We talk a lot about the moments God slams a door in our lives.
We look for the big, dramatic endings…the burning bushes, the sharp ruptures, the sudden storms that force us to change direction. When a door is slammed, it hurts, but it gives you total clarity. The decision is made for you.
But lately, I’ve been thinking about a much quieter kind of transition.
Sometimes God doesn’t dramatically slam a door. Sometimes, you just slowly realize that something that once fit beautifully simply doesn’t anymore.
It’s a subtle shift in gravity where you realize you are carrying a profound tension…the exhausting mental weight of trying to figure out when you are supposed to persevere versus when you are supposed to release.
This past year has been a whirlwind of beautiful, tangible milestones for me.
I stepped into a classroom–virtually–again full-time. I watched a dream come alive as I published my first children’s book. I poured everything I had into my classes and finished my first semester with a 4.0.
On paper, it looks like a season of pure addition.
It looks like winning.
But what the statistics and milestones don’t show is the quiet subtraction that had to happen to make room for them.
Over the last few seasons, my husband and I have had to step away from spaces that held pieces of our hearts. We stepped away from the Christian school we founded. I stepped down from leading a women’s ministry after more than four years of pouring into it.
On top of those organizational shifts, there were deeply painful personal fractures…the end of a thirteen-year friendship and navigating the long-term, quiet grief of family estrangement.
And that is where the conflict sits.
There is a strange, unsettling grief in outgrowing or leaving a season, especially when you helped build the very room you are walking out of.
To look at my life right now is to see a beautiful chaos. I have four kids ranging from thirteen down to three. My days are a blur of year-round competitive swim meets, basketball games, flag football, and recreational sports. I am running between school campuses serving as a PTO officer and a volunteer. My husband and I have also been privileged to lead a church connect group for over a decade.
The daily anchors are still there, holding me down.
Yet, the internal friction remains:
How can I feel so successful and surrounded on paper, yet so hollowed out by the spaces I had to leave behind?
The writer of Ecclesiastes famously reminds us of the divine rhythm built into the fabric of our lives:
“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens… a time to plant and a time to uproot… a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1-2,6
I always found it comforting that Scripture explicitly names the act of letting go.
It doesn’t just praise the planting.
It acknowledges the necessity of the uprooting.
We are often taught that perseverance is the ultimate virtue. We tell ourselves to push through, to hold on tighter, to fix what feels strained.
But I am learning that misplaced perseverance can quickly turn into internal erosion.
When holding onto a previous title, a previous role, or a draining relationship starts costing you your peace, your joy, or your alignment with God, you aren’t persevering.
You’re just resisting the shift.
There is a story in the Old Testament where the prophet Elijah is hiding out in the wilderness, waiting for God to speak. First comes a powerful wind, then an earthquake, then a fire…but God wasn’t in the chaos or the noise. 1 Kings 19 tells us that God finally spoke in a “gentle whisper.”
Sometimes His direction isn’t the loud blast of a door shutting.
Sometimes it’s just that gentle whisper telling you that the stream you’ve been drinking from has run dry, and it’s time to move to the next place He has prepared.
God doesn’t always cut a thread abruptly. Sometimes He just stops weaving that specific color into the pattern, letting it taper off naturally to make room for a completely new design.
It is entirely possible to be deeply grateful for your current successes while still feeling the ache of the spaces you had to leave behind.
Growth requires space.
And space requires letting go.
I’m still learning how to sit in that middle ground without rushing to find an easy answer. I’m learning to trust that the same hands guiding me into new achievements are the ones gently closing the doors behind me…not in anger, but in preparation for what’s next.
Fiercely,
Jessica
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