My job is to show up—what happens after that is not mine to carry.

I’ve been sitting with a simple truth lately, one that feels both grounding and challenging in equal measure: I am not in the outcome business. That is not my role. That is not my responsibility. That belongs to God. And while that sounds peaceful in theory, living it out requires a level of surrender that I am still learning, day by day. Because if I’m honest, I have spent a lot of my life trying to control outcomes. Trying to predict, plan, and secure results before I even fully step into the work. I would move with intention, yes—but also with an underlying need to know where it was all going. To feel reassured that my effort would lead to something tangible. Something visible. Something that justified the time, the energy, the faith I was pouring into it.

And when that didn’t happen, it would shake me. Not always in obvious ways, but quietly. It would make me question myself. Question whether I was on the right path, whether I was doing enough, and whether I was even meant for what I was pursuing. And looking back now, I realise that I was placing a burden on myself that was never mine to carry in the first place. Because the truth is, I can control my effort—but I cannot control the outcome. I can show up. I can do the work. I can be disciplined, intentional, and consistent. I can refine my craft, take responsibility, and move with purpose. But I cannot force results. I cannot dictate timing. I cannot guarantee how things will unfold. And learning to accept that has been both humbling and freeing. Because when you release the need to control outcomes, something shifts within you. You begin to approach your life differently. Your work feels lighter, not because it matters less, but because you’re no longer attaching your worth to what comes from it. You’re no longer measuring yourself based on results you don’t fully control.

You begin to focus on what is actually yours to do. And for me, that has meant returning to the basics—showing up fully, doing what I know I am called to do, and trusting that what is meant for me will come in its own time. It sounds simple, but it requires faith. Real faith. The kind that doesn’t need constant reassurance. The kind that doesn’t demand immediate evidence. The kind that allows you to keep going, even when things are not yet visible, not yet clear, not yet confirmed. Because there will be seasons where you are doing everything right—and still not seeing the results you expected. And in those moments, you have a choice. You can either tighten your grip, try harder to control, question everything, and exhaust yourself in the process… or you can surrender. Not in a passive way, but in a trusting way. A way that says, I will continue to do my part, and I will trust that the rest is being handled. And that kind of surrender doesn’t make you weak—it strengthens you. It anchors you in something deeper than immediate outcomes. It allows you to move with peace, even in uncertainty. It reminds you that your life is not defined by how quickly things come together, but by how faithfully you continue to show up.

I’ve had to remind myself of this, especially in moments where I felt the urge to rush results. To force progress. To question why something hasn’t happened yet. And every time, I come back to the same truth: My job is to do the work. My job is to stay aligned. My job is to show up with intention, with discipline, with honesty. And then, I let go. Because what is meant for me will not require me to control everything. It will meet me in my effort. It will meet me in my consistency. It will meet me in my faith. And maybe that’s the shift we all need to make at some point—to move from striving for outcomes, to trusting the process. To understand that we are not here to guarantee results, but to participate fully in what we are called to do. So now, I move differently. Not anxiously. Not forcefully. But intentionally. I work. I trust. And I release. Because I am not in the outcome business. And for the first time, that feels like freedom.