Holy Tension

Holy Tension

​There is a kind of seeing that doesn’t come from clarity. It comes from disruption.

Lately, I’ve been living in that space. The in-between. The pause. The holy tension of becoming someone new without fully understanding who I’m leaving behind.

There’s a lot of noise in the church right now. Debates. Outrage. Dissection of appearances. Controversy that feels louder than compassion, and judgment that seems to travel faster than service. Watching it unfold, I couldn’t help but wonder how easily the focus shifts from doing the will and work of God to policing bodies, choices, and optics.

Is that what holiness has come to?

Somewhere along the way, it feels like reverence got replaced with regulation. Like being seen as holy became more important than living holy. And that question, unsettling as it is, has followed me quietly into this season of reflection.

Two months ago, on 11/10, Babs died.

And now here I am, on 1/10, still counting time differently, still measuring my life in moments instead of days.

Grief has a way of sharpening your vision - even when your eyes are failing you.

When Doors Close

I’m learning that not all closed doors slam.

Some close quietly.

Strategically.

With smiles, meetings, and language that sounds reasonable on the surface.

In this season, I’m watching doors begin to close in a way that feels both sneaky and bold - the audacity. While I’ve been on medical leave, navigating real loss and real uncertainty, decisions have been made that signal movement without me. Not because I’m incapable. Not because I’ve disengaged. But because institutions often protect themselves before they protect people.

What’s been most revealing isn’t the decision itself - it’s the timing and the silence around it.

That kind of closure doesn’t come with confrontation. It comes with polite distance. With replacements called “interim.” With progress that doesn’t pause to ask how you’re surviving. It’s efficient. And it’s painful in a way that’s hard to name unless you’ve lived it.

And still, I don’t feel defeated.

I feel informed.

Because when doors close like this, it’s rarely punishment. It’s positioning. It’s clarity. It’s God removing you from places that can no longer hold who you’re becoming, even if they benefited from who you were.

I don’t know yet what’s on the other side of this closing.

But I know this: I’m paying attention now. And I refuse to mistake convenience for calling, or loyalty for obedience.

Sometimes the holiest thing God does is close the door quietly so you don’t stay where you’ve already outgrown the room.

When Time Stands Still

What’s been hardest to sit with is how familiar this all feels.

This is what happens when people die.

Life keeps moving. Meetings get scheduled. Roles get filled. Conversations continue, as if nothing sacred has been disrupted. And the world doesn’t stop to ask whether you’re ready for it to keep going.

I’ve felt that same disorientation lately. The sense that my time has frozen while everything around me keeps moving forward. Whether you’re dead or alive. Whether you can see or not. Whether you’ve poured yourself into people, institutions, or community. The machine keeps turning.

That realization is sobering.

Because when your body forces you to slow down, when your vision changes, when grief rearranges your sense of time, it feels like standing still in a world that refuses to pause with you. Everyone else keeps walking while you’re left learning how to breathe again.

There’s a particular kind of loneliness in that. Not abandonment, just continuation without acknowledgment.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m being invited to learn.

That my worth was never meant to be measured by how indispensable I am to systems that don’t stop for anyone. That my life has value even when I’m not producing, leading, or holding things together for others.

Time standing still doesn’t mean life has ended.

It means something is being rewritten.

And while the world keeps moving, I’m learning how to move again. Differently, deliberately, and on purpose.

Knowing Better

There’s a difference between being guarded and being protected.

Now that I know better, I’m doing better.

Not out of bitterness.

Not out of fear.

But out of clarity.

I’m more aware of who and what has access to me now. My time, my energy, my body, my spirit. What I used to call openness, I now understand as availability without boundaries. And I don’t live there anymore.

There is a hedge of protection around me in this season.

Not one built from walls, but from wisdom.

Everyone doesn’t get entry.

Everyone doesn’t get explanation.

And no one gets to bypass discernment just because they’re familiar.

This isn’t hardness.

It’s stewardship.

And I trust myself enough now to honor it.

Seeing Differently 

This season has forced me to slow down.

My steps are timid now, but they’re intentional. Bright lights hit harder than they used to. I pause more. I recalibrate more. I listen more. There are moments when nausea rises out of nowhere - on planes, in pews, in the middle of what should be ordinary days. I’ve learned to send quiet texts instead of fighting it. Short messages that say, I don’t feel well, to people who understand that my body is speaking before my mouth can.

This is what a day in my life looks like now.

Not dramatic.

Just different.

And different requires discernment.

On Humanity and Clarity 

I’ve also been struggling with humanity itself.

And I say that intentionally, even without watching the news. I’ve chosen to limit my exposure, to protect my spirit from constant harm, but some things don’t require a screen to be felt. You can sense them in conversations. In policies. In whose lives are treated as expendable and whose discomfort is prioritized.

This current administration, and the inequities unfolding around us, have made it harder for me to pretend neutrality is harmless. Harder to ignore how quickly compassion gets politicized, and how often justice is treated like an inconvenience.

And that, too, has sharpened my vision.

Because when you’re forced to slow down - when your body interrupts your routine and grief rearranges your priorities - you start seeing what actually matters. And what doesn’t. Some conversations aren’t rooted in curiosity or care. They’re rooted in denial, deflection, or comfort.

Most of those conversations aren’t worth having anymore.

Not because I don’t care.

But because clarity teaches you where your energy belongs.

Seeing clearer doesn’t always mean seeing more. Sometimes it means seeing enough, and choosing not to engage what only drains, distracts, or diminishes your humanity.

Modesty, Desire, and Discernment

There’s been controversy lately in gospel spaces about a pastor’s wife and a dress she wore. A conservative bishop spoke out, and while many rushed to label his words outdated or judgmental, they sounded very familiar to me. Familiar in a way that took me back to the church of my upbringing - where modesty wasn’t just about clothing, but about posture, intention, and reverence.

What’s shifted for me in this season isn’t my values… it’s my awareness.

I’ve always known how to present myself with confidence and intention. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is my discernment around what I invite, what I tolerate, and where I want my energy to land.

So for me, modesty feels in order. Not as a correction of who I was, but as an expression of who I am becoming. Not because my body needs covering, but because my spirit needs clarity.

I know what attention feels like.

I know how quickly admiration can turn into entitlement.

And I’ve reached a place where I’m less interested in being consumed and more interested in being valued.

That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned beauty, femininity, or presence.

I still love looking good.

I still love being powerful.

I still love the quiet power of walking into a room and shifting the energy.

The difference now is intention.

This isn’t about shrinking.

It’s about aligning.

Holiness, for me, doesn’t cancel desire, it disciplines it. And modesty doesn’t mean invisible. It means deliberate.

Holy Boldness

If there’s one thing Aunt Barbara taught me, it’s that boldness doesn’t mean going against God; it means being willing to go beyond what you were taught in order to live your faith fully.

We were raised in the Church of God Holiness. And if you know that tradition, you understand community service wasn’t emphasized the way it is in other spaces. But Aunt Barbara didn’t let that limit her. She didn’t reject her faith; she expanded it. She lived holiness with her hands, her time, and her presence. She showed up intentionally for people - quietly, consistently, without needing applause.

That kind of boldness didn’t break the church.

It fulfilled the God she believed in.

Now, in this season of becoming, I’m asking myself what holy boldness looks like for me.

It doesn’t mean abandoning what shaped me.

It means listening closely enough to know when God is inviting me to stretch it.

Holy boldness might look like boundaries.

It might look like rest.

It might look like refusing to perform strength while my body is asking for care.

It might look like serving differently, loving differently, showing up with intention instead of obligation.

I don’t have all the answers yet. But I know this: boldness doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers, keep going… just differently.

The Body Keeps Score

Before June, I moved through the world without thinking much about my eyes, my balance, my pace. Then everything shifted, almost overnight. Words slipped away mid-sentence. Vision followed. Weight dropped. My body demanded attention I couldn’t ignore.

What’s been hardest isn’t just the loss - it’s the uncertainty. Not knowing what’s temporary and what’s permanent. Not knowing how much of myself I’ll get back. Learning how to live in the meantime.

And yet… even here… there is joy.

Black joy.

Not loud. Not performative. But rooted. The kind that survives disappointment. The kind that exists even when institutions fail you. Even when people move on too quickly. Even when your life gets interrupted without permission.

Becoming

This blog isn’t about answers.

It’s about awareness.

About honoring the tension instead of rushing past it. About listening more closely - to my body, to my spirit, to God. About accepting that this version of me is still under construction, and that doesn’t make her weak.

It makes her honest.

I’m not trying to be less of a woman.

I’m learning how to be more of myself — with clarity, with boundaries, with reverence.

The tension is real.

And it’s holy.

Gratitude

Before anything else, I am grateful to God.

For covering me in this season.

For holding me steady when my body, my vision, and my certainty have all shifted.

For blessing me even in interruption, and for reminding me that delay is not denial.

I’m genuinely looking forward to what He has in store for me. Not with anxiety. Not with urgency. But with trust. This season has taught me that becoming doesn’t require force. Just faith.

I’m deeply grateful for my Mum, and for my beloved Aunts and cousins - for how we’ve drawn closer, leaned in harder, and loved each other more intentionally than ever. Grief has a way of rearranging family, and somehow, we’ve found one another again in the middle of it. 💚 (Thanks, Babs)

To Robert my love, thank you for taking such incredible care of me. For your patience. Your steadiness. Your presence. You’ve shown me what love looks like when it’s lived, not just spoken.

To my besties, thank you for knowing when to check in, when to sit quietly, and when to remind me who I am. Your love has been a lifeline.

To Bishop Lewis, thank you for covering me spiritually, for your guidance, your prayers, and your consistency when my footing has felt uncertain.

And to Babs. My girl. Thank you for still showing up.

For the signs.

For the nudges.

For the reminders that love doesn’t end when life does.

I miss you. More than words can hold.

This season has been heavy, but it has also been holy.

And I don’t take that lightly.

I’m walking forward with gratitude, with clarity, and with trust,  knowing I’m not walking alone.

The tension is still holy… and the story isn’t finished. Meet me here again on 1/28 at 9:28 PM.

Blessings! 

#GodIsIt

💚