Recently, my Fridays—and the quiet hours drifting into Saturday morning—have become sacred time for my self-care rituals. In this season of healing, unfolding, and blooming, I’m learning that self-care goes far beyond face masks or bubble baths. It’s about uncovering the layers of me—my spirit, my emotions, my heart, and my mind.
One verse that’s been grounding me lately is Romans 12:3b, which reminds me that the only accurate way to understand myself is to grasp the nature of who God is and what They do in me. That’s led me to curate my podcast library not just with spiritual teachers in pulpits, but also licensed therapists and counselors—people speaking directly to the practical, emotional, and spiritual work of becoming whole.
This past Friday, I stumbled upon a sermon by Pastor Steven Furtick from Elevation Church called Let the Dirt Do Its Work. And it was like divine confirmation.
Because the truth is—healing is dirty. But the lavish, abundant life it produces? That part is beautifully biblical.
The dreams we carry in this community are sacred. We don’t just daydream—we plant seeds. Seeds of vision. Of calling. Of desire. Even when we don’t know how they’ll grow, we know in our spirit that they will.
Pastor Furtick referenced Mark 4:27-28: “Night and day, whether the farmer sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how.”
That verse resonated deep within me. Right now, I don’t know how I’m healing—I just know that I am. I can’t always trace it logically. I only know that the disappointments, insecurities, rejections, and trauma I’ve experienced (D.I.R.T., as he put it) have become the soil of my spiritual transformation.
Lately, that soil has looked like this:
I am still processing anger.
I have made choices I’m not proud of.
I’ve cut off people in ways that weren’t aligned with grace.
I’ve rationalized the harm I’ve caused, even as I reckoned with the hurt others caused me.
Still, in this mess—I am healing. Matter of fact I am flourishing.
I don’t always feel beautiful, or spiritual, or “together.” But that is not the measure of growth. The measure is presence. Willingness. Obedience. Faith that even when I don’t know how, I do know who. And that is enough.
But let me be honest:
This process isn’t cute or soft. It’s not always Instagram-worthy.
Healing has made me ask hard questions:
Why this life?
Why this journey?
Why me?
But I believe now that abundance requires alignment. That sometimes, healing means losing what once felt essential—relationships, patterns, versions of myself that no longer speak to who I am becoming. Some connections will fade. Others will deepen. And I’ll continue to feel the growing pains of it all.
Yet even in the discomfort, there is purpose.
Abundance is not the absence of pain—it is the presence of purpose through the pain.
So I’ll keep breaking through the soil.
Still in process.
Still messy.
Still blooming.
