Not every chapter of life starts with movement. Some begin in silence. Some feel like you’re sitting still while the world spins madly around you. That was me, not too long ago.
I had just finished school. It should’ve been the moment I rushed into the “next big thing.” But instead, it felt like I’d stepped into a waiting room. There were no loud announcements, no clear direction. Just space. Silence. And time.
At first, it was unsettling. I’m used to being active, singing, writing, designing, creating. I’m the girl with layered gifts and always something to work on. So when things slowed down, I found myself wondering if I had done something wrong. Why wasn’t I moving yet? Why did it feel like everyone else was running and I was still tying my shoes?
But the longer I stayed in that space, the more I realized that what felt like pause… was actually purpose. The stillness wasn’t empty. It was pregnant with preparation.
In the waiting, I started seeing myself more clearly. Without the noise of classes, deadlines, or external pressure, I found the quiet voice of God whispering to my heart. Reminding me that rest is not a waste. That development doesn't always look like movement. That there is power in becoming.
I started writing more, not just for others, but for me. I revisited my ideas, cleaned out my digital space, and started shaping this blog. Layers of Blessing didn’t come from the rush. It was born in the pause. I practiced songs, dreamed new melodies, and refined my voice not on the stage, but in my room. I created new beaded pieces that felt more intentional than ever. I sat with my creativity, not to perform, but to breathe.
It was also a time to face myself. To heal in places I hadn’t realized were bruised. To let go of comparison, and to trust that my journey, no matter how different, was valid. I stopped measuring progress only by what could be posted or applauded. I started seeing growth in stillness. In clarity. In preparation.
It wasn’t easy. There were days I wanted to skip the process and just “arrive.” But now, looking back, I’m grateful for that waiting season. It didn’t make me less of who I am, it revealed more of who I’ve always been.
Waiting taught me to hold my peace when doors didn't open. It taught me to steward my gifts without needing an audience. And most of all, it taught me that nothing is wasted, not even the days that feel slow or unseen.
So if you’re reading this and you’re in your own quiet season, I hope you know this: waiting is not weakness. Stillness is not the absence of purpose. Some of your most powerful becoming will happen when no one’s watching.
You are not late. You are not forgotten. You are being formed.
And when it’s time to move, you’ll do so with strength, clarity, and purpose you didn’t even know you were gathering in the wait.
Because even in pause, the layers are growing.