It was almost 2 AM, and I could not sleep.
The world was quiet, but my mind was not. There was too much happening inside me too many thoughts, too many emotions colliding at once. I tried to calm myself. I tried to breathe slowly. I even cried, hoping the tears would release whatever was pressing so heavily against my chest. But the battle in my head was overwhelming.
Yesterday was a significant day. For the first time, I presented at a research congress. I stood there and shared my work something that had lived quietly in my heart for a long time. That alone was already a milestone for me. And then, on that very same day, I received an email. Acceptance. An international research conference. I read it once, then again. My eyes could not believe what they were seeing. It felt unreal as if the words were meant for someone else.
I did not know what to do with the surge of emotions rising within me. So I walked to a coffee shop and seated myself at the corner. My eyes wandered outside, but I was not really looking at anything. My heart was pounding. My mind was shouting. Joy, fear, gratitude, disbelief all at once.
And then tears came. I did not even notice when they started rushing down my cheeks. I just sat there, quietly crying, unable to contain the intensity of what I was feeling. It lasted for several minutes maybe longer. Time felt suspended. Then slowly, it quieted.
The tears stopped. My breathing steadied. For almost an hour, there was silence within me. I gathered myself and messaged a friend who knows this journey who understands the unseen labor behind the visible moment. She was jumping with joy for me. I reminded her of her promise to be with me when my paper would finally be accepted.
Then I told her the truth. “I am scared. I am not ready. This is too much. I don’t deserve this.” She replied gently, “Understandable.” That one word was enough. She did not correct me. She did not convince me otherwise. She simply acknowledged what I was feeling. And somehow, that quieted the fear or at least softened it. So I thought, but tonight, at past 2 AM, the emotions returned. Not as loud as before, but present enough to keep me awake, that was when I remembered something. Years ago, on the cover of a journal notebook, I had written three words: “…also He said, Write.”
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It comes from Revelation 21:5:
Before I began typing, I opened the complete verse and read it slowly.
“Behold, I make all things new.” Also He said, “Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.”
As I sat there and read the verse again slowly this time something inside me began to quiet. “Behold, I make all things new… Write.” I held those words beside what had just happened to me. The presentation. The acceptance email. The tears in the coffee shop. The fear that whispered I wasn’t ready…and suddenly, it felt connected. The One who sits on the throne says He is making all things new.
Not repaired.
Not slightly adjusted.
New.
And I started thinking… maybe this is what new feels like. New seasons that stretch us. New responsibilities that feel heavier than we expected. New spaces we never imagined ourselves standing in. Maybe new does not always arrive wrapped in confidence. Maybe sometimes it arrives wrapped in trembling. And then almost gently He says, “Write.”
Not panic.
Not run.
Not prove yourself.
Write. It felt less like a command and more like an invitation. And in that moment, I realized this wasn’t only for John on the island of Patmos, receiving visions too big for words. It felt personal. As if the instruction crossed centuries just to reach a sleepless heart at 2 AM.
So here I am, writing, not because I have everything figured out, but because I need somewhere to place what I am carrying. I am writing to release what is in my heart. I am writing because I cannot contain these mixed emotions anymore the gratitude and the fear, the excitement and the doubt, the “thank You” and the “why me?” all tangled together. I am writing because perhaps what feels overwhelming is not meant to be suppressed, but expressed.
Maybe the emotions are not the enemy, maybe they are simply asking for language. And maybe when He says, “Write,” it is because He knows that when we pour our hearts onto the page, the storm inside begins to settle. So I write. And as I write, I feel it the newness is still there. The responsibility is still there, the unknown is still there but the fear is no longer shouting. It is listening.
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As I began pouring out what was troubling me, I noticed something shift. The noise in my mind softened. The heaviness in my chest lightened. My thoughts, once chaotic, became clearer. It was as if writing created space within me. And I realized something important: when something disturbs us deeply whether fear or joy it must be important. Otherwise, we would not allow it to trouble our peace.
So instead of fighting the emotion, I decided to go back to its source. Why is this bothering me? It must matter. And so I made a commitment to myself tonight. To return to daily journaling, to write what is in my heart and what is troubling my mind. To trace the source of my unrest, to ask myself why. And to write a short prayer and my wishes. This practice strengthens my relationship with myself and with my Creator.
When I write truthfully without editing, without pretending, without trying to sound strong it becomes a sacred conversation. It is only for the eyes of God and mine. Our conversation. There is freedom in that. There is no performance, no need to impress, and no need to appear composed. Just honesty. And in that honesty, there is peace. Tonight, I feel calm. sleep is gently approaching. My mind is quiet, and my heart feels assured that I can handle what is unfolding not because I suddenly became more capable, but because I returned to the Source. “Behold, I make all things new.”
But if He is making all things new, then even this trembling is part of the process. And when He says, “Write,” maybe it is because writing anchors us in truth. So I want to gently invite you into this reflection. When your heart feels too full write. When your mind feels too loud write. When joy feels overwhelming and fear whispers that you are not ready write. Take a pen and paper or open a blank page on your screen and … write truthfully. Write what you are afraid to say aloud. Write what you are grateful for. Write what confuses you, then pause.
You may find, as I did tonight, that writing does not remove the responsibility before you. It does not cancel the new season you are stepping into. But it quiets the storm inside. And sometimes, that is all we need. Because maybe the instruction was never simply about recording events but about preserving truth in the midst of emotion.
“Write… for these words are trustworthy and true.”
And in writing, we remember that even when we feel unready, even when we feel small, even when tears come unexpectedly. . . He is still making all things new.
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