I’m on my way home now, and I don’t feel as happy about it as I thought I would. Maybe I should feel relief, or peace, or something close to excitement — but the truth is heavier and more tangled than that.
One of the last mornings I hunted with Clay, I missed two more deer. When we got back, I practiced with my bow and realized it was me — my shooting, my panic, my flinch. Something in me froze, and I knew right then that I was done for the season. Not because I’m weak or incapable, but because I care too much about doing things right. I won’t wound an animal just to satisfy my pride. I won’t keep pushing when I’m not steady.
There’s something strangely holy about that decision —
the humility to stop,
the gratitude that nothing and no one was hurt,
the wisdom to say “not this time.”
It reminds me of the verse:
“The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down.” – Proverbs 14:1
Stopping wasn’t tearing myself down. It was building myself in truth, owning my limits, embracing the discipline and respect that hunting actually requires.
And I am grateful — deeply, quietly grateful — for a love of something I never expected. For the still mornings. For the connection to the land. For the way the woods made me feel like God was only one breath away.
But going “home” doesn’t feel like going home. I’m returning to a house, not a refuge. A place where my mom gives me more anxiety than comfort, more guilt than grace. It’s hard to walk back into a space where I’m not nurtured, not supported, not uplifted.
I feel like I’m returning to a place where the fire in my soul has been flickering, slowly suffocating under expectations, manipulation, and emotional exhaustion.
And maybe the hardest truth of all:
I don’t know if any of Clay’s words ever meant anything. He admitted he breaks promises, and this trip proved it again. A lunch date he talked about with intention… forgotten two hours later, replaced by someone else he deemed a priority. Praise poured onto people who don’t love him enough to challenge him. Respect given to the loudest, messiest chaos in the room, while I’m thrown a blanket and told — silently — to be invisible.
There’s a verse that keeps whispering to me:
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” – Matthew 6:21
Clay’s treasure has never been me.
Not my heart, not my safety, not my presence, not my worth.
And another:
“Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers.” – 2 Corinthians 6:14
A yoke is something two animals carry together. A relationship is supposed to be shared weight, shared direction, shared commitment. But I’ve been pulling alone while he drags me sideways. That’s why it feels so exhausting. That’s why my soul feels scraped raw.
I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting for a place in someone’s life who doesn’t protect my heart. I’m tired of shrinking so he can feel big. I’m tired of loving someone who repeatedly shows me that being seen by him is a privilege I have to earn, not a gift he freely offers.
And the truth is…
I want to be loved.
I want to be seen.
I want a home — not a hiding place.
I want peace, not chaos.
I deserve all of these things because God Himself says I do.
“You are precious and honored in My sight, and I love you.” – Isaiah 43:4
I don’t believe Clay anymore. Not in his words, not in his promises, not in his “I’ll do better,” not in the crumbs he throws between storms. And maybe — finally — that unbelief is God protecting me.
My hope feels tired, but maybe that’s because a new chapter is asking to be born.
Maybe the fire isn’t dying — maybe God is just calling me out of the places where the smoke is suffocating me.
