There is a quiet ache that settles in when the future feels uncertain — a tender, pulsing space between what was and what will be. I am sitting here, in that in-between. It’s the place of waiting. Of surrender. Of not knowing what comes next, yet trusting that there is a sovereign plan unfolding — one I can’t yet see.

Some days, I find peace in this space. I breathe in stillness, and I can almost sense God’s hand weaving threads I don’t understand. There are fleeting moments when I’m certain He is near — in the warmth of sunlight through my window, in the comfort of a friend’s words, or in the whisper of Scripture reminding me that His plans are good.

But other days, the silence feels like weight. Loneliness creeps in quietly and settles deep. I wrestle with it — the ache of what is missing, the longing for something more, the uncertainty of how long this season will last. It’s a strange mix of ache and gratitude… a celebration of presence in the midst of absence. I am learning that both can exist together — joy and sorrow, strength and weakness, faith and doubt.

People tell me I’m strong, and maybe I am in ways I don’t always recognize. But strength doesn’t always feel like courage or confidence. Sometimes it’s simply staying — not running from the ache, not numbing the waiting, but sitting here and choosing to believe that God is still good. Even here. Even now.

I don’t know what the future holds. I only know that it isn’t mine to control. And maybe that’s the point — to stop striving for answers and instead surrender to the mystery of grace. To rest in the truth that the Author of my story is not finished writing yet.

So I wait — with open hands and a trembling heart. I wait in the unknowing, in the quiet, in the beautiful tension of being both undone and held.

And maybe, just maybe, this waiting isn’t wasted. Maybe it’s where my faith is learning to breathe.

“When I finally unclenched my hands, I discovered that surrender was not loss, but the beginning of peace.”