Not casually. Not wishfully.
I believed it with the kind of conviction that rearranges your life.
The kind of belief that makes you pack up everything you own and move in with family so you can save. The kind that makes you drive your child more than twenty-five miles to school every day, then sit in a library working remotely until dismissal.
In the closing pages of my devotional journal Pray Differently: Praying with Precision to Ignite God’s Power, I included a quiet bonus section titled His Space. It was an invitation, a gentle nudge toward creating a place dedicated solely for you and the Father to dwell. Not ornate. Not expansive. Simply intentional. Sacred because He meets you there.
What I did not fully explain in those pages is that His Space was born from necessity. From days when life felt heavy and unbearable. From evenings when I returned home carrying the invisible weight of expectations, disappointments, and emotions I could no longer hold upright. I needed somewhere to go.
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I didn’t notice the change right away. Exercise wasn’t a practice in my family. We went to church together. We ate together. We attended sporting events together. But outside of sports, physical activity was not a priority. It wasn’t woven into the fabric of our family principles and dynamics.
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The statistics have always lingered in my mind: one in eight. That’s how many women in America will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime. My mother, Requitta, was one of them—the one in eight. I don’t remember much about her journey with the disease. I was only around four or five when she was diagnosed.
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