I’ve spent a lot of time writing about waiting, which is fraught with its own set of fears.
About believing when nothing seems to be happening.
About remaining resilient in disappointment.
About holding onto joy when life feels painfully delayed.
But no one warned me that when what you’ve been praying for finally arrives…it brings an entirely new set of challenges.
Because growth doesn’t end when the waiting does.
For the past five years I’ve lived alone. While I’ve occasionally laughed about the indignities of single life, there is one undeniable advantage: everything is exactly where I left it.
My mornings have rhythms that ground me. Strength training. Zumba. My church family. Sunday walks to the farmers market. Time with dear friends whose circle continues to widen. Those rituals have become my anchors. They make me feel safe.
So you would think that an eleven-day European cruise to witness a solar eclipse would be nothing but bliss.
Instead, I discovered what happens when your anchors are suddenly gone.
There was the uncertainty of not speaking the language, handing over unfamiliar bills and simply trusting that I was receiving the correct change. There were cultural differences I didn’t understand, people whose customs were different from my own, and the quiet awareness that I didn’t want to offend anyone.
Then there was the fascinating challenge of sharing a cabin with another person.
After years of living alone, I’d forgotten something simple: everyone has preferences.
The way they unpack.
The way they organize.
The way they move through a room.
The way they like things done.
None of those preferences are right or wrong.
They’re simply different.
And yet every gentle correction threatened to awaken an old wound.
There was a time in my life when correction wasn’t gentle. It carried shame. It whispered that I was too much. Or not enough.
So even a kind suggestion could momentarily stir feelings that had nothing to do with the present.
The ship I sailed on was called Serenity.
I laughed at the irony.
“Serenity” has never been the word people use to describe me.
Exuberant?
Absolutely.
Spontaneous?
Without question.
Energetic, vibrant, expressive…
Those fit much better.
But perhaps serenity isn’t the absence of personality. Perhaps it’s the willingness to remain at peace while you’re still learning.
I began realizing that every awkward moment, every misunderstanding, every “Oops…I didn’t know,” wasn’t evidence that I was failing.
They were teachers.
After five years of not sharing space with another human, maybe my heart simply needed to rebuild muscles that hadn’t been used in a long time.
The muscles of adaptability.
Of curiosity.
The ones that can hear another person’s preference without translating it into personal rejection.
That realization has been freeing.
It’s a little like starting a brand-new job.
You don’t yet understand the office politics. You don’t know the rhythms, the unwritten rules, or how communication really works. At first you feel like you’re flying blind.
But because the opportunity matters, you keep showing up.
Every mistake becomes information.
Every awkward moment becomes experience.
One day you suddenly realize you’ve become comfortable in what once felt intimidating.
Maybe that’s what every answered prayer requires.
A new learning curve.
We often imagine that once we’ve arrived at the thing we’ve longed for, life suddenly becomes easy.
A wonderful relationship.
A dream career.
A new city.
An exciting adventure.
But every new blessing asks something new of us.
It stretches us and exposes old fears.
It invites us to become someone with greater capacity than we needed before.
So if you’ve been waiting for something beautiful and it finally arrives, don’t be surprised if you also feel afraid.
Different doesn’t mean wrong.
Unfamiliar doesn’t mean dangerous.
It simply means you’re growing.
When you feel untethered, return to the anchors that have always served you well. Prayer. Movement. Community. Gratitude. Rest. Whatever reminds you who you are when everything around you feels unfamiliar.
And be gentle with yourself.
Fear will probably come along for the journey.
It has a way of introducing itself whenever we step into bigger lives.
But fear is not your guide.
It is simply a passenger.
The goal isn’t to pretend fear isn’t there.
The goal is to name it, understand it, and thank it for trying to protect you. Then lovingly ask it to take a seat while courage steers the ship.
Because sometimes the greatest courage isn’t found in surviving the waiting.
Sometimes it’s found in believing you’re capable of living the very life you’ve been praying for all along.
