“I love you.
I chose you.
Your flaws won’t change that.”

You would probably pause for a moment, trying to understand if they really meant it. Because those are not small words. Words like that hold more weight than they seem to at first.

If someone told you they loved you, that alone would mean they see something in you worth loving. If they told you they chose you, it would mean they weren’t forced into it. They decided.

But if they added that your flaws wouldn’t change that choice… that’s where the words start to land differently.

Because it means they already see the imperfect parts.

The weaknesses.
The inconsistencies.
The things you’re still trying to fix.

And somehow, none of it will make them leave.

It can be hard to believe a love like that exists. Not because you’re cynical, but because you’ve learned love differently.

Often, we love people because of how they make us feel. We’re drawn to those who bring comfort, who make the hard days easier to bear, who leave us feeling lighter after a conversation. Love can grow around warmth, familiarity, and the moments that make life more enjoyable.

And there’s nothing wrong with that—it’s simply human.

But that kind of love, as beautiful as it can be, is also fragile.

When love hinges on feelings, circumstances, and the ways someone meets your needs, it can struggle to hold the weight of imperfections.

So we carry the quiet fear that if someone truly knew us, maybe they wouldn’t stay.

If someone sees too much of the real us—our flaws, our past, our inconsistencies, our weaknesses—maybe they’ll change their mind.

Maybe they’ll step back.

Maybe they’ll leave.

For a long time, I carried that subtle assumption into my relationship with God.

Not intentionally. Just slowly, the way beliefs settle in without us noticing.

But over time, something began to change.

More like a realization that kept returning until it became impossible to ignore.

There were situations I had put myself in where I genuinely didn’t know how to untangle myself. Moments when my own misguided choices left me feeling trapped, conflicted, and unsure of what to do next.

And somehow, clarity would come.

Sometimes it came as a thought that felt wiser than anything I would normally come up with on my own. Sometimes it was a simple question that changed the way I looked at the whole situation.

At first, I didn’t think much of it.

But later, when I looked back, I began to notice a pattern.

He had helped me find my way out before.

And before that.
And many times I hadn’t even noticed.

Not withdrawing.
Not reminding me of my mistakes.
Not walking away because I should have known better.

Just staying.

And slowly I began to understand something about the love of God.

It isn’t fragile.

It doesn’t disappear the moment you reveal the parts of yourself you’re still growing through. It doesn’t wait for you to become a better version of yourself before it draws near.

It meets you exactly where you are.

And strangely, that kind of love doesn’t make you careless.

It changes you.

There is something about knowing someone sees you clearly and still chooses to stay that changes the way you see yourself.

It makes you want to become better—not to earn their love, not because you’re afraid of losing love. But because you’ve finally experienced what it feels like to be held by it.

That’s what the love of God does.

It meets you where you are, but it doesn’t leave you the same.

It reminds you, again and again, that you are not abandoned in the middle of your becoming. That his love for you doesn’t retreat because of your imperfections or the ways you fall short.

And perhaps that’s the most powerful part of it all.

When you know you are loved like that, you start to believe something else might also be true.

That you can grow into the woman God already sees in you.

Write to you soon,

Tomi.

The days and nights you spiral. The doubts and the “what ifs.” Some days you can’t even hold the weight in; you end up tearing up unexpectedly because something needs to go right and you’re not sure it will.

I’ve been here countless times.

It’s that point where staying calm doesn’t even feel responsible. Where not being agitated feels reckless, because you’re staring at a situation that could genuinely go very wrong. Remembering past breakthroughs suddenly feels insignificant compared to what you’re facing now.

Maybe you’re in one of those seasons right now.

You’ve prayed. You’ve done what you can. And yet here you are…lying down, your mind refusing to stay quiet. Every worst-case scenario loops endlessly, each replay heavier than the last, a fatigue that has its own kind of torture.

And underneath it all is the thought you don’t want to say out loud:

What if God doesn’t show up this time?

I’ve been there too.

The situation is real. The weight is real. Nothing about this feels small.

But here’s what steadies me when my mind starts racing:

Not denial.

Memory.

You have the evidence.

Remember, you’ve been in daunting situations before. Moments where you didn’t know how things would work out. Moments where you didn’t know who to call or what to do next. Prayers that felt like they were hitting the ceiling.

And yet, here you are.

Still standing. Still carried.

That’s not luck. That’s not a coincidence either. That’s history.

Evidence that you are seen.
Evidence that you are carried.
Evidence that you are not doing life alone, even when it feels quiet.

He cares for the lilies. How much more does He care for you? His character doesn’t change just because your circumstances look scary.

So tell that mountain, regardless of how big it looks, about your God.

Tell it about the doors that opened when there were none. Tell it about the provision that came at the last minute. Tell it about the strength that showed up on days you swore you had nothing left. Cry if you need to. But remind yourself who has been carrying you this whole time.

Mountains don’t move when you panic. They move when you remember to trust the one who has been carrying you all along.

And when the tears dry and the emotion settles, what remains isn’t absolute clarity. It’s a choice.

The choice to refuse the spiral.
The choice to focus on the God that holds you.
The choice to say, if He did it then, He will do it again.

Trials will come. Disappointments will happen. But you are not walking through them alone.

You have the evidence. YOU are the evidence.

Tomi.

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Instead, I spent the next few hours revising my plans. Again. I color-coded priorities. Reorganized my task list. Felt very strategic about it all. Then I cleaned my apartment, not because it was particularly dirty, but because I could finish that and feel accomplished. I did grocery shopping. I cooked.

By the time I actually opened the document, I was already exhausted and couldn’t do much.

I’d done a full day’s work doing a dozen things that weren’t insignificant, and still ended the day knowing I hadn’t touched the one thing that mattered.

This wasn’t the first time this kind of thing happened. If you’ve ever experienced this, stay with me.

Being occupied feels productive. It gives you something to point to when someone asks what you did all day. Something to blame your exhaustion on.

But see, there’s a difference between figuring something out and hiding inside the idea of figuring it out.

Figuring it out means you sit down and write the bad first draft. Hiding inside it means you spend three hours researching the perfect outline format. Figuring it out means you choose to have the difficult conversation. Hiding is you planning what you’ll say for so long that the moment passes.

The worst part? Hiding. It is exhausting.

It takes genuine effort to maintain the illusion that you’re working on something when you’re actually working around it. You’re moving, you’re thinking, you’re even tired at the end of the day.

You do just enough to convince yourself you’re trying. You start, you stop, you reconsider, you plan... You hesitate, then…You’re stuck. You want change, but you keep giving your best energy to whatever feels easiest at the moment.

I'm trying to catch myself faster now.

The truth is: writing is one thing I desire to improve at, and the one thing I avoid most consistently. I have the thoughts, they’re clear when I’m walking, when I’m in the shower, when I’m falling asleep. But the moment I sit down to write them, something changes. The clarity I once had retreats. Resistance pulls up a chair and sits beside me. And suddenly, there are twelve other things that need doing first.

Last Friday evening, I noticed I was rearranging things in my room instead of opening the draft I needed to work on. Caught myself mid-rearrange. Stopped. Carried my laptop to my bed and sat with the discomfort of the blank page for about forty-five seconds before I started writing.

This is what I’m calling myself back to: the work that costs something.

Here’s what I’m realizing: “Go hard” doesn’t mean intensity. It doesn’t mean working yourself into the ground or hustling until you burn out.

It means eliminating the escape routes.

It means choosing to do the work before you feel ready. Staying with it long enough for repetition to do its quiet, unglamorous work. Letting your days rearrange themselves around what actually matters instead of what feels easiest.

That part exposes you.

Once you commit, you can’t hide behind the potential you’ve been romanticising anymore. Your habits start answering for you. Your output starts speaking. There’s nowhere to retreat to except the work itself.

And “going home”? I don’t think that’s failure. I think it’s honesty. And the idea of it doesn’t scare me anymore.

I’ve walked away from things. Sometime last year, I had to stop a project after admitting to myself that I liked the idea of it more than the actual work it required. That truth stings, yes, but it's honest.

Its more honest than spending another eight months of half-hearted effort and growing resentment.

Going home is admitting you don’t want it enough to do the work it requires. That’s fine.

What’s not fine? Staying in the middle.

Occupied enough to feel tired, but never committed enough to anything for it to change. Working just enough to be able to say "I tried" but not hard enough to actually find out what you're capable of.

That’s the version of myself I’m terrified of becoming.

That’s what “go hard or go home” actually means to me.

Not perfect execution. Not grinding harder. Not having it together. Just refusing to drift unnecessarily. Refusing to let another week pass where you're exhausted but doing everything except the things that you say truly matter.

The choice is simpler(not easier) than we pretend: do the thing or don’t. Stop or start. Commit or quit.

Just stop camping out in the middle and calling it “the work”.

Here's a question to sit with: What's the one thing you know would actually move the needle, but you keep finding twelve other things to do first? How bad do you really want what you say you want?

Write to you soon,

Tomi.

Just like you, I’m figuring this whole life thing out one step at a time.

I want to do better for myself. That’s honestly one of the reasons I decided to create this space and start writing. Not because I have it all together, but because I don’t, and I’m trying anyway.

But I’ve been struggling with some things.
And last year, I struggled a lot with imposter syndrome.

You know that feeling where you finish something and immediately think, This isn’t good enough?
Who are you to write that?

I had that feeling more times than I can count.

I wrote drafts I never published.
I reread them and discarded some because something in my head kept whispering: not deep enough, not smart enough, not ready yet.

And when you pair that voice with fear and overthinking, it’s funny how quickly they team up. Suddenly, you’re not just hesitating — you’re stuck.

This doesn’t only show up in writing.

It shows up when you:

• Don’t apply for the job

• Don’t send the pitch

• Don’t share the messy idea

• Don’t take the imperfect step

Not because you can’t.
But because something inside you keeps pulling the brakes.

I’ve been trying really hard to overcome that, if I’m being honest.

And the funny part is, this very post you’re reading almost didn’t get sent for the same reason.

That familiar feeling of it’s not good enough… you’re not communicating what you have in your head properly… showed up right on time.

But I decided to send it anyway.

Not because the doubt disappeared. It didn’t.

But because I started treating these voices differently.

Before I share how, let me tell you something simple about how our minds work.

Your mind’s first job isn’t growth — it’s protection.

Psychologists talk about this often: the brain is wired to avoid threat, uncertainty, and rejection. It’s constantly scanning for danger, even when the “danger” is just emotional discomfort or the possibility of being seen.

So when you’re about to do something unfamiliar — something that stretches you — your mind doesn’t ask, Is this meaningful?
It asks, Is this safe?

And if it’s unsure, it sends signals.

Those signals don’t come as alarms or flashing lights.
They come as thoughts. Very reasonable ones.

Maybe wait a bit.
You need more clarity.
This could be embarrassing.
You should be more prepared.

It’s less like an enemy attacking you, and more like a very cautious system pulling you back into what is familiar.

It's like having a smoke detector that goes off every time you cook. The alarm thinks it's protecting you, but really, it's just stopping you from making dinner.

Now, the popular advice around this is familiar. I’ve given it myself.

Do it even when you’re afraid.
Do it despite imposter syndrome.
Push through the resistance.

And to be fair, that advice isn’t wrong. It can be helpful.

But it doesn’t fully take into account how these things actually show up in real life.

Because fear, self-doubt, procrastination… they aren’t just abstract emotions floating around us.
They’re like voices with personalities.
And that’s why they’re so persuasive.

So instead of treating them like vague feelings I needed to overpower, I decided to try something different.

I started treating them like people. Friends actually.

Not the kind, supportive friends, but more like those friends who swear they’re being honest with you for your own good.

Fear isn’t just fear.
It’s more like a friend who sits close, grabs your hand, and says,
This is as far as you should go. Don’t push it. Stay where it’s safe.

Lack of confidence keeps insisting,
Not yet. You’re not ready. You need more proof. Besides, someone else could probably do this better anyway.

Procrastination is subtle. She sounds considerate.
Rest first. We’ll start tomorrow. There’s no rush.

Imposter syndrome is the paranoid one.
They’re going to find out you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t belong here. You just got lucky — and eventually, that luck runs out.

Comparison always points at someone else.
Look how far ahead they are. You’re so behind. What’s taking you so long?

Perfectionism never lets you finish.
It’s not good enough yet. Keep fixing it. Don’t show anyone until it’s flawless.

Overthinking is the one who spirals with you.
But what if this happens? And then what? Have you thought about that? What if you're missing something? You need to think it through more before you decide.

When a friend says things like this to you over and over again, you don’t immediately sit down and cancel your life.

You feel shaky.
You hesitate.
Sometimes you even think, This person isn’t good for me.

But something else kicks in, too.

You think: “I’ll show you”(that strong desire to prove them wrong!).

So now, when these voices show up, I don’t try to fight them away.

I let fear say its piece, I observe it like a third party, and then I hit send anyway.
I let lack of confidence talk, and I take the step anyway.
I nod at imposter syndrome, and I publish the post anyway.

Because at the end of the day, none of these voices actually stops you.
They just talk.

And talking isn’t power unless you hand it the mic and grab a chair.

So this year, I’m not trying to erase these voices.
I’m not trying to “fix” myself.

I’m just demoting them.

They can walk with me.
They just don’t get to decide what I do and don’t do.

And with time, I hope their voices fade into the background(and even if they don’t, that’s their problem, not mine).

If this is something you’re already practicing, that’s amazing.

If you’ve been stuck, not because you’re incapable, but because something keeps pulling you back, maybe this gives you another way to look at it.

Not as a personal failure.

Just as friends, you don’t have to obey.

And if this note feels a little imperfect,
That’s okay.

I sent it anyway.

Tomi,

Silimitless.

Heyyyy friend, thank you for reading to the end. Before anything else, I want to wish you a happy new yearrrr, and I hope you’re doing okay.

If this post made you realize you’ve been listening to one of these voices a little too much, tell me which one in the comments. I’d love to know I’m not the only one demoting some friends this year.

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There’s a thought that keeps nudging at me, one that feels almost ridiculous to say out loud:

“How long am I supposed to suck at something I desperately want to be good at?”

And I don’t mean the version of “sucking” we package for the internet — the curated version where imperfection looks almost adorable. I’m talking about the real thing. The part no one posts because it’s not cute. Clumsy, inconsistent, slightly humiliating. The sort of attempt that makes you wince and want to close the tab on yourself.

Because there’s this middle place nobody warns you about, the long hallway between the version of you who imagines a thing and the version who can actually do it. A place where your imagination sprints ahead, but your skills are still stumbling behind, trying not to trip over their own feet. A place where you want something so badly that wanting becomes its own kind of pressure.

I felt this when I attempted to sing after hearing a voice that absolutely wrecked me.
It was one of those voices that lifts you a little out of yourself, and for a second I thought — maybe I could give this singing thing a try again. So I downloaded a tutorial. Watched it. Tried to mimic the breathing, the control, the ease.

I know my voice isn’t terrible. I can hear the potential somewhere underneath.

But the moment I opened my mouth? My voice fumbled in ways I wasn’t prepared for. I tried to hold a note and accidentally created a sound somewhere between a screech and a plea. I kept going, replaying the video, adjusting my posture, trying again, hoping the universe would show me mercy. Instead, each attempt felt a little more humiliating.

Whatever elegance I’d imagined kept turning into chaos.

And suddenly the whole thing felt impossible. It’s wild how quickly a dream can wobble after a couple of messy attempts.

I felt it again when I tried drawing.

I’ve always admired how someone can make a sketch look so effortless that you start believing you can do it too. So, I saw one that looked simple, almost insultingly so, and thought, ‘I should be able to replicate this in a few tries.’

But what came out of my hand looked nothing like what I imagined, more like a sketch trying to figure out what it was supposed to be. I tried again. Adjusted the lines. Erased and started over. The gap between what I imagined and what appeared on the page was… humbling.

After a few attempts, I caught myself thinking, Will I ever get good at anything?

No one warns you about that emotional swing, wanting something so much your chest tightens, and still being unmistakably, repeatedly bad at it.

It’s a place where each attempt feels like it exposes something fragile about you. Where your confidence flickers like a tiny flame in a windy room. Where every hour you invest seems to make your doubts louder, not quieter. A place where you start wondering if it would hurt less to stop wanting altogether.

And yet… this uncomfortable place, this awkward, messy, deeply humbling middle is the one place every skilled person has passed through. Not one of them skipped it. They just survived it long enough for something to shift.

Here’s one thing I’m slowly learning: desire and skill aren’t twins.

They don’t arrive together.

One shows up early and impatient. The other needs time, repetition, and space to grow without being shamed for how small it still is.

So I’m asking the question again, gently this time:

Can you tolerate sucking at this, not just once or twice, but for as long as it takes? Can you sit with the wobbling, the doubts, the gap between wanting and doing, without letting any of it shrink your desire?

Maybe courage isn’t the confidence of “I can do this.”
Maybe it’s the quieter thing — the choosing to come back again, even after a day that bruised your pride. (This is a hill I’m willing to die on.)

Not perfection. Not even speed. Not the performance of competence.

Just… permission.
To be here.
To keep learning.
To be a beginner without apology.

If you’re somewhere in that middle, too, that space where your desire is louder but your ability is still catching up, maybe this can be your permission slip as well.

You’re allowed to suck at the thing you want. You’re allowed to hold the hope and the awkwardness at the same time. To let your attempts be messy, clumsy, and honest.

With Love,

Oluwatomisin

SILimitless.

Thanks for taking out time to read till the end.

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Yesterday was one of those days my mind and body ganged up on me.

I was supposed to hit the gym, but the moment I saw how dark it was at 3 pm, something inside me gave up a little. The day had that strange kind of darkness that messes with your sense of time and tricks your mind into thinking the day is over. The cold didn’t help either. The air had that sharp, unfriendly edge that bites your skin and makes the simplest task feel heavier than it should.

My mind started whispering perfectly reasonable explanations:

“It’s already late.”
“It’s too cold.”
“You’ve done enough this week.”
“Tomorrow will be better.”

Now, what scared me wasn’t the temptation to skip the gym.
It was how reasonable the excuses sounded.
How easily I could’ve said, “You know what? I deserve to rest,” when really I was just avoiding discomfort.

But then a question slipped into my mind, the one that forces you to be brutally honest with yourself:

Who do you want to be right now?

Not “Who do you want to become in the next five years?”
Not “Who will you be when motivation shows up or when conditions are right”. Right now. When no one will ever know what choice you made.

The answer was clear:

“I want to be the kind of woman who doesn’t negotiate with her commitments. Who knows her health isn’t a bonus - it’s the foundation. Who understands that the discipline she’s forging isn’t separate from her dreams; it IS the dream”.

So I packed my gym bag.
Zipped it slowly.
Stood up even though every part of me was insisting I didn’t have to.
Opened the door and stepped into the cold.

Twenty-four minutes later, I walked into the gym.

I noticed something:

By the time I arrived at the gym, I had completely forgotten I ever felt reluctant.

The resistance I felt earlier vanished the moment I moved through it.

Like it was never real to begin with.

That’s when it made sense:

Maybe our bodies don’t wait for motivation. Maybe they wait for proof.

They test us to see if we’ll actually follow through on what we say we want. Once you prove you’re serious, they stop arguing and fall in line.

Because the REAL BATTLE is never on the days you’re motivated.
It’s the days when your mind negotiates gently, almost respectfully.
The days when your brain sells you “rest” that’s not rest( just avoidance). The days they tell you to wait for a better moment. The days when skipping “just today” sounds harmless.

But every time you push through that resistance, you teach yourself something important:

You can trust YOU.

And that trust?
It’s what builds the kind of life you crave.

-

With Love,

Oluwatomisin
SILimitless.

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You didn’t plan to think about it, but the thought came anyway. Soft, but heavy:
“I want to be proud of myself by the end of this year.”

Not just proud of the boxes I ticked or how put-together I looked on the outside...
But proud of how I showed up for me.

For getting out of bed when I wanted nothing more than to disappear under the covers.
For saying NO to distractions that felt good in the moment but stole time I’ll never get back.

For refusing to worry over things I can’t control.
For doing the hard things, not perfectly, but honestly. Consistently.
For walking away from comparison, even when it tried to sneak in quietly.
For learning to be present in my current life, instead of always waiting for “better days.”

That version of me I keep imagining?
She’s not built overnight.
She’s built in small, quiet choices.
In choosing what’s right over what’s easy.
In showing up, again and again, for myself.

And maybe you’ve seen glimpses of your version, too.
In those moments of boldness, when you said, “I will try again.”
Or in those quiet sparks of clarity when you thought, “I know I’m made for more.”

It’s time.
To become the version of you that’s always been in there.
The one you’ve only seen in flashes, but felt too unsure to fully step into.

I’m done waiting for the perfect plan.
I’m starting from here.
From now.
For me.

And if that tug in your heart has been growing louder,
That ache to do better for yourself, to live more intentionally,
You’re not alone.

Let’s become better.
On purpose.

With love,

She is Limitless.

You leave church lighter. Hopeful.
Quietly reminding yourself: “My struggles won’t last forever…”

After all, isn’t that what faith promises — peace, meaning, joy, and the assurance that your life is held by something bigger than you?

But then Monday comes.
Then Tuesday.
Then the whole month.

Your pastor declared, “This week, doors of opportunity will open for you!”
And you believed it. Truly.

Yet nothing seems to shift.
No unexpected blessing.
No sudden miracle.
Not even a small reminder that things are moving in your favour.

Then one day, a friend shares their testimony —
“Guess what happened? I got the job.”
“I got approved.”
“Something I prayed for finally came through.”

You’re happy for them.
But something tightens inside you.
You start wondering if God is looking everyone’s way except yours.

And then the questions begin.

What do you do when the prophecies you held onto seem delayed?
When the verses that once kept you hopeful feel like reminders of what hasn’t happened yet?

Why does it feel like some people’s prayers get answered faster?
Why do others seem to move ahead…
While you’re still waiting for your own “suddenly”?

Are you doing something wrong?
Or is something else happening that you can’t see yet?

In an attempt to answer these questions and comfort ourselves, we cling to certain narratives — especially in faith spaces.

And for a long time, I swallowed those explanations even though they didn’t sit well with me.
I told myself I was young.
The people giving these explanations were older, wiser, and more “spiritually seasoned.”
So what right did I have to question it?

Then one afternoon, something in me snapped.

It was around 2:00 p.m. -ish on a Saturday. I was cleaning the house and singing along, passionately to a worship song, so moved that I wanted to give God a literal hug.
But somewhere in the middle of the song, the worship leader stopped singing and started talking. It was supposed to be a Spirit-led moment. But instead, his words made me go quiet. Like something inside me just froze for a second.

He said:

“If your waiting time is longer, it means your assignment is greater.”

“You see your friends leaving you behind? (meaning they’re advancing while you’re somehow stuck or not making significant moves like they are yet)...”

He went further to say:

“The man and the woman God will use best, He will not bless first.”

I mean, that’s deeply comforting, and I dare to say, it fans the ego of anyone who seems to be moving at a slower pace compared to the people around them. Or someone who has prayed, and it seems like their blessing isn’t coming as quickly as they want.

I paused the song immediately. I felt… irritated.

I couldn’t accept that one possible explanation for my delay was that God was preparing me for something "bigger" than my colleagues. Does that even sound like God, or just something we say to feel better?

Then, I realized it’s not just a saying popular in Christian circles. This narrative has spilled into everyday motivational culture, too. (But for today, let’s just focus on how it’s creeping into our churches).

I’m sure you’ve seen sayings like these:

“The reason it’s taking so long is because what you're carrying is heavier. Your assignment is bigger.”

“Don’t worry if others are winning before you. Your story is being written by a different Author.”

“They may look ahead now, but you are not late. God is preparing you for something they weren’t built for. Stay patient. Stay focused.”

And then we have saying with biblical references like “David was anointed long before he became king. God is taking His time with you because your purpose is greater.”

Greater than whose purpose?!!

Are we in some kind of race where the slower ones are now the “champions in disguise?”

When did we start treating life like a competition for the most dramatic “God-did-it” moment? Who has the biggest comeback? The most impressive testimony? The loudest breakthrough?

Where did we get this cheap and misguided narrative from? From the bible? I doubt it.

If we say delays or struggles mean “God is preparing us for something greater,” does that mean those who are moving forward faster than we are aren’t being prepared by Him? That their achievements are somehow less significant in God’s plan?

That logic doesn’t hold up.

Because let’s think about it, Mary, the mother of JESUS, the woman who birthed the “Savior of the whole world”, wasn’t delayed for a hundred years before her miracle came. If anything, her blessing rushed her. She got pregnant before she got legally married.

If we’re going to use “delay equals greater purpose” logic, Mary’s story doesn’t fit.

So why do we cling to this?

Is it because we don’t know how to sit with disappointment or delays without wrapping them in spiritual explanation?

Or maybe we’re so focused on being exceptional compared to someone else that we’ve forgotten the beauty in simply being present, faithful, and content.

Turning life’s timing into a spiritual hierarchy, where a slower journey equals a greater purpose, is more about our ego than about our trust in God.

It’s an oversimplification, one that often comes from a need to soothe our current disappointments, rather than embracing the truth: God works with each of us differently.

Instead of making comparisons with others, why not focus on your journey, running your own race, in your lane, while knowing that God is present in every season of your life?

And let’s be honest, some of what we call “waiting” or “delay” isn’t divine preparation; sometimes, it’s the result of our personal choices, our fears, external circumstances, or even systemic factors. And rather than waiting for a supernatural intervention, maybe we just need to take practical steps in moving our lives forward, knowing fully well that our steps are ordered.

That said, does God use seasons of “waiting” for our growth, maturity, and for a greater purpose? Absolutely.

But that is not a sign of a bigger purpose or blessing than someone else's.

Why do we even need it to be?

It’s time we move away from these comforting but misleading narratives and embrace a more balanced perspective:

Life unfolds differently for each of us.
And God’s presence isn’t measured by how fast or slow things happen for you compared to others.

Drops mic…

Oluwatomisin.
SILimitless.

God makes everything beautiful in his time…

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