The Romance of The Unfolding
A love letter to the slow seasons, the silent in-betweens, and the version of you being shaped by the fire.
“Have patience with the unfolding of things. If you rush, or force them, you interfere and slow them down. Nature is perfect. If you wish for faster result, the right way to shorten time is raising your certainty, increasing your clarity and imagination being of one mind, concentrating & most importantly, raise your awareness from the level of your consciousness only to your conscious to your subconscious and super conscious mind and self.”
- A Happy Pocket Full of Money, David Cameron Gikandi
Lately, I’ve been revisiting A Happy Pocket Full of Money during my morning walks. Earbuds in, legs moving, sunlight beaming down, heart open. It’s a book that first came into my life in 2020. I think? Honestly, time was a blur back then. But from the moment I cracked it open, it felt like being handed a map to a universe I didn’t even know I had access to.
I quantum leaped so fast after reading it, I barely had time to process what was happening. At some point, I had to stop and just... breathe.
My physical copy? Dog-eared within an inch of its life. I’ve read it, re-read it, played the audio version on the go, and even made it required reading in my coaching program. My clients loved it too. Like, loved it loved it.
But this time, reading it again after not having done so for a while, one passage stopped me in my tracks. That reminder about not rushing the unfolding.
And I realized, that’s exactly what the past few years have been. A long, sometimes excruciatingly slow, unfolding. A transitional season that had me staring up at the sky like, Okay God, message received. Lesson learned. We’re good now. Next chapter, please.
But the next chapter didn’t come. Not right away, anyway.
There was just this strange in-between. A liminal space. The hallway between doors. And I might still be in it, honestly. I’m not totally sure. But weirdly? I’m okay with that now.
At some point in the process, I had no choice but to surrender. Not in a cute, Pinterest-quote kind of way, but in the deep breath, white flag, I can’t carry this alone kind of way. My mental health depended on it. My faith depended on it.
Recently, my friends and I were talking about our unfoldings, and we couldn’t help but reflect on a few Bible verses that have been echoing through our journeys:
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." — Jeremiah 29:11
and…
"The Lord your God led you all the way in the wilderness these forty years, to humble and test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands." — Deuteronomy 8:2 (NIV)
And my goodness... I mean, I knew the verses. But reading it in the Bible and living it are two very different things.
Because when you're praying your heart out, begging for a way out of a season that feels like it’s dragging on forever — a season that’s actually meant to build and equip you — it doesn’t feel holy. It feels like torture.
Especially when there's no sign of an exit.
When you're stuck in the wilderness, walking in circles. Confused. Dazed. Sad on some days, angry on others. Fed up, worn out, battered, bruised. Your ego in pieces. Your plans on pause.
And God — gently, but unmistakably — reminding you who’s in charge.
Humbled doesn’t even begin to cover it. Whew.
The girls and I laugh about it now. We joke about how we basically lived through our own personalized episodes of A Series of Unfortunate Events: Grown Woman Edition.
Back then, though? It wasn’t funny.
We were in the thick of it — spiraling, second-guessing, praying, pacing. Trying all the usual things that used to work like magic... only to find out they suddenly didn’t. At all.
We were journaling, manifesting, vision boarding, future scripting, praying quoting scriptures — and still, it felt like we were losing our grip. Like God had us on hold, and the line? Completely silent.
I even ended up channeling some of that frustration into my upcoming small-town, second-chance romance novel, Promise. My leading lady gets fired from her job and can’t seem to find her footing afterward. Every door she tries to open is locked tight — even the ones she’s halfway ready to pick the lock on.
Because sometimes, honey? God will sit you down in the quiet. Strip away the distractions. Turn down the noise. And make sure the only voice you can hear... is His.
And He reveals the next step so slowly. Like, capital-S slowly.
And it’s there — in the dark, in the quiet — where something begins to shift.
Where you start to feel a flicker of certainty about what you truly desire next.
Not out of panic. Not out of fear. But out of alignment.
And then — only then — if you keep your faith steady, if you walk in the direction of your prayers instead of curling up in the comfort of your past, things begin to move again.
Not all at once.
But there’s momentum.
There’s forward.
Even that, though — that forwardness — comes with its own kind of process.
Because you have to learn how to trust yourself again.
And let’s be honest... sometimes, you have to learn how to trust God again too.
Now we laugh because we made it through…I think. We can crack jokes and swap war stories. But in the thick of it? It felt like we were one group text away from a full-on breakdown.
As the fog starts to lift (and I pray I’m not speaking too soon, lol), I’m starting to see it — the quiet romance of the unfolding.
It didn’t come with fireworks or a loud, cinematic soundtrack. No big breakthrough moment or thunderclap of clarity. Just these small, gentle shifts. The kind you barely notice at first. A full night of sleep without anxiety pressing into your chest. A laugh that escapes before you can remember what you were worried about. A sunrise that feels like it was painted just for you.
This season — the slow one, the stretching one — is starting to feel less like punishment and more like preparation.
There’s something undeniably tender about the way God writes us into new chapters. It’s almost shy, the way He reveals things. Little by little. Page by page. Like He knows we’d run ahead if He gave us the whole story.
And so, we learn to fall in love with the not yet. We start to find beauty in the becoming.
I can’t say I’m all the way through it. Maybe I never will be, fully. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not rushing it. I’m watching it unfold. Slowly. Sweetly.
And I’m — dare I say it — grateful.
Because if I hadn’t walked through that wilderness, if I hadn’t been stretched and stripped and slowed all the way down, I wouldn’t be her.
This version of me. The one who’s even clearer about who she is. Who knows her boundaries. Who’s living honestly, more authentically than ever before, and not performing for anyone — not even herself.
The one who began looking at her life as a homemaker through a different lens — a lens of honor and gratitude — and started to see the work within her home as a ministry and creativity, not just responsibility. A role just as important, if not more so, than all the other forms of success she was taught to chase.
The one who, through homemaking, created the freedom for her Inner Artist to finally breathe again — to be nurtured, to be held, to be healed.
The one who’s finally sharing her romance stories out loud again.
The one who’s finally about to put a book into the world.
My former self? I won’t drag her. She served her purpose. She showed me what I was made of. She got me here.
But this version of me? This freedom I’m sitting in now? It’s something different.
It feels like a foundation is being laid — something sacred, something solid. Something bigger than what I ever knew to ask for.
So no matter where you are in your unfolding, keep walking through that fire.
I know — it burns. Some days it scorches. Some days you’ll swear you’ve reached the destination, only to realize there's still more road to walk... and your feet are already bloody and calloused.
You’ll want to give up. You’ll want to sit down and cry. You’ll feel confused, disoriented, maybe even betrayed by the very path you prayed for.
But don’t you dare let that fire swallow you whole.
Don’t rush it. Don’t force it. That only makes the shaping more painful.
You’re not being punished.
You’re being molded.
Into someone stronger. Softer. Wiser.
Into someone who can carry what’s coming next.
Wow. This really spoke to me. Willl have to come back and read it again because….a word. A word. A word.
Oof. The exhausting, chaotic, faith-testing dance with trust that happens when we’re in that messy middle — a rattling, humbling, and wonderful life-giving portal. This was a pleasure to read 💕