What I Refuse to Tolerate Anymore

A personal reckoning and the beginning of alignment

There comes a point where silence becomes self-betrayal.

I grew up believing that if I stayed quiet and still, things would eventually fall into place — that the storm inside me would subside with time, that one day I’d be understood, maybe even accepted and celebrated, and that the purpose for which I was born would reveal itself in a blaze of glory.

So I waited. I lay dormant, with fleeting sparks of action breaking through the haze.

However, the storm only grew louder. The understanding I longed for never arrived. And the purpose I ached for remained just beyond reach.

I mistook stillness for faith, but really, it was fear wearing hope like a mask.

Over the years, something in me slowly shifted. I realised passivity does not equate to peace, endurance without direction is void of virtue, and that the storm was not meant to be pacified or sedated, but channeled.

If I am to live aligned with the truth, I can no longer permit and maintain the conditions that keep me asleep. This is what I refuse to tolerate anymore.

The False Peace

Busyness without purpose? Relationships without depth? Faith without substance? Mediocrity? Emotional avoidance? I tolerated them all.

I tolerated the shallowness of community where people asked how I was but never stayed for the answer, and I played along because I thought being low-maintenance made me holy and justified my value.

I tolerated spiritual environments that prized conformity over transformation, where being seen serving was more important than being seen by God.

I tolerated my own numbness, operating under the assumption that as long as I kept moving, no one asked if I was alive. Not even me.

I labelled it humility and faithfulness, but it was really fear masquerading as virtue.

I let myself shrink to fit spaces that only wanted the convenient version of me.

I stayed silent, thinking it was noble.

Piece by piece, I traded vitality for approval, clarity for comfort, and thought it wisdom.

I told myself, “It’s fine. No point making a scene. I just need to endure a little longer.”

And in doing so, I lost myself — not in some grandiose collapse, but through a thousand quiet concessions.

And all the while, I thought this was what it meant to die to myself.

The Line in the Sand

Henceforth, I refuse to tolerate the things that steal life and meaning under the guise of stability.

I refuse to shrink so others feel comfortable, for acting in love sometimes means rocking the boat.

I refuse to silence what I know to be true just to preserve false peace.

I refuse to perform a version of myself that is palatable yet powerless.

I will no longer conflate being agreeable with being good, nor will I mistake being still for being surrendered.

I will not trade clarity for comfort, or purpose for proximity.

I will not let hunger be mistaken for rebellion, or fire with arrogance.

From now on, I will live aligned not just with what is expected, but with what is eternal.

I will speak even when my voice shakes.

I will take up space, even when the room doesn’t know what to do with me.

I will stand, even if I appear to stand alone — because I know I am not.

This is not an act of defiance for its own sake.

It is an act of returning to truth, to God, and to the person He has called me to become.

I just had to step through the threshold for it has always been there.

The Awakening

It wasn’t a sudden moment of clarity. Not an altar call. Not an explosion. It was an ache that grew louder, a sense that I was living out of sync with the truth I claimed to believe.

The dissonance grew, and soon it rang in my bones.

The places where my spirit winced every time I called suppression “patience,” or cowardice “gentleness.”

The moments where I caught myself fading — out of conversations, out of conviction, out of alignment — and convinced myself I was just being mature.

I thought I was being strong and bearing the cost for the sake of others, but what I was really doing was making everyone else comfortable while I disappeared.

Slowly. Cleanly. Quietly.

Eventually, the pain of staying the same outweighed the fear of changing.

Something cracked, and I began to see that God had never asked me to do that.

He never asked me to erase myself, or to lock myself in a cage of my own choosing.

That was not dying to myself — that was slow, agonising death.

I could not just follow Christ in His death and not move onto the new life and freedom brought by His resurrection.

So the more I aligned with truth, the more costly it became to stay asleep.

The more I saw what it would cost me to keep living disjointed from God, from the voice He had given me, and from the person He was trying to call forth in me.

And the moment the cost became clear, I could no longer stay where I was.

What This Means Going Forward

I don’t expect this new path to be easy; awakening rarely is.

Living in alignment demands walking away from some rooms, some roles, and some versions of myself that once kept me safe and comfortable.

It means choosing tension over ease, truth over silence, love with teeth instead of comfort without cost.

But for the first time in a long while, I’m not afraid of what it might require.

Staying asleep has cost me and will continue to cost me, and I’m no longer willing to pay the price.

That chapter is over. Not with bitterness, but with clarity.

I’m not waiting to be chosen, understood, or invited.

No longer will it just be “one day” or “someday”, but it will be “today.”

I’ve stepped through the threshold, and I’m not going back.

And maybe, if something in you resonates — if you’ve felt the dissonance too — then this isn’t just my threshold.

Maybe it’s yours.

This is what I refuse to tolerate anymore.

And maybe now, so do you.