When Patience Isn’t Patience

I woke up at 3 a.m. shaking.

Nausea. A pounding head. My chest tight, as if something heavy was pressing down on it. No bad dream. Just my body in full alarm.

And I knew exactly why.

I’m writing a memoir about church pain. I’ve lived through it once. But every time I write it chronologically, my body reacts as if it’s happening again. Church hurt doesn’t stay politely in the past.

Patience Is Not Slow Pushing

My word has been patience. I tell myself I’m not rushing. I know books take time. Healing takes time.

But patience is not pushing more slowly.
It’s knowing when pushing is still pushing.

I wasn’t rushing the timeline.
I was gripping the weight.

Opening My Hands

This morning I listened to a short devotion about praying with clenched fists — naming what you’re holding — and then opening your hands to release it.

When I closed my fists, I knew what I was holding.

Not just the book.
The need to carry it thoroughly. Chronologically. Completely.

As if telling the truth requires reliving everything.

It doesn’t.

I can write sideways. In fragments. With space. Even with humor. I can let the process be held, instead of holding it myself.

Patience, Again

And now I’m sitting here on a day when my head still feels tired. I know I shouldn’t make big decisions when I’m this worn out.

But I do know this:

Patience.

Even if I choose a completely different entry point for this book — that’s okay.

I’m not failing if I change the structure.
I’m not failing if I don’t tell it chronologically.
I’m not failing if I protect my nervous system.

The story isn’t going anywhere.

So today, I’ll let it rest.