Tomorrow Has Never Felt Comfortable
Tomorrow has never been something I've held comfortably.
For most of my life, the future felt less like a promise and more like a question mark — one shaped by survival, not expectation. When you grow up learning how to endure, you don't spend much time imagining what comes next. You focus on getting through what's in front of you.
Dreaming felt risky. Planning felt arrogant. Hope felt fragile.
When Survival Slowly Turns Into Trust
Something has shifted.
Not because life suddenly became easier.
Not because the answers finally arrived.
But because I've started to understand that tomorrow doesn't require my control — only my trust.
There are chapters ahead I haven't written yet. Pages still blank. Decisions still unmade. People I haven't met. Lessons I haven't learned. Versions of myself I haven't grown into.
For the first time, that unknown doesn't terrify me the way it used to.
It humbles me.
The Future as an Invitation
Tomorrow isn't a guarantee. It never was.
But it is an invitation.
An invitation to dream again — cautiously, maybe, but honestly.
To imagine a future where love is healthy instead of painful.
Where work is meaningful instead of merely exhausting.
Where faith is lived, not just endured.
I'm learning that hope doesn't need certainty to exist. It only needs room.
The Weight and Wonder of Fatherhood
When I think about tomorrow, I think about my children.
About the kind of man I want them to remember.
About the example I'm setting, even on the days I feel like I'm falling short.
About the future they're walking into — shaped quietly by the choices I make today.
The life I want for them isn't built overnight. It's formed in small, faithful decisions, repeated when no one is watching.
Writing With the Author Beside Me
I also think about God — not as a distant author dictating every sentence, but as a patient one.
Guiding without forcing.
Correcting without shaming.
Leaving space for growth, even when I stumble over my words.
Tomorrow doesn't ask me to have everything figured out.
It asks me to remain open.
Choosing a Posture, Not a Plan
This chapter isn't a roadmap.
It's a posture.
A decision to believe that the pages ahead are worth writing — even if I can't see them yet. Even if they scare me a little. Even if I don't know how the story will unfold.
For now, that faith is enough.
The rest of the pages will come when they're ready.
"Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness." — Lamentations 3:22-23