Dear Twenty-Something,
I'm right there with you. The ache to be, become, and belong is real, and I pray that this personal letter from yours truly will encourage you to take heart, for "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Dear friend, Christ is sufficient. Christ is sufficient. Christ is sufficient.
If you were to ask me to reflect on my post-grad experience thus far, I would almost blurt out in all honesty that "It's a wilderness." I'm a wandering Israelite, constantly thinking that I've obeyed, yet my eyes can't quite see the Promised Land. I've started experiencing weak ministry- often feeling exhausted and out of energy, though I would like to read with more girls 1-on-1, feeling like a failure as a daughter and sister, fighting the temptations to hide in my comfort bubble instead of serving like Jesus, and feeling like I'm losing the battle every single time with my fight with sin. On top of that, I've been in a season where literally everyone around me seems to be flourishing- better jobs, travelling the world, and getting married. Hang on for a moment. Is that Christ's or the world's definition of a flourishing life? What did Christ promise in his disciples following Him?
Oh, how the world has completely distorted the definition of 'Belonging.'
Upon graduating from college, there's often an unspoken notion that we're supposed to "be something." We put in the years, earned the degree, and now the world expects us to charge ahead, successful and sure, stepping into the life we once envisioned. That used to feel inspiring. But now, it just feels overwhelming. Because the truth is— I’m not who I dreamed I’d become. In fact, I feel miles away from that person.
I went to school with a desire to flourish in the healthcare field. I long to create devotionals, craft faithful, undiluted Bible studies for young girls, and start a pre-teen girls ministry. And then there are the more tender desires— the ones that feel even closer to my heart. As much as the Lord has truly pruned my heart to grow in an unexplainable sense of contentment in whatever season I'm in, there's always been a soft and steady longing to be a godly wife and mother.
That’s when the ache sets in.
It stirs up a storm inside me, a whirlwind of thoughts that scatter like confetti in a storm—once bright and purposeful, now chaotic and impossible to gather again: “Am I behind? Oh no—I’m definitely behind. Actually, maybe I’ve missed it altogether. Maybe I’ve failed. Maybe I am a failure.”
Cue the anxiety. The panic. The spiral. The quiet tears. The gnawing ache of unmet hope.
Until...
Truths ring firmly, but gently, in my ears. Initially, I resist them, but slowly and surely, the gentle and firm repetitions grips my heart- they move from head knowledge to transformation of my heart.
Oh friend, is it not He who made the heavens and the earth, who formed the stars, moon, sea, every creature, and the majestic mountains all with one command, and they obeyed instantly? Is it not the same He who made us in His image? Yet, we have the audacity to look Him in the face and say 'No' to His rule. We have distorted His intentional design of life to fit our own wants and needs. I was reminded recently that we are both image and dust: a poignant and sobering picture that balances both our human aspirations and our human finitude.
Image and dust. To be made in the image of God means that we’re rife with potential. We have the Divine’s capacity in our DNA. We’re like God. We were created to “image” his behavior, to rule like he does, to gather up the raw materials of our planet and reshape them into a world for human beings to flourish and thrive. But that’s only half the story. We’re also made from the dirt, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”: we’re the original biodegradable containers. Which means we’re born with limitations. We’re not God. We’re mortal, not immortal. Finite, not infinite. Image and dust.
Rather than ignoring the ache, sinking into it, or flailing against it like it’s something to be chased away, maybe it’s time to pay attention. To get curious. To give it shape and voice through words. And in that process, we may discover that God not only sees our ache; he’s the author of it.
God not only sees our ache; he’s the author of it.
It's so freeing when we grow to recognize that there's an author behind every longing, every need, every want. He not only created the world, but is also deeply connected to our aches. You see, everything exists more for God than it does for you. Scripture repeatedly points to our God intentionally doing everything so "that they may know I am the Lord." Everything is for His glory! God is utterly and infinitely passionate about His glory. And if we are His very image, think about what a privilege and joy it is to reflect glimpses of His glory to the world in every single aspect of our lives! We have the freedom to lay down our dreams of becoming and instead ask God, “What would you like me to become?"
What’s even more beautiful is this: God has already shown us the way. “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances—for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” (1 Thessalonians 5:16–17).
His desire isn’t for us to chase some distant, unattainable version of ourselves. Instead, He invites us to become people marked by joy, saturated in prayer, and grounded in gratitude— right here, in the middle of our ordinary, present reality.
Aching uncomfortably hurts precisely because we were made for more. We were made to conform to the image of His Son. (Romans 8:29) Our Heavenly Father desires to transform us into the likeness of His Son. His Son! Consider that for a moment: The very Son who has equal standing with the Father, perfectly and willingly submits to Him to the point of death on a cross. And so we persevere to run the race that He has so graciously marked out for us, for every ache we experience reminds us of His merciful hands that seek to gently mold, shape, and prune us into pressing into Christ, to become like Him. There is no better being, becoming, or belonging. We were fearfully and wonderfully created to image Him- to look like Him, to be glad and grateful reflections of Him.
So my dear friends, press on. Cling to Christ and remain in Jesus. I think about John 15:3-7, which speaks truth of the fact that we are absolutely helpless running life our own way except for choosing to remain in Jesus. Apart from Jesus, we wither. Those definitions of 'Belonging' from the world's perspective, though they attract our hearts, yet they only lead to gnashing of teeth and longing for even more. Conversely, remaining in Jesus not only leads to life, but a fruitful life! Recently, I've been in seasons where it often feels empty, exhausting, and lonely. Yet, in God's lovingkindness, He has brought me to the pit, only for me to realize there's nothing else I can grasp except for Jesus alone. And this is how He answers prayers, often not the way we desire, but always for His glory and our good.
One of my biggest prayers this year has been that God would do anything to bring me to a humble position of realizing that Christ is my ultimate satisfaction- nothing, absolutely nothing, can bring me real joy and satisfaction apart from Him. I praise God for He has done just that in a manner that caused much aching, yet one that I won't exchange for anything. I have recently come to a point of truly treasuring His living Word. I find myself searching and grasping for something to bring me joy and hope, yet I end up only reaching for my Bible when I realize everything has been taken away from me. And oh, how it has brought an increasing level of joy, unexplainable peace, and real delight as I mull and chew on His precious breath that brings Life! God, may I never forget this season.
Father, would you do anything to help us to see you more clearly so that we can love you more dearly and follow you more closely? Right now, our hearts are drawn to the world, and we constantly fall into sin because we see your glory through a glass dimly. If we could see you more clearly, we would not so easily give in to sin. May you fill our boats with enough ballast- Your infinite and utter passion for Your glory- to prevent us from tipping over when we reach legal adulthood at 18, or pursue our first career at 22, or hit the mid-life crisis at 41.5, or even desire to retire comfortably at 63. Thank you for demonstrating the apex of your glory - grace itself- at the cross.
Finally, may I also remind you of your status here on this side of Heaven: Elect Exiles. 1 Peter has always been a book I hold onto dearly, for it has often reshaped my lens. There's a juxtaposition of the people's identities as elect and exiles. Yet, it's precisely because we are elect that we are also exiles in this world. By God's grace, we are God's elect. But because we are God's elect, we are exiles in the world. Hence, we face trials because we are God's elect. But these trials don't actually endanger our faith and inheritance. Instead, they serve to refine and strengthen our faith. Ultimately, we suffer first and glory later.
We long to become because we were created to reflect Christ— but for now, we wrestle under the shadow of a fallen world. We crave belonging because we were made to walk beside Him in full communion—yet today, His face is hidden from our sight. And we hunger for stillness because we were made to delight in His glory forever— yet here and now, everything is hazy, like peering through a fogged-up window.
The closer we draw to holiness, the more acutely we feel the ache. And if that’s true, then perhaps this ache isn’t the end of the story— it’s just the beginning, my fellow twenty-somethings.
We do not wander this wilderness alone. The One who permitted the ache is the same One who secured our redemption. One day, we’ll stand whole in Christ— complete, lacking nothing. And on that day, every sorrow will vanish, every longing will be fulfilled, and every wound will be healed. The ache will have done its holy work—loosening our grip on this fleeting world and readying our hearts for the weight of glory. We will be restored. We will be home. And at last, we will rest— forever.