Lamenting the Life I Want While Living the Life I Have

Sometimes the life we dream about feels close enough to touch, yet remains just out of reach.

Photo by Shannon Louder

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Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him and he will act. ~ Psalms 37:4-5

I have a vision for my life. 

I can see it so clearly.

It's not extravagant or indulgent. It's not built on excess or ambition. It's simply a life that feels stable. A life where provision isn't a question mark, where the path ahead isn't constantly shifting, where I can exhale without wondering what will unravel next.

It's a good life. And oh how I want it.

I want the kind of stability that allows me to plan without fear. I want clarity that replaces constant guessing. I want to feel rooted instead of bracing. I want to know that what I'm building will stand.

The life I imagine would allow contentment to settle in naturally—steadily, without effort.

But that's not the life I am living.

The life I'm living asks more of me than I feel equipped to give. It stretches me in ways I wouldn't have chosen. It holds uncertainties I cannot resolve and responsibilities I cannot place down. It doesn't offer the feeling of contentment I long for.

At times, it feels as though I'm standing between two realities—the one I can almost touch, and the one I'm actually in.

The tension between them is not loud, but it's constant.

It whispers: This is what your life could be.

And then it reminds me: But this is what it is.

Grief has settled in the gap. Not because I want more than I should, but because what I want is good and it's not mine right now.

I can’t shake the longing. It’s not shallow or faithless. It’s a natural human desire for stability, for provision, for a life that feels authentic and sustainable.

Yet here I am—in a life that is not what I would have chosen, but is the one I am living. 

A life that feels uncertain, but purposeful. 

Heavy, but meaningful

Difficult, but surmountable. 

It’s a life that does not offer ease, but presence.

Even though I'm here, I know I'm not alone. God is with me. 

I'm learning contentment is not found in closing the gap between the life I want and the life I have. It's found in learning to remain fully present and fully engaged within the gap. 

I'm learning that true contentment doesn't necessarily mean peace, or satisfaction, or fulfillment of dreams—it’s the ability to hold desire in one hand and faith in the other and say: This is not what I would choose, but I believe the One who is in it with me. And I trust in His promise to restore the years the locusts have eaten.