I often find myself tugging and pulling at the chain around my neck whenever I feel happy, stressed, or anxious. It usually happens when I am gazing out of the window of a car, train, or plane, fully cognisant of the fact that the chain will not break because of its gold composition. Sometimes, I pull at it so vigorously that it leaves an angry red mark on the nape of my neck.

This time, I was doing it in front of a police officer who was recording my personal details after I had just been robbed. I pulled so forcefully that the veins in my neck were practically protruding.

The two suitcases that my mother, sister, and I had shared had been stolen from the boot of our Uber outside St Pancras International Station.

“It happens all the time.”

“I’m sorry, we can’t do much right now.”

The police officer delivered these words with an impassive expression, as though the incident was so commonplace that it no longer warranted much concern. What troubled me, beyond the theft itself, was the apparent absence of preventative measures and the unsettling resignation with which such incidents seemed to be regarded.

We later discovered that two other groups of travellers had also had their luggage stolen. It was disconcerting to realise how vulnerable one could be, even in a place as familiar and well connected as London. There was something particularly disquieting about the apparent normalisation of an experience that could leave travellers stranded, financially burdened, and deprived of their personal belongings.

Yet, somehow, in the midst of what was undeniably a distressing ordeal, I experienced a peculiar sense of relief.

It could have been worse.

Those words reverberated in my mind.

We had only just landed in London and, owing to my sister’s rather persistent dream of seeing the Eiffel Tower (again), we decided to embark on the Eurostar to Paris.

Initially, my work laptop had been packed away in the suitcase for reasons I could not quite fathom. My mother had hoped that I would refrain from working on the train. Understandable. I had already spent 18 of the 20 hours across our two flights working on an upcoming deliverable, despite having formally handed over my documents to the colleague covering me during my leave. Apparently, being on leave and actually being on leave are two entirely different propositions.

I was thousands of miles away, yet I could not shake the gnawing anxiety of knowing that my team members were pulling all nighters to meet the deadline. My leave had been approved, my responsibilities had been handed over, and yet some part of me remained tethered to the office, unable to relinquish the sense of accountability I had grown so accustomed to carrying.

Unable to fall asleep, I eventually retrieved my laptop and began reviewing the 15 reports I had been working on. Perhaps this is something I need to work on. Perhaps this is what happens when you become so accustomed to shouldering responsibility that you forget how to disengage. Or perhaps certain professions condition you to associate rest with guilt, even when you have fulfilled every obligation expected of you.

Little did I know that this inability to switch off would inadvertently work in my favour. Had my laptop been stolen alongside the suitcases, I genuinely cannot begin to fathom the colossal shithole I would have found myself in. Sometimes, the very habits we ought to unlearn end up protecting us in ways we could never have anticipated. That, however, does not necessarily justify holding on to them.

I met up with some of my close church friends in London, but the city felt different this time.

In retrospect, the timing felt almost providential. I had left London, and returning as a visitor afforded me the opportunity to observe a city that had once constituted such a significant part of my everyday life from a different vantage point. I found myself reflecting on the financial precarity faced by many young professionals, the exorbitant cost of living and the mounting uncertainty surrounding life in the city. It was a peculiar sensation, revisiting a place that had once felt so familiar, only to realise that my relationship with it had fundamentally changed. How utterly blessed I am.

I played tennis with Tina for the first time. I was absolutely abysmal. At one point, I became so desperate that I resorted to hitting the ball back with the palm of my hand. We also watched the first half of The Love Hypothesis together. Just like old times. Tina is one of those rare individuals who embodies the very essence of Christ’s love. She reminds me of the tenderness of familial affection, of flowers blooming in the midst of a relentless downpour, and of a treasured discovery after years of searching for something you could never quite articulate. A platonic soulmate, if you will.

I met Tina shortly after completing my post qualification studies, when I joined the hiking group at my church in London. I had been feeling an inexplicable yearning to expand my social circle and cultivate friendships beyond those I had formed through the coffee team. So, one morning, I struck what was perhaps a rather melodramatic bargain with God.

If I do not make even one friend today, I am never attending another hike again.

We congregated at the train station, preparing to venture into the countryside, and proceeded to introduce ourselves. Nobody seemed particularly inclined to engage the painfully introverted stranger standing amongst them. At least, that was how I perceived it.

Eventually, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Whether anyone heard me or simply failed to register what I was saying, I cannot say. Either way, I had reached the end of my tether.

“This is absolutely the last hike I am attending,” I told God.

The train had seats arranged in pairs, which presented me with two possible outcomes. I would either find someone to sit with in matter of thirty seconds, or I would sit alone, like the pathetic loser I had already convinced myself I was (introverts, you get it.) As we approached the train, Tina was walking right beside me. She had red braided hair, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, I felt a gentle nudge in my heart.

Say hi to her.

And so, in that brief moment of desperation, perhaps because I had exhausted all other options, I said hello and properly introduced myself. What followed was a friendship that seemed to unfurl with remarkable ease. We talked throughout the train ride there, throughout the entire hike, and throughout the journey home.

How wonderful is the Lord?

Whenever I reflect on how Tina and I met, I am reminded that God is not merely a provider, but also a protector. Sometimes, His provision does not arrive in the form of a spectacular breakthrough or an answer to a meticulously articulated prayer. Sometimes, it takes the form of a person with red braided hair walking beside you at a train station.

Sometimes, it is a friendship you never knew you needed, arriving precisely when you were on the verge of giving up.

As we travelled across Europe, one of our stops was Milan, where we spent a night before flying to Bilbao, Spain. On the morning of our flight, my sister and I decided to squeeze in a visit to the Duomo and the Galleria. We wandered through the streets, took photographs, grabbed a coffee, and departed by 1 p.m. because we had a flight to catch. Little did we know how fortuitous our timing would prove to be.

We would later learn of the unrest and reports of rioting, including the destruction of luxury stores and, more distressingly, local family-owned businesses. Whatever the grievances underpinning the protests, I found it difficult to reconcile the pursuit of a supposedly noble cause with the wanton destruction of livelihoods belonging to ordinary people, including immigrants who had relocated to these cities in pursuit of a better life.

We had been standing in the very vicinity where some of the chaos unfolded. The fires, the tear gas, the destruction. We had walked those streets, taken our photographs, and enjoyed our coffee, entirely oblivious to what would transpire shortly afterwards. We had left barely an hour earlier.

And then there was Spain. I recall that the unrest occurred on the 24th, although I would need to verify the precise details. What I do know is that, for whatever reason, we had decided against visiting Barcelona on this particular trip. We simply did not go this time.  In retrospect, it is difficult not to contemplate the timing of these events.

Even after having our luggage stolen, we had managed to avoid circumstances that could have been considerably more perilous. And while I was immensely grateful for our safety, I could not help contemplating those whose lives and livelihoods had been irrevocably affected. My prayers are with them.

It is remarkable how swiftly one’s perspective can shift when confronted with the realities of another person’s suffering. The emergencies at work, the artificial urgency of deadlines, the anxiety surrounding my qualification period, all of it had felt so consuming. Yet, when juxtaposed against the devastation of someone’s livelihood or the destruction of a family business, those anxieties suddenly seemed rather inconsequential. Not meaningless. Not unimportant. Simply smaller.

Perhaps that is what perspective affords us. It does not invalidate the weight of our own struggles. Rather, it reminds us that our struggles do not constitute the entirety of the world.

And still, I found myself asking: if the intention was to advocate for something better, why destroy the very businesses upon which ordinary people depend? Why target individuals who have painstakingly built their livelihoods through years of hard work? Why allow indignation to degenerate into prejudice, including racism directed towards Chinese business owners? Whatever the cause, innocent people should never have to bear the consequences of someone else’s anger. Stay in school, kids.

This break has afforded me the opportunity to contemplate the person I have become since moving back from London. And, truthfully, I do not have an answer. Somewhere along the way, I have become an empty shell. An empty shell burdened by the weight of other people’s opinions, the relentless pressure to ascend the corporate hierarchy, and the ever-present ticking clock reminding me that I ought to find a partner, settle down, and have my life in order.

Part of me yearns to travel the world, immerse myself in unfamiliar cultures, and make a meaningful contribution to something greater than myself. The other part simply wants to remain in bed, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram and watching back-to-back episodes of The Mentalist. And, more often than I care to admit, the latter prevails. I have read that perfectionism can manifest itself in a peculiar form of procrastination. When the standards we impose upon ourselves become impossibly exacting, even the act of beginning can feel paralysing. Perhaps there is some truth to that. Perhaps I have become so accustomed to functioning under pressure that I no longer know how to operate without it.

I thrive on the adrenaline rush of closing a deal, the gratification of receiving validation from my superiors, and the fleeting satisfaction of crossing another task off my ever-expanding list. Then, when work finally comes to an end, I seek another dopamine hit from the ceaseless stream of stimulating content on social media, or from the next wardrobe essential being marketed to me for “Fall 2026”. Another thing to purchase. Another milestone to achieve. Another aspiration to pursue.

And somehow, despite all this incessant activity, I feel increasingly hollow. I have become so preoccupied with becoming someone that I have neglected to consider who I am actually becoming. The qualifications. The career progression. The external validation. The expectations surrounding relationships and the milestones I am supposedly meant to attain by a certain age.

Where, in the midst of all this, does God fit in?

Where does the person He created me to be fit into a life that seems increasingly dictated by the expectations of everyone and everything else? I do not want to spend my life pursuing things that ultimately leave me feeling hollow. I do not want to become so consumed by the pursuit of success that I lose sight of the very purpose for which I was created. I have become an empty shell, but I do not want to remain one. I want to become the vessel that was fashioned, woven together, and placed in this world to fulfil His purpose.

And the beautiful thing about God is that He is a redeemer.

His love is agape love, a love that is neither contingent upon our achievements nor contingent upon our productivity or perfection. It is a love demonstrated on the cross, long before we ever knew how to love Him in return. I do not have to earn His love by becoming the most accomplished person in the room. I do not have to establish my worth through the work I produce or the milestones I achieve. I do not have to spend every waking moment striving towards an ostensibly better version of myself to merit the grace He has already extended.

Perhaps the person I need to become is not someone entirely different from who I am today. Perhaps I need to become someone who learns to surrender, to rest, to trust, and to remember where her identity truly resides.

The prospect of returning to the office no longer feels quite as daunting, knowing who is backing me up. That is not to say that God’s grace gives me carte blanche to neglect the discipline and intentionality required to cultivate a prayer life. Faith is not an excuse for complacency. If anything, it is an invitation to return to Him, time and time again, even when the act of doing so feels unfamiliar.

Prayer is powerful. And I must confess that I have not prayed properly in a very long time.

By that, I do not mean the hurried supplications in which I ask God to resolve a predicament, protect me from an unpleasant circumstance, or grant me the outcome I so desperately desire. I mean simply sitting with Him. Speaking to Him without an ulterior motive. Abiding in His presence without reducing prayer to a transaction.

If I am being entirely honest, the last time I truly turned to God was when our luggage was stolen. Even then, my prayers were largely fuelled by fear, a desperate plea for intervention and, perhaps, a reflection of the fragility of my faith in that moment. I wonder how often I approach God only when I need something, forgetting that a relationship requires more than emergency calls. We have approximately two months left of the year by the time this is written and uploaded. If the entire year has felt like a fever dream to you, I understand.

Perhaps you have spent the year trying to keep everything from falling apart. Perhaps you have been exhausted, disillusioned, anxious about the future, or quietly wondering whether you have somehow fallen behind. Perhaps you have been so occupied with merely surviving that you have forgotten to pause and ask yourself what you are actually living for.

But do not believe, even for a second, that God cannot turn things around.

Whether the transformation is monumental or imperceptible, whether something happens or nothing appears to happen at all, He sees us. He watches over us, even when we cannot discern His presence or feel the reassurance of His nearness. We cannot rely exclusively on what our five senses tell us. Our circumstances are not the definitive measure of God’s faithfulness, and our emotions are not always an accurate barometer of His presence.

We have His Word, living and eternal, sharper than any double-edged sword, to anchor us when everything else feels uncertain. So, take your Sabbath. Continue to tithe. Pray daily, even when the words elude you. Nourish your body. Exercise. Rest when you need to rest. And perhaps, most importantly, stop measuring the worth of your life exclusively by what you have accomplished.

You are allowed to slow down. You are allowed to take a break. You are allowed to be a work in progress without regarding yourself as a project that is perpetually behind schedule. I do not know precisely what the next season of my life will entail. I do not have all the answers, and I certainly have not figured everything out. But perhaps I do not need to. Perhaps this is an invitation to return to the fundamentals: prayer, Scripture, fellowship, rest, and a relationship with the God who loved me long before I ever accomplished anything worth boasting about.

The chain around my neck is still there. I still tug at it when I am anxious, when I am happy, and when my mind has wandered somewhere else entirely. But perhaps, this time, I can learn to recognise when I am holding on too tightly, to work, to expectations, and to the illusion that I can exercise absolute control over every outcome.

And perhaps I can learn to let go. Not because I have everything figured out, but because I know the One in whom I can place my trust.

Till next time.