The Wait of it All

Patience is not just waiting for something. It's about how you wait, or your attitude while waiting.

-Joyce Meyer

Have you ever felt like all you do is wait?

I know that delayed is not denied, but I feel both delayed and denied a lot of the time. I feel like all I do is wait. I feel denied, and mostly, I feel forgotten.

Waiting has a way of stretching time until it feels personal. It’s not just waiting on answers or outcomes—it’s waiting on clarity, on relief, on the moment when life finally feels like it’s moving forward instead of circling the same questions. Waiting can feel passive, like life is happening somewhere else and you’re stuck in the in‑between, watching from the sidelines.

Some days, waiting feels obedient. Faithful. Hopeful, even. Other days, it feels cruel. Like being told to trust a process you were never given the full rules to. Like standing in a long line that never seems to move while others are waved through effortlessly. And when the silence stretches on, when prayers feel unanswered and doors stay closed, it’s hard not to wonder if the delay is actually a quiet no.

There’s a particular loneliness that comes with waiting. It’s the loneliness of feeling unseen, of wondering if anyone notices how long you’ve been holding on. You start to question yourself: Am I asking for too much? Am I missing something? Did I do something wrong? Waiting can make you feel invisible, like your life is paused while the world keeps spinning for everyone else.

And yet, even in this place, something is happening. Waiting forces us to sit with ourselves—to confront what we believe about worth, timing, and trust. It exposes how deeply we tie our value to outcomes. It asks uncomfortable questions about who we are when progress isn’t obvious and when validation is absent.

I don’t have a neat bow to tie this up. I don’t always feel encouraged by phrases like “God’s timing” or “everything happens for a reason.” What I’m learning instead is that waiting doesn’t mean nothing is happening. It might mean something is forming quietly, painfully, slowly—inside of me. Still, that doesn’t erase the ache. It doesn’t make feeling forgotten hurt any less

Maybe the truth is that waiting is part of being human. And maybe naming the frustration, the doubt, and the grief that come with it is just as important as holding onto hope. If nothing else, this is my reminder—to myself—that feeling delayed doesn’t make me discarded, and feeling unseen doesn’t mean I don’t matter.

I’m still waiting. But I’m still here.