(taken from Instagram: walkwithme_tanyalee)
It's more like a knowing that sits in my chest.
A sense that something I've been guarding, carefully, faithfully, for a long time, can't come with me where He's leading.
And the hard part is ... what I've been protecting isn't bad.
It's familiar. It's competent. It kept me safe when I needed it to.
It's the reflex to stay alert. To manage outcomes. To brace before anything has a chance to hurt.
It's survival.
And God isn't exposing it to shame me.
He's exposing it because it's no longer necessary.
That's what makes this feel so tender.
Because dying to something that once saved you doesn't feel like repentance ... it feels like grief.
Like standing at the edge of a season and realizing, "I don't get to bring this version of myself with me."
There's fear in that. There's resistance.
There's instinct to say, "But this is how I know how to stay okay."
And God keeps answering, gently, "I know. And you don't need it anymore."
This kind of death doesn't happen in one decision.
It happens in moments.
When I choose not to tighten. When I choose not to control.
When I notice the urge to protect myself -- and pause instead.
It feels like lowering armor in slow motion. Like trusting the ground before I fully trust myself on it.
I'm learning that God isn't asking me to lose myself.
He's asking me to let go of the parts of me that were built for danger, so I can live like I'm actually safe.
And some days, that feels harder than surviving ever did.
But I can feel it: this death is making room for something truer.
Something light.
Something that feels more like home.
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