Bitten nails.
I’m sitting on my porch swing this morning with a cup of jo in my hands, watching the breeze roll across the open field behind the house. It’s one of those moments that feels peaceful on the outside while your mind is still trying to catch up.
If you looked at me from a distance, you’d probably think I was simply enjoying my coffee.
But if you looked a little closer, you’d notice my hands.
There are no nails left.
I’ve bitten every single one of them.
Not because I forgot to get them done. Not because I don’t care how they look. But because somewhere between underwriting, conditions, phone calls, bank statements, waiting… and waiting some more… my anxiety found a place to live.
My fingertips tell the story my words sometimes don’t.
The last few weeks have been exhausting.
If you’ve never bought a home, you might think it’s just paperwork. Sign here. Initial there. Get your keys.
It’s not.
It’s hope attached to emails.
It’s your future hanging on someone else’s approval.
It’s refreshing your inbox every ten minutes, wondering if today will be the day everything changes… or the day everything falls apart.
There were moments I was convinced we were finished.
A denial that felt final.
Phone calls that left me discouraged.
Conditions that made me question whether I had somehow done everything wrong.
For a little while, I stopped taking care of myself.
The house became messy.
My hair stayed in a bun for days.
My nails disappeared.
Some days, brushing my hair felt like a bigger accomplishment than checking another item off my to-do list.
The funny thing is, this porch swing has become my place to breathe.
I’ve spent countless mornings and evenings here with a cup of coffee, trying to quiet the constant noise in my mind. Some days I prayed. Some days I cried. Some days I just sat in silence, staring out at the grass, asking God to help me trust Him with what I couldn’t control.
And every single time…
He met me there.
Not always with answers.
Not always with immediate breakthroughs.
But with enough peace to take one more step.
Sometimes that next step looked spiritual.
Sometimes it looked incredibly ordinary.
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Make the phone call.
Submit the document.
Drink some water.
Pack one box.
Rest.
Wait.
Trust Me.
I’ve realized faith isn’t always standing on a mountaintop declaring confidence.
Sometimes faith is sitting on a porch swing with chewed-up nails wrapped around a warm coffee mug, whispering, “God… I still trust You.”
I’m almost at the finish line now.
It’s DEFINITELY not because I’ve been strong every day.
Not because I’ve handled every setback with perfect peace. But because God has been faithful even while I was unraveling.
This house isn’t just a new address.It’s a new chapter for my family.
A backyard where my children will make memories.
A porch where I’ll continue drinking my morning coffee, but hopefully with a quieter heart.
Rooms that will slowly become home.
A place where healing can continue.
I’ve spent so much of this season trying to hold everything together with white knuckles.
Maybe that’s why there are no nails left.
Maybe they were never meant to hold this weight anyway.
The truth is, my future was never resting in my hands.
It has always rested in His.
As I pack the last boxes and prepare to unlock a new front door, I don’t want to carry this anxiety into the next season.
I want to carry gratitude.
I want to remember that God was just as present on this porch swing as He will be in the living room of our new home.
The finish line isn’t really the closing table.
It’s learning to trust God whether my hands are trembling or steady.
Today, my nails are gone.
But so is the version of me that believed everything depended on my ability to hold it all together.
I’ll let them grow back.
And while they do, I pray something else grows too..
A quieter heart.
A deeper faith.
And the confidence to step into the next season knowing that the God who carried us through the waiting will be the same God who walks with us once we’re finally home.
