Some days, calling doesn’t feel like purpose.
It feels like pressure.
Not the kind that breaks you — the kind that builds capacity you didn’t ask for.
It’s the pressure that exposes your limits, sharpens your instincts, and demands a steadiness you’re still learning to carry.
It’s not poetic.
It’s not peaceful.
It’s work.
Every day I wake up to the same nudge from the Spirit — keep showing up.
Not because I feel ready or rested, but because something in me still believes that this stretch matters.
I don’t question the call to complain; I question it to stay honest.
Because if faith can’t stand up to reality, it’s not much of a faith at all.
Does it have to look like this?
Could there be another way?
Maybe. But this is the one I’ve been given, and I intend to walk it with my eyes open.
I keep showing up for my kids — because they’re learning from what I do more than what I say.
I keep showing up for myself — because the alternative is shrinking.
And I keep showing up for the call — because even when it makes no sense, it keeps pulling something true out of me.
Being called to publicly serve in the way that I am, as who I am, still feels like a divine prank some days.
Grace hands me the mic and says, “Go ahead, speak,” knowing full well how quiet I’d rather be.
But maybe that’s the joke and the grace in the same breath — that the Spirit works through contradictions on purpose.
Because using someone who is unsteady to speak truth cannot be anything but Spirit.
Many days, I ask why I was given both introversion and exclamation.
Not in a why me kind of way — just a steady, what’s the plan here?
I still don’t know.
So I keep showing up.
The anxiety still hums under the surface on the good days —
and on the rest, it’s effectively visible.
The comfort zones still stretch — painfully, slowly, but they stretch.
And most days it still feels like faking it until I make it, but maybe that’s just what growth feels like: unpolished, uncertain, alive.
This isn’t a complaint.
It’s a statement of camaraderie.
For everyone out there doing something that terrifies them and somehow feels sacred at the same time —
you’re not alone.
We’re not broken for questioning it.
We’re simply awake to the reality that calling and chaos often share the same space.
And we keep showing up anyway —
not to prove ourselves,
but to stay faithful to the work that keeps making us.
Will it ever get easier? Bring more comfort?
I cannot say.
But what I do know is that it is shaping me — refining me in the ways ease never could.
It’s teaching me to trust what I cannot yet see,
to keep breathing through the stretch,
and to remember that even when I shake, I’m still standing exactly where grace placed me.
Faith does not make things easy.
It makes them valuable.
Real.
Possible.
Intentional.
And holy in ways comfort could never be.
I don’t believe faith is meant to make us comfortable all the time.
It’s meant to make us aware —
of how grace moves through sometimes unsteady hands,
and how truth sounds coming from imperfect voices.
Because in the end, this is what faith really looks like:
not flawless, not fearless — but faithful.
It’s the quiet courage to keep showing up,
to keep holding space for grace to do its work,
and to trust that even when nothing feels steady,
the Spirit still is.
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