Field Note No. 10 Grace Had Me

Field Note No. 10

Grace Had Me Before I Had Me

I used to think discernment was for super spiritual people.

You know the ones.

The people who whisper, "Mmm. The Spirit revealed this to me…" while staring into the middle distance like they just got off a group call with God and the ancestors.

Meanwhile I was over here like:

"I just know something feels off and now my left eye twitching."

Different branding. Same signal.

And honestly, I never thought discernment was anxiety. That word never fit for me. It felt deeper than that. Cleaner somehow. More precise.

What I did not understand back then was that wisdom can arrive in the body before it arrives in language.

Before you can explain it. Before you have evidence. Before your brain can build a PowerPoint presentation titled: "Reasons This Situation Is Absolutely About to Become a Dumpster Fire."

Sometimes your spirit just says:

"No."

And if you are lucky, you listen before life has to turn the lesson into a documentary.

I can look back now at certain seasons of my life and see grace all over them.

Not because I was perfect. Baby, absolutely not.

There were situations I could have become permanently trapped in. Versions of myself I could have disappeared into. Choices that could have rewritten my life in ways I may never have recovered from.

And still, somehow, I was held.

That's the part that gets me emotional now.

Because there were moments where my discernment screamed if it had to.

Not always dramatically. Sometimes it was just exhaustion that made no sense. A sentence sitting wrong in my spirit. An energy shift so loud my body started packing emotionally before my mind had figured out what was happening.

And every single time I paused long enough to pay attention, I realized later:

Oh. THAT'S what was trying to protect me.

Whew.

That changes a person.

Because now when I look back at my younger self, I do not see someone reckless or foolish.

I see someone learning how to hear herself.

And I think some of us survived because grace refused to let us fully abandon ourselves.

And somehow there was always a moment.

A pause. A knowing. A tightening in my chest. A sudden clarity. A holy little "girl… absolutely not."

And I listened just enough times to still be here.

That is not luck to me.

That is grace.

Not loud. Not performative. Not the kind that needed an audience.

Just steady.

Like a hand on my back guiding me toward myself over and over again.

I think maturity changes your definition of strength.

When I was younger, I thought strength meant I could take the hit and not flinch. Stay in the room. Outlast the discomfort. Prove I could handle it.

Now I think strength is knowing when something in me said leave, and honoring it.

And maybe that is part of the Invisible Crown too.

Not the moments we felt powerful. But the moments something sacred protected our becoming before we even knew who we were becoming into.

Maybe grace is not always a burning bush.

Maybe sometimes grace is simply this:

You felt the warning. You paused. You paid attention. You made it home.

And honestly?

I will never take that for granted again.