When Faith Feels Like Waiting...The Woman Who Knew How to Survive Is Learning How to Live

"I trust You, Lord. I just didn't think trust would take this long."

This week, I sat staring at a blank screen.

Not because I didn't have anything to say.

But because I wasn't sure I had anything left to give.

For months, I've written about grief, healing, grace, mercy, letting go, and all the things God has been teaching me in this valley. Usually, when I sit down to write, the words come. This week, they didn't.

Because the truth is, I wasn't wrestling with a blog.

I was wrestling with myself.

Lately, I've been asking questions I don't like admitting out loud.

What am I doing wrong?

Why isn't this working?

Why aren't more people reading?

Why isn't the planner taking off?

Why aren't the doors opening?

Why does it feel like I'm pushing a boulder uphill every single day?

And if I'm being completely honest, the question underneath all those questions is this:

Am I failing?

That's hard for me to admit.

Because people know me as strong.

Resilient.

The one who keeps going.

The one who finds hope in impossible places.

The one who encourages everybody else.

But what people don't always see is that even strong people get tired.

And I am tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.

Not the kind of tired that a weekend away fixes.

The kind of tired that settles into your soul after years of carrying more than you ever thought you could.

For more than a decade, my life has been about surviving.

Surviving diagnoses.

Surviving hospital stays.

Surviving caregiving.

Surviving loss.

Surviving the unimaginable reality of burying not one son, but two.

For years, every day had a mission.

There was always a doctor to call.

A therapy appointment to schedule.

A medication to manage.

A school meeting to attend.

An advocate to become.

A crisis to solve.

A battle to fight.

I knew exactly who I was in survival mode.

What I don't know how to do is this.

This space between the promise and the proof.

This space where I know what God said, but I can't yet see what He's doing.

I know God gave me God Said No.

I know He birthed Elevation of Care.

I know He called me to write.

I know He called me to speak.

I know these things were born from purpose and obedience, not ambition.

Yet here I am.

Sending emails.

Making calls.

Writing blogs.

Building relationships.

Showing up.

Trying again.

Praying again.

Believing again.

And waiting.

Still waiting.

I thought faith meant moving mountains.

This season is teaching me that sometimes faith means sitting still while God moves them for you.

And if I'm honest, I don't like that lesson very much.

Because waiting feels a lot like losing control.

Waiting feels passive.

Waiting feels vulnerable.

Waiting leaves room for doubt.

Some days I find myself looking at numbers more than I should.

How many people read the blog?

How many people shared it?

How many books sold?

How many planners moved?

How many opportunities came from it?

Before I know it, I've started measuring my worth by outcomes instead of obedience.

I've started believing that visibility and impact are the same thing.

I've started treating numbers like they have the authority to tell me whether my work matters.

And they don't.

But disappointment has a way of sounding like truth if you listen to it long enough.

Maybe I'm not good enough.

Maybe I missed my moment.

Maybe I heard God wrong.

Maybe nobody needs what I have to offer.

Those thoughts don't come from a lack of faith.

They come from being empty.

Because the truth is, I have poured from the same cup for a very long time.

I poured into Darren.

I poured into Jaxon.

I poured into my family.

I poured into caregiving.

I poured into advocacy.

I poured into survival.

I poured into grief.

I poured into everyone around me.

And now, standing in this season, I find myself asking God something I never thought I would ask:

What do I do when I have nothing left to pour?

The answer I keep hearing is one I don't particularly like.

Wait.

Trust Me.

Rest.

Let Me be God.

I wish I could tell you I embraced that answer right away.

I didn't.

Because trust feels uncomfortable when you've spent your life carrying the weight yourself.

Rest feels irresponsible when there is still so much to do.

And waiting feels impossible when you've spent years responding to emergencies.

The truth is, I don't think I'm struggling with grief right now.

I think I'm struggling with trust.

I believe God.

I just don't understand Him right now.

I know He is good.

I know He is faithful.

I know He has carried me through valleys I never thought I would survive.

Not when I lost Darren.

Not when I lost Jaxon.

Not through years of caregiving.

Not through heartbreak after heartbreak.

He's never left me.

Not once.

But for the first time in a very long time, I think God is asking me to stop surviving and start trusting.

And maybe that's harder than I want to admit.

Because surviving gave me something to do.

Trust requires me to surrender.

Maybe this season isn't about building faster.

Maybe it's about healing deeper.

Maybe God isn't asking me to prove anything.

Maybe He's asking me to let Him carry me.

The woman who knew how to survive is learning how to live.

And those are not the same thing.

I don't know what comes next.

I don't know when the doors will open.

I don't know when the waiting will end.

I don't know when the emptiness will finally lift.

I don't know what God Said No or Elevation of Care will ultimately become.

But I know this:

God has never needed my understanding to be faithful.

And maybe that's what faith really is.

Not certainty.

Not answers.

Not seeing the whole plan.

Just taking the next step when you can't see the staircase.

So today, that's what I'm choosing.

Not because I have all the answers.

Not because I feel strong.

Not because I can see the outcome.

But because the same God who carried me through every valley before this one is still here.

And if He is still here, then so is hope.

For the One Walking This Too

This week, I don't have five steps to healing.

I don't have a lesson neatly wrapped in a bow.

I don't have an inspiring ending.

I just have the truth.

I'm tired.

I'm waiting.

I'm learning to trust.

And maybe you are too.

If all you can do today is trust God with the next step instead of the whole staircase, that's enough.

Because some seasons aren't about moving mountains.

Some seasons are about learning that God can carry you while you rest.

And maybe, just maybe, that's where the healing begins.

P.S.

If I'm being completely honest, this blog wasn't written because I had the answers.

It was written because I needed the reminder.

I needed to remember that I am more than what I produce.

More than the numbers.

More than the sales.

More than the opportunities.

More than the outcome.

I am still God's daughter before I am anything else.

And maybe that's what He's been trying to teach me all along.

Even in the waiting.

Especially in the waiting.❤️

~Shantrael