It’s The Journey
For the past five years, I’ve longed for my 23-year-old self. I cherished her innocence, naivety, full-fledged confidence in her faith, and willingness to jump and not ask, “How high?” when the Lord called her to dream beyond her wildest imagination. I missed how much she trusted people, saw the good in them, and how easily she could connect to the world around her. I craved her passion, wit, and determination to fulfill her purpose. How could five years mature a person so quickly that they could hardly recollect their identity? This year, I especially saw a woman I could not recognize staring at me in the mirror. Her frail gaze pierced mine, and I did everything I could to hold it in, but I released a gasp of shock. She was battered; she could hardly keep her head up. Nothing was steady about her movements; it was as though she was choking to breathe. I wanted to help, to remind her of good things, of God’s promises. But I was paralyzed. The woman was me.
No one prepares you for the shift of becoming a woman and the woes it come with. From personal identity issues, loss of dreams, changes in community and friendships, and grief. Some of life’s transitions can only be understood once we experience them. I’ve had my fair share of change the past couple of years, and adding grief to the season only set it on fire all the more. But there was nothing that could have prepared me for what I was to witness on April 12, 2025.
Let me start by saying that for the past five years, I’ve dreamed, prayed, and hoped: “This year will be different.” It was, but mainly for the worst. So, it would take every ounce in me to try, push, trust, and press the reset button. I treaded on. I went past battle fatigue and burnout and climbed the rocky mountain until I made it out. In January, burnout and stress led me to a few days in the hospital, but I kept going. While there were spurts of challenges leading up to April, one was a rejection of a dream I had planned for the past two years. I wiped my tears and pressed on.
My aunt frantically banged on my bedroom door a week later, on a Saturday morning. I thought she was dramatic, but what she said next shook me to the core of my existence. “You’re mom is having a stroke,” she screamed. And just like that, my whole world fell apart. I don’t know how I leaped out of bed or opened the door when fear gripped me like a vice. My mom couldn’t speak or move, and my grandmother was heaving in panic, while my aunt and my siblings were yelling for me to call 911. I forgot how to breathe and stuttered so much that the 911 operator had to ask me to repeat myself a few times. They were on their way. We needed to get her dressed, and by this time, I was sobbing, a confused mess who was having an out-of-body experience. I tried to get my mom’s left arm into her shirt, but couldn’t. The more I stared into her face, my heart ached to see her like this. My brother stepped in. It was a blur after they got her into the stretcher and into the ambulance. On the six-month anniversary of her father’s death, the Grim Reaper came for her life.
I called every prayer warrior I knew, while the rest of my family contacted the other family members. From then on, we spent the next few weeks at the hospital. She needed speech therapy, physical therapy, and occupational therapy. She could hardly do a thing for herself. A few weeks turned into a month, and so on. I went to work the first day after it happened and cried on the arms of my co-worker. I needed to be with my mom, but life never stopped. While I stood up to the responsibility as the second caregiver, my aunt was the first. My focus on the goodness and hope of life diminished. How much more could a person take? We had just lost three family members, would I lose my only parent? Thoughts like these haunted me until I could fall asleep. The only thing that could help was writing “Dear 23” letters to myself in poetry. I wrote until I realized how much pain my heart was carrying since 2020.
The days seemed dark and long, but there was a reckoning. No one but God knew. What the enemy had meant for evil toward my family and me for the past year. God would get the final say through His glory. As I wrote, God revealed, and as each day went by, God provided, and my mom was healing. I still remember the day she was finally discharged from the hospital and our celebration. Her faith had never wavered; heck (in the best way), it was stronger than mine. At 44, God was redeeming my mom’s life. She always believed, but had not stepped deep with the Lord. Yet, three months after her stroke (July 12), when she still needed assistance with walking, my mom got baptized at the beach! I watched God take charge of my mom’s life, which ministered to the little girl in me. She was healing, but everywhere she went and with every visitor who came by our house, my mom testified and encouraged. She was reborn.
I had paused my life and avoided my feelings. God finally reached me through counseling. For the past five months, once a week, I attend counseling sessions and unpack my heart. There, and through writing, I see how I have let trauma and fear keep me from my authentic self. I would start and run. Take the lead, and then abort. I hesitated as I always waited for the other shoe to drop, and when it did, I would do what was necessary to preserve myself. While it’s been five years of tremendous shaking, I won’t live for my past self any longer. I won’t hold on to year 23 and watch life pass me by. I’m done idolizing her.
I can only imagine the courage it took Prophet Samuel to quit mourning and start all over again. While Saul was a part of his first dream, God had to make changes. It all fell apart, Saul chose the wrong path, and Samuel was grieved for what could have been. God had to call him out of his wallowing. “Now the Lord said to Samuel, “How long will you mourn for Saul, seeing I have rejected him from reigning over Israel? Fill your horn with oil, and go; I am sending you to Jesse the Bethlehemite. For I have provided Myself a king among his sons.” 1 Samuel 16:1 (NKJV). While I toss the handmade plans out of the window, I press the gas and take charge of a future I once lost sight of.
For anyone who has lost their vision, I’m praying for you.
Want to read a sneak peek of Dear 23? Click here
Be Encouraged,
Love Monica.
