A Willing Vessel

I’ve been chasing something my whole life.

Not success.

Not approval.

Something quieter, and harder to explain.

A sense of arrival, maybe.

That feeling you expect at the summit, when you finally stand still and think, “This is it. This is what I was meant for.”

I’ve reached a lot of summits.

Different roles. Different seasons. Different versions of myself I believed would finally settle me.

Each time I climbed with hope. Each time I reached the top, looked out, and felt the same quiet emptiness in my chest. So I would pivot.

I told myself it was wisdom, not failure. Growth, not disappointment.

But starting over again and again teaches you to overanalyze yourself. When every road leads back to you, the questions get personal.

What am I actually looking for?

What is God preparing me for?

Why does nothing feel like the final place?

For a long time, I thought the answer was purpose. Or certainty. Or impact that stayed. But underneath all of it was something simpler. I was looking for a place where I didn’t have to ration myself. Where loving deeply wasn’t a liability. Where giving didn’t require explanation. Where I could pour out without quietly exhausting myself in the process.

The strange thing is, even growing up the way I did, joy was never absent.

That surprises people. There was hardship, yes. But there was also laughter.

Curiosity.

An instinct to notice goodness, even when life didn’t offer much of it. Hope wasn’t something I learned later. It was something I carried early.

I didn’t know it then, but I was being trained. Learning how to pivot without losing my heart. How to begin again without becoming bitter. How to keep softness alive in a world that teaches you to harden.

Someone once told me we all carry a “sliver” of God within us.

I believe that. And I believe mine is love.

Not the kind that demands return. Not the kind that keeps score.

But the kind that shows up fully and trusts God with the outcome.

I was born to love others without expecting anything in return.

That sounds simple, until you live it. Because loving like that requires preparation. It requires discernment. It requires learning how to give without disappearing.

And then, almost without trying, I discovered writing.

Or maybe it found me.

I didn’t chase it the way I chased everything else. I didn’t climb toward it. I didn’t reach a summit and feel empty. It felt right in a way nothing else ever had.

For the first time, I wasn’t trying to be useful. I was being faithful. On the page, I could love without apology. Teach without defending. Give without being told it was too much.

Writing gave my past a language. My pivots a purpose. My joy a place to rest.

Every lesson mattered. Every restart counted. Nothing was wasted.

God wasn’t confusing me. He was preparing me. Preparing my eyes to see deeply.

My heart to stay open. My words to carry both truth and tenderness.

I wasn’t failing my way forward. I was being formed.

And now, I’m walking in the work I was prepared to do, the work God was quietly shaping me for all along.

Not to arrive. Not to be chosen. Not to be enough on my own.

But to carry what was never mine to create.

Love.

To let it move through me, onto the page, into the hands of whoever needs it.

I am not the answer. I am the offering.

A willing vessel for a love far bigger than my story, spoken gently, one story at a time.