Sometimes, if you sit still long enough, you can feel something inside you shift, a small flicker you’ve carried your whole life but only recently learned how to name.
It shows up in the quiet.
In those rare, unoccupied moments when your mind isn’t solving or planning or preparing for the next thing.
In the space between who you’ve been for others… and who you are when no one needs anything from you.
Purpose is rarely loud. It’s usually the quiet thing that refuses to leave.
Growing up, my parents used to joke that they didn’t know where I came from.
I was the “odd one,” the one who saw the world sideways, dreaming bigger than my environment, asking questions no one else was asking, feeling everything with a depth that sometimes startled even me.
I didn’t have the language back then.
I just knew there was something in me that wanted to make things better, for someone, somewhere.
It wasn’t ambition.
It wasn’t pressure.
It was a pull.
And even now, all these years later, I still feel that same quiet tug.
As a mother and a wife, people assume that my drive comes from my family.
And yes, they are one of the greatest loves of my life.
They’ve shaped me, stretched me, softened me in ways nothing else ever could.
But even inside that love… there is a part of me that existed long before the titles arrived.
A part that whispers,
“You were someone before you were needed. And you’ll still be someone when the needing shifts.”
I remember a moment when my oldest son was only a few months old, soft and warm against my chest.
Everyone tells you that motherhood is forever, but in that moment, I felt the truth differently:
I get to raise him for a season… not for a lifetime.
One day he will grow up,
step into his own world,
and need me in new ways, gentler ways, quieter ways.
The realization hit like a soft ache.
A stretch.
A loosening of something I didn’t know I was gripping.
And under that ache… there was another feeling.
Hope.
Possibility.
A little reminder:
“Your life will keep expanding, and you will expand with it.”
Maybe you’ve had that moment too. when you look ahead and see a version of yourself you haven’t fully met yet.
And the questions come:
Who will I be when this season no longer defines me?
What parts of me will still be there when the roles fall away?
As my boys grow and the chaos becomes less chaotic,
I know my home will eventually get quieter.
I know my hands won’t be as full.
And something in me has always known that when that chapter comes,
I won’t be empty.
There has always been more inside me.
Maybe that’s why I went back to school.
Maybe that’s what pushed me to start a podcast before I had a plan.
Maybe that’s why I care about emotional honesty, healing, burnout, purpose, not because I needed another thing to do, but because something soul-deep in me keeps pointing forward.
We confuse our roles with our purpose all the time.
We think our drive comes from responsibility
from the people who need us,
from the seasons we’re in,
from the titles we’re carrying.
But the truth?
What drives you is the thing that stays when the season ends.
The thing you feel even in your quietest moments.
The flicker that refuses to leave.
Titles come and go, mother, wife, student, creator, employee.
But the thread inside you?
That is the one constant.
Identity isn’t who you are to others.
Identity is the person you return to
when no one is watching,
when the noise fades,
when the house is still.
And the older I get,
the more I realize:
That “odd” girl my parents joked about?
She wasn’t odd at all.
She was simply becoming who she was designed to be.
We don’t grow out of our purpose.
We grow into it.
So maybe part of adulthood,
part of spiritual maturity, emotional maturity, self-honesty
is finally learning to stop dimming that flicker
and letting it guide us toward whatever is next.
Because your purpose has never been a role.
It has never been a job.
It has never been a responsibility.
Your purpose is the quiet thing that has followed you your entire life,
waiting for you to stop long enough to feel it again.
A Gentle Action for the Week
Sometime this week, give yourself five quiet minutes before the day begins, or after the house finally settles.
And ask yourself softly:
What has been flickering in me since the beginning,
long before anyone needed me,
long before responsibility shaped me?
Write down whatever rises.
Don’t judge it.
Don’t rush it.
Just notice it.
Your purpose whispers before it speaks.
And you are finally in a season where you can hear it again.
You Might Also Find Comfort In:
If you’ve been measuring your worth by the roles you carry, read: The Emotional Cost of Conditional Self-Love (and What It Steals From You)
And if you’re ready to meet yourself where you are, not where you think you should be: How to Start Over Mentally When Life Feels Heavy (Even If You’re Scared)
A Gentle Note from Keisha
Keisha’s House is a space for reflection, rest, and gentle recovery. While I hold a BSW and MSW, this content is not therapy or clinical treatment.
If what you’re carrying feels heavier than reflection can hold, you might find support in guided tools like Headspace meditation, breathwork, and mindfulness designed to help with stress, sleep, and emotional regulation. Explore it here.
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You’re always welcome here. Take your time, explore what resonates, and come back whenever you need to breathe.
