I Want You To Faith It
As the year draws to a close, I find myself lost in thought, reflecting on the lessons, challenges, and small victories that have defined my journey. Some days, the clarity comes in bursts, inspired by unexpected moments—like locking eyes with a stranger at church or walking my dog off-leash for the first time. Other days, it’s buried under self-doubt, the relentless push for more, and the questioning of who I’m becoming. This past week has been particularly introspective, touching on themes of arrogance, relationships, and my faith. What stands out most is the realization that growth often lies in the tension between what we yearn to be and what we actually are.
Arrogance is an ugly word, but it’s one I’ve had to confront in myself. I’ve noticed how often I assume I’m better than others at certain things—a subtle superiority that sneaks into my thoughts. This arrogance reveals itself in moments of impatience: interrupting someone before hearing their full story, jumping to conclusions about someone’s intentions, or assuming that every interaction carries hidden motives. Is he trying to game me? Is she flirting with me? Does she want to hang out with me? These questions pop into my head when I’m in social scenarios, and more often than not, they’re unfounded.
This tendency to assume the worst in people reflects a deeper issue: my struggle to extend grace. I forget that everyone is carrying their own burdens. My quick judgments can be unfair and unkind. Recognizing this has been humbling. It’s forcing me to slow down, listen more, and remind myself that people aren’t always out to get me. Sometimes they are, sure, but not everyone is wired the way I am—hard on themselves, relentless in pursuit of goals, and constantly navigating internal battles.
Lately, I’ve been questioning my faith. I’ve committed my fair share of sins this year, and it’s left me wondering: Am I a good person? Am I living in a way that aligns with my values? Attending a Christmas Eve service earlier this week brought some of these questions to the forefront. Sitting alone in the worship center, I journaled about my struggles, trying to reconcile my actions with the person I want to be.
During the candlelight vigil, I locked eyes with a girl across the room. Her gaze lingered a moment longer than expected, and in that brief connection, I felt an odd sense of clarity. A year ago, I wouldn’t have had the confidence to hold her gaze. It may seem like a small thing, but it felt significant—a marker of how far I’ve come in building my confidence and learning to live in the moment. I think I have obtained this new found confidence through Grassroots. I have been working there on the weekends, making some extra money. It’s not just about the work itself; it’s about the conversations, the connections, and the small, meaningful moments that happen when you’re surrounded by people. Through these interactions, I’ve developed a confidence I didn’t know I had—the ability to approach people, navigate conversations, and even enjoy them.
I’ve come to realize that confidence isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about being okay with not having them. It’s about showing up, being present, and letting the conversation flow naturally. There’s a certain joy in connecting with people, even if just for a moment, and those moments recharge me. At the same time, I’ve learned the importance of alone time—of stepping back to reflect, recharge, and find balance. Starting this blog has been an exercise in that said confidence. At first, I told myself it was just a way to document my thoughts—a personal outlet. But as I’ve continued writing, I’ve realized that part of me doesn't care. There’s a certain hypocrisy in claiming I don’t care about attention while sharing my innermost thoughts with the world. Maybe writing is my way of seeking connection, of saying, “Here I am. This is me. Do you feel the same?”
And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s not about attention but about authenticity—about sharing the journey, the struggles, and the lessons in the hope that someone else might find value in them. Writing this blog has taught me to embrace imperfection, to accept that I don’t have all the answers, and have the confidence to admit that I am wrong.
As I reflect on the year, one lesson stands out above all others: take risks. Moving out on my own, stepping outside my comfort zone, and embracing the unknown have been transformative. These experiences have taught me resilience, self-reliance, and the importance of adapting to life’s challenges. One of the most grounding moments of the year happened just recently. I took my dog, Butters, to a conservation area and let him off-leash for the first time. Watching him roam freely, responding to my cues, and simply enjoying the moment reminded me of the simple joys in life. It’s a lesson I want to carry into the new year: to find joy in the mundane, to celebrate small victories, and to give myself grace.
Life is messy, and growth is uncomfortable. But through the mess, there’s beauty to be found—in connections, in moments of self-discovery, and in the quiet confidence that comes from knowing you’re a work in progress. Above all else there is no fun in life without risks. You need to take them. You have to faith it.