Faith, Friction, And Forward Motion

I’ve been searching for, dreaming of, wishing, praying—throwing the whole spiritual kitchen sink at it—for a shift in my life. The kind of shift that brings peace, joy, and a deep exhale calm. Not the kind that shows up with a bigger paycheck or shinier stuff, but the kind that changes how you live inside your life.

I want an intentional, fulfilling life regardless of what my bank account says or what I own. And part of that desire has been getting louder lately: I need a career change.

Here’s the honest part. I love writing. Truly. But if I turned it into my full-time grind, it would lose its magic. It would stop being therapeutic and start feeling like another box to check, another thing to monetize, optimize, and eventually resent. I know myself well enough to know I’d burn it to the ground. So for now, writing stays sacred.

I also don’t hate my job or the company that signs my paycheck. In fact, I respect it. But over the past year, my role has been flipped upside down thanks to AI, automation, and an ever-growing reliance on tech. I get it—growth, efficiency, profit. That’s the game. But while the company moved forward, my role somehow moved backward. What once felt like progress now feels like regression. And that matters.

I’ve spent nearly eight years building something I’m proud of. Accomplishments, skills, grit earned the hard way. Letting go of that isn’t easy. But sometimes honoring your past means refusing to stay stuck in it. Sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is admit it’s time for a full overhaul.

My husband and I pray over this. I lean into my redeemed community. But I also know this: I can’t just sit around waiting for change to fall into my lap like a divine Amazon delivery.

Yes, I believe there is a grand design. I also believe participation is required.

You can pray for health all day long, but if you’re not removing what’s poisoning you, nothing changes. You can pray for strength, but if you never pick up the weight, you won’t be able to carry it when it matters. Faith isn’t passive—it’s partnered with action.

And here’s the part people don’t love to hear: when you ask for something, you’re not denied it—you’re tested.

Ask for wealth? You’ll be tested on how you manage it. Blow it recklessly, hoard it fearfully, or worship it—and it won’t last. But steward it with generosity and wisdom? That’s when it multiplies.

And riches don’t always come in dollars.

Sometimes they show up as a family that needs constant love, nourishment, patience, and guidance. Not a one-and-done blessing, but a daily responsibility. That’s how life works as a follower of Christ. You don’t just check the box—baptized, church attended, saved, next task.

It’s a relationship. Ongoing. Messy. Daily.

Even when it feels quiet. Even when you’re convinced no one’s listening. He’s there. Walking beside you. Sometimes letting you learn the hard way—not because you’re abandoned, but because growth requires friction.

When my husband and I were deep in financial struggle, raising three babies and scraping by, we learned something invaluable: relationships and time matter more than stuff. I learned how to make life feel magical with very little. Movie nights. Game nights. Picnics in the yard. Dinner around the table, actually talking, actually listening.

That season gave me more joy than money ever has.

Now, let me be clear—I’m not romanticizing struggle or saying money doesn’t matter. We need it to survive this very human existence. And I’m definitely not saying prayer replaces effort.

It’s the opposite.

Pray and move.

You don’t wait for the gift—you prepare for it. You build the capacity to hold it, wield it, sustain it, all while staying rooted in Christ’s teachings. That’s the work.

And let’s be real—having a strong, grounded partner in this life? Massive bonus.

Someone who can hold you when you’re having a full-blown meltdown on the kitchen floor, sobbing because everything feels heavy and unfair. Someone who reminds you of the good seasons when this one feels endless. Someone who gently says, “This will pass—and you’re meant to learn something in this rain.”

This is me choosing not to stay stuck. Choosing faith with backbone. Choosing action without abandoning belief.

Call it punk rock. Call it disciplined faith. Call it holy rebellion against a system that says hustle harder and numb yourself along the way.

I’m choosing to live rooted, intentional, and awake.

And I’m not waiting anymore.

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