The Journey to Becoming

The Journey to Becoming museum of my failures, galleries full of trying- all held with grace.

3 days ago, I wrote about a version of myself that I barely recognized—someone distant from God, someone I never thought...
07/08/2025

3 days ago, I wrote about a version of myself that I barely recognized—someone distant from God, someone I never thought I’d become. I was in my lowest state, influenced by the people around me, going along with choices I knew weren’t me. It wasn’t all on them, of course—I made my own decisions. But there were voices that pulled me further away from the One voice I used to trust most.

And then… today happened.
I laughed. I really laughed.

Not because of a joke, or something light-hearted. I laughed because of God’s humor. The kind of humor that humbles you, softens you, and makes you pause in awe.

The person who first brought those influences into my life—the one who first asked, “Let’s do this,” when I knew deep down I shouldn’t—that person is resigning. Leaving. By choice.

Now don’t get me wrong. This isn’t about blame. I’ve said it before. I own my part. No one dragged me into anything. I followed willingly. But her presence in my life marked the beginning of that drift. And her absence? It feels like the beginning of something else entirely.

This transfer? It felt like a whisper from heaven:
"I’m still here. I’ve always been. And I’m not done with you yet."

It felt like a reset.

A nudge.

A gentle reminder that sometimes, the way God begins to rescue us is by removing us, or others, from environments we’ve gotten too comfortable in, even when they’re hurting us.

There’s humor in that.

There’s grace in that.

And above all, there’s hope.

If you’re reading this and you feel far from God, or far from who you used to be, just know this: you are not too far. He can reach you. He can rearrange the entire room if it means helping you come home. He’ll remove people when you’re too weak to walk away. He will open doors, close others, and sometimes, just to show you He’s near… He’ll make you laugh.

A deep, healing, “God, You really just did that?” kind of laugh.

And in that laugh, there is healing.

There is Him.

I always believed faith was strongest when tested.But I never expected the test to look like this.I didn’t think it woul...
04/08/2025

I always believed faith was strongest when tested.
But I never expected the test to look like this.
I didn’t think it would feel so… empty.
So unrecognizable.
So slow and quiet that I wouldn’t notice it happening until it was already done.

I thought I would see it coming. I thought I’d fight it.
But instead, I let it in. I let the slow erosion of my heart and soul happen, little by little, and now I’m left with something I can’t even name.

I changed. I can say that clearly now.
And not in the way people mean when they say they’ve “grown.”
This change feels heavier. Like losing pieces of myself rather than gaining something new. It’s not the proud kind of change, the kind that makes you stronger or wiser. It’s the kind that makes you question who you are, that leaves you feeling hollow and distant from the person you used to be.
I didn’t become better. I became someone I hardly recognize. And honestly, someone I used to fear.

The words that come out of my mouth don’t sound like me anymore. The things I do for fun feel like noise I once turned away from. I laugh at things that used to break my heart. I find comfort in habits I once prayed to be delivered from. I let their influence change me. Not in some big, obvious way, but in all the quiet, dangerous ones.

The people closest to me, my trusted friends, have started to notice.
They’ve been kind. Gentle. Careful. But also honest.
They’ve started telling me what they see.

And the worst part? They’re right.

They’re not being harsh. They’re trying to help. They still see something in me, something worth reaching for. But I don’t have the energy to reach back.

I don’t know what to say.
I don’t know how to fix it.
I don’t even know if I can make it up to them.

I don’t feel like I have anything left to offer. Not to them. Not to myself. Not to God.

I sit in conversations with a heavy heart, hearing them tell me the truth, and all I can do is nod. Stay quiet. Swallow guilt. And then carry it home with me like more weight on a soul that’s already tired.

People love stories of redemption. Of turnaround. Of transformation. And maybe one day, I’ll write that story.
But this isn't that.

This is the part no one talks about. The in-between. The messy, unresolved middle. The part where you're already on the floor, but you’re not ready to get up because you don’t know how.

That’s where I am.

I’m still down here.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know how to get back up.

I don’t even know where to begin.

I just know I don’t want to stay like this.

So maybe, for now, that’s all I have: the truth that I’m not okay… and the hope that someday, I might be.

“𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝗮𝗳𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗮𝗳𝗲”I never thought the place that once felt like home would leave me questioning my wor...
23/05/2025

“𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝗮𝗳𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗮𝗳𝗲”

I never thought the place that once felt like home would leave me questioning my worth. The people who once comforted me, uplifted me, and made me feel seen would be the same ones to hurt me with their words.

But here we are.

Overfamiliarity—it sounds harmless at first, doesn’t it? Like closeness. Like comfort. Like you’ve reached a level where guards can be lowered and jokes can be raw and real. But over time, I realized that overfamiliarity also has its cons. Because when people forget boundaries, respect becomes optional. When you’re too used to someone, it becomes easier to overlook their feelings, to justify arrogance, to assume access to every part of their life- including their worth.

In a conversation that didn’t feel tense or emotional, he called me a b*tch. Just like that. No hesitation. No sense that it might be too much.
I told him, “That’s not funny.”
But he just laughed and said, “Indi ah. Tawa ni ya.”
And I remember pausing. Not because I didn’t hear it clearly. But because I did. And it caught me off guard. Even called me arrogant just because I got promoted! And to make it worse, someone else indirectly questioned me, asking, “Who even promoted her?”
This was someone who once made me feel safe. Someone who reminded me of my worth.
The people I believed were my safe space, were the ones chipping away at my confidence and my sense of worth.

It hurt deeply. It was humiliating. Not just because of the words. But because of who they came from.
People I trusted.
People I had once run to for comfort.
People I believed would protect, not poke holes in me.

For a while, I carried their words like truth. I replayed them over and over again. And then I realized something I didn’t want to admit.
I hadn’t fully placed my identity in God.
I thought I was grounded.
I thought I knew who I was in Christ.
Turns out, I still needed people to validate me. I still needed spaces to affirm me. I still needed titles and friendships to remind me I mattered. And when those things were shaken, so was I.

It was a humbling realization.
Because sometimes, we can say all the right things about our faith, yet still place the weight of our worth on fragile things- people’s opinions, recognition, belonging.
And when those things crack, we start to crack too.

But God, in His grace, doesn’t leave us in that brokenness.
Instead, He invites us to rebuild. Not on applause or approval. But on Him.
On His word.
On His love.
On the unshakable truth that we are who He says we are- even when others don’t see it, say it, or celebrate it.

So I’m learning—slowly, painfully, beautifully—that identity in Christ isn’t something you say once and settle.
It’s something you choose every time someone tries to tell you otherwise.
It’s something you return to when the world tries to name you something you’re not.
It’s something you hold onto when the applause stops and the silence gets loud.

I’m still learning.
But now, I know where I stand.
Not in a title.
Not in a room.
Not in anyone else’s approval.

But in Him.
Firm. Safe. Enough.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐄𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞.. 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭.I’ve always been someone who runs away when things get uncomfortable. Whether it’s a ...
03/04/2025

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐄𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞.. 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭.

I’ve always been someone who runs away when things get uncomfortable. Whether it’s a new emotion, an unfamiliar situation, or even a difficult conversation, my instinct has always been to retreat. Avoidance has been my shield, my escape, my way of keeping the peace — at least, that’s what I told myself.

Then one day at work, God decided to teach me a lesson in the most ironic way possible.
That day, I had a patient I didn’t want to see. For personal reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to face her. So I did what I thought was the easiest solution. I swapped a patient with a co-worker, feeling relieved that I had successfully dodged another uncomfortable moment. Problem solved, right? Wrong.

Cause the patient I received in exchange? His health rapidly deteriorated throughout my shift. I had to carry out multiple orders, respond to constant changes, and manage a situation that only seemed to spiral further. It felt like for my entire shift, I had only one patient—this one.

And as I rushed through interventions, medications, and urgent calls, a thought crossed my mind.
“Did I just trade an easy road for a harder one?”

I thought I was making things easier for myself, but I was actually doing the opposite. Instead of dealing with the mild discomfort of facing a patient I didn’t want to see, I ended up shouldering the weight of an overwhelming situation.

It made me realize that avoiding discomfort doesn’t mean escaping difficulty- it just means postponing a lesson. Sometimes the path we run from is actually the one we were meant to take. And avoiding it only leads us to into something even more challenging.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight."
– Proverbs 3:5-6

I thought my way was smarter. I thought I was protecting myself. But God was showing me that real growth, real strength, and real wisdom come when we face our discomfort rather than run from it.

Running away doesn’t make challenges disappear. It just changes their form. And often, the lesson we try to escape finds its way back to us, sometimes in a harder, more demanding way.

So next time, with the help of my Lord, I won’t run. I won’t trade my discomfort for uncertainty, thinking it will be easier. Instead, I will stand firm, trusting that whatever God places before me is not meant to break me but to build me.

Because growth isn’t found in avoidance, it’s found in the courage to face what we fear, knowing that with faith, grace, and perseverance, we will always come out stronger.

Vulnerability is often seen as a weakness, an exposure of the fragile, unpolished parts of our selves— the parts that ar...
24/02/2025

Vulnerability is often seen as a weakness, an exposure of the fragile, unpolished parts of our selves— the parts that are messy, imperfect, and full of insecurities. For much of my life, I avoided showing my vulnerable side. I kept my guard up, terrified that if people saw the real me, they wouldn’t accept me. So, I kept the most intimate parts of myself hidden, believing that it was safer that way.

I kept this mentality for years. I built walls—high and thick—hoping that they would protect me. But the truth was, they only kept me from experiencing the depth of real connection.

Then, last year, something happened that shattered those walls. I did something I’m not proud of. I made a decision that hurt not just others, but myself too. I kept it hidden, unable to share the weight of my guilt and shame. I closed myself off even more, convinced that no one would understand, let alone accept me. I was trapped in a struggle that only God knew about, feeling isolated in my pain.

But three of my closest friends saw me accidentally, walking in on a moment I wasn’t ready to share. They walked in on me, tears streaming down my face, a side of me I had worked so hard to keep hidden. It was a moment of vulnerability I hadn’t planned on sharing, but they were there, seeing me at my most broken.

And they kept asking, gently but persistently, what was wrong. At first, I held back, reluctant to let them see my struggles. I feared they might judge me. But their kindness and determination gradually destroyed my defenses, and slowly, I began to open up.

As I spoke, I braced myself for judgment. But they didn’t turn away. They didn’t look at me with disappointment. They didn’t treat me as less than. They listened, understood, and they wrapped me in love.

For the first time in a long time, I felt seen—not for the version of myself I tried to present to the world, but for who I truly was, in all my messiness and pain. And in that moment, I realized something profound: the love of God is often revealed through the love of people.

I had spent so much time believing that if others saw my brokenness, they would turn away. But my friends’ response reflected the very heart of God—compassionate, patient, and full of grace. Their acceptance reminded me of how God sees me, not through the lens of my failures, but through the lens of His love.

Even in my lowest moment, He was there. Even when I had turned away in shame, He had remained. The walls I had built to keep others out had also kept me from fully receiving His love, and it was only when I let them down that I finally felt the fullness of His presence.

Vulnerability is not weakness. It is not something to fear. It is the doorway to real connection—not just with people, but with God Himself. When we allow ourselves to be fully seen, we open ourselves to the healing and love that He longs to give us.

I don’t have it all figured out yet. I still struggle with being open, and I still battle the fear of being misunderstood. But I now know this: I don’t have to carry my burdens alone. I don’t have to live behind walls. I am fully known and fully loved by a God who never turns away.

And that is enough.

There’s an insecurity I’ve carried for a long time—one I never spoke about, not even to my own sister. It’s a thought th...
07/02/2025

There’s an insecurity I’ve carried for a long time—one I never spoke about, not even to my own sister. It’s a thought that lingers in the quiet, creeping in when I least expect it- it’s the unshakable belief that I am unworthy of love, that I was never someone to be pursued.

I’m not sure where this comes from—maybe from past experiences, from times when people left when I thought they would stay. Or perhaps it’s from the expectations I place on myself—the belief that I have to be enough in every way to be loved.

And mind you I’ve listened to sermons about God’s love. I’ve read the Bible and held onto His promises. And for a time, they helped, sure. But only for a time. Eventually, that unwelcome question returns, uninvited, and unrelenting.
"Does knowing me more lead to loving me less?"

It’s a painful thing to admit. I want to believe otherwise, to silence the doubt with logic, with scripture, with the reminders that people do love me. And yet, no matter how much reassurance I receive, there’s this fear—this ache—that won’t completely go away.

I’ve heard this phrase lotsa times already, I’ve lost count. And I know the truth in my head- that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. But there’s a gap between knowing and believing. It’s one thing to have knowledge—intellectual understanding—of a truth or concept, but it’s another thing entirely to let that truth sink into your heart and shape your actions, emotions, and thoughts.

I used to focus on why people left, why promises were broken, and the hurt I felt. But with time, I began to ask myself: What part did I play in these situations? Was there something I did—something I didn’t do—that might have contributed to the distance between us?
And this meant being honest with myself about the role I played in the situations I was in. It wasn’t easy—it forced me to face the uncomfortable truth.

But even though it was painful, it gave me a sense of clarity. I wasn’t powerless. I couldn’t control the actions of others, but I could take responsibility for my part, for the way I showed up, or the ways I might have unintentionally closed myself off.

I don’t have all the answers, and I know there will still be days when I feel unsure. But I’m starting to see that the gap between knowing and believing is something I can close, bit by bit, by embracing who I am and trusting that love is a constant, no matter what.
And even when I struggle to believe in my own worth, God’s love doesn’t waver. It doesn’t depend on my feelings, my past, or my mistakes. His love isn’t something I have to earn, nor is it something I can lose. It has been there from the beginning, steady and unchanging, waiting for me to not just know it—but to truly believe it.
So rather than questioning if I am worthy of love, I am learning to rest in the truth that I already am. Not because of what I’ve done, but because of who He is. And that is a love I can trust.

𝗗𝗶𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗯𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗹𝗲𝘀’ 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀?Yes, you read that right. Tears. From turtles. Nature sure is wild, man! T...
29/01/2025

𝗗𝗶𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗯𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗹𝗲𝘀’ 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀?

Yes, you read that right. Tears. From turtles. Nature sure is wild, man!
These colorful little guys land on turtles’ faces and sip their salty tears like they’re the latest trendy iced matcha.

So here’s the science-y part: butterflies need salt and minerals to survive, and salty snacks are apparently in short supply in the butterfly world. Enter the turtles, who naturally shed tears (don’t worry—they’re not crying over quarter-life crisis. UNLIKE ME! HUHU). Butterflies swoop in like the opportunists they are and sip on those salty tears, turning them into life-giving fuel.

If I were a turtle, I’d feel some type of way about this arrangement. Like, “umm, excuse me can I cry in peace without you turning me into a beverage station?”
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it’s actually a beautiful metaphor for life, spirituality, and maybe even the last time you cried over something dumb at 2 a.m. (Or is that just me?)

See, when we’re in the middle of a struggle, it often feels pointless. There have been plenty of times I’ve cried out to God, saying, “Can You just skip the pain part and get straight to the blessing?” But then we serve a God who whispers, “It’s not wasted.” It might feel uncomfortable, even unfair, but God is in the business of taking the brokenness of life and turning it into beauty. Even the most unexpected parts of life—those weird, messy, and painful moments—can serve a purpose.

So the next time you’re going through it—like really going through it—think about the turtle and the butterfly. Your tears, your struggles, your pain—are not wasted. They are doing something, even if you can’t see it right now.

Psalm 126:5 says, “Those who sow in tears will reap with shouts of joy.” That means your tears are not just falling to the ground—they are planting something. Growth. Healing. Strength. A deeper faith. A testimony in the making.
It might not feel like it in the moment, but one day, you’ll look back and see that even the hardest seasons were shaping you, refining you, and preparing you for something greater. Nothing with God is wasted—not even your tears.

And heyy. Just be glad that while you may be crying, at least no one is showing up with a straw to drink your tears like a refreshing iced matcha latte. So hang in there! God’s got this! 🤍

(photo not mine)

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍.I’ve always been the kind of person who believes that to start something meaningful,...
25/01/2025

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍.

I’ve always been the kind of person who believes that to start something meaningful, it has to be on the “perfect” day—whether that’s the first day of the year, the beginning of a new month, or even just a Sunday. And if I missed those “ideal” dates, I felt like I had failed before I even began.

One of my New Year’s resolutions this year was to journal every single day for 365 days—not just the first few months like I usually do (classic me 🤭) And yet here I am, writing in my journal for the first time on January 25—a full 25 days after I told myself I’d begin! I can’t lie, there’s a little voice in my head whispering, “You’re already behind. What’s the point now. And it’s not even the first day of the week!”

There’s a part of me that wants to roll my eyes at myself and call this another failed attempt, but the truth is, I’m starting to see things differently. Maybe it’s not about when you start or how perfectly you stick to a plan, but about showing up—even if it’s late, even if it’s messy, even if it’s not how you imagined. I realized how often I’ve put something off because I thought it wasn’t the RIGHT time. How often have I let the fear of being behind stop me from taking the first step. I’m realizing now that every time I’ve done that, I’ve let the WHEN overshadow the WHY.

So here I am, starting late but starting nonetheless. And as I sit with this journal in front of me, I’m reminded of something so freeing- God’s grace doesn’t operate on my timelines. He doesn’t hold my delays against me, nor does He wait for me to get it all together before He begins His work in me. Instead, He meets me here, in this imperfect moment, and reminds me that it’s not the timing of my start that matters—it’s the fact that I’ve chosen to begin.

So, here I am, finally writing, finally starting, finally embracing the idea that my WHY is enough to carry me forward, no matter WHEN I begin 🤍

04/01/2025

Hi! I am so glad you’re here 🙂

This is a space where I share moments, reflections, and lessons from my journey through life and my walk with God.

Life is a journey of becoming—becoming stronger, wiser, and closer to the purpose God has for us. Together, let’s explore the beauty of growth, the power of faith, and the lessons we find along the way.

Let’s embark on this journey of Becoming, together 🤍

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