There was a time—not that long ago—when I hesitated to write about faith.
Not because I didn’t love God.
Not because I didn’t believe.
But because I didn’t feel qualified.
I’m not a pastor.
I didn’t go to seminary.
I don’t have a theology degree.
And somewhere along the way, I internalized the message that those things were the price of admission.
That without them, I didn’t even have the right to be in the room—let alone speak.
So I didn’t write.
At least not publicly.
I had things stirring in my heart—thoughts, reflections, prayers—but I kept them hidden. For over 30 years, I held back.
Because deep down, not only did I think I wasn’t qualified…
I didn’t believe I was spiritual enough to speak.
Or Christian enough to be taken seriously
And I certainly didn’t think my story was dramatic or powerful enough to matter.
I hadn’t come out of addiction.
I hadn’t overcome something life-shattering.
I hadn’t had a lightning-bolt transformation.
My testimony felt too ordinary.
My faith too unqualified.
My voice too uncertain.
So I stayed silent.
Not out of rebellion—but out of insecurity.
Then, slowly… gently… something began to shift.
Not all at once.
Not with trumpets or lightning bolts.
But in quiet moments.
In daily prayers.
In ordinary days where God whispered, “You don’t need a title to carry My light. Just a willing heart.”
And over time, I realized:
I’m not trying to force open doors anymore.
I’m walking through the ones Jesus already unlocked.
That line came to me during my reflection this morning, and it landed in my spirit like a key clicking into place.
I’ve spent years knocking, waiting, peeking through windows, wondering if I belonged.
But Jesus had already unlocked the door.
He wasn’t waiting for me to prove myself.
He was waiting for me to open the door and step in.
Not in my own strength.
Not with polished theology or perfect answers.
But with trust.
With obedience.
With love.
Because the God who calls also equips:
“Now may the God of peace… equip you with everything good for doing His will, and may He work in us what is pleasing to Him, through Jesus Christ…”
— Hebrews 13:20–21 (NIV)
And because walking in authority doesn’t mean I’m suddenly fearless or flawless.
It means I’m anchored in the One who sent me.
I don’t have to tiptoe anymore.
I don’t have to keep checking if I’m allowed to be here.
I don’t need to shrink my dreams or soften my voice.
This is the room He called me into.
This is the story He’s asking me to tell.
And this is the season I’ve stopped waiting for permission.
I’m still learning how to walk in this.
Still growing in confidence.
Still asking for clarity and discernment every step of the way.
But I know this much:
The door is open.
The way has been prepared.
And I’m not standing outside anymore.
With love and belief in you,
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