17. A Change is Gonna Come
Change and I? We’re basically on a first-name basis at this point. Maybe even more than that — maybe Change is my new annoying roommate who eats all my snacks and leaves emotional messes for me to clean up.
Yesterday, I got the keys to my new apartment. Next week, I move in. In a few weeks, I graduate. Soon after that, I’ll have my teaching certification in hand. Then comes applying to master's programs, figuring out the next five years of my life, and pretending I’m not absolutely winging it.
It’s fine. It’s all fine.
And on top of all that shiny newness, there's the not-so-shiny reality of dealing with a breakup — a quiet, lingering heartbreak that doesn’t really care how many moving boxes I have to tape up or how many shiny new keys I get to dangle from my keychain.
Change is everywhere. In my living situation, my career path, my relationships, my Saturday afternoons. Everything is shifting under my feet, like some cosmic game of hopscotch I didn’t actually sign up for but somehow still have to win.
And the weird part is — some of it feels exciting. Like, good change. Like I’m actually growing into the person I’m supposed to be. But, some of it just feels sad. Heavy. Like all the goodbyes I didn’t really want to say but had to anyway.
The version of me who thought everything would stay the same? Yeah, she’s not here anymore. She didn’t survive the packing process. Instead, there's me: tired, hopeful, heart-bruised, carrying way too many metaphorical (and literal) boxes, trying to believe that maybe — just maybe — all this change is leading somewhere good. Or at the very least, somewhere with decent air conditioning.
Here’s the thing about change:
Everyone loves to talk about it like it’s this glamorous, brave thing.
“Wow, you’re growing so much!”
“You’re stepping into a new season!”
“Look at you embracing all the newness!”
And I’m over here like: yeah, okay, but have you ever ugly-cried while filling out a change-of-address form because the post office makes you confront all your life decisions at once? No one tells you that change, while technically exciting, can also feel like grief with better PR. You grieve the places you’re leaving. You grieve the people you thought would still be by your side. You grieve the version of yourself that thought it had life all mapped out neatly — spoiler alert: it didn’t.
It’s messy.
It’s emotional.
It’s, honestly, a little bit rude.
But somewhere deep under all the chaos, I hear a whisper from the Lord:
"Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" (Isaiah 43:19)
And honestly? Some days, I do not perceive it.
Some days, all I perceive is my laundry pile and my anxiety about whether or not my stuff will survive yet another move.
And yet — somehow — there’s this stubborn, slightly bruised part of me that keeps showing up. Keeps believing. Keeps hoping that maybe, even when I can't see it, God is working behind the scenes. Maybe this uprooting is actually a replanting. Maybe the mess is the miracle in disguise.
Because the truth is, change doesn’t ask for your permission. It bulldozes in whether you’re ready or not. And maybe the goal was never to feel ready. Maybe the goal is just to be faithful — scared, hopeful, carrying all your metaphorical boxes — and trust that the God who led you this far is not about to peace out now.
"The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame." (Isaiah 58:11)
So here I am: messy, emotional, duct-taping my heart back together — and somehow still being held. Still being guided. Still being rebuilt by a God who is way better at construction than I am at destruction.
Maybe that’s what faith looks like sometimes:
Showing up in the mess, eyes puffy from crying, and saying, “Okay, Lord. I’m still here. Do whatever new thing You’re trying to do — but please, maybe this time, with less cardboard boxes.”
- Cheesecake
