That is exactly how I approached this journey. In the beginning, there was no missing the gym because I didn’t feel like going. There was no eating something I had decided I wasn’t eating and calling it a well deserved cheat day. I knew myself well enough to know that I hadn’t earned that kind of flexibility yet. At that stage, missing one day could very easily become missing three, then a week, then somehow realizing a month had passed. My old habits had years of familiarity behind them. The new ones had a few weeks. Of course my mind would choose what it already knew if I kept giving it the option.

So for months, I gave myself very little room to negotiate. I went to the gym. I changed the way I ate. I completely cut out sugar, which has since become one of the boundaries I actually want to keep for life. More than anything, I kept showing up until these choices stopped feeling like things I was constantly forcing myself to do and started feeling like the way I live.

Eight months later, I am noticing the difference in the smallest moments. I can miss the gym one day and know, without having to convince myself, that I will be back. I can eat something that doesn’t perfectly align with how I usually eat, enjoy it completely, and carry on with my life. There is no panic that I am slipping backwards because I have eight months of evidence telling me otherwise. I have built enough trust in myself to know that a deviation does not have to become a new direction.

And maybe that is the privilege consistency eventually gives you: room. Room to deviate without derailing, room to enjoy without turning enjoyment into a pattern, room to loosen the structure because you have built it strongly enough to step outside of it and still know exactly how to find your way back.

I don’t think I needed more flexibility at the beginning. I needed to become someone I could trust with flexibility.

Eight months of consistency gave me that.

I used to roll my eyes a little whenever people talked about how much sports teach you about life. I heard it particularly often when I lived in the United States, where sports seemed to carry lessons about everything: discipline, leadership, resilience, teamwork, character. I understood the sentiment, but I had heard it so many times that it started to sound like one of those things people repeat because everyone else does.

Then I started playing tennis.

Today, in the middle of practice, I noticed something. There were people talking around the court, and a few times I turned my attention toward them, trying to figure out who was speaking. Later, my mind wandered into the rest of my day. I started thinking about what I needed to do afterwards, where I needed to be and how I would organize everything.

Almost every time my attention left, my shot told on me.

I would miss the ball or hit it terribly. Nothing about my ability had changed in those few seconds. I had not forgotten how to hold the racket or where to position myself. The only thing that had changed was how much of my attention I was giving to what was in front of me.

And I could physically see the difference between what 80 percent of my focus produced and what 100 percent produced.

That stayed with me because life rarely gives us feedback that quickly. In most areas of our lives, we can give something 80 percent of our attention and still get away with it. The work still gets submitted. The conversation still happens. The meeting ends. The day moves on. Because we did not completely miss the ball, we assume we played well.

But today made me wonder how often the quality of what we produce is limited not by our ability, but by our attention.

We are so used to divided attention that we often mistake it for efficiency. We answer messages while working, think about tomorrow while experiencing today, listen while preparing what we want to say next, and mentally move on to the next thing before we have finished the one in front of us. Then, when the result is average, we assume we need more skill, more discipline, more preparation or more time.

Sometimes, perhaps, we just needed to be fully there.

That is what tennis made impossible for me to ignore today. The ball does not care that your body is technically on the court. If your attention is somewhere else, eventually your shot will reveal it.

Maybe that is what people meant all those years when they said sports teach you about life.

There are things I may already have the ability to do well. The question is whether I am giving them enough of my attention to find out.

The other day, I sat at a table with some of the smartest young minds I have been around in a while. They were opinionated, unapologetic about what they believed, and perhaps most importantly, they had tough skin. We could disagree strongly without anyone interpreting disagreement as disrespect. We could challenge each other without needing to soften every sentence. People raised their voices, interrupted to challenge a point, defended their positions, changed directions, came back with another argument, and somehow, hours later, we were still going. Nobody seemed tired of it. Nobody needed the conversation to become less intense in order for it to remain enjoyable. There was something so refreshing about being around people who understood that passion does not always have to be quiet to be constructive.

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, I remembered how much I love this.

I had almost forgotten. Which is understandable, because I have not had many spaces for it lately. The people I love do not necessarily share my appetite for dissecting an idea for hours simply because I find it interesting. When I go on one of my tangents, they sometimes clock out halfway through, or assume I am frustrated because of how intensely I am speaking, when most of the time I am simply excited. I can talk endlessly about the things I care about. I want to question them, turn them around, hear the opposing argument, defend my own, find the weakness in someone else’s reasoning and have them find the weakness in mine. That is fun to me. I do not say this as a criticism of the people around me. If anything, it simply explains why sitting at that table felt so significant.

There are things we love that we do not consciously decide to stop loving. Life just stops giving us opportunities to do them. Slowly, they get tucked away somewhere. We become occupied with other things, surrounded by different people, absorbed in different seasons, and eventually we stop noticing their absence. Then, sometimes completely unexpectedly, life pulls one of those things back out of storage and places it right in front of us. Suddenly, there is this almost childlike recognition of yourself: Oh. I love this. I forgot how much I love this.

That is what that table gave me.

I loved being surrounded by people who were not easily offended by disagreement. People who could care deeply about an idea without needing everyone else to agree with them. People who could hear a strong opposing argument and respond with an even stronger one. There were moments when the passion almost made you want to stand up, bang the table and insist that everyone listen because surely, surely, they were missing the point. And strangely enough, it brought me so much joy. Not because I enjoy conflict for the sake of conflict, but because there is something deeply stimulating about being challenged by people who care enough to challenge you well.

As I reflected on it today, an old thought came back to me. Maybe I really should have studied law.

For a long time, law was something I imagined for myself, and part of me wonders whether I would have loved having a profession that gave this side of me somewhere to go. A place where argument could become craft, where questioning assumptions was expected, where you could spend your days building a case for something you believed mattered. There is something almost funny about imagining being paid to exercise a part of myself that the people around me sometimes lovingly wish had an off switch.

But I am not particularly interested in living backwards. I do not want to turn a beautiful realization about myself into regret over a road I did not take. If anything, the thought quickly became something else. Instead of wondering whether I should have chosen differently, I started wondering where this part of me might still belong in the life ahead of me.

And if there is something I could ask God to place somewhere along my path, even if only for a season, I think it would be this. I would love to find myself in work that requires me to challenge ideas. To interrogate policies. To sit across from intelligent people who disagree with me and have to make a case for why I believe something should be different. To defend ideas that matter, to be challenged on them, to sharpen them, and perhaps sometimes to abandon them because someone across the table made a better argument. I would love work where passion is not something I have to constantly tone down, but something that can be disciplined into usefulness.

And perhaps most of all, I would love for that passion to be in service of something much bigger than me. To debate the things that shape people’s lives. To argue for better systems, better policies and better possibilities for people across this continent. To bring all that fire into rooms where decisions are being made and where ideas have consequences beyond the people sitting around the table. There is something incredibly meaningful to me about the possibility that one day, the very instinct that makes me want to argue about an issue for three hours could be put to work on behalf of something that matters.

I do not know what that looks like yet. Maybe it is policy. Maybe it is advocacy, public service, diplomacy, or something I do not even have the language for yet. I am learning not to demand that every realization immediately become a plan.

Sometimes it is enough to simply pay attention to what makes you come alive.

Because perhaps those moments are telling us something. Not necessarily that we chose the wrong path, or that we need to rearrange our entire lives, but that there are parts of ourselves asking to be used. Parts that have been quiet not because they disappeared, but because they have been waiting for the right room.

The other day, I found one of mine sitting around a table.

Earlier this year, I attended a women in leadership event where one of the speakers said something that has stayed with me ever since.

She spoke about preparing our bodies for the weight of our future responsibilities. She talked about the dreams we carry, the work we hope to do, the people we want to serve, and how all of that eventually depends on the body carrying us through it. I remember sitting there thinking about how much time I spend preparing my mind, my skills, and my career, yet I had never really thought about preparing my body in the same way.

That thought has BEEN on replay.

Growing up, food was never something I gave a great deal of thought to. I wasn’t particularly picky, though I wouldn’t describe myself as a foodie either. I simply ate what was around me. It wasn’t until I left home at fifteen and started living more independently that my relationship with food slowly began to change. With every passing year came more freedom, more disposable income, and easier access to whatever I happened to be craving. If I wanted a burger, I could get one. If I wanted chocolate, it was always nearby. Delivery apps made almost anything available within minutes, and over time I stopped thinking very much about whether I actually needed something. If I wanted it, I could have it.

I don’t think I realised how much that pattern had shaped me until this year.

The more I reflected on it, the more I noticed that I had become someone who struggled to tell my body no. If I was craving something, I found it difficult to enjoy anything else. There were days when I would rather wait until I could get the food I wanted than eat the meal already in front of me.

This year has invited me to ask different questions.

Instead of asking myself what I feel like eating, I’ve found myself asking what my body actually needs. I’ve become curious in ways I never was before. What does this food contribute? What nutrients am I missing? How can I build meals that genuinely support my health? I’ve found myself researching ingredients, asking questions, getting health checks, and becoming genuinely curious about nutrition in a way I never was before. I still find myself asking questions almost every day because there is so much I don’t know.

One of the things that has surprised me most is discovering how adaptable we really are. There were foods I genuinely disliked before this year that now appear on my plate every week without much thought. Somewhere along the way I realised that our preferences are often more flexible than we assume. When we consistently choose something that is good for us, our bodies gradually become familiar with it. What feels strange at first slowly becomes normal. We don’t always give ourselves enough credit for our ability to adapt.

That has probably been one of my biggest lessons. Discipline isn’t only about learning to say no. Sometimes it’s about patiently teaching yourself to enjoy different things, trusting that the habits you practise today eventually become the ones that feel natural tomorrow.

As I’ve reflected on all of this, I keep coming back to that conversation about preparing for the future. I care deeply about the life I hope to build. I care about the work I believe God has placed before me, the people I hope to serve, and the responsibilities I pray I’ll one day carry well. If those things matter to me, then the body that will carry them matters too.

I haven’t gotten this perfect, and I don’t expect to. There are still days when the cravings are loud, days when saying no feels much harder than others, and days when I have to remind myself why I started in the first place. But every time I’ve chosen to push through one of those moments, I’ve built a little more trust in my ability to do it again. That confidence hasn’t come from never struggling. It’s come from proving to myself, one decision at a time, that I’m capable of making a different choice.

This also doesn’t mean I’ve stripped every enjoyable meal out of my life. That’s never been the goal. There will be birthdays to celebrate, occasions that call for that one slice of pizza once in a blue moon, and moments where sharing a favourite meal with people I love is part of the joy of the occasion. Those moments have their place. The difference is that they’ve stopped being the pattern and started becoming the exception. My hope is that the habits shaping my everyday life are the ones that nourish my body well, while those celebratory meals remain exactly that: celebrations.

Perhaps that’s the conviction 2026 has given me more than anything else. I’m no longer just learning how to eat differently.

I’m learning how to prepare the vessel.

We tend to save reflection for December.

Maybe it’s because the end of the year naturally invites us to look back and take stock of everything that happened. We think about what we accomplished, what surprised us, what challenged us, and what we want to carry forward.

Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about how much can happen in a single day.

A phone call can change the direction of your life. A conversation can alter your perspective. A decision can completely reshape your future.

If so much can happen in a day, how much can happen in six months?

As we near the halfway mark of 2026, I keep finding myself looking back at January and realizing just how much life can hold in such a short period of time. Six months ago, I had no idea what this year would look like.

And yet, here we are.

Halfway through the year, and there is already so much to look back on.

The biggest change came in January when I made the decision to move back home to Rwanda, seven years ahead of schedule. It was abrupt, unexpected, and required me to adjust far more quickly than I would have preferred, but it has also been one of the most meaningful transitions of my life.

These first six months have also marked the longest period of consistency I’ve ever had in the gym. As I write this, I am eleven kilograms down. Alongside that, I’ve become far more intentional about what I eat, paying attention to nutrition, understanding what serves my body, and becoming more disciplined about the choices I make every day.

I’ve said yes to opportunities that stretched me, responsibilities that challenged me, and projects that required me to step into unfamiliar territory. More than once, I’ve found myself learning on the job, adapting in real time, and discovering that I was capable of handling far more than I initially thought.

The people have been one of the greatest highlights of this season. I’ve had conversations with people I admire, built meaningful relationships, expanded my network, and found myself in rooms that once felt very far away.

There have been moments this year when I have sat across from someone and quietly thought to myself, “A few years ago, I would never have imagined being here.”

Not because I felt out of place, but because God has a way of exceeding your expectations.

Creatively, this has also been a meaningful season. I’ve continued working on my memoir, launched my Substack, and spent more time writing than ever before. For the first time, I feel like I am building a body of work instead of simply collecting ideas.

I’ve also become far more intentional about reading. In these first six months, I have read more books than I have in the rest of my life combined. At twenty-three, that feels slightly ridiculous to admit, but better late than never. Reading has become an investment in my growth, helping me think more deeply, communicate more clearly, and approach my work with greater substance.

Perhaps one of the most rewarding parts of these first six months has been seeing the fruit of seeds planted long before this year began.

Last year, I made a conscious decision to put myself out there. I became more intentional about personal branding, more intentional about sharing my writing, more intentional about speaking, and more intentional about letting people see my work.

The first half of 2026 has rewarded that decision in ways I never expected. Opportunities have emerged because of work I did months ago. Conversations have opened doors I didn’t know existed. I’ve experienced encouragement, recognition, and support that remind me how important it is to keep showing up.

As I reflect on these first six months, a few things stand out.

The first is that confidence is built through evidence. Every promise you keep to yourself becomes evidence that you can trust yourself. Every commitment you honour becomes another reminder that you are capable of following through. These first six months have given me a lot of evidence.

The second is that obedience carries rewards of its own. Some of the greatest blessings of this season came from decisions that didn’t make complete sense at the time. Looking back, I am reminded that when God asks us to move, there is often something waiting for us on the other side of our yes.

I’ve also been reminded not to underestimate my ability to adapt. Life can come at you very quickly. Plans change. Opportunities arrive unexpectedly. Entire seasons can shift without warning. These first six months have shown me that I am far more capable of navigating change than I once believed.

And somehow, we’re only halfway through.

A few days ago, I committed to spending the next six months sugar-free. Soon, I’ll begin learning tennis. Both are small reminders that growth never really stops and that there is always another opportunity to challenge yourself.

For now, though, I simply wanted to pause and acknowledge these first six months.

They have been full.

And if this is what can happen in half a year, I can’t wait to see what the second half holds.

Watching it unfold made me think about how uncomfortable many people are with rejection, especially public rejection. I do not even mean romantic rejection specifically. I mean the broader reality that not everyone will choose you, align with you, support you, agree with you, admire you, visit you, or feel connected to you in the way you hoped they would.

What bothered me most was the dishonesty behind the reaction. There is something deeply immature about pretending you never saw value in someone simply because your pride was bruised. The moment people feel rejected, many immediately begin rewriting the truth publicly in order to protect themselves emotionally.

I have always believed that one of the clearest signs of emotional maturity is being able to accept that you are not entitled to being liked by everyone. No person is. No community is. No country is. No brand is. No public figure is. At some point, everyone will encounter people who misunderstand them, dislike them, disagree with them, or simply choose distance from them, and that has to be survivable without turning bitter.

What makes this even more interesting is that most people already understand this concept when they are the ones doing the choosing. We all move through life deciding who we connect with, whose perspectives we agree with, whose energy we enjoy being around, and whose we do not. Yet when that same freedom is exercised toward us, many people suddenly struggle to accept it. The same humanity we extend to ourselves also exists in other people. They, too, are allowed their perspectives, preferences, convictions, and distance.

I also think social media has made people deeply reactive. Every disagreement feels personal, and every rejection feels humiliating. Instead of responding with thoughtfulness or substance, many people immediately respond emotionally and call it defense. But real defense is rarely emotional performance. It is composure. It is substance. It is being informed, articulate, and secure enough not to collapse into mockery the moment you disagree with someone.

There is nothing strong about abandoning honesty because your feelings were hurt. If anything, it weakens your position. It makes people appear emotionally driven rather than grounded in conviction. Not every disagreement requires humiliation, and not every rejection requires retaliation.

The truth is that not everyone will choose you, and that is perfectly fine. Learning how to exist without universal approval is part of becoming emotionally grounded. Some people will misunderstand you. Some will keep their distance. Some will not see things the way you do. None of that has to turn into resentment.

There is freedom in accepting that people are allowed to feel differently about you than you feel about yourself.

I was watching one of my favourite creators on Instagram, and she said something that stayed with me for the rest of the day: thank God that days end.

At first, it sounded like such a simple statement, but the more I sat with it, the more profound it became. I do not think I had ever fully considered the mercy behind the way God designed our lives. Every single day eventually comes to an end. No matter how overwhelming, painful, frustrating, or exhausting it was, night still arrives. We rest. We sleep. We are given permission to stop carrying the weight of the day for a little while.

And honestly, what a gift that is.

Lately, I have been thinking about how different life would feel if it was just one endless day. No pause. No sleep. No reset. Just continuous movement without relief. Some days are already hard enough to carry on their own. There are days filled with anxiety, disappointment, grief, and mental exhaustion, and the thought of those feelings stretching endlessly without interruption feels unbearable.

But God did not create us that way.

He created our bodies to need rest. He allowed tiredness to become part of the human experience. And I think there is something deeply loving about that. Rest is not simply a suggestion for a healthier lifestyle or better productivity. It is woven into creation itself. It is evidence that God understands human limits and responds to them with compassion.

There is a verse in Book of Lamentations that says His mercies are new every morning, and I think I am only now beginning to understand the beauty of that promise. Every morning carries its own grace. Its own strength. Its own opportunity to begin again.

I think that is why hope survives even after difficult days. Because deep down, we know tomorrow is coming. A bad day is painful, but it is temporary. Eventually, we sleep. Eventually, morning arrives. Eventually, light returns again.

I remember watching a series once where a character kept saying, “Tomorrow will be a better day.” At the time, it sounded small, almost ordinary, but now I think there is something incredibly powerful about holding onto that belief. Choosing to trust that tomorrow may carry peace that today did not. Choosing to believe that God’s mercy will meet you again in the morning.

Maybe that is one of the quietest forms of faith.

To close your eyes after a difficult day and still believe that tomorrow is worth waking up for.

I think one of the biggest lies we tell ourselves is, “I’m not ready yet.”

For the last five or six years of my life, so many things have unfolded earlier than I expected them to. Opportunities, responsibilities, and transitions that I genuinely thought would come much later in life somehow arrived years ahead of schedule.

And as someone who plans everything, it unsettled me at first.

I think part of me assumed there would be more time before certain responsibilities found me. More time to grow, more time to prepare, more time to become the version of myself I imagined could carry those things well. Maybe part of it was fear. Maybe part of it was underestimating what God had already placed inside of me.

Because the truth is, a lot of the things that stretched me most were not even things I chased aggressively. Some opportunities simply found me. And while I was grateful for them, stepping into those seasons often came with nerves, uncertainty, and lots of, “God, I really don’t feel ready for this.” And then proceeding to be obedient anyway.

But one thing I have learned is that when God truly orchestrates something in your life, He does not abandon you in it. He shows up for you. He walks you through it. He holds your hand through it in ways you could never predict.

I remember starting my first real corporate job and feeling so overwhelmed during those first few months. Every time I walked into the office or dealt with a client, I was constantly talking to God in my head. “Please walk me through today.” “Please let this go smoothly.” “Please don’t let me deal with really difficult people today because I’m already nervous.” I was trying to adjust to everything while also trying to prove to myself that I could actually do it.

And somehow, God always met me there.

I still made mistakes. I still had difficult days. I was far from perfect. But He definitely held my hand through every part of it.

And I think that is also one of the biggest lessons these seasons teach you. When you are stretched beyond what feels comfortable, when you are deeply aware of your own limitations and lack of experience, you stop depending entirely on yourself. You realize very quickly that you genuinely need God to walk you through it.

That kind of stretching humbles you.

You start recognizing just how much of your journey has been covered by grace. Yes, I have skills. Yes, I have gifts. But there have been plenty of moments in my life where that simply was not enough, and I know I could not have carried certain things on my own strength.

It had to be God.

He sent the right people at the right time.
He gave me favor in rooms I felt too inexperienced to enter.
He gave me room to learn.
He gave me grace to make mistakes and still come back the next day and keep going.

And little by little, your confidence grows, not just in yourself, but in God’s ability to sustain you through things you once thought were too big for you.

I still have moments where I feel stretched by life. Moments where I think, “Oh boy, this came much sooner than I expected 😬.” But I no longer see that feeling as a sign to shrink back.

Because I am learning that readiness is often built while you are already walking.

I think so many people delay themselves waiting to feel fully ready before they begin. But if God is placing something in front of you, maybe the point is not that you already have everything figured out. Maybe the point is that He will guide you through becoming the person capable of carrying it.

Some things can only be learned once you step into them.

And maybe that is the reminder someone needs today:
You do not have to feel fully ready to begin.

You just have to be willing to walk with God through the process.

This morning, while I was having breakfast, I caught myself thinking about a situation I’m currently in and how I’ve been handling it. Not perfectly, and definitely not naturally, but with a level of patience that surprised me, because I know I wouldn’t have handled it this way in the past.

I’ve always been a big picture person. That’s the clearest way I understand myself. Vision excites me, it grounds me, it gives me something to move toward. I tend to see where things are going before I fully understand how they’ll get there, and that clarity has always felt like a gift. Even growing up, I was far more drawn to outcomes than to everything it takes to arrive at them. The process didn’t feel natural to sit in, and the details often felt like something I could move past rather than fully engage with.

For a long time, I believed I could build my life that way. I thought people simply operated in different lanes, and that was enough. I would focus on the vision, and others would handle the details, and somehow it would all come together. Not just because it felt like my strength, but because I assumed that if I was created this way, then it must be enough to sustain me.

But over time, that belief started to meet reality. Not in one defining moment, but in patterns. Moments where moving too quickly meant having to revisit things later. Situations where choosing to move past certain parts, even when I understood them, created gaps that couldn’t be ignored. Times where I realized that clarity on the outcome didn’t automatically translate into strength in execution.

And if I’m honest, I still don’t naturally enjoy that part. I still lean toward the end goal, still feel the pull to move faster than the process allows. That hasn’t really changed. What has changed is my understanding of what the process actually holds.

Because the details are not just small tasks, they’re structure. They’re where discipline is built, where judgment sharpens, where things either hold or fall apart. And in a world that runs on systems, people, and execution, you don’t get to bypass that, no matter how strong your vision is. If anything, trying to move around it tends to make things longer, not shorter.

I think that’s been the most humbling part. Realizing that being wired one way doesn’t mean you’ll only ever live within that space. If anything, it often means you’ll be placed in situations that stretch you beyond it. I used to think I would only ever operate from my strengths, but I’m starting to understand that growth asks for more than that. It asks you to understand what you naturally wouldn’t choose, to step into roles you once thought were meant for someone else, and to build a kind of awareness you didn’t come in with.

I’m still very much a big picture person. That hasn’t shifted, and I don’t think it will. But I’m no longer under the impression that vision alone is enough. There’s a weight to the details that I didn’t fully respect before, and I’ve come to see that you can’t separate the two if you actually want to build something that lasts.

And this morning, it felt good to look back and see how far I’ve come. Because I know, without a doubt, that this same situation would have once left me frustrated or restless. The kind of patience I’ve been carrying through it feels like a quiet sign of growth. At the same time, I’m aware that there is still so much work to be done, and I don’t want a moment like this to make me overlook that. But it does remind me that something is shifting, even if it’s happening slowly.

The moment an idea settles into your mind and, somehow, you know it’s not just passing through. It lingers. It asks for your attention. It feels undefined, but at the same time, it carries a kind of weight you can’t ignore. You can’t fully explain it yet, and if someone asked you to articulate it clearly, you probably couldn’t. But internally, there’s a certainty that this matters.

I’m in that space right now. I’m working on something for 2027 that I’m not ready to share yet, and I’ve noticed that it’s bringing out a different kind of emotion in me. For the first time ever, I feel nervous to execute it, and I’m starting to realize that it comes from how deeply I care about it and from the way I can already see the potential it has to become something meaningful.

Of course, there’s also the overwhelming side of it. The awareness of how much you don’t know yet, how many pieces still need to come together, and how much work it will actually take to bring something from an idea into something real. That part is unavoidable. But what has stayed with me more than anything else is what exists underneath all of that.

There’s a kind of excitement that feels almost too simple to take seriously, but I think it might be one of the most important parts of the entire process. It’s the quiet belief, sometimes barely even spoken, that this could be the idea that changes everything.

And I don’t think we pause on that enough.

We move so quickly to logic, to practicality, to questioning whether something will work, that we almost overlook how powerful that initial feeling is. The anticipation, the curiosity, the way your mind starts to expand around something that didn’t exist for you before. It’s not loud or dramatic, but it’s deeply motivating in a way that’s hard to replicate once you’ve moved too far into execution.

I’ve tried many things before, and not all of them turned into what I once imagined they could be. Some of them redirected me. Some of them taught me lessons I wouldn’t have learned any other way. But through all of that, one thing has remained constant, and it’s something I’ve started to value more intentionally.

I still get excited about new ideas.

I still allow myself to sit in that space where something small and undefined feels like it could become something meaningful. And I think that matters more than we give it credit for, because the moment we lose that, we start approaching our ideas differently. We become more detached, more cautious, more inclined to treat them as optional instead of potential.

But what if we didn’t?

What if we approached every new idea with the awareness that it could be the one that opens the biggest door in our lives? Not with pressure, not with unrealistic expectations, but with a level of care and commitment that reflects its possibility.

Because the truth is, we never really know which one it will be.

The idea you’re holding lightly right now, the one you haven’t fully explored, the one you’re not sure is worth the time yet, could be the one that shifts everything for you. It could be the one that creates opportunities you haven’t even considered yet, or leads you into a version of your life that feels more aligned than anything before it.

And maybe that’s the perspective I want to hold onto as I build this, slowly and intentionally.

Not certainty. Not control.

Just the awareness that this feeling, this excitement, this quiet sense that something matters before it has any proof behind it, is something I never want to lose.

Because if I can hold onto that, I think I’ll always be willing to begin again.

“Everything happens for a reason” is one of those phrases we say so easily, but if you really sit with it, it asks something deeper of us. It asks us to believe that God is not only present in our lives, but intentional in every detail of them.

Not just in the milestones, but in the timing of things. The places we find ourselves in. The people we cross paths with. The sequences that feel ordinary while we are living them, but later reveal themselves as anything but.

Scripture says, “The steps of a man are established by the Lord” (Psalm 37:23). Not some steps. The steps.

Which means there is nothing careless about how our lives unfold.

When I look back, I don’t just see memories. I see patterns. I see how one season positioned me for the next, how one encounter quietly opened the door to another, how moments I barely registered at the time became the very ones that shaped what came after. There are connections I could not have orchestrated on my own, alignments that feel too precise to be coincidence.

Next year will mark ten years since I met someone who is now deeply significant in my life. At the time, it was nothing more than a brief interaction at a debate camp. Hundreds of people were there. It wasn’t a setting designed for anything meaningful beyond the moment. And yet, out of all those people, our paths crossed. We spoke. Life moved on. Years passed before that connection became what it is today.

And when I look back now, I can’t help but ask… what are the odds?

What are the odds that in a place full of people, at that exact point in time, God would allow that encounter to happen, knowing what it would one day become?

At some point, it stops feeling like chance and starts pointing to intention.

To me, life feels less like something being figured out as it goes, and more like a story that has already been written by an all-knowing God, now continuously unfolding through His orchestration. And that perspective changes how I experience everything.

It makes me more attentive to where I am, because I no longer assume this moment is random. It makes me more accepting when things don’t align with what I expected, because I have seen how necessary past misalignments were to bring me exactly where I am today. It builds a kind of trust that doesn’t rely on immediate understanding, but on the character of a God who sees the full picture.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him” (Romans 8:28).

Not in some things. In all things.

That includes the moments that feel delayed, the ones that feel unclear, even the ones that feel inconvenient. When you begin to see your life through that lens, you stop resisting every detour and start recognizing that it may be part of the design.

And maybe that is where the depth of that simple phrase truly lies.

Not in saying that everything happens for a reason, but in understanding that there is a God behind the reason. A God who is intentional enough to align moments you would overlook, precise enough to place people in your path at the exact time they need to be there, and wise enough to connect it all in ways you may only understand in hindsight.

When you see that clearly, it does something to you.

It steadies you. It sharpens your awareness. It allows you to move through life with a quiet confidence that even now, even in this very moment, something is being aligned, something is being prepared, something is unfolding exactly as it should.

Not by accident.

But by design.

I left my permanent 9 to 5 banking job for an internship. After getting my bachelor’s degree.

It didn’t make sense. And if I’m being honest, it wasn’t supposed to.

But this isn’t really about that decision. This is about you, the one sitting on a decision you know you’re supposed to make, but haven’t.

The one who feels it clearly. Not confusion, not impulse, you know. But you’re hesitating because it doesn’t add up on paper. Because it looks like a step back. Because you can already hear what people will say.

I need you to understand something: obedience will rarely make sense before you do it.

If you’re waiting for everything to align perfectly before you move, you’ll stay stuck. Because God doesn’t ask for perfect understanding. He asks for your yes.

And that yes is not easy.

It will cost you control. It will cost you the version of your life that feels safe, predictable, and explainable. But what you don’t see yet is that your grip on what makes sense might be the very thing blocking what God is trying to build through you.

I’ve had to learn this over and over again.

Leaving my 9 to 5 wasn’t the first time I chose obedience over logic. It was just one of many moments where I had to let go of what made sense and trust what I felt God was asking me to do. And every single time, it stretched me. Every single time, it felt uncomfortable. But every single time, it led to something I could not have created on my own.

That’s how this works.

Obedience builds endurance. The more you say yes, the more you realize you can. But it also builds trust, not just your trust in God, but your awareness of His faithfulness in your own life.

You start to see it. Personally.

You see how He carries you when things don’t make sense. How He fills in gaps you didn’t know how to close. How He uses seasons that look like setbacks to actually position you.

So when He asks again, even if it’s bigger, even if it’s harder, you move. Not because you have all the answers, but because you’ve seen enough to know He doesn’t fail you.

And still, there will be moments where you don’t feel ready.

When I moved back to Rwanda, I didn’t have everything figured out. It was another act of obedience. Another moment where I had to move without having the full picture.

But here’s what I can tell you: I was more prepared because I had already said yes before.

If I had stayed in that 9 to 5, held onto the stability, protected what looked good, I would have missed the time I needed to build myself. I would have missed the space to create, to write, to show up, to understand my vision, to actually sit down and map out what I’m called to do.

I would have been moving now with far more fear and far less clarity.

That internship season wasn’t random. It was intentional. God used it to pull me out of building someone else’s structure so I could start building what He placed in me. He gave me the time to invest in my personal brand, to grow publicly, to take myself seriously, to work on something that would move with me wherever I go.

And now I see it.

This is what obedience does. It connects.

What feels like separate, confusing decisions in the moment comes together. He puts it together in ways you couldn’t have planned, couldn’t have predicted.

But you only see that on the other side of yes.

So if you’re there right now, stuck between what makes sense and what you feel called to do, I’m not going to tell you to wait until you feel ready.

You won’t.

I’m telling you to move.

If you know it’s God, if you feel it deeply, if it keeps coming back no matter how much you try to reason your way out of it, take the step.

Not recklessly. Not blindly. But obediently.

Because I am a living example that what doesn’t make sense on paper can still be exactly what God uses to elevate you.

I have walked away from stability with nothing lined up. I have chosen paths that looked like downgrades. And every single time, God has used those decisions to build me, to stretch me, and to position me for more.

It will come together.

Not always immediately. Not always how you expect. But it will.

Let go of needing to control how it looks. Let go of needing everyone to understand. Let go of needing it to make sense before you move.

Just say yes.

Because on the other side of that yes is a version of you that only obedience can unlock.

It’s 4 p.m. and I’m sitting on my balcony in Kigali.
The birds are chirping, there’s a soft breeze in the air, and everything feels still in the most gentle way.

I had a late lunch.
I have nowhere to be.
And for once, I’m not thinking about what’s next.

I’m in a waiting season.
An in-between, where things are still coming together and life hasn’t fully taken its next shape yet.

And what’s surprised me is this: I haven’t been restless.

Not anxious. Not overwhelmed. Not lying awake trying to figure everything out.

That doesn’t mean I’ve been passive. I’ve been intentional, putting myself out there, building, positioning myself for what’s ahead. But underneath all of that, there’s been a steady sense of trust.

A quiet confidence that what is meant for me will align, without me forcing it.

And recently, I’ve realized why this season has felt so different.

I don’t want to look back on this time and feel like I missed it.

I don’t want to be the person who says, “I wish I slowed down,” or “I wish I enjoyed it more.”
I want to know that when I was here, I was fully here.

Because I know this won’t last forever.

Life will fill up again. The very things I’m praying for will come, and with them, a different pace. And when that happens, I don’t want any part of me wishing I had lived this season differently.

So I haven’t rushed it.

I’ve let my days unfold at their own pace.
Taking my time at the gym, moving my body without rushing to the next thing.
Naps without guilt.
Time to read, to write, to sit and think for as long as I need.

Nothing extravagant. Just present.

And maybe that’s what this season is teaching me more than anything else; how to live a moment while I’m still in it, instead of only understanding its beauty once it’s gone.

I’m also aware that this kind of waiting is a privilege. For some, it feels heavy and urgent, filled with pressure rather than peace. And I don’t take that lightly.

So I hold this season with gratitude.

Because while I may not have it like this again, I know one thing for sure,

I won’t be looking back wishing I embraced it more.

Two months since I decided, firmly, finally, that I would not be going back.

And if you know me, you know this about me: I am decisive.

Not in a rushed or careless way, but in a way that comes from conviction. When I feel that God is asking something of me, I don’t linger in hesitation. I move. I trust. I obey. And there is a kind of grace in that… an ease that allows me to make life-altering decisions without clinging too tightly to what I’m leaving behind.

But what I’m learning about myself… is that just because I move quickly, doesn’t mean I process quickly.

Because here I am, months later, and the weight has finally arrived.

It didn’t come when I said, “I’m staying.”

It came quietly, unexpectedly, in the in-between moments.

It came in the absence of things I didn’t realize had become part of me.

Lately, I’ve found myself grieving Canada.

Not because I regret leaving but because I finally understand what I lost.

I miss the independence. The kind that isn’t loud, but lives in the small, everyday choices. Making breakfast at whatever hour I wanted, in a kitchen that was mine. Sitting on my balcony, letting the breeze meet me in stillness. The quiet ownership of my space, my routine, my life.

I miss the people. Living with friends, sharing meals, having conversations that stretched late into the night for no reason other than we could. The ease of “Are you home?” turning into hours of laughter, reflection, and comfort.

I miss the environment, the rhythm of it all. The ability to step out and grab a coffee whenever I felt like it. The familiarity of small indulgences: a Starbucks run, a sweet treat, a random McDonald’s craving that could be satisfied within minutes. It wasn’t about the things themselves, it was about what they represented: freedom, access, choice.

I miss the version of myself that Canada held space for.

Because Canada wasn’t just a place I lived, it was a place that formed me.

It stretched me. It introduced me to parts of myself I didn’t know existed. It gave me space to grow, think independently, speak boldly, and discover who I am and what God created me for.

It was where I learned how to stand on my own.

Five years of becoming. Five years of growth that didn’t always feel like growth at the time.

And now, sitting here, oceans away from that life, I realize something:

You can be certain in your decision… and still grieve what it cost you.

Obedience does not cancel out emotion. Discernment does not exempt you from loss.

If anything, it deepens it.

Because when you know you’ve made the right choice, you don’t grieve with regret, you grieve with reverence.

You honor what was.

And so this is me, honoring Canada.

Thank you for the independence you gave me. For the friendships that held me. For the life that taught me how to live fully, freely, and boldly.

Thank you for shaping me into someone who could make a decision like this in the first place.

Because the truth is, I would not have had the courage to leave… if I hadn’t first learned how to stand.

And maybe that’s the beauty of it all.

Canada was never meant to be my forever. It was meant to prepare me for it.

So yes, I am grieving.

But I am also grateful.

And I am learning that both can exist at the same time.

That realization came from years of feeling like I was speaking a language no one around me quite understood. Growing up, I had big dreams. Some were spiritual, some deeply personal, some simply larger than what people were used to hearing from someone my age. And I shared them freely. I didn’t know how not to. But more often than not, they were met with a kind of laughter that didn’t feel like celebration. Sometimes it was subtle, dismissive, the kind that makes you feel like you’re being humored rather than heard. The kind that quietly suggests you don’t fully know what you’re talking about yet.

And it didn’t just come from one place. It came from everywhere. People close to me and people not so close. At the time, I kept moving. I’ve always been self motivated. If I saw something, I chased it. If I had an idea, I acted on it. I did not wait for permission, and I did not rely on validation. That part of me has always been strong, and I still appreciate it. But what I didn’t do was acknowledge that it hurt. Because it does. It hurts when you share something that feels sacred and the person across from you is not really listening. It hurts when your excitement is met with indifference, or when your vision is reduced to something small, especially when it comes from people you care about.

And yet, in the middle of all that, something else was happening. Strangers began to see me. People with no history or context would look at me and speak things I had only ever held privately. They would name things I had not even fully said out loud. It was disorienting. How could someone who just met me see what people who have known me for years could not? But maybe that is the point. There is a verse that says, “A prophet is not without honor except in his own town and in his own home” (Matthew 13:57). For a long time, I did not fully understand it. Now I do. Familiarity can blur vision. People who have always known you as one version of yourself can struggle to hold space for who you are becoming.

If I am honest, there was one person who saw me clearly from the beginning. My grandmother. She did not just listen to my dreams, she spoke into them. She saw beyond what was in front of her and called things out in me that I had not fully grasped yet. In many ways, she filled a space that could have easily turned into doubt. Sometimes, all it takes is one person who sees you clearly to keep you grounded.

But even with that, the reality remains. Being misunderstood is still part of the cost. And I am learning that the goal is not to eliminate that cost, but to build the strength to carry it. Because the truth is, the same people who do not understand you in the beginning may celebrate you in the end. When things start working, when the vision becomes visible, when the results speak louder than your words ever could, everything shifts. It would be easy to become bitter about that, to remind people where they stood when you were still building. But that is not the point. The point is to become the kind of person who was never doing it for approval in the first place. To stay anchored in purpose so deeply that recognition does not change you and misunderstanding does not break you.

So yes, being misunderstood is a cost.

But it’s also a confirmation.

A sign that you’re not living your life for comfort. A sign that you’re not shrinking yourself to fit what’s familiar. A sign that you’re moving in alignment with something bigger than opinions.

And if that’s the price, then it’s one I’m willing to pay.

Over and over again.