The Woman I'm Becoming

Letting Go of Who I Was to Make Room for Who God Is Calling Me to Be--Entrepreneurial Transformation

What if I could go back in time?

If I woke up and found myself in the body of the girl who deemed herself capable... would things be different?

I think about her sometimes. Not often, but just enough. Usually when I’m lying in bed too late at night, or when I catch myself avoiding my own reflection in the mirror. The thought moves through me like a thin, chilly wind-barely there, but enough to give me goosebumps.

She shows up in flashes — a version of me that smiled without questioning it. The one who didn’t have to fight her way through everything. A girl who hadn’t yet learned how to carry silence like armor. There is a chance that I used to get butterflies thinking of her, years ago, but I only get heart palpitations now. How strange.

Because I could’ve sworn to be different if I ever went back, if I could save her from her own hands... her own heartbreak. Maybe I was so fixated on being there for everyone else because I never figured out how to be there for her.

So I worked more.

Chased more dreams.

Learned a new language.

Laughed louder. Posted prettier.

All while slapping a band-aid over a wound that was still bleeding.

Because forward motion looks like healing, right?

“Big girls don’t cry,” they said.

But we do grieve.

If I could go back in time, would I save her from mistaking survival for strength?

Then again… some of us weren’t trying to be strong.

We just didn’t have time to fall apart.

“I don’t know who I’ll be in the next 5 or 10 years, but I know who I’m becoming right now.”

I’ve learned that misery has a way of making itself at home in your body. It settles in the joints. Wraps itself around your memories like fog.

And before you know it, you can’t tell the difference between pain and personality.

You’re just one misfortune away from crumbling down into extinction. Maybe that’s why I stayed busy.

Because misery… she’s an old friend.

She comforts your scars —without ever telling you how deep they go.

After all, the ocean looks peaceful... until you know what drowning in it feels like.

So does the past.

You blink once and convince yourself:

“It was bad, but at least I was happy.”

The illusion of joy, will have you feeling just like the Israelites in the desert.

And next thing you know, it’s been three years and the only things you see are the ghosts of the future past. You’re drowning in what if’s and should’ve been, the best way to die because you’re breathing long enough to know you’re alive but stuck in the past like a casket, 6 feet under.

It’s grace that got me out of that casket. Otherwise, I would have thought I deserved to rest in peace even though my soul was in pieces.

So, every time I am convinced that I could have done better, I remind myself to not turn back, regardless. Because Lot’s wife didn’t just turn to a pillar of salt, she lost sight of what was right in front of her. The city burning is never going to be better than the life you’ve been able to create despite your circumstances.

After so many years of battling between what seemed like life and death, a tug between wanting to live but being so willing to die, I realized that I didn’t want to stop existing, I just wanted to erase the part of me that felt weaker than shame but stronger than resentment.

You see, I somehow lived my early 20s thinking I needed to be the hero in the story, fix what wasn’t mine to fix, build what wasn’t mine to build, help people that weren’t mine to help…

Isn’t that the beauty of capitalism? To be the solution of a problem that wouldn’t exist if we all just minded our business?

The one lesson my dad has always taught me, but never remembered until I was between a rock and a hard place, was to let go of what doesn’t work. He always used metaphors, like when this camera he bought me, an Olympus digital camera, I always loved photography ever since I was young, and this one day he was clearing out junk and he see the camera tucked away, it was hot, as it always is in Tanzania, under the scorching humidity, with our standing fan, he says, “this camera isn’t working anymore?” It’s a question wrapped in an observation, “then just throw it away.”

“THROW IT AWAY?” I squealed. “Cameras aren’t cheap baba.”

He chuckles, “Yes I know, I am the one who bought it. But keeping it won’t change the fact that it isn’t working, throw it away.”

“But I can fix it?”

“It’s cheaper to buy a new one.” He says, tossing it aside with his other things, of course I sneaked it back and kept it, I still have it till today. But now, it reminds me of something bigger: You can’t keep things — or versions of yourself —just because you spent a lot to get them.

And I think I get it now, as a woman, there are times you feel like time is lost on you. You could do everything right and the world will still find a way to use you as a doormat, so knowing when to let go is rebellion, not letting yourself become a doormat is activism.

You are always in a position to move and do something you want and let go of any opportunity that doesn’t work for you anymore. With kids, without kids, with a career without one, with a partner, without one.

The girl I used to be tithed out of habit. She gave God a portion of her sweat like He was her landlord, not her lifeline. She’d drop money in offering with one hand and turn around to fund the very systems that spit in His face.

She’d invest in comfort, clout, self-preservation — in the world that mocked, beat, and crucified the man who died for her.

I don’t hate her. But I don’t want to be her anymore.

Because the woman I’m becoming would burn her last dollar to keep her Savior warm.

She’s not looking to build empires in a kingdom that’s falling apart.

The woman I’m becoming will burn her last dollar to keep my Savior warm, because hell doesn’t need another dollar of mine. She’s not investing in hell’s economy anymore. Not when we’ve got heaven to keep.

I don’t know who I am going to be in the next 5 to 10 years but I know who I am becoming.

A soft, very soft woman, softer than cotton.

A builder who plants seeds in seasons when others see only barren ground.

An entrepreneur whose ambition no longer bleeds her dry but flows like water, nourishing what matters. Someone who understands that business isn't just about climbing mountains but about becoming the kind of woman who can weather the altitude.

A woman who treats her boundaries not as walls but as gardens – carefully tended, beautiful in their purpose, rooted deep enough that storms can't uproot them. Who has learned that her energy is not an endless resource to be mined but a wellspring to be protected.

An architect of opportunities who no longer builds monuments to other people's expectations. Who knows when to walk away from tables where the cost of admission is pieces of her soul.

An entrepreneur who walks away from opportunities that demand her soul as payment. Who measures success not just in profit margins but in peace of mind.

A woman who doesn’t let other people’s voices determine who I’m going to be.

Who builds her business like she's learning to love herself – with patience, forgiveness, and a stubborn belief in possibility. Whose success is not just counted in zeros but in the zero regrets of choosing authenticity over approval.

I took a while to get here. But I love the woman I am becoming. A very beautiful, wonderfully and fearfully made woman in Christ.

Happy Easter my love.

Jesus loves you. The whole of you.

Aaaand if this spoke to you, I made a planner for business women like us—becoming, healing, building with God. It’s soft, strategic, and rooted in grace. Would love to know your thoughts about it. You can check it out here:

Faith Fueled Business Planner

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