Author: Kaleathia Murphy

After Jesus was resurrected, the disciples were overjoyed to see Him. But Thomas wasn’t there. When they told him the good news, he didn’t believe it. He said, “Unless I see the nail marks in His hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into His side, I will not believe” (John 20:25). How could this be? Thomas was a disciple who had seen Jesus perform countless miracles. He had walked with Him, heard His teachings, and witnessed His power firsthand. Yet, in that moment, Thomas needed physical evidence to believe.

Not long ago, my husband told me I was displaying the faith of Thomas or more accurately, a lack of faith. I got offended. His words stung so deeply that I shut down, refusing to hear anything else he had to say. But recently, that conversation came back to mind, and I had to admit he was right. I apologized to him because I realized how often I’ve acted like Thomas, needing tangible proof of what Jesus is doing in my life.

I began to reflect: how could I, after everything Jesus has done for me, still demand evidence? He’s shown His faithfulness over and over again, yet I’ve doubted Him in moments of uncertainty. It’s humbling to recognize that even as someone who loves and follows Christ, I’ve let fear and doubt cloud my faith. But just as Jesus met Thomas in his unbelief and gave him what he needed to believe, He’s met me too patiently reminding me of His goodness. Now, I’m learning to trust without needing to see, believing in His promises because of who He is, not just what He does.

How about if it all works out? That simple thought shifted me from worry to faith. Instead of focusing on everything that could go wrong, I started thinking about what could go right. It’s a mindset change that feels small but carries so much power. Worrying about the unknown doesn’t change the outcome it only robs you of your peace.

The truth is, we can’t control the unknowns. Life is unpredictable, and trying to manage every possibility is exhausting. But what we can control is our mindset. We get to choose how we think, how we approach challenges, and whether we let fear or faith guide us. Choosing to believe in the best-case scenario doesn’t mean ignoring reality; it means leaning into hope and trusting that even if things don’t go as planned, they’ll still work out in the end. What if that shift in thinking is all you need?

You should be in relationships where you are appreciated, not merely tolerated. Anything less is a disservice to yourself and a relationship built on pretense. For me, being truly connected to someone means having the space to be vulnerable, honest, and fully myself. Surface-level connections don’t fulfill me I long for depth, understanding, and mutual appreciation.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve become more selective about the people I allow into my inner circle. The word “friend” carries weight for me now, and I no longer use it as loosely as I once did. Friendships, like any meaningful relationship, require effort, trust, and genuine care. Life is too short to settle for connections that feel forced or one-sided. Surrounding yourself with people who truly see you, value you, and accept you is a gift worth cherishing.

It’s good for me—this idea of finding comfort in being uncomfortable. It sounds crazy because comfort is what we naturally seek. It makes perfect sense to want to stay in a place that feels safe and familiar. But there are seasons in life where comfort must be set aside. These are the moments that stretch us, creating the vulnerability needed to confront the pride that often leads to a fall.

Discomfort isn’t easy, but it has a purpose. It humbles us, refines us, and strengthens our ability to persevere. If we remain too comfortable, we risk stagnation and miss out on the growth that comes through challenges. Embracing discomfort isn’t about seeking pain but about recognizing the beauty in what it produces—a stronger, wiser, and more grounded version of ourselves.

Why am I doing the things? That question has lingered with me since I remembered a time when I was completely content wearing my old Skechers. They were comfortable, functional, and met my needs—until someone pointed out the holes in them. Embarrassment crept in, and despite having the means to replace them, I hadn’t because I was satisfied. But I let their comments shake me, dictating my spending and, more deeply, how I viewed my worth. I started buying based on what others might think rather than what truly mattered to me.

What I wear doesn’t define the person I am. Judging someone by their appearance misses what’s internal—the qualities and values that make them who they are. Expensive or name-brand items might offer a fleeting sense of pride or garner a few compliments, but those shouldn’t drive our choices. I learned this the hard way when I began seeing my Skechers as “not good enough.” Looking back, they weren’t just shoes; they were a reminder of the peace that comes with contentment—a peace I’m working to reclaim.

Just because I can doesn’t mean I should. It’s a simple truth, yet one I’ve come to deeply appreciate over time. I have many liberties at my disposal—freedoms I could easily exercise. When I was younger, I thought adulthood was all about having the ability to do anything I wanted, as long as it didn’t break the law. And for a time, I shamelessly explored that mindset.

Yes, this girl has done some things. Things I’m not particularly proud of, but they’ve taught me valuable lessons. Those experiences helped shape who I am today—a person of restraint. Or maybe I should say it’s a journey of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. With each step forward, I’ve learned that knowing the right thing to do comes with a weight that’s impossible to ignore. Once you know better, it’s hard to go back.

Restraint isn’t about limitation; it’s about choice. It’s about realizing that just because I can doesn’t mean I should. It’s the understanding that some freedoms aren’t worth the cost, and some desires aren’t worth chasing. This kind of self-discipline didn’t happen overnight—it’s a lesson learned through mistakes, reflection, and, most importantly, growth.

Over time, I’ve discovered the beauty of boundaries. They don’t confine me; they protect me. They allow me to live intentionally, honoring the values I hold dear. Restraint isn’t always easy, but it’s always worth it. Because when you know the right thing to do, and you choose to follow through, you’re no longer just living—you’re thriving.

Wisdom, once gained, can’t be undone. And for that, I’m grateful.

Imagine being surrounded by people who don’t truly know who you are. They might have an idea of you—perhaps even a concept of who they think you are—but they don’t understand the things that bring you joy or the moments that weigh your spirit down.

They don’t see how deeply you believe the world is better because of your presence. They don’t grasp how much you value humanity, the convictions you hold dear, or the grace you extend to others, even when it costs you.

But wouldn’t it be nice if they did?

Wouldn’t it be beautiful if they not only knew you but made the effort to try? To listen, to see, and to appreciate the fullness of your being?

There’s something profound about being known—really known. It’s more than recognition; it’s connection. It’s being seen, understood, and loved for who you are, not for who others think you should be.

And yet, how often do we truly try to know others in this way?

Perhaps the invitation here is twofold: to hope for those who will seek to know us and to become the kind of people who seek to know others. Because in knowing, we reflect the love and grace that we ourselves long to receive.

It starts with a question, a pause, or a kind word. It starts with the courage to say, “I see you, and I’d like to know more.”

Not every plan is one-size-fits-all. What works for someone else may not work for you—and that’s okay. You have to embrace the idea of working a plan that’s tailored to you, your strengths, and your circumstances.

We often get frustrated when we try to follow a plan that wasn’t designed with us in mind. There’s a big difference between theory and action. A theory might sound good in concept, but it’s only when you put it into action that you discover what truly works and what doesn’t.

It’s important to learn contentment where you are. This moment, this place—it’s where you’re supposed to be. Instead of striving to be somewhere else or comparing your journey to others, focus on making the most of where you are right now.

Learn to accommodate your current season. Stop looking around and concerning yourself with where others are. Their plan isn’t your plan, and their destination isn’t your destination.

Trust your journey. Work your plan. And remember, it’s okay if it looks different from everyone else’s—it’s yours for a reason.

This morning, I woke up reflecting on the idea that starting over is not a setback—it’s a privilege. It’s an opportunity to create the life I truly want, leaving behind what no longer serves me. All the old things are gone, and now I can move forward at my own pace, without pressure or haste.

Everything that comes to me now will be intentional, things I truly desire and value. I’ve seen this principle in action in my own life. There was a time I wished for the quality of people in my life to change—and it did. Another time, I decided I wanted to focus on quality over quantity—and that too became my reality.

These experiences taught me the incredible power of thoughts. A simple thought can transform into words, which in turn spark actions. What if starting over is not something to fear or regret, but a privilege?

What if it’s a privilege to walk away from people who don’t have your best interests at heart?

What if it’s a privilege to leave behind toxicity?

What if it’s a privilege to begin again, building from the ground up?

I see my fresh start as a gift. While I don’t have all the answers or understand every step ahead, I have the freedom to shape my life intentionally. My heart feels guided by the vision God has for me, and I trust that vision.

Starting over isn’t just an ending; it’s a powerful beginning. And what a privilege that is.