🦋Is This the Life I Am Meant to Continue Living?🦋

It’s my 46th birthday today. 🥰
Not in a loud or celebratory way, but in the quiet way birthdays sometimes arrive when you’re no longer counting candles — you’re counting meaning. 🎂🤍

I found myself yesterday walking into Chichester Cathedral, sitting down in stillness, praying without a script, without urgency, without asking for things.
Just breathing.
Just listening.

And in that silence, something unexpected happened —
not a voice,
not a vision,
but a realization that settled gently and firmly in my chest. 🕯️

This life I am living…
Is this the life I am meant to continue living?

Not a question spoken in fear.
Not a question asked out of regret.
But a question born from awareness.

And as soon as it formed, it expanded —
outward,
beyond me.

How about you?

That silence inside the cathedral did not feel empty.
It felt full — full of everything I had not said out loud in years.
Full of questions postponed because life was busy.
Full of truths that only show themselves when the noise finally stops.

The kind of silence that does not rush you,
does not demand answers,
but waits patiently until you are ready to be honest. 🤍

Have you ever stopped long enough to enter that kind of silence?
Not scrolling silence.
Not distraction silence.
But the kind where you are left alone with who you are becoming.

Are you happy being the person you are becoming —
not the version of yourself you present to others,
but the one who lives inside your thoughts when no one is watching?

The one shaped by your habits,
your reactions,
your coping mechanisms,
your private compromises.

Are you at peace with the direction your life is quietly taking?

Because life rarely announces where it is leading you.
It does not send warnings in bold letters.
It simply continues —

and one day you realize you have arrived somewhere
without remembering when you chose the path.

If everything stayed exactly the same —
your routines,
your relationships,
your habits,
your ways of coping —

would the future you are walking toward feel like heaven…
or like a slow, familiar kind of hell?

And when you stand before God one day —
not with explanations,
not with excuses,
not with the version of yourself you showed the world —

but with your life laid bare —

would the life you lived reflect who He was shaping you to be? 🙏

Life rarely collapses all at once.
It accumulates.

This is one of the hardest truths to accept.
We expect breaking points to be loud.
We expect destruction to be dramatic.

But most lives are shaped quietly.

Years stack on top of each other not as numbers,
but as evidence.

Evidence of what we chose repeatedly.
Evidence of what we avoided.
Evidence of what we tolerated because it felt easier than changing.

And one day, without warning,
the soul catches up to the body
and asks what the mind has been postponing.

The truth is, most people don’t choose their lives deliberately.

They inherit them.
They adapt to them.
They survive them.

They grow up inside patterns and learn to call them normal.
They learn what to endure,
what to silence,
what to accept without questioning.

They make peace with things that slowly drain them
because leaving feels too costly —
emotionally,
financially,
relationally,
spiritually.

They confuse endurance with virtue.
They confuse familiarity with love.
They call coping “strength”
even when it is hollowing them out from the inside.

📖 “There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death.”
— Proverbs 14:12

Death here isn’t only physical.
It is subtle.

It is the death of sensitivity.
The death of wonder.
The death of conscience.
The death of joy.

It is waking up years later realizing you have been living on autopilot —
feeding habits that keep you numb,
watering seeds that grow darkness,
telling yourself you will deal with it later.

Later is one of the most dangerous words we use.

Later allows patterns to harden.
Later allows wounds to rot instead of heal.
Later allows lives to pass without intention.

Hell does not always look like chaos.

Often,
it looks like repetition.

And sometimes the clearest contrast comes when we look beyond ourselves. There are people living with far less — the poor, the sick, and the oppressed — who carry a kind of gratitude many of us lose when life becomes comfortable. Those whose days are shaped by survival, pain, injustice, or limitation often understand the value of breath, of presence, of kindness, more deeply than those of us who have enough. Their lives quietly remind us that suffering does not erase dignity, that worth is not measured by comfort, and that gratitude is not born from abundance, but from awareness.

And sometimes, that repetition shows up most painfully in love.

Are you truly happy with your partner right now?
Not just settled,
not just surviving,
not just staying because it’s easier than starting over with someone else who truly desires your heart?

Or are you carrying a quiet guilt
that follows you into sleep
and greets you again when you wake up?

A guilt you try not to think about
because thinking about it would require
courage, honesty, and change.

Many relationships are marked by violence, control, or fear — and those situations require safety, protection, and help.

Some people, however, stay in relationships where there is no physical violence, nothing is obviously wrong — and yet something essential is missing.

Truth.
Presence.
Intimacy.
Joy.

They tell themselves this is just how life is.
That passion fades.
That honesty is overrated.
That everyone lives like this.

But deep inside,
there is a knowing —
a gentle ache —
that whispers:

This isn’t the love you hoped to live.

Others live with secrets.
Not always dramatic ones.

Sometimes it’s emotional distance.
Sometimes it’s someone they think about but never speak of.
Sometimes it’s the version of themselves they hide
because revealing it might change everything.

Guilt does not always shout.
Often, it waits quietly,
patient,
returning in moments of stillness.

Guilt is not always condemnation.
Sometimes it is conscience still alive.

Forgiveness is where that conscience is meant to lead us — not into shame, but into release. Forgiving others, and forgiving ourselves, does not erase what happened; it frees us from carrying it forever. Some wounds stay tender, some memories remain, but forgiveness loosens the grip of the past so it no longer dictates who we are becoming. Without forgiveness, truth becomes heavy. With forgiveness, truth becomes healing.

Fear keeps many people here.

Fear of being alone.
Fear of hurting someone.
Fear of disappointing family.
Fear of admitting they made a choice
that no longer fits who they are becoming.

So they stay.
They endure.
They normalize the ache.

But fear has a cost.

Fear slowly teaches you to live half-present.
Fear teaches you to silence truth to preserve comfort.
Fear convinces you that peace is too expensive.

And the question returns —
gently,
insistently:

Wouldn’t you want to stand up to your fear?
Not recklessly.
Not cruelly.
But honestly.

Wouldn’t you want to live a life
where you no longer have to hide parts of yourself
from the people closest to you?

A life where love is not just maintained,
but lived with integrity?

A life where you could stand before God
without the weight of unspoken truths
shaping your story more than love did?

Truth may disrupt comfort —
but it heals the soul. 🤍

Fear preserves comfort —
but erodes peace.

And choosing truth does not mean life becomes easy.
It means life becomes whole.

Waking up tired before the day begins.
Repeating patterns you promised yourself you would stop.
Staying in relationships where your soul must shrink to survive.
Choosing relief over healing again and again.
Knowing something is wrong, but calling it “normal” because it is familiar.

Every choice plants something.
Every habit is a seed.

Seeds don’t judge — they grow.

If you plant resentment, bitterness grows.
If you plant avoidance, fear grows.
If you plant addiction, bondage grows.

And yet the same law works toward life.

If you plant honesty, clarity grows.
If you plant discipline, freedom grows.
If you plant humility, peace grows.

📖 “Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap.”
— Galatians 6:7

This is not a threat.
It is a mirror.

Heaven on earth is not perfection.

It is alignment.

It is when your inner life and outer life are no longer at war.
When you can sit alone with yourself and not need to escape.
When your actions match your values.
When your conscience becomes a guide instead of an enemy you silence.

Jesus said:

📖 “The kingdom of God is within you.”
— Luke 17:21

That means heaven does not begin only after death.
It begins wherever truth is welcomed —
slowly,
imperfectly,
honestly.

Wherever repentance is real —
not dramatic,
not performative,
but lived.

Wherever love is practiced instead of displayed.

God does not leave us when we fall short, nor is God shamed by our failures. The kingdom of God within us is not fragile. But when our choices move away from truth, love, and compassion, we experience division inside ourselves. Not because God withdraws, but because our lives fall out of alignment with the love already dwelling within us. The unrest we feel is not punishment — it is conscience awakening, gently calling us back to honesty, forgiveness, and peace.

Truth, however, is costly.

It asks you to examine family patterns you were told not to question.
It asks you to consider whether loyalty has become an excuse to stay wounded.
It asks you to admit that some habits you call “coping” are actually chains.

Addiction is rarely about pleasure.
It is about relief.

Relief from pain.
Relief from emptiness.
Relief from a life that feels too heavy to sit with.

But what numbs today demands more tomorrow.
What promises escape quietly steals time.
And time is the one thing we never get back.

Jesus does not offer distraction.

He offers rest.

📖 “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28

Not denial.
Not avoidance.
Rest.

There are seasons when faith feels dry.
When prayer feels like words floating into silence.

These seasons are not abandonment.
They are exposure.

They strip away performance
and invite honesty.

Even David prayed:

📖 “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”
— Psalm 51:10

Renewal assumes wear.
It assumes something has grown tired from carrying too much alone.

As years add up, life becomes less theoretical.
You realize you are not just living —
you are becoming.

Softer or harder.
Awake or numb.
Humble or defensive.

And one day, you will not stand before God with your intentions.

You will stand with your choices.

📖 “So then, each of us will give an account of ourselves to God.”
— Romans 14:12

Not to terrify —
but to clarify.

What kind of life would you place in His hands?
What kind of person are you shaping when no one is watching?
If today were not just another day, but a turning point — what would need to change?

This question is not meant to condemn you.
It is meant to slow you down.
To interrupt autopilot.
To help you see where your path is actually leading.

Not just what makes you comfortable —
but what makes you whole.

Not just what makes you happy now —
but what leads to peace later.

📖 “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6

God does not force paths.
He reveals them.

If something in you wants to keep reading,
keep listening,
keep sitting with the discomfort —

that is not restlessness.

That is hunger.

And hunger is a sign of life.

So stay with the question.
Let it follow you into your habits, your relationships, your private moments.
Let it return again and again, deeper each time:

Is this the life I am meant to continue living?

Because the life you continue living
is the life you are choosing — daily.

And choosing what leads to truth, peace, gratitude, humility, and love —
even in suffering,
even in lack,
even in uncertainty —

does not just prepare you for later.

It transforms now.

And sometimes, that single question —
asked in silence,
in a cathedral,
in the middle of an ordinary life —

is not the end of the story.

🌱 It is the beginning. 🌱

With all of this in my heart, I offer this prayer — for myself, and for anyone walking their own quiet questions.

💗A PRAYER FOR ME AND YOU💗