On Days Like These, We Build

Some days feel like molasses. Not because they’re slow, but because they stick to everything your thoughts, your rhythm, your breath. You wake up knowing the weight of the world is still there. The emails haven’t disappeared. The bills haven’t paid themselves. The fear still whispers. And yet . . . you move.

That’s what this season has been for me. Three weeks ago, I walked away from a full-time job that no longer aligned with my spirit. It was a decision I made with clarity, but not without consequence. Now, I find myself fully tethered to my own vision, Johnson Mapenzi Consulting Group isn’t my side project anymore. It’s the whole table. It’s the meal.

It’s the offering.

“Not everything we pour has to be seen, some things nourish just by being given.”

-Johnson Mapenzi Consulting Group

Some days I wake up and feel powerful, like I’m finally living in the center of my purpose. Other days, I catch myself staring at the ceiling, wondering when the next check will land. But I keep coming back to the following truth: on days like these, we build.

Not because everything feels secure. Not because we’re overflowing with confidence. But because the act of building, of showing up with love, with honesty, with patience, is the work. The foundation doesn’t pour itself. The healing doesn’t wait for perfect conditions.

I’ve been feeling both still and in motion lately. Still in the sense that my spirit keeps calling me inward, to pause, to listen, to not rush the becoming. Yet, I’m also moving. Not always physically (I’ve missed more workouts than I care to admit), but in the quiet construction of something new. Updating the website. Recording Our Mindful Mondays. Sketching out strategies. Assisting with writing grants because I believe in what they stand for.

Stillness and movement have become dance partners in this season, neither one more holy than the other. Stillness tells me to breathe before I leap. Movement reminds me I was born to leap. Stillness whispers, you don’t have to prove anything. Movement replies, but you do have something to offer.

This rhythm isn’t neat. I’m not walking some enlightened tightrope with perfect posture. I’m pacing my apartment in sweatpants, wondering if I’ve made the right decisions. I’m sitting in silence one minute and clicking through five tabs the next. But what I’ve learned is that both are sacred. Stillness restores my why. Movement honors it.

And then there’s the deeper tension, spiritual clarity vs. practical uncertainty. Spiritually, I know I’m aligned. I know I’m doing what I was called to do. I’m not confused about my gift, my assignment, or my voice. But practically? The numbers aren’t always numbering. The calendar is full, but the bank account wavers. The plan is faithful, but not always financially secure. And that’s hard to say out loud when you’re used to being the one with answers, with strategy, with vision.

But this is the wilderness before the promised land. This is the stretching that comes before the root deepens. I’m learning to hold clarity in one hand and uncertainty in the other without letting either define me. Some days, I lean heavier into faith. Other days, I just focus on finishing the task in front of me. That, too, is sacred.

“Like the bamboo, we stretch underground before we ever rise. Just because the growth isn’t visible doesn’t mean the roots aren’t working. This, too, is part of the becoming.”

— Johnson Mapenzi Consulting Group

What’s wild about this season is that I’m building without a blueprint I can fully explain. I’m creating systems, writing, recording, updating brand language, making artful visuals, and if someone asked me why, I’d say: because I have to. Because something in me knows it will matter, even if I don’t yet know how it all comes together.

I’m not building because someone told me to. I’m not building because there’s a guaranteed outcome on the other side. I’m building because my spirit won’t let me sit idle in the face of what I know I’ve been called to carry. Even when the vision is foggy, I keep laying bricks.

And honestly, that’s the kind of faith that doesn’t get enough credit. The faith it takes to keep showing up to a calling that hasn’t turned into a check yet. The faith it takes to act like your offerings are sacred, even when the market hasn’t caught up to your magic. The faith it takes to tell yourself, “This work matters,” when all you have is a hunch and a heartbeat.

Some days I question it. I wonder if I’m just staying busy to avoid the stillness I claim to revere. I wonder if I’m stacking tasks out of fear that rest means regression. But then I breathe and remember, I’m not building chaotically. I’m building with love. With purpose. With a quiet reverence for what hasn’t yet arrived.

Every reflection, every video, every design, it’s not for nothing. It’s for the ones who will need it later. It’s for my future self. It’s for my family. It’s for the kind of world I want to live in. And maybe, just maybe, it’s also for God. A form of worship through movement. An altar built out of consistency.

Freedom, for me, has never just been about money. But let’s be honest, freedom without financial peace is a strained kind of liberation. This past week, I’ve had to confront my relationship with both. I’ve had to look myself in the mirror and say, You are doing real work. Even if it doesn’t fit into someone else’s calendar, payroll, or structure. Even if there’s no HR department to track it or boardroom to validate it. I’ve had to name that JMCG isn’t a hobby or a placeholder. It’s the actual vision unfolding. And that, too, is a form of freedom.

Still, with that freedom comes self-honesty. Not the performative kind. The kind that whispers, You knew better when you did that, or You’re reaching for comfort where you should be reaching for discipline. The kind that makes you laugh at yourself, not from shame, but from recognition. Because integrity isn’t about perfection, it’s about alignment. It’s about owning your contradictions and returning to your center without punishing yourself for ever having drifted.

Freedom, this week, has looked like grace. Like choosing not to spiral. Like remembering that my needs are met and my vision is valid. Like resisting the urge to prove myself to people who aren’t even watching. It’s looked like trusting the timing of my becoming. And not rushing to fill the silence with noise or the unknown with control.

It’s easy to confuse freedom with escape. But I’m learning that freedom is actually the courage to stay. Stay present. Stay curious. Stay honest. Stay open to what this moment is asking of me, even if it doesn’t give me clarity in return.

So I keep showing up. With my hands open. With my heart soft. With my calendar filling slowly, not with obligations, but with offerings. With space to move and space to be still. And with the quiet knowing that whatever I’m building, even if I don’t fully understand it yet, will make sense when it’s time.

Because freedom isn’t just found in the arrival. Sometimes, it lives in the building.