Writing the vision doesn’t mean I have everything figured out. It means I’m willing to trust God with what I’m still becoming. As this year comes to an end, I’m learning that clarity isn’t a prerequisite for obedience. Hope doesn’t have to be loud or certain to be faithful. Sometimes it’s as simple as putting pen to paper and saying, “Lord, this is what I’m trusting You with.”

Lately I haven’t felt God as loudly as I wish I could. Not gone, just quieter - like His voice slipped into a softer frequency. But even in that quiet, He keeps showing up in ways I can’t deny. And somehow people keep telling me they’re drawn to my faith, even on days I feel anything but holy. Maybe that’s the truth about this season: I don’t have to feel Him loudly for Him to still be close.

Spiritual warfare got louder the moment I started getting closer to God, but it taught me something I did not expect. The heaviness was never proof that He stepped away. It was proof that the enemy was afraid of who I was becoming. Every time the confusion, fear, or doubt tried to settle in, I had to remind myself that God is not the author of chaos. His voice brings peace. His presence brings clarity. And the more I learned to recognize His tone, the easier it became to reject the lies that tried to pull me under. God was not hurting me. He was holding me through a battle I did not see. That truth changed everything.

There was a time when I couldn’t tell the difference between my own thoughts and the lies of the enemy. Every voice sounded the same, and all of them told me I was failing. But lately, I’ve been learning that the voice of God doesn’t sound like pressure or shame. It sounds like peace. It sounds like stillness. It sounds like love that waits for me to look up and say, “I’m listening.”

Lately I’ve realized that when the enemy can’t reach where you are, he reaches for who you were. He pulls out old memories like they still hold power, when really they’re just proof of what God has already redeemed. Those moments don’t define us anymore, they remind us that grace did what guilt never could.

There was a time when I lived off of attention, mistaking it for love.
I wanted to be chosen so badly that I forgot I already was. Motherhood changed that.
The quiet moments after my son falls asleep taught me that love doesn’t need noise to be real. I still pray for my soulmate, but the ache feels softer now. I’m not chasing, I’m trusting. Maybe peace isn’t about getting everything you want.
Maybe it’s learning that even here, in the waiting, you already have everything you need.