ask for security when abundance is possible. We ask for acceptance when transformation is possible. We ask for manageable when miraculous is possible. And sometimes we don’t even ask. We just plan. As if we know the full picture. As if our minds are not shaped by fear, trauma, comparison, and culture. As if what we can currently see is the limit of what can be.

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So What Is the Real Question?

Maybe it isn’t:

“Why does God laugh?”

Maybe it’s:

Do I believe the impossible is possible?

Do I believe the mountain is movable? Or have I already decided how my story ends? Do I plan from faith or from fear? Because planning isn’t the problem.

Tunnel vision is.

And maybe the invitation isn’t to stop planning. Maybe it’s to plan with surrender. To plan while leaving space for expansion.

To dream while admitting,
“I don’t actually know what’s possible.”

And that might be the beginning of real faith.

Psalm 37:5 – “Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him and he will act.”

Maybe that’s the balance.

We are allowed to plan.

But we are not meant to plan as if we are the highest authority in our own lives.

Maybe God doesn’t laugh because we plan.

Maybe He smiles because we think the draft is final.

Because we think the closed door is the end.
Because we think the mountain is permanent.
Because we think our current exposure is the limit of what exists.

And maybe faith is not about abandoning planning.

Maybe it’s about planning with humility.

Planning while knowing, my vision is partial, my imagination is shaped, my understanding is small.

And God’s isn’t.

So I will plan, but I will leave room, room for expansion, room for interruption, room for a version of my life that is bigger than what feels realistic.

Because maybe what feels unrealistic to me…

Is just unimagined.

A woman who performs humility. Shrinks her needs. Distances herself from other women. Brands herself as low maintenance. Not like the others. Easy to love.

The phrase gained traction across platforms like Twitter and TikTok, evolving from niche internet slang into a cultural critique. At its core, a pick me is someone negotiating her worth for acceptance.

It is performance disguised as preference. And if we are honest, many of us have been her. Not because we are shallow. But because we are afraid love is limited.

And if I am honest, I have been her.

Not loudly. Not theatrically. But subtly.

Here is where it gets uncomfortable.

I have caught myself doing it in subtle ways. Softening opinions. Downplaying ambition. Laughing at things that did not feel funny. All in the quiet hope of being chosen.

Not even always by a man.

Sometimes by a room.

Sometimes by a church.

Sometimes by an idea of who I thought I should be..

Watching It Play Out on Screen

While watching Inimba on Mzansi Magic, I found myself thinking about Thomeka.

She is, in many ways, the ultimate pick me.

She overextends herself.
She tolerates mistreatment.
She centers men even when it costs her dignity.
She stays where she is not protected.

And then she ends up hurt. Again. At first, it is easy to judge her. To say she should know better. To say she deserves better. But the more we discussed her character, the more uncomfortable the realization became:

Thumeka’s behavior is not random. It is theological. Because what you believe about love determines what you tolerate. If she truly believed, deeply believed,

that God loved her and desired good for her, would she keep shrinking herself to secure affection? Would she keep clinging to situations that humiliate her?

Or would she walk away, trusting that what is meant for her would not require her to beg?

That question did not stay on the screen.

It followed me home.

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The Theology of Being Chosen

Here’s where I want to press gently and where my faith complicates things..

Scripture says in Jeremiah 1:5, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you.”
And in Ephesians 1:4, that we were chosen before the foundation of the world.

Pause there.

Before you achieved.
Before you were desirable.
Before you were impressive.
Before anyone clapped for you.

Chosen.

Not auditioned.
Not ranked.
Not compared.
Not measured against the woman next to you.

Chosen in the quiet eternity before your personality even existed. In Ephesians 1:4, we are told we were chosen in Him before the foundation of the world.

Chosen.

Not auditioned. Not compared. Not ranked.

Chosen. Chosen in the quiet eternity before your personality even existed. That means your selection was not reactionary. It was intentional. It was not based on how well you would perform. It preceded your performance entirely.

So here is the tension:

If I truly believe I was chosen before I performed, why do I still perform? Why do I still soften myself to be digestible? Why do I still compete subtly? Why do I still feel the urge to prove I am worth staying for?

A pick me negotiates for selection. She bargains. She edits. She markets.

A believer, in doctrine, is already selected.

But here is the uncomfortable truth:

Theology does not automatically dissolve insecurity. You can affirm predestination and still fear abandonment. You can quote scripture and still crave validation. You can intellectually accept that you were chosen before time and emotionally behave as if you are replaceable. Knowing you are chosen and feeling chosen are not the same thing.

And that gap, between what you confess and what you embody, is where performance quietly survives.

A pick me negotiates for selection. A believer rests in being selected already.

What a Pick Me Is Really After

At its core, the pick me spirit is not about men. It is about insecurity. It is about scarcity. It is about the quiet fear that love is competitive. That if I do not adjust myself, someone else will be preferred.

But the Gospel dismantles scarcity. In 1 John 4:19, we are told, “We love because He first loved us.”

God’s love is not reactive.

It is initiating. It does not respond to performance. It precedes it. If you truly believe you are fully known and still fully loved, what exactly are you competing for?

Yet many of us still behave as if love must be earned. Which means the issue is not information. It is internalization. We can know we are chosen and still feel replaceable. We can recite scripture and still shrink.

That gap between doctrine and embodiment is where insecurity survives. You can believe Ephesians 1:4 is true and still feel anxious in relationships. You can affirm Jeremiah 1:5 and still shrink in a room. Doctrine informs identity, but emotional security is formed through experience, attachment, repetition, and internalization.

When God’s Love Is Not Enough

Here is the uncomfortable part.

There are moments when I say, “God is enough,” and still negotiate myself elsewhere.

I pray, yet I perform.
I worship, yet I shrink.

Sometimes we intellectually believe God loves us, but emotionally we are still begging to be picked elsewhere. We pray, yet we still perform. We worship, yet we still shrink. We say “God is enough,” yet we negotiate our standards to be chosen by someone else.

That contradiction reveals something. Maybe we know of God’s love. But we have not internalized it. Because once love is internalized, desperation dissolves.

When you know you are chosen by the Creator of the universe, the need to contort yourself to be chosen by a man, a friend group, or an audience begins to feel… beneath you. Not in pride. But in security.

God’s Love Is Not Competitive

God’s love is not threatened by other women.

It is not anxious.

It is not comparative.

It does not say, “Be less so someone can want you.” It says, “I formed you intentionally.”

A pick me posture says:

“I’ll be small if that makes me easier to love.”

The Gospel says:

“You are already loved at full size.”

When you understand that the One who created galaxies also chose you, deliberately, you stop auditioning. You stop marketing yourself. You stop trying to be the exception. You stop shrinking to be digestible. You become anchored.

So, Can a Christian Be a Pick Me?

Yes.

But only when she has forgotten. Forgotten that she was chosen before she performed. Forgotten that love is not scarce. Forgotten that she belongs to God before she belongs to anyone else. Understanding God’s love does not make you arrogant.

It makes you steady.

And steady women are not begging to be picked. They already are.

We did not just imagine God.

We domesticated Him.

Somewhere along the way, we reduced the infinite to something emotionally familiar. Not physically human, but psychologically predictable. We gave Him our moods. Our disappointments. Our impatience. Our need for control.

And then we called that faith. And we rarely question it.

We speak of Him as disappointed, reactive, temperamental. We narrate Him as a strict father in the sky. Watching. Measuring. Approving. Withholding.

But rarely do we ask whether we are describing God or projecting ourselves.

The danger is that we believe the projection. When we personify God uncritically, faith shifts from relationship to performance. We stop seeking Him and start managing Him.

That shift is subtle. And devastating.

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Why Do We Personify God?

Because it’s easier.

Because predictability feels safer than transcendence.

It is easier to understand a disappointed parent than a holy, self-existent Being. Easier to imagine anger than incomprehensible righteousness. Easier to imagine punishment than mystery.

We were handed an image early:

A big, authoritative man in the sky. Watching. When we did well, He approved. When we failed, He withdrew. Obedience quietly fused with acceptance.

I once caught myself telling my niece, “God doesn’t like naughty girls.” The sentence felt harmless. Corrective. Even responsible. But later I wondered: Was I teaching her goodness? Or was I introducing her to a God whose love fluctuates?

Where did I learn that version of Him?

And why did it feel so natural?

Where Does This Idea Come From?

Part of it is cultural.

Part of it is religious tradition.

Part of it is art and language itself pushes us toward personification.

We say “He.”
We speak of God being “angry” or “pleased.”
We imagine Him seated somewhere above us.

But even the prophet reminds us: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” says the Lord. Isaiah 55:8

And still, we compress Him into our emotional logic.

Why?

Because if God thinks like me, I can predict Him. If He reacts like me, I can manage Him. If He behaves like a strict authority figure, I know how to perform.

Mystery requires surrender.

Performance requires strategy.

Most of us prefer strategy.

The Realization

At some point, an uncomfortable thought emerges:

Maybe I was not fearing God. Maybe I was fearing a projection. Maybe I was not running toward Him. Maybe I was performing for Him. That realization destabilizes everything.

Because once you see it, you cannot unsee it.

Faith begins to feel less like rule-keeping and more like excavation. You start digging beneath the inherited image. Beneath the cultural God. Beneath the parental God. Beneath the fear-based God.

And what remains is not clarity. It is mystery.

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How Do We Step Out of It?

We begin by noticing it.

You cannot change a lens you do not realize you are wearing. Awareness is the first act of repentance, not from sin in the dramatic sense, but from distortion. Once you see the projection, you can no longer pretend it is revelation.

Then we do the harder work of separation. God must be disentangled from the authority figures who first introduced Him to you. He is not your parent. Not your pastor. Not your culture. Not your fear. Those voices may have shaped your understanding, but they are not synonymous with His character. Untangling them feels disloyal at first, but it is often the beginning of spiritual maturity.

And finally, we must allow mystery. Faith shifts from certainty management to trust. It becomes less about predicting outcomes and more about surrendering control. That is where it tightens in the chest. Because “trust God” is the simplest instruction in Christianity, and trusting what you cannot control is the most demanding practice.

So What Now?

You cannot instantly unlearn decades of conditioning.

Your mind will still whisper:

“He must be disappointed.”
“He must be upset.”
“I need to fix this so He approves.”

Changing your image of God feels like betrayal. But maybe it is not betrayal. Maybe it is sanctification. Maybe growth in faith is not learning new information about God, but unlearning false familiarity.

The Ongoing Battle

The hardest part is not realizing you were wrong. The hardest part is refusing to return to the simpler, safer version of faith built on fear and approval, the version that keeps God small enough to manage, that allows you to measure your standing, that quietly teaches little girls that divine love rises and falls with behavior.

If God is truly infinite, then He cannot be contained within our emotional limitations, and if He cannot be contained, then faith will always demand surrender over control. It becomes less about reputation management and more about trust, less about projection and more about reverence.

And maybe, just maybe, the God we struggle to understand was never meant to fit inside our emotional limitations in the first place.