This post is part of the 10-part series: The Grace to Make Changes. You can read the full series here.

There are moments where everything looks like it’s crumbling on the outside—your plans, your certainty, your rhythm—and yet somehow, you’re still afloat.

That was me in early 2024. I was in North Carolina, in a strange, suspended season. My husband was preparing to transition out of the military, and our next chapter was up in the air: St. Louis? Alabama? Atlanta? I had just interviewed in Montgomery, and we both felt the pull to return to the South—but there were no guarantees.

At home, life was loud and layered. I had a baby who was barely six months old and still waking through the night. A toddler testing boundaries and discovering everything at once. A preteen who was on the verge of switching schools and silently absorbing the stress we tried so hard to shield her from. Every part of our home life felt transitional—and fragile.

I was trying to mother well, show up for my marriage, steward opportunities, and still find quiet space to hear from God. But I was exhausted. And stretched thin.

I didn’t even have a job to move into yet. I was interviewing and praying—trying to act like I had faith, while privately wondering if I was getting it all wrong. Wanting to be closer to family, but afraid of starting over. Wanting stability, but knowing deep down that safety wasn’t going to come through control. I was praying for an ark, but also hesitating to build it.

In the middle of all that tension, I felt a quiet but insistent tug to fast and pray.

Not to fix things.
Not to earn something.
But to get still enough to trust what I couldn’t yet see.

From my journal, January 2024

(lightly edited for clarity)

Lord, I have a baby who needs me every second. A toddler who watches everything I do. A daughter who’s growing up too fast and trying to find her place in a world I still don’t fully understand myself.

I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t have the next step mapped out. I’m trying to apply, prepare, stay present, and be strong—but I feel like a child myself sometimes.

I don’t want to walk by the flesh. I want to walk by the Spirit. I want to be led, not driven by fear.

Help me not to make decisions from exhaustion or pressure. Help me to trust You when everything in me wants to figure it all out first.

Let me be Spirit-conscious in a world that keeps pushing me to perform.

Let me be steady—even when I don’t feel strong.

Let me lead my family not just with plans, but with peace.

Help me awaken to You. Let Your voice be louder than my own.

I want to walk with You. I want to raise these children in Your light.
And I want to stop pretending I’m okay when I’m really just surviving.

Where I am now

I’m still hungry.

Not in the same way. Not with the same kind of desperation. But the ache for clarity and closeness hasn’t gone away.

Since then, I’ve grown in trust—enough to move forward even without confirmation at every step. I’ve learned a little more about what peace feels like, even in uncertainty. I’ve learned that obedience doesn’t always come with confidence—it often comes with surrender.

But fasting? Letting go of my grip on how things should go? I’m still learning.

Some days, I’m the woman who’s built her ark. Other days, I’m still the girl scribbling anxious prayers in a hotel notebook, hoping God will tell me what to do next.

But now—I hold her with more grace.

God hasn’t given me every answer. But He’s given me peace.
He’s given me presence.
He’s given me enough light for the next step.

If you’re there too

If you’re trying to be everything to everyone while quietly unraveling…
If you’re trying to build something but aren’t sure where the wood is coming from…
If you’re standing in between the promise and the path, unsure how to begin…

You’re not alone.

You can be uncertain and still be faithful.
You can be tired and still be growing.
You can be stretched and still be carried by grace.

You can still float—even when everything’s falling apart.

Closing Prayer

God, I don’t have all the answers. I don’t even know what’s waiting on the other side of this season. But You do. You see me—juggling motherhood, managing change, trying to listen for Your voice in the noise. Thank You for the grace that holds me when I feel like I’m barely keeping it together. Thank You for every unseen mercy—every whisper that says “Keep going.” Teach me to trust, not just when it’s clear, but especially when it’s not. I want to float in Your grace. I want to move when You say move. Even when I’m scared. Even when I’m unsure. Let that be enough. Amen.