Anchored to the Constant

There are moments when I feel like giving up.

Not in a dramatic way. Not with doors slammed or bridges burned. But in the quiet, heavy way — the kind where fear sits beside you and whispers questions you cannot answer.

What if the future falls apart again?
What if the person I love leaves?
What if I build a life on hope, only to watch it disappear?

I have lived this before. Abandonment is not an abstract idea to me; it is a memory my body remembers even when my mind tries to stay calm. And so when love presents itself again, even gently, fear follows closely behind.

There are nights when I ask myself why I should risk the peace I have finally built for a future that is not guaranteed. Why should I offer my heart when tomorrow could undo everything?

And in those moments, I realize something important: I am asking love to do what only God can do.

I am asking another human being — flawed, limited, uncertain — to be my anchor.

That is where the fear begins.

Because people, no matter how sincere, are inconsistent. They get tired. They get overwhelmed. They change. They leave. Even when they don’t mean to.

God does not.

When the noise in my head grows loud, when I feel myself bracing for loss that hasn’t even happened yet, I return to the only place that has never shifted beneath my feet.

I anchor myself to God.

Not because it magically removes uncertainty, but because it reminds me that I am not standing on uncertainty alone.

God is constant when people are not.
God is consistent when emotions fluctuate.
God does not wake up one day unsure about loving me.
God does not abandon.

When I fix my gaze on Him, the future stops feeling like a threat I must control. It becomes something I can enter one day at a time — not fearless, but held.

This does not mean relationships no longer matter. Love still matters deeply to me. But I no longer ask it to be my foundation.

If love stays, I receive it as a gift.
If it leaves, I grieve — but I am not destroyed.

Because my security was never rooted in another person’s ability to stay.

It was rooted in God’s promise that He always will.

There are days I still falter. Days when old fears resurface and I wonder if I am strong enough to endure uncertainty again. When that happens, I do not shame myself. I simply return.

I return to prayer.
I return to stillness.
I return to Christ.

And there, I remember: I do not have to solve the future to be safe today.

Anchoring myself to God does not mean I stop loving.
It means I stop losing myself in the process.

And that, perhaps, is the truest form of healing