When God Says “Go Forward” but Nothing in Your Life Agrees

When your spirit knows before your circumstances catch up

There are seasons in your life when your spirit moves faster than your circumstances.
When the instruction is clear, but every visible part of your life feels like it’s pulling you back.

I lived in that space in 2016.
Three years post-divorce.
Fresh out of grad school.
Raising four children alone.
Trying to rebuild a life I barely recognized.

I had lived in Richmond, Virginia my entire life.
Every memory I had — childhood, church upbringing, marriage, heartbreak, survival — was wrapped in that city.

And for the first time, I felt something I couldn’t ignore anymore:

It’s time to go.

Not run.
Not escape.
Just… move.

A quiet nudge in my gut whispered, you need a fresh start.
And as soon as I felt that, I felt the guilt.

Because in my family, leaving wasn’t just leaving.
It was betrayal.

My sisters and I were raised to stay close — emotionally, physically, spiritually.
We survived childhood together.
We survived everything together.
The idea that I would move away?
That I would separate myself?
That I would choose something different?

To them, it felt like desertion.
To me, it felt like oxygen.

But desire always comes with conflict — especially when you grew up learning that your choices must accommodate everyone else’s comfort.

I wanted to move to Northern Virginia for opportunities.
But I feared disappointing my family.
I feared uprooting my children.
I feared starting over in a place where I knew no one and nothing.
I feared trying, again, without a safety net.

But then I had a moment — a moment where I sat with God and asked, plainly:

“If this is the next right step, say something.”

And the only thing I heard —
the only thing that echoed in my chest with any authority —
was:

Go forward.

Not “it’ll be easy.”
Not “everything will line up.”
Not “you’ll get immediate confirmation.”
Just: go forward.

So I did.
And if this were a fairy tale, this is where everything would fall into place.

But real life didn’t soften for me just because I obeyed.

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Faith will tell you to move.

Life will test whether you intend to stick with it.

I got a remote job with a government contractor right after grad school — a blessing.
It meant I could move to Northern Virginia without losing income.

So I packed a U-Haul, loaded my entire life into it, and told my kids,
“We’re starting fresh. We’re building something new.”

On moving day — and I want you to hear this clearly —
the agency called to tell me they lost the contract.
That I no longer had a job.

With the U-Haul already packed.

I had four children watching me.
I had no savings.
No backup plan.
No partner.
No steady support.

I had to swallow the panic and say, “It’s okay,” even though nothing was okay.

Instead of moving, I put everything in storage.
I bounced between each of my sisters’ homes, one by one.

And then comments came:

“Maybe this is a sign.”
“You should stay.”
“This was a bad idea.”
“Why are you making life harder?”

I didn’t have an answer that made sense.
All I had was God’s instruction: go forward.

So I met with my mentor every week, holding my life together with faith and a Google calendar.
And finally — finally — I got another job offer.
A government contract position.
But I had to wait for my clearance to process.

Weeks passed.
Money ran thin.
I was floating between couches, praying my kids wouldn’t absorb my fear.

Then my son had a severe asthma attack.
Four days in the hospital.
And my start date had to be pushed back.

When I finally started the job, it only lasted a week.

Why?

Because I didn’t have enough money for gas or parking to get from Woodbridge to Arlington.

That’s how fragile my life was.
So fragile that a tank of gas could end me.

And when I told the agency my situation, their response wasn’t compassion.
It was disrespect.
Disbelief.
Accusation.

As if I wasn’t trying.
As if I was lazy.
As if a Black single mother with four children must be lying or incompetent.

An account manager at the agency wrote me a check on a bank holiday, as if that solved anything.
As if I could cash it.
As if that meant help.

And when I called to explain —
when I was honest —
they shamed me.
Dismissed me.
Talked to me like I was nothing.

And something broke open in me.

A line I didn’t even know I had — a boundary I had never enforced — rose to the surface.

I said:

“I will not be disrespected just to survive.”

Not again.
Not anymore.

And I quit.
With nothing lined up.
With four children.
With a storage unit full of my life.
With a body full of exhaustion and a heart full of fear.

And still —
my spirit kept repeating:
Go forward.

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Self-trust doesn’t always feel like confidence.

Sometimes it feels like survival, obedience, and a shaky yes.
Looking back, that season taught me the part of self-trust people don’t talk about:

• Self-trust isn’t loud.

• It isn’t glamorous.

• It isn’t confident at first.

• It isn’t always peaceful.

• It isn’t always certain.

Sometimes self-trust is the quiet decision to not betray yourself one more time —
even when the consequences terrify you.

Sometimes self-trust is walking away from disrespect when you have nothing lined up.
Sometimes it’s choosing dignity over desperation.
Sometimes it’s letting God lead you into a chapter you didn’t feel prepared for.

Self-trust is not always clarity.
Sometimes it’s obedience before clarity arrives.

And that season?
That wilderness?
That emotional and financial earthquake?
It didn’t break me.

It prepared me.

It was the necessary unraveling before the rain-soaked interview.
Before the $70K/yr.
Before Spirit’s whisper on the train:
“This is the lowest you’ll ever go.”

It was the story before the story.
The truth before the triumph.
The season that made everything after it possible.

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If you’re in that season now —

where everything looks wrong even though your spirit feels right —
this is what I want you to hear:

You’re not lost.
You’re being rerouted.
You’re being strengthened.
You’re being stretched.
You’re being prepared to trust yourself in a way you never have.

Your circumstances are not evidence of mistake.
They’re evidence of transition.

Sometimes the hardest chapter of your life is the gateway
to the most aligned version of you.

Keep going.

Not blindly.
Not recklessly.
But with quiet inner authority.

You don’t have to see the path.
You just have to honor the nudge.

Go forward.
Everything else will catch up.