I had a dream that shook me to my core. It happened 10 years ago, when I became a new mom- but I’ve never stopped thinking about it since.
In the dream, I arrived at a women’s ministry convention, and my newborn was with me. The moment I stepped inside, something felt off. It was surreal, almost like a simulation. Everywhere I looked, there were women—women in the seats, women on the stage, even a woman in the pulpit where a pastor would typically stand.
At first, I tried to settle in, but the atmosphere was chaotic. It felt like a concert—women hollering, waving their hands in the air wildly, screaming in a frenzy. It wasn’t worship. It wasn’t reverence. It was hysteria. Even in the dream, I knew something was wrong.
Then, I heard it. A low hum, deep and unsettling. I looked around, but no one else seemed to notice—at least, not at first. As I scanned the room, I locked eyes with a few other women who also seemed aware. Without speaking, we exchanged a knowing glance: You hear that too?
Suddenly, the doors to the sanctuary burst open. A sea of locusts poured in, so thick and endless that the doorway disappeared behind them. They swarmed the room in an instant, filling every space.
But the strangest thing? Nobody reacted—except for those of us who had heard the hum.
Gripping my child, I ran. A handful of other women ran too, our instincts propelling us to the far corner of the room. There was a small bathroom, and we barricaded ourselves inside. I ducked into a stall, holding my baby on my lap, trying to quiet my breathing.
And then—screams. The women on the other side of the door were pounding, desperate to get in. I could hear their cries: “Please! Let us in!” But someone among us shouted back: “I’m sorry! We can’t open the door! It’s too late!”
I pulled a scarf over my head and my child’s, and everything went black. I felt safe in that darkness, but when I woke up, my heart was pounding.
What the hell was that?
This dream came to me when my daily groanings and prayers looked a lot like Davids in Psalm 63:1: "O God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water."
I remember rocking my baby in the nursery, the soft hum of lullabies filling the air as a gentle breeze drifted through the window. It was a quiet, tender moment, and while I was grateful for it, exhaustion pressed heavy on my chest. My arms ached—not just from caring for a newborn, but from carrying years of unresolved trauma from my childhood and adolescence.
I was a runner. I ran from things I didn’t know how to tame or control. I had mastered the art of avoidance and dissociation, convincing myself that if I ignored a problem long enough, it would eventually disappear. I leaped into adulthood, hoping a fresh start would fix everything—but instead, it left me feeling lonelier than ever. And now, as a mother, that loneliness deepened, leaving me even more isolated in my struggles.
I longed for connection—for someone to see me, hear me, understand me. It wasn’t that the people around me were doing anything wrong—they loved me, and they wanted the best for me. But I was drowning in silence, resentment bubbling just beneath the surface. I didn’t know how to put my feelings into words. I was afraid that if I spoke up, people would see me as a fraud—or worse, that something was wrong with me.
On the outside, I was polite. Southern hospitality had taught me how to smile through the struggle, how to be “fake nice” with a well-placed bless your heart. But inside? I was exhausted. I was saying yes when I wanted to say no, checking in on others out of obligation rather than love, convincing myself that self-sacrifice was the same as goodness.
I poured into my spiritual cup—not always with the purest intentions, but still, God met me there. Even when I was running on obligation, He showed me glimpses of His grace. He was using my struggle to shape something greater.
Then life happened in 2019 that brought everything front and center.
One moment cracked me open. A breaking point, a realization—I can’t keep living like this. I had to unlearn. I had to rebuild. I had to refocus. But I was weary.
And yet, even in that weariness, God was present.
Somewhere in the breaking, I realized that what I had been searching for all along—a women’s ministry, a space where connection and healing could take place—I was being called to create.
Called to be Missional, Not a Performer
I can’t shake the dream I had about the locusts and the women preaching in the church. At that time, I was struggling with a sense of stagnation in ministry. I longed to make a big impact—women helping women, creating something life-giving and powerful—but instead, it felt barren, like a desert. I longed for connection and for other women to pour into me, just like the women I had known when I was in youth group. I felt like I needed mentors to encourage me, especially as I was facing so many new things in life. I didn’t know what to feel or think about any of it. At the time, I didn’t understand the significance of the dream, but looking back, I see that the Lord was telling me that I wouldn’t find what I was looking for inside a building.
While I had that dream 10 years ago, God is still using it to teach me that what He wants for me isn’t inside an organized convention. What He wants for me is intentional presence. Because when we are intentional about being present in the moment, we get to feel the joy He wants us to experience in this life. Every moment is a gift, and every day holds some good meaning for us to encounter. God is a good God who delights in giving good gifts, and life itself is one of those gifts. He wants us to experience His goodness and love every day.
And today, I can testify that the Lord has delivered me from many things the enemy meant for evil. He has healed wounds that were never properly tended to. Through trial and perseverance, He has reclaimed my mind with His Word and redeemed my heart with His love. I’ve witnessed His goodness firsthand, and I can testify that He is a loving Father who hears His people. He gave me a voice not just for myself, but to be an advocate for others. He softened my heart toward the people I was called to love.
"I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten." – Joel 2:25
I know I’m not alone in this. Maybe you’ve been there too—longing for connection, for a space to process your struggles without judgment, for someone to say, I see you, I’ve been there, and you’re not alone.
Maybe you’re still in that place.
If so, let this be your sign: You don’t have to stay there.
Healing isn’t about pretending to be okay—it’s about doing the work to be okay. It’s about stepping into the light, acknowledging the wounds, and allowing yourself the grace to grow. And sometimes, it’s about becoming the very thing you once longed for.
So I want to invite you into something deeper.
This isn’t just a project for me—it’s personal. I know what it’s like to feel unseen. I know what it’s like to crave a space where you can show up messy and real and still be loved. That’s why I want to create that space for you.
If you have a story of resilience—if you’ve walked through the fire and come out on the other side—I’d love to hear from you. If you’re part of an organization making an impact, I want to highlight your work.
Let’s create a space for stories that heal, uplift, and connect.
Your story is safe here.
📩 Email me at SMproductions812@gmail.com to share your journey or recommend an organization doing powerful work. Your story matters. Your impact matters. And together, we can be the light that someone else is searching for.
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