Its been seven months since I left my nursing job—seven months since I folded my uniform for the last time, placed my ID in a drawer, and walked away from a chapter that shaped so much of who I am. And yet, I never found the words to write about it here.

Not because there was nothing to say, but because sometimes, when life shifts beneath your feet, you don’t fully understand the change until much later. Sometimes, silence isn’t avoidance—it’s incubation. It’s your soul trying to catch up with your story.

In the early weeks, I felt the sting of separation. That strange ache of waking up and realizing your routine no longer includes the people, the halls, the heartbreaks, and the humor of hospital life. It was grief in disguise—disguised as quiet days, unexpected tears, and that unsettling question: Who am I now, outside of the work that once defined me?

But as the days turned to weeks and the noise of urgency faded, something softer took its place: a gentle rhythm, still uneven but mine. I started to recover the parts of myself I’d neglected—the writer, the dreamer, the girl who once believed that the world was bigger than any single job title. Slowly, I began to remember my “why”—that longing to work abroad, to build a life shaped by purpose and courage.

And yet, even with this space to breathe, I still find myself wrestling with questions I can’t always answer:

Why am I not there yet?
Why is it taking so long?
Why does it feel like everyone else is moving forward while I stay stuck in place?

These questions aren’t new. They visit me during quiet mornings and heavy evenings, in moments when the world goes on and I feel like I’m watching from the sidelines. I’ve faced more setbacks than I ever imagined—rejections, detours, disappointments that arrived uninvited and stayed longer than welcome. And sometimes, when the weight of all that trying feels too much, I think of giving up.

But that’s when the quiet answers arrive.

Not in grand revelations. Not in dramatic signs. Just in ordinary, sacred moments with people who remind me—often without knowing—of truths I’d forgotten.

On Right Timing

We are taught to believe that success is a product of hustle. That if we just work hard enough, fast enough, long enough, everything we want will unfold neatly. But life, in all its mystery, doesn’t move on our schedules. It moves with sacred timing.

There were doors I desperately wanted to open, but they didn’t. There were people I wished would stay, but they didn’t. And there were moments I thought I was ready for something—but now, I see I wasn’t. Not yet.

Because sometimes, delay is not denial.
It is protection. It is preparation.
It is life gently asking you to grow roots before you bloom again.

On Patience

It’s not easy.
Patience is not passive. It is not weak. It is, in fact, one of the strongest things we can practice in a world that screams now.

Patience has taught me how to hold space for myself when nothing feels certain. It has taught me how to sit with longing without letting it consume me. And most of all, it has taught me that waiting can be an act of faith—believing that what is meant for me will find me, not a second too late.

And so I wait—not with bitterness, but with quiet expectation.
Not because I have no choice, but because I trust that becoming takes time.

On Never Giving Up

The hardest thing to do when you’re tired isn’t running—it’s staying. It’s continuing to show up for your dream when the doors haven’t opened yet, when no one is cheering, and when you’re the only one who sees what’s possible.

But I’ve learned that some of the most defining moments happen in the quiet:
When you choose to try again.
When you apply again.
When you hope again, even after disappointment.

That’s the real turning point—not the job offer, not the visa, not the victory. It’s the decision to continue. To carry hope with trembling hands and say, “Maybe tomorrow.” Because that simple act? That is strength. That is resilience. That is becoming.

On “Someday”

One day, it will make sense. The delays. The heartbreak. The mornings you woke up wondering if any of this would be worth it.

One day, you’ll look back and realize that even your waiting wasn’t wasted. That every no led you closer to the yes that would truly fit. That the people who left made room for the ones who would truly see you. That the dreams that didn’t happen were the very things that cleared the path for the ones that did.

Someday, it will all become part of a bigger story—a story not of instant success, but of quiet faith, persistent grace, and slow, sacred becoming.

So if you’re like me—navigating the in-between, unsure where it all leads—know this:

You are not lost.
You are simply becoming.
The waiting isn’t a pause in your life. It is your life.
And every breath you take in trust is building something you cannot yet see.

Let go of the pressure to catch up. You are not behind. You are not failing.
You are just unfolding in your own time.

Grow gently.
Focus on your next small step.

The rest will follow.
With grace, with time, and always—with heart.

— Anj