Letting Go to Live Larger

Letting Go to Live Larger

There are moments when a few words, written by strangers, shared on quiet corners of the internet, feel as though they were written for you. Not because they are new, but because they finally name what you’ve been carrying in silence.

I didn’t save those three posts by accident.

I saved them on days when I was tired of being brave. On days when my prayers felt bigger than my capacity. On days when I wondered whether choosing growth meant I was also choosing loss.

One of the images spoke plainly: You can’t ask for expansion while clinging to comfort. And I remember putting my phone down and just sitting with that truth. Because comfort has been my quiet companion for longer than I like to admit. Not comfort in the sense of ease, but familiarity. Predictability. Versions of myself I had already mastered.

We don’t talk enough about how hard it is to let go of what once protected us.

For me, letting go hasn’t looked dramatic. It has looked like unanswered questions. Like starting over in a new country, a new marriage, a new identity, while carrying the weight of who I used to be. It has looked like smiling through certainty in public and wrestling with doubt in private. Like praying bold prayers for a bigger life, then panicking when that life actually begins to demand change.

Because the truth is, growth is unsettling.

Change feels like grief before it feels like freedom. You mourn versions of yourself that were once necessary. You mourn dreams that no longer fit. You mourn timelines that didn’t unfold the way you imagined. And yet, somewhere in the letting go, you begin to breathe differently. Wider. Deeper.

Another piece whispered a softer, braver hope: I hope you’re brave enough to stand out from the crowd. I sat with that one for a long time. Because standing out isn’t always about boldness, it’s often about loneliness. It’s about choosing a path that doesn’t come with applause. About being misunderstood. About being called unrealistic, impractical, or delusional.

I’ve worn those labels before.

And for a long time, I tried to shrink my dreams so they wouldn’t inconvenience anyone. I learned how to make myself palatable. Presentable. Reasonable. But there is something deeply exhausting about editing yourself to fit into spaces God never designed you for.

What if the thing they call delusion is actually obedience?

What if the magic you feel in your bones is not imagination, but discernment?

The older I grow, the more I realise that faith often looks foolish before it looks fruitful. That the most beautiful lives are not built on permission, but on conviction. That sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is believe, quietly, stubbornly, even when no one else sees what you see.

The third image grounded me in a way my spirit needed: The most grounded people aren’t chasing influence, they’re chasing integrity. In a world obsessed with visibility, this felt like permission to slow down.

I’ve felt the pressure to be seen. To prove that my choices make sense. To show results quickly. To arrive somewhere impressive. But lately, I’ve been learning that becoming is not a performance, it’s a process.

Integrity is quiet work.

It looks like choosing consistency over applause. Discipline over urgency. Foundations over timelines. It looks like trusting that God is more interested in who I’m becoming than how fast I’m getting there.

Purpose doesn’t shout. It deepens.

And maybe that’s the missing conversation, we celebrate arrival, but we rarely honour the unseen seasons. The in-between. The slow becoming. The moments when nothing looks impressive from the outside, yet everything is being rebuilt on the inside.

This season of my life is asking me uncomfortable questions:

What am I still holding onto because it feels safe? What version of myself am I defending, even though I’ve outgrown her? Who might I become if I finally let go?

A bigger life doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes gently. Patiently. It waits for space. And space is only made when we loosen our grip on what no longer fits.

So if you’re in a season where letting go feels like loss, please know this: it may not be the end of something good. It may be the beginning of something truer.

And if all you can do right now is walk, slowly, faithfully, imperfectly, toward the life God placed in your heart, that is more than enough.

Sometimes, becoming doesn’t need urgency.

It just needs courage.

— Jez