Pausing to See Clearly

Pausing to See Clearly

If you read my last post, then you already know I’ve been moving through some deep waters. That first blog entry was my exhale after holding my breath for too long. This one? It’s the pause that followed. The moment I stopped bracing and finally let myself feel everything: the grief, the fear, the pressure, the exhaustion… and the clarity.

If you’re here again, thank you.

Thank you for sitting with me in this space where things are still tender and unresolved, but real.
This is the continuation... not just of the blog, but of the becoming.

Let’s talk about what happens when the world doesn’t slow down but you’re forced to.
Let’s talk about the pause, the loss, the diagnosis, the crash outs, the anxiety, the depression, the soap, the pies, the musicals, the Mack truck moments, and the healing that’s messy and holy and necessary.
Let’s talk about what it means to see clearly... even when your vision is changing.

I mentioned a life coaching series in my first post that was set to begin next month, and trust me, it was (and still is) on my heart. But the truth is, life for me has been lifing. Hard. Real hard.  The hardest ever.  And I had to listen to what I keep telling everyone else:

“Pause when your body whispers, so it doesn’t have to scream.”

The coaching series isn’t gone—it’s just waiting for me to come back to it with full clarity. Not rushed. Not forced. Not half-full.
Because I want to give you the real me, not the barely standing me.

Stay tuned. It’s still coming ~ just not on the timeline I first imagined. And that’s okay.

Here's what I do know - I was starting this life coaching series not knowing that I would be my own first client.  That I would be the one needing clarity, rest, community, tools, and peace.
So instead of teaching a curriculum… I'm living one.

And now, when the series returns, it will be deeper, truer, and more honest than ever. More about that later...

The Breaking Point

As you know, the past few months have been tumultuous.  I have continued operating and functioning as though I could see clearly, navigating through my daily exchanges, interactions, and tasks as if I was still able to function at the same capacity.  Boy was I wrong!  For weeks I was still trying to hold it all together at work. Showing up to meetings. Checking on my team. Coordinating details for the conference. Smiling when I wanted to disappear. I kept telling myself, “Just push a little longer. Just get through this next thing.”

But my body had already started whispering, and I wasn’t listening. The pressure was mounting. The lights were too bright. The screens were too much. My vision was giving out, my spirit was fraying, and nobody could really see it. Not fully. I was unraveling in real time but still showing up like the Leslie everybody always expected. 

Work became unbearable. What used to feel purposeful started to feel punishing. I was expected to function at full speed with half the visibility... no real accommodations, no grace, no space to fall apart. I was drowning in meetings, demands, and noise… and the deeper my vision issues became, the less visible I felt. It was like everyone saw my output, but no one saw my body breaking down behind it. The kindness of some people stopped. The pressure mounted. And the whispers behind closed doors got louder. I wasn’t just burned out; I was being burned alive. So, I did what I had to do: I filed for FMLA. Not because I wanted to leave… but because staying any longer would have cost me more than just my job. It would have cost me me.  

I officially took myself out of work the day after my last big conference on October 28th. Not because I didn’t care. But because I felt like I was being run over by a Mack truck every five seconds. Trying to function like I used to (when I could actually see) was like swimming upstream. Lights, deadlines, conversations, decision-making—I was drowning in it. And nobody knew.

But everything had changed that day.  I realized I couldn’t keep pretending. Couldn’t keep showing up as the version of myself everyone was used to. My body knew before I did. My spirit was done. So, I paused. I let go. I chose me.

And now? My doctor has made that pause official. I am not allowed to return to work right now, and while I know
it’s necessary, it still stings. As much as I needed the break, I didn’t want to need it.

If you know anything about me, you know how much I love me a good musical.  Acting merged with singing on Broadway or the big screen brings me tremendous joy!  So, this holiday season, of course, we watched the "Wicked For Good".  I am in awe at the way musicals emotion into melodies when words aren’t enough. But when my girl Cynthia Erivo sang what’s supposed to be “unlimited” and instead whispered “I’m limited”, baby, I lost it.

Because that’s how I’ve been feeling.

I used to move through rooms like I owned them. I used to lead conferences, write grants, direct programs, balance motherhood, hold space for others, get homework done (I'm still a full-time student, close to graduating) and still get dinner on the table before dark. I was unlimited.

But now… things feel limited. Like my possibilities are tangled up in doctor’s notes and visual aids and systems that don’t know how to hold people like me. And it hurts. I’m also mourning the version of me who used to see it all coming.

But here’s the thing about that lyric ~ it’s not the end of the song. It’s just the moment of honesty before the transformation.  Maybe that’s where I am right now, standing in the middle of the song, singing truthfully about

what’s shifted, but still building toward what’s next.

In the quiet moments, I’ve been keeping myself busy building community where my partner lives, in Tryon, NC.  Tryon is a very small, rural, Hallmark-ey town in Western North Carolina.  Literally, if you blink too hard, you might miss it.  But when I tell you it is absolutely adorable, quaint, and sweet... I dare you to come see for yourself! For me, being in Tryon isn't beneficial as a distraction, but rather as a way to stay grounded. There’s something sacred about pouring into something tangible when everything else feels blurry.

And the people? Whew. They’ve been exactly what I didn’t know I needed. Strangers who feel like future neighbors.  Warmth. Conversation. Community. I want to build something that lasts here.

I’ve been baking, too!  I made and sold mini sweet potato pies for the holidays. Comfort food that feels like home. Soul work that smells like cinnamon and closure.

While in Tryon, I have met some of the most kindred spirits in the most unexpected times!  In the midst of all the unraveling and unpacking the life altering events, I have come across some true angels.  No for real - I feel so blessed and privileged to ever even enter their presence!  At first, being in Tryon was honestly just a place to hide out and get out of the house, off my chair of depression. To keep my hands busy. To avoid crying between conference calls.

But then I started meeting people.

Ms. Julia. Ms. Virginia. Women with stories. Women who didn’t look away when I told them mine. Women who didn’t need to “fix” me, but just nodded with the kind of knowing that made my knees weak. In them, I found parts of myself I didn’t even know were scattered. I could talk about grief, vision loss, heartbreak, exhaustion… and they got it.

I didn’t have to explain or shrink. I didn’t have to code-switch. I didn’t have to perform strength.

They reminded me I wasn’t alone. That my pain wasn’t an island. That somewhere, somehow, in this small community and behind that soap counter, I had stumbled into my next healing space.

They listened. They nodded with the kind of knowing that doesn’t need translation.

And they encouraged me.

Ms. Julia, in particular, challenged me, in love, to go deeper into the Word. Not just to skim it. But to sit with it. Wrestle with it. Rest in it. And now, we’re planning to study together. Me and this woman I barely knew a few weeks ago, opening Bibles and opening our hearts, trying to make sense of this season by leaning on scripture instead of spinning in suffering.

That’s not coincidence. That’s community. That’s God.

In Tryon of all places, I found what I didn’t even know I was praying for: connection, reflection, and the courage to pick The Good Book back up, even when life felt like it/He (God) had dropped me.

This past month, from November 1st to November 28th, has changed everything. 

You have an idea of the direction I was/am headed.  It's literally one day at a time - one appointment at a time... my life.

Everything Changed even more on November 6th.

It was one of those moments you don’t forget... the kind where the air shifts and the room starts spinning. 

I come from a long line of very strong, independent, Godly Council-Women.  My maternal grandmother had four daughters.  The eldest of them has been the matriarch - the glue, and the solid rock that has kept our family together since the beginning of time!  Aunt Barbara, "Babs", didn't have any children, but she was the mother to all of her sisters, nieces and nephews, and she pretty much 'mothered' anyone else she knew and met.  She became a Missionary in the Churches of God Holiness a gazillion years ago. (I can't remember the year right now.)  While she stayed in the church I was raised in, she never shunned me for leaving.  In fact, she is one I felt had my back when I chose to leave and understood my reasoning.  She supported me in ways I never had the chance to thank her for.  

Barbara Council Williams was another mother. My motivator. My blueprint. She taught me how to hold my head high and speak truth even when and especially when my voice shook. She was the woman who gave us “GODISIT” on a license plate and meant every letter of it. She was that woman.

But something shifted in October.

She was in and out of the hospital. Test results. Emergency rooms. Then that moment we all dread but know too well: the doctor pulled us aside and told us we were nearing the end. Not because they had run out of options. But because God was calling her home.

The last couple of weeks were… intense. Sacred.

Our family surrounded her. I held her hand. We told stories. We sang, a lot! We laughed in between tears. And through it all, I never left her side.  We made sure someone from our family was with her around the clock.  I refused to leave.

There were moments of strength. Moments of silence.  Moments where the room was full, and somehow still felt hollow.

And just like that, work didn’t matter anymore. Spreadsheets didn’t matter. Agendas didn’t matter. I left my desk, walked out of the building, and never truly returned.  And one moment in particular, when the baby, Sevyn, started singing out loud in a voice only Heaven could understand, that’s when I knew Aunt Babs was leaving us.

That’s when my world started slowing down… and crashing in even harder.  I feel like I am in my own little twilight zone right now and I'm trying to catch up to the rest of the world who had the audacity to keep going while I was holding my Babs' hand as she transitioned to glory.

If you have every studied the Bible, you know about a man named Job.

Job: The Faithful Target

Job was a man of integrity. Respected. Righteous. Favored. The kind of man who did everything right, and still got caught in the crossfire. In scripture, it says he was “blameless and upright,” a servant of God who turned away from evil. And yet, that’s exactly why he was tested. God chose him not because he was weak, but because He knew Job could and would withstand the storm. The enemy didn’t pick Job at random; he picked him because he was the strongest thing standing. And when everything around him was stripped away, including his family, his health, and his wealth, Job never cursed God. He sat in the ashes. He questioned. He wept. He endured.

I’ve been sitting with that. Because lately I’ve felt like I’ve been chosen too, but not in a way that feels like honor. Chosen to carry more than I asked for. Chosen to endure more than I thought I could handle. And yet, somehow, expected to keep functioning like nothing’s changed.

I didn’t get boils like Job, but I got a diagnosis that blurred my vision and bent my spirit. I didn’t lose livestock, but I lost control - of schedules, of plans, of how people expected me to show up. And while nobody said it out loud, I could feel the same questions swirling that Job’s friends asked: “What did she do to deserve this?”

But I’ve learned, this isn’t punishment. It’s pressure.

Not because I’m broken, but because I’ve carried too much for too long. And just like Job, it’s not about what I’ve done wrong. It’s about what I’ve already survived.

I’m in my own Job season, tested on every side. My friends saw me and barely recognized me. They stepped in like a gentle intervention to make sure I knew I wasn’t alone. My bestie stayed with me, drove me where I needed to go in preparation for Babs funeral, made sure I ate, bought me clothes that fit as I've lost a bit of weight, and reminded me that while I was taking care of Aunt Barbara, my own health was slipping out of focus.

Even the smallest things carry weight. I can’t pass the Hot Dog King without thinking about how one of Aunt Babs' last request was a hot dog, all the way, with a Greek salad and an Arnold Palmer. I didn’t get it for her as she was NPO, but now I wish I had. But I showed up. I stayed beside her. I listened. I loved her loudly and deeply, just like she loved all of us.

That kind of love doesn’t die. It becomes a part of the next peace, too.

As Audre Lorde said:

 “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act

of political warfare.”

And for Black women like me who carry too much, love too hard, and rest too little, that quote is not just philosophy. It’s survival.

So if you’re reading this and you’re in your own Job season; if you’re dealing with grief, the loss of a loved one, or the loss of the life you once knew because of a diagnosis that changed everything... know that you’re not alone. You’re allowed to pause. You’re allowed to grieve. And you’re allowed to find your next piece of peace, one day at a time.  (Even if it's just a little slice.)

Guess what?? I still want to host a coaching series... maybe at the top of the new year.  Here's what I'm thinking:

“New Year, Next Peace.”

Coming January 2026: A coaching series born from the fire.

For the tired, the grieving, the overwhelmed, and the ones still trying to choose themselves.

(You’re not behind. You’re becoming.)

Here are some tools that have helped me breathe when everything felt too heavy: 

✔Create a Sacred Pause: Light a candle. Turn off your phone. Play a song that centers you. Even five minutes of stillness can reset your spirit. 

✔ Write It Out: Keep a journal beside your bed. Write without judgment ~ what you're mad about, what you're mourning, what you miss. Grief is messy. Let it be.

✔ Anchor in Scripture or Affirmations: If you're spiritual, revisit Job’s story. Read Psalm 34:18 - “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted…” Or simply say: “This is not the end of me. This is the beginning of my next peace.” 

✔ Talk to Safe People. Not everyone deserves your vulnerable moments. 

✔ Find your people: the ones who don’t flinch when you cry, who check in without expecting anything back. 

✔ Music that Moves You: Listen to songs that hold your pain gently. For me? Wicked’s “I’m Limited” moment cracked something open. What’s your healing song? 

✔ Find or Build Community: It doesn’t have to be big. I’ve found comfort in conversations at a little soap shop, in the warmth of shared pie, in small talk that doesn’t expect anything from me. You are worthy of softness, even now. 

✔ Do Something with Your Hands: Grief lives in the body. Bake. Paint. Garden. Touch something real. For me, it’s sweet potato pies and handmade soaps...things that bring me back to earth.

Stay With Me

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Thank you for holding space with me, for walking through the grief, the grit, and the glimpses of grace. This isn’t the end of the story... it’s just the pause between pages. I’m still healing, still seeing, still learning how to hold all of this with both hands. And I want you to stay with me as I figure it out.

Because the next post?
We’re going deeper.

So stay tuned. Share this if it spoke to you. And come back for the next chapter because I promise, we’re just getting started.

She's still here.