It’s been a while since I’ve written here. Not because I ran out of ideas — but because I needed to live inside the questions for a bit.
Lately, life has felt like standing in a hallway with no clear exits—just doors that almost open, then don’t.
I recently lost an apartment I thought was the next step. Not because I wasn’t qualified, not because I didn’t try hard enough, but because of a system that had no flexibility for nuance. I advocated. I negotiated. I offered alternatives. I even offered to pay a full year up front. Still, the answer was no.
What surprised me wasn’t the disappointment—it was how deeply it rattled something underneath.
Because the truth is, the apartment wasn’t just an apartment. It represented momentum. Independence. Proof that I was moving forward instead of waiting. And when it fell through, it forced a question I’ve been avoiding:
What am I actually chasing?
Some days I want structure—a place to land, routines, something solid to build from. Other days I want movement—the ocean, creativity, wide skies, the kind of freedom that feels like oxygen. California still calls to me, even if that version of the call sometimes looks like living out of a car again, which both excites and terrifies me.
And right now, I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes—but the kind that comes from pausing, yielding, and waiting for things that might happen: a job opportunity, a relationship, clarity, God to answer in a way I can hear clearly.
Living at home again has been especially hard. What once felt like safety now feels like stagnation. Dormancy. A holding pattern I didn’t consciously choose but somehow stayed in too long. And losing the apartment made that reality louder.
People mean well when they say things like “this is just a season” or “God is teaching you something.” But sometimes those phrases land less like comfort and more like closure—like an invitation to stop asking questions before the questions have done their work.
I don’t think God is silent right now. I think He’s quieter than I want Him to be.
And maybe that’s intentional.
I’ve started to realize that this season isn’t preparing me for an answer—it’s preparing me for discernment. The ability to sit with tension without panicking. To resist choosing a path just because it promises relief. To stop confusing urgency with intuition.
I’m learning the difference between forcing a door and noticing one opening.
A forced door feels loud. Urgent. Justified by fear. An opening door feels quieter. It doesn’t demand that I explain myself. It doesn’t require me to abandon parts of who I am to walk through.
Right now, I’m trying something new: not choosing between extremes.
Not Atlanta apartment versus California car life. Not stability versus freedom. Not settling versus escaping.
Instead, I’m allowing myself to design something in-between—a temporary, restorative chapter that gives me structure and air. Movement and grounding. A way forward that doesn’t require me to betray myself in either direction.
I don’t know exactly what that looks like yet. And for once, I’m not trying to rush that knowing.
What I do know is this: I don’t want to build a life out of reaction anymore. I want to build it out of alignment.
If there’s one thing this season has made clear, it’s that I don’t want to move just to feel better. I want to move when it’s aligned — even if that means sitting with uncertainty longer than I’d like.
So for now, I’m choosing to trust the hallway. To believe that standing between doors isn’t failure—it’s transition. And that something honest is forming here, even if I can’t name it yet.
Winsome was never meant to be a finished statement. It’s always been a record of becoming — through fabric, form, movement, and moments like this. If this post resonates, it’s because it’s part of the same thread. More soon. When it’s ready.