Tag Archives: #waiting

❤️I WAITED 👑🔖

At the end of it all, when life finally slows down enough for reflection, I want it to be said, clearly and without explanation, that I waited.
Not that I rushed.
Not that I forced doors open.
Not that I settled because time was moving and pressure was loud.
But that I waited.
I waited for the money.
I waited for the marriage.
I waited for the car.
I waited for the house.
I waited for the peace.
I waited faithfully.
Waiting is not passive. It is not empty. It is not lazy. Waiting is loud on the inside. It is full of questions, calculations, prayers, tears, hope, disappointment, courage, and restraint. Waiting is choosing obedience when shortcuts are available. Waiting is trusting God when logic is impatient and fear is convincing.


There are days I am clapping while I wait. I am genuinely celebrating others; weddings, keys handed over, cars purchased, milestones announced. I show up. I smile. I applaud. Even when my heart quietly asks, “God, when will it be my turn?” I clap anyway. I refuse to let jealousy poison my spirit or comparison rob me of gratitude. I learn how to celebrate without resentment and how to bless without bitterness.
And then there are days I am wailing and waiting.
Days when the weight of responsibility feels heavier than faith. Days when prayers come out raw and unpolished. Days when I am tired of being strong, tired of believing without evidence, tired of trusting timing I don’t understand. I cry and I wait. I let the tears fall because faith doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay, it means staying even when it isn’t.
There are moments I am crawling.
Barely moving. Barely hopeful. Dragging myself forward with nothing but stubborn belief and whispered prayers. Crawling through financial pressure. Crawling through unanswered prayers. Crawling through loneliness. Crawling through disappointment. Crawling through seasons where effort doesn’t seem to equal reward.

And even there; low, exhausted, stretched thin ~ I am still waiting.


I ask God real questions.
I ask Him when it will be my turn.
I ask Him if He sees me.
If He remembers me.
If He knows how hard I’m trying.
Sometimes I even ask Him if He forgot about me.
And still ~ I wait.


I wait for money; not just to spend, but to steward. Not for excess, but for stability. For freedom. For provision that doesn’t come with panic. I wait to earn honestly, grow wisely, and build patiently. I refuse shortcuts that cost me my peace. I refuse wealth that demands compromise. I wait for provision that aligns with purpose.


I wait for marriage, not as a rescue, not as validation, not as proof that I am chosen, but as partnership. I refuse relationships where someone thinks they’re doing me a favor by choosing me. I wait for love that meets me with respect, safety, and intention. I wait for someone who doesn’t compete with my growth but celebrates it. I wait for something built, not borrowed.


I wait for the car, not just movement, but momentum. For progress that feels earned. For independence that doesn’t choke me with debt. I wait for the version that comes without anxiety attached. I wait because rushing would cost me more than patience ever will.


I wait for the house, not just walls, but rest. A place that feels like peace, not pressure. A space that holds laughter, healing, prayer, and growth. I refuse to force milestones just to prove I am not behind. I wait for the house that comes with stability, not stress.


But most of all, I wait for peace.
The kind of peace money can’t buy.
The kind marriage doesn’t guarantee.
The kind success doesn’t automatically bring.
The peace that settles your spirit even when life is still unfolding. The peace that tells you you’re not late, you’re aligned. The peace that allows you to sleep at night knowing you didn’t betray your values to arrive early.


Waiting teaches me restraint in a world addicted to shortcuts. It teaches me that not every opportunity is divine and not every open door is God. Waiting teaches me that preparation matters, that timing matters, that character matters.


I wait while people underestimate me.
While some write me off quietly.
While others accept me but don’t expect much from me.
While a few assume whatever comes my way is luck or pity instead of promise.
I don’t argue.
I don’t explain.
I don’t rush to prove.
I wait.


Because waiting is not absence, it is alignment. It is God shaping me into someone who can hold what I’m asking for without losing herself. Someone who won’t fumble the blessing because she skipped the process.
And when the day comes, when the money is steady, when the marriage is real, when the car is mine, when the house feels like home, when peace finally settles deeply, I don’t want the story to be about luck.


I want it to be said that I waited.
That I waited faithfully.
That I waited when it hurt.
That I waited when it felt unfair.
That I waited when giving up would have been easier.
That I clapped and waited.
That I wailed and waited.
That I cried and waited.
That I crawled and still waited.
That I trusted God when my hands were empty and my heart was tired.
And when He comes through because He will, I will know it wasn’t coincidence. It was obedience. It was patience. It was faith in motion.


I waited.
And He did not forget me.

The Promise Deserves The Process

There is a quiet truth life has been teaching me in layers, seasons, and sometimes through loss: once the process is compromised, the promise gets undervalued. It sounds simple, almost obvious, but living it is a different story. This realization didn’t come to me in theory, it came through lived experiences, missteps, impatience, and moments where I watched things I deeply desired slip away.

For a long time, I believed that wanting something badly was enough. That passion, intention, and prayer could substitute discipline, patience, and consistency. I thought if my heart was in the right place, the journey would somehow arrange itself. But life has a way of correcting what enthusiasm alone cannot sustain.
There were seasons when I was more in love with the outcome than with who I needed to become to sustain it. I admired the finish line, the title, the stability, the validation, the sense of arrival, without respecting the daily, often boring work that leads there. I wanted results that required roots I had not yet grown.
So I rushed. I skipped steps. I leaned on shortcuts dressed as “opportunities.” I convinced myself that speed meant favor. But when the results came too early or without depth, they felt fragile. They felt undeserved. They felt easy to lose.
Some seasons are meant to stretch us quietly. To build emotional muscle. To teach restraint, wisdom, and discernment. Yet I’ve had moments where I resisted those slow seasons. I pushed myself into spaces I admired without asking whether I was fully formed for them.
When pressure came, I cracked. When responsibility increased, I shrank. Not because I was incapable but because I had bypassed preparation. The process I tried to escape was the very thing meant to stabilize me.

Sometime this year, during one of my hardest moments, I called a very close friend and pastor because I felt overwhelmed and tired of carrying pain that didn’t seem to end. As we spoke, he said something that stayed with me: “Sharon, unless you pass this exam and graduate this class, God will not promote you.” I remember telling him how hard it felt, how confusing it was to understand God in that moment. I cried deeply not because I didn’t believe, but because I was exhausted. I wanted the pain to end. I wanted to move on without another lesson attached to it.


Looking back now, I understand what he meant. Some seasons are not meant to be escaped; they are meant to be completed. What feels like delay is often divine insistence on depth. What feels like repetition is refinement. And what feels like punishment is often preparation in disguise.
Not all shortcuts are visible. Some live inside us.

There were times I avoided doing the deeper emotional work;  healing, self-honesty, accountability, boundaries. I told myself I had “moved on” when I had only buried things. I rushed forgiveness without understanding. I embraced new beginnings without closing old chapters properly.
And later, the same patterns returned, just wearing different faces. The promise of peace, clarity, or wholeness felt postponed, not because it wasn’t meant for me, but because I hadn’t yet allowed the process to refine me enough to hold it.
I’ve always known I carry potential, skills, vision, capacity. But potential is only raw material. Without discipline, structure, and consistency, it remains unused or misused.
There were opportunities that came before I had fully cultivated my character or systems. And when they did, I struggled to maintain them. It wasn’t punishment. It was exposure; exposure of areas still under construction.
I’ve learned that gifts can open doors, but only preparation keeps them open.
One of the hardest things to sit with is this: sometimes what feels like loss is actually protection. Sometimes what feels like delay is correction. And sometimes what feels like “God taking something away” is really life revealing that the foundation wasn’t strong enough yet.

A promise mishandled hurts more than a promise delayed.

Because when it slips away, it carries disappointment, self-doubt, and grief. But it also carries a lesson, one that gently whispers: you’re still becoming.
With time, reflection, and grace, I’ve begun to see the process differently. Not as punishment. Not as resistance. But as preparation.
The process teaches patience where impatience once ruled.
It teaches discipline where excitement once led.
It teaches identity before achievement.
It teaches depth before display.
Now, I’m learning to slow down without guilt. To sit with the work. To grow roots before expecting fruit. To let my character catch up with my calling.
Today, I move with more intention. I no longer chase outcomes just to say I’ve arrived. I ask better questions:
Am I ready to sustain this?
Have I honored the becoming?
Am I willing to grow quietly before being seen?

I am learning that the process doesn’t delay the promise, it protects it. And when the time is right, what comes will not feel fragile or borrowed. It will feel earned, stewarded, and deeply aligned.

And so I close this chapter with a steadier heart, choosing to honour the long road instead of rushing to the finish line, trusting that every slow, quiet, disciplined step is shaping me into the woman who can finally hold her promise without fear of losing it again.