Why Are We Always Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop?

A Saturday Morning Reflection

So I started writing my book.

I Sketched My Soul in Color.

And even though I’ve lived this story, I found myself nervous.

It caught me off guard.

I’ve always been somewhat open. I don’t mind sharing. But this level of vulnerability? This kind of truth? It costs something.

Not because I’m afraid of being judged. Folks don’t pay my bills or feed me at night. It’s because I don’t want my truth to be weaponized.

This is sacred.

This is mine.

And some people don’t know what to do with honesty unless they can twist it, dismiss it, or dissect it.

So yes, I’m nervous.

But I’m still writing.

Because something in me knows this story needs to breathe.

The truth is, I don’t remember a time before survival.

I was in kindergarten.

My mother, the same person who gave me life, put duct tape around my wrists and ankles and pressed a pillow over my face.

More than once.

And my body remembered.

Even when I tried not to.

That’s when I first felt unsafe.

That’s when I learned love could be violent, that protection wasn’t promised, and that perhaps I was cursed.

If your own mother tries to unalive you, who will ever protect you?

Who will ever love you right?

I’ve carried that question my whole life.

I carried it into friendships.

I carried it into my engagement.

I carried it into the parts of myself I still struggle to soothe.

Because when you’ve been violated that early, something in you always waits.

Waits for the harm.

Waits for the silence to break.

Waits for love to disappear.

Waits for the other shoe to drop.

And when you’ve waited long enough, sometimes you just go ahead and drop it yourself.

That’s what I did in some relationships.

Not because I didn’t care. But because I was preparing for the ending.

Trying to outrun disappointment by controlling when it hit.

It’s not noble. It’s not easy to admit.

But it’s real.

Still, through it all, something in me fought.

The fighter in me kept me alive.

The one that doesn’t back down. That shows up even when tired.

But I’ve learned that same fight can become a cage.

You forget how to rest.

How to trust.

How to be soft.

So now, I’m learning how to be gentle.

With myself. With others.

Because not everything is a fight.

Not every moment requires armor.

Some moments require faith.

And even though I’m not the most religious person, my spirituality is what anchors me.

Flawed and all, it’s still there.

God has been the constant thread, even when I couldn’t see the pattern.

I don’t say that to sound deep.

I say that because I don’t know where I’d be without something holy holding me up when I couldn’t stand on my own.

So here I am, typing through tears that didn’t scream but still spoke.

Writing a book I don’t even know if I’m “qualified” to write.

Wondering if the story is worth telling.

But knowing, deep down, it needs to be told.

Because there’s a purpose in this pain.

And I’m choosing to believe that being kind, being layered, being real, and being in contribution matters.

Even if folks don’t understand.

Even if they try to shrink it.

Even if the journey makes no sense to them.

This isn’t just about survival.

This is about becoming.

This is about honoring the scared child I used to be and the strong man I’ve chosen to become.

So if you’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop,

Let this post be your reminder.

Sometimes, the shoes never drop.

Sometimes, you rise instead.

And if they do fall,

You’ll still be here.

Because you were built to survive.

I Sketched My Soul in Color.

And every page is proof I’m still becoming the masterpiece God saw from the beginning.