We all know Jesus’ famous words at one of His most agonising moments where He calls out to His father and says in the garden of gethsemane and says “Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” And as we are in the Easter season, I keep thinking about my path and how I feel a bit like I want to cry out these very same words so here is how my life and my thoughts have taken a detour through Gethsemane recently. This thought process began as a result of leaving yet another 3-month job but unlike the others, originally this one was meant to be 6 months. And that has forever set it apart in my mind. Because suddenly, the neat, tidy storyline I had for this year—a storyline that involved a steady income, a home base, and a clear purpose—has been deleted. The cursor is blinking on a blank page, and for the first time in a long time, I have absolutely no idea what to type next.
This isn’t to say this is my first detour – it isn’t! I have been travelling for 18 months, sometimes things don’t go to plan. But this one feels different. Before, I was the brave traveler, the girl with the backpack and the plan, choosing adventure. Now, I feel like a character who has been written out of her own story. The dream of being the ‘girl living the cool life on the road’ is bumping up against a colder reality: the fear of loneliness, the panic of watching my savings account dwindle, and the anxiety of being ‘left behind’ while everyone else seems to be building their lives. Uncertainty seems to be ruling my life again which has not been the case since I was 14 and the world shut down because of covid.
This desperate uncertainty has led me into a place of aching “I don’t know” which is not a place I want to be in. I thrive when I am in control, when I can predict how things will play out and I can plan contingencies. But you can’t plan contingencies when you don’t even have a real plan to begin with. Instead, I send applications into digital voids. I tailor cover letters for jobs that feel both beneath and beyond me. Each ‘no’ (or worse, silence) isn’t just a rejection—it feels like a brick in a wall slowly closing off my options. My productivity, my hustle, my ability to ‘make things happen’—the very skills that built my life—are yielding nothing. All of the tools that have helped me survive and thrive this far feel inadequate in the face of these new challenges.
And worse still, this inadequacy has been calling the identity i have built into question: Who am I if I’m not the capable traveler? If I’m not the author with a clear next project? I’m facing the prospect of going ‘home,’ but I’m not even sure where that is anymore, or if I’ll fit there. The persona I’ve built—authentic, adventurous, faithful—feels thin when I’m lying awake at 3am questioning everything.
And in this space of fear and uncertainty, my oldest battles get louder. The loneliness isn’t just an external reality; it’s a trigger. It calls my deepest insecurities out and pushes me back to my shameful sins. It whispers words of worthlessness and tells me that one more sin, one more time won’t hurt. It lessens the weight of Jesus’s sacrifice on the cross and calls me back to the life I don’t want to live anymore. In my Gethsemane, I’m not just surrendering my plans; I’m facing the parts of myself that don’t trust God enough to sit in the not-knowing without trying to numb it.
So, my prayer has changed. It is no longer ‘Give me the next adventure.’ It’s ‘Take this cup of uncertainty from me. Let there be a clear path, a signed contract, a flashing neon sign.’ But so far, the answer seems to be a gentle, terrifying: ‘Wait. Trust. The story isn’t over.’
So, here I am: waiting and begging Jesus for His strength to support me through this space of fear and uncertainty so that I don’t fall back into habits that I know will hurt me in the future. Here I am, waiting, even though I feel alone and it feels like the author of my story has given up and walked away from His desk. Here I am, waiting when the draft of my life right now is full of red marks: [PLOT HOLE HERE], [MOTIVATION UNCLEAR], [CHARACTER SEEMS LOST]. My instinct is to frantically rewrite, to force a twist, to manufacture a resolution. But the quiet, nagging sense I have is that the real Author is asking me to put down my pen.
So here is my reality, the sum total of my faith right now: God isn’t giving me a five-year plan, no matter how desperately I beg for the blueprint. But He is, consistently, providing for my daily needs. He is with me in the pain, in the uncertainty, in the midnight fear and the midday anguish. He reminds me of that old ‘Footprints’ poem—how in my hardest times, the single set of footprints in the sand aren’t evidence of His absence, but of His carrying. He might feel silent. He might feel distant. But He is right here. And I know that doesn’t magically lessen the hardship of the battle—I am living in the trench of it. But it does mean this: the God of the universe cares enough to get down in the dirt and contend with these things alongside me. And on the days when nothing else makes sense, that is enough.