The Cost of Staying Free

Author’s Note:
This reflection emerges from a season of silence, discernment, and refusal to trade conviction for comfort in a time that rewards noise over truth.

I haven’t been in the blog space for a while—not because I lost my voice, but because life demanded more than commentary, and I refused to cheapen clarity in a season full of noise.

Life, transitions, and responsibilities all played a role. But if I’m honest, the deeper reason was bandwidth. There’s only so much energy one person has to respond to everything at once. What I still struggle to believe is that my writing took a back seat to the constant barrage of trash flooding timelines and media sources.

It’s official: I’m over selective outrage, incomplete assessments, entitlement, and hatred covered in bright paint.

The longer I live, the more I understand why reading is fundamental, why critical thinking matters, and why Jesus looked at the people and saw sheep without a shepherd. I am genuinely bothered by how easily folks justify—no, align themselves with—platforms and ideologies that stand in direct opposition to truth and justice.

I cannot understand how descendants of kings and queens continue to accept scraps from massa’s table just to remain in the big house.

I don’t understand how marginalized people consistently choose against their own self-interest in an attempt to be supremacy-adjacent.

Maybe it is environmental. Some of us have stared at the current state of affairs for so long that we can’t imagine anything more—unless we sell out for less.

Maybe Jay-Z’s words from The Story of OJ have created a different mentality: If they think I’m a nigga whether successful or not, I might as well give them what they want.

I thank God—from the bottom of my American African heart—that a different mentality was instilled in me long ago.

God gave me reason.
God gave me purpose.
God gave me a sound mind.

And that mind will never submit itself to legalistic, suppressive, and destructive systems built by weak-minded, impotent people.

My mind will never accept respectability politics from those who share my melanin count. My mind will never justify the belittling of the weak. And I refuse to waste my energy trying to convert keyboard cowards into moral thinkers.

This season we’re in? People who have practiced evil are learning that FAFO isn’t slang—it’s reality, unfolding in physical, spiritual, and psychological ways.

Joshua once told the people a decision had to be made.

Not a threat.
Not a demand.
Just truth.

Choose God—or settle.

Before they answered, Joshua drew the line:
“As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

This moment isn’t about groupthink. It’s not about siding with whoever looks like they’re winning. It’s about the life you actually want.

If you want what this depreciating world offers—stand on that.
If you want more—stand on that.
If you ride bandwagons, don’t complain when they drop you off and keep moving.

As for me?

I’m staying free.

—

Conviction costs, but captivity costs more.

Where the Strong Finally Rest

“I can no longer be the strong one in rooms where others refuse to use their own power.
This isn’t reinvention. It’s clarity.”




“I can no longer be the strong one in rooms where others refuse to use their own power.
This isn’t reinvention. It’s clarity.”

For the first time in my life, I find myself with all of my emotional wounds wide open.

For forty-four years, I have tried to understand why my introverted self still needed the charge of community. At times, I believed that longing came from a lack of acceptance. At other moments, I buried myself in productivity—believing usefulness might substitute for belonging.

Now I know better.

The deepest need I have carried is not recognition, affirmation, or achievement. It is community.

Achievement feels good. Being seen for giftedness is affirming. But what happens when you don’t have your tribe? What happens when the community that once anchored you begins to disappear?

Over the last seven years, one by one, the bedrocks of my development have faded—for many reasons. Each loss required just enough grieving to remain functional. I could not afford to mourn too long. Responsibility demanded movement. Ministry required output. People needed strength.

For a long time, I was better at being a machine than being human.

I did not know how to lean into my humanity.

After three long weeks marked by emergency room visits, relentless physical pain, internal turmoil, misplaced blame, and a fatigue unfamiliar to my spirit, I now understand something I can no longer ignore: community is not optional. It is necessary. And it is not accidental. It is intentional.

This coming year requires a reassessment of our circles.

I can no longer accept being the “strong one” in rooms where others defer rather than step into their own power. My capacity for friendship, kinship, and even surface connection can no longer sustain relationships unwilling to reciprocate the act of pouring.

This is not a “new year, new me” statement.

It is clarity.

It is the recognition that my life has requirements if it is to continue with integrity. I must reinvest in what actually matters. I cannot afford to run out of gas anymore. I have a purpose and a charge to keep.

This is the stop where stowaways must get off the train.

The journey ahead requires willing participants—people who see the God-sized picture over my life and who are brave enough to acknowledge the God-sized calling over their own.

If you find yourself in the same place, perhaps this is the moment to pause—not to abandon the journey, but to assess it. Are we carrying unnecessary weight, or are we finally prepared to go further?

This is where the strong finally rest—not because the work is finished, but because strength was never meant to be carried alone.

No Slogans This Year

Normally, this is the moment when someone like me comes up with a clever way to describe the year. A phrase. A theme. A spiritual headline that makes the last twelve months feel organized and intentional. I suppose it’s the occupational hazard of preaching—to feel responsible for making meaning out of seasons that were never meant to be tidy.

But honestly, I have nothing like that this year.

I’ve reached the end of a twelve-month stretch and don’t have sufficient words for what this season has been. I have ideas. I have concepts. I have lessons. I just don’t have language that can fully hold it all. And for the first time, I’ve made peace with that. That, too, is part of the work.

What I can say is this: I have found myself moving from one realm of responsibility to another—sometimes intentionally, sometimes by necessity. Along the way, I’ve discovered that God has made me of some unreal stuff. Not invincible stuff. Not untouched stuff. But resilient enough to navigate pain, grief, and change without disappearing.

Still, I wonder what all of this will mean as the calendar turns.

Sure, I could stand up and declare that it’s my season for promotion, elevation, or breakthrough. I could borrow the language we’re all familiar with. But this year stripped away the last bit of cliché theology my spirit was still holding. I can no longer live in a world of spiritual absolutes built on sinking sand. I’ve learned—again—that faith is not strengthened by pretending struggle doesn’t exist.

We live in a culture constantly chasing “greater,” often without pausing to examine the cost of getting there. This year forced that examination. It tested every part of me—mind, body, soul, and spirit. And while I’ve come out on the other side, I didn’t emerge untouched.

I’m wounded.
I’m scarred.
I’m still wrestling.
But I am standing.

That alone is testimony.

It affirms the truth that God will never leave nor forsake us. But it also offers a sobering reminder: going through the fire does not mean you won’t smell like smoke. Survival does not erase evidence. Endurance still leaves marks.

One of the clearest lessons this year has taught me is the necessity of community. Going through the fire alone is unnecessary suffering. Going through it with others doesn’t remove the heat, but it does redistribute the weight. I understand now—more deeply than ever—that leaders need community, not as a luxury, but as lifeline. Strength without support is unsustainable.

I’ve also learned some harder truths. Everyone is not meant to occupy your inner space. You can’t help everyone. Desire cannot be gifted—it must already live within someone. And the “great cloud of witnesses” is not just a theological idea; it’s the living, breathing reminder that we are shaped by who walks with us, cheers for us, and tells us the truth.

This year unveiled a lot.

So if you’re looking for a polished conclusion or a prophetic bow to wrap things up neatly, I don’t have one. What I do have is solidarity.

For those who have been addressing challenge after challenge all year long—who didn’t get relief, just resolve—this is for you. For those who are ending the year tired but present, unsure but faithful, changed but still committed—we stand together.

We move forward not because everything is clear, but because we are still here.
Scarred, yes.
Wiser, hopefully.
Ready—not with certainty, but with courage—for whatever the next phase requires.

And for now, that is enough.