Still in It

This weekend felt like wading through fog. Not the soft, cinematic kind—but the heavy, chest-tightening kind where you keep moving but you can’t tell if it’s forward or just in circles. I’ve felt nothing but anxiety. Still do, honestly. The kind that doesn’t have a name or a specific reason, just this full-body hum of uncertainty and emotional noise.

I’m on dating apps… kind of. I don’t go out much, so it feels like the only real way to meet someone—but even then, I don’t know if this is how it’s supposed to happen for me. I’m talking to someone right now who’s actually set the bar higher than I expected. He’s kind, thoughtful, emotionally available. There’s no pressure to rush anything, which is refreshing—but also bittersweet, because I’m the kind of person who gives my whole heart when I feel safe. I don’t really know how to do halfway.

There are days when I wonder if what I’m hoping for—a godly, steady, soul-rooted kind of love—is too rare. Like maybe I’m praying for something that doesn’t exist. But deep down, I know it does. I know that Jesus wouldn’t have given me a heart like this if there wasn’t someone out there meant to meet it. He wouldn’t have placed these longings in me just to leave them unanswered. So I hold on to that truth even when everything around me feels uncertain.

And in the middle of it, I just keep praying for discernment. Not clarity in the form of a checklist, but wisdom—the kind that protects my heart without hardening it. I don’t want to waste time forcing something that was never meant to grow. I don’t want to confuse comfort with calling. I don’t want to stay out of fear, or leave out of fear. I just want to know: do I keep pouring into this? Or is it time to let go before it breaks me?

Because I’ve worked too hard to heal to hand my heart over recklessly now. I want to love well—but I also want to love wisely.

But I didn’t sit still in it. My dad’s recovering from surgery, so I stepped up around the house. I mowed the lawn. Finally tackled the depression laundry piles that had become permanent fixtures in my room. I went to my storage unit—the one holding everything from a lifetime ago. Boxes of books, old décor, baby things, art supplies, dreams I used to chase, and things I’ve quietly let go of. I stood there longer than I expected to, praying quietly through the dust and the silence. I remember saying to God, Let the next time I go back here be because I’m moving into my forever home. One that’s mine. One that’s safe. One I can share with my son.

And I meant it. Not just as a dream or a throwaway hope—but as something I’m ready to receive. I’m tired of waiting for life to feel like it’s starting. I want to step into it now. I want to show my son that healing doesn’t just happen inside—it happens in the spaces we create. I want a home that feels soft and sacred. A place that reflects peace instead of constantly recovering from chaos.

The next day, I took him on a nap drive. Nothing fancy. No destination. Just survival. He wasn’t settling, and I needed him to rest. So we got in the car and drove. And somewhere between the hum of the tires and the stillness in the backseat, I turned it into a prayer drive. I started talking to God—not eloquently, not with a plan—just raw, unfiltered words from a heart too full to hold it all in.

And then I started crying. Hard.

Not because something specific was wrong, but because everything I’ve been carrying finally demanded to be felt. I cried for the prayers that haven’t been answered yet. For the ones that have, but don’t look the way I expected. For the slow grief of still being here—in the in-between. For how lonely it feels to try to stay hopeful when everything is so uncertain.

I cried because I want more. Not more things—just more peace. More clarity. More ease. A steady income that doesn’t stretch me thin. A home that holds softness. A God-fearing husband who makes my shoulders drop when he enters the room. I want to stop wondering if I’m asking for too much. I want to stop apologizing, even silently, for wanting these things in the first place.

And still—right there in the car, with no coffee in my hand, no croissant in the backseat, no perfect filter to make it look beautiful—I felt something shift. I felt peace. Not peace like everything was solved, but peace like God was sitting in the passenger seat, letting me fall apart safely. Like He heard every word, every tear, and gently reminded me, I’m still here. I’ve been here. I’m not leaving.

It didn’t fix everything. But it reminded me that I’m not carrying any of this alone.

I’m still in it. Still uncertain. Still waiting. Still praying. Still aching some days more than others. But something cracked open this weekend—not in a breakdown way, but in a release. A surrender. I’m done pretending I’m fine. I’m done trying to prove I have it together before I let God meet me in it. He’s already here. Already in the ache, in the waiting, in the messy middle. I don’t need to earn His presence. I don’t need to be strong to be worthy of help. I don’t need to wrap my story in a lesson before I’m allowed to speak it out loud.

So no, I don’t have a resolution. I don’t have a plan or a pivot or a revelation to make this post feel complete. I just have this truth: I’m still in it.