You prayed for it, maybe not out loud, maybe not on your knees. But you wanted it. Badly.
More than you admitted. More than you thought you were allowed to.
Success.
Stability.
A version of life that didn’t feel like borrowing time.
And now it’s here. Or almost here. Close enough to touch.
And you’re folding. Quietly. Almost politely.
Stalling the project. Ignoring the email. Picking a fight. Shrinking the dream by three inches so it doesn’t scare anyone. Including you.
This is what sabotage looks like in its most socially acceptable form:
You pray for something, and when it arrives, your body doesn’t recognize it as safe.
Not because you’re wrong. Not because you’re broken.
But because success, for a long time, was the thing that came with conditions.
More eyes on you. More ways to fail. Less room to hide.
And somewhere inside you—a deeper part of you—success still feels like exposure.
You want to stay grounded. But your nervous system is running drills.
It doesn’t trust the calm.
It doesn’t trust the ease.
Because nothing good ever came without a cost. Right?
That’s the lie.
The one your body memorized.
Your mind may want success.
Your soul may be aligned.
But if your body, your actual, physical body, associates safety with smallness, it will reject what you've spent years trying to attract.
You'll find a reason. A distraction. A delay that feels rational.
And you’ll call it timing. Or divine protection. Or maybe just a sign to wait.
But it’s not a sign. It’s a symptom.
Of what happens when you don’t feel safe enough to keep what you prayed for.
This isn’t a mindset issue. It’s not about being lazy or scared or ungrateful.
It’s about survival patterns.
The way your system was trained to keep you alive under pressure, but not at peace.
The way you’ve learned to brace before the good things fall apart, just so it doesn’t hurt as much when they do.
But what if they don’t?
What if this is the part where you learn to let the good thing stay?
No warning signs. No collapse.
Just capacity. Grown slowly. Held honestly.
Letting your nervous system adapt to a reality where you’re not in freefall.
That’s the new work.
Not the hustle. Not the proving.
The repatterning.
To say to your body, with patience and conviction:
“You are safe enough now. This is allowed to stay.”
That success doesn’t require pain to be valid.
That overflow isn’t a setup.
That God didn’t bring you this far just to watch you flinch.
Stability will feel boring at first.
Peace will feel unnatural.
Receiving will feel like you’ve forgotten something.
It’s not dysfunction. It’s recalibration.
You’re not waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You’re just waiting for your body to realize that no one is holding it over your head this time.
So let it land. Let yourself stay.
Let the prayer you prayed become the life you don’t have to fear losing.
And when you feel the urge to sabotage it, pause.
Breathe.
Say it again:
“My nervous system is safe enough to hold this. I do not sabotage what I prayed for.”
Then do the only thing left:
Let it be real.
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