Apologies in advance… yes, somehow, I’m still alive. I know it’s been months since the last blog, but after surviving what’s easily been the most stressful stretch of my life, I figured it was either disappear completely or do something—anything—to keep moving forward. I chose the latter.

Whenever I’ve gone through hard seasons, travel has always been a kind of therapy—a way to clear my head and create just enough distance to breathe again. So I leaned into that. I got out of town and spent time in Boston and Philly for the first time. These cities are steeped in history—places where revolutions were planned, declarations were signed, and futures were forged in the middle of fear and uncertainty. For someone raised on the West Coast, it all felt different: the energy, the pace, the weight of the past still alive in the streets. And while I didn’t visit Valley Forge in person, its story kept coming to mind. The cold. The waiting. The not knowing. I couldn’t stop thinking about those men who were stuck in the in-between—tired, uncertain, and running out of hope, but still holding the line. In a strange way, I felt like one of them. I’ve been in that kind of winter too—waiting in silence, unsure of what’s next. And like them, I didn’t have clarity—I just had a choice: to stay standing.

Not every day was easy. There were plenty of moments when it felt like nothing was moving, nothing was changing, and the only thing growing was the gap between me and the life I was praying for. But even in the tension, there were bright spots: baseball games at Fenway, walks on the Jersey Shore, wandering through new cities with no real agenda. Those quiet moments reminded me that life doesn’t stop just because it’s unclear. And healing doesn’t always come with clarity—sometimes it comes through motion.

What’s changed the most isn’t my circumstances—it’s how I respond to them. This season stretched my faith in ways I didn’t expect. I prayed more—not for control, but for peace. I asked less for answers and more for endurance. And somewhere in that, I stopped needing everything to be fixed. I just needed to be held together. And I was. Not perfectly, but faithfully. I’ve grown softer, more grounded. I’ve learned to trust God in the waiting—not just after it ends.

And now, things are beginning to shift. A few long-held prayers are showing signs of life. The fog isn’t gone, but I can see a little further than before. I’m not where I want to be yet, but I’m moving. And I know I’m not alone in the wilderness. Things aren’t perfect, but they’re in motion. And I’m still here, still believing, and still becoming. I’m reminded of Isaiah 60:22: “When the time is right, I, the Lord, will make it happen.”