The Empathic Social Observer Chinwe Ezechukwu Raw Christian Writing Honest Faith Modern Christian Woman Thoughtful Christian Blog

Dear You,

You thought it would’ve happened by now.

You thought you’d have a book—maybe not a bestseller, but something with your name printed on it. Something real. A spine. A dedication page. Maybe a small cult following on Goodreads.

You thought the words you wrote in your journal, in the margins of dental notes, in scraps of WhatsApp chats, would amount to something more solid by now. Something established.
But here you are.
Living in the parentheses.
Surrounded by half-done projects, open tabs, and stories you don’t feel brave enough to finish.

It’s okay.
I’m not here to push you.
I’m just here to sit with you in the “not yet.”

Because me too.
Everything in my life feels half-baked, like batter waiting on heat.
An e-book unopened.
A blog with five drafts and no posts.
A dream deferred because real life needs dinner and deadlines and someone to reply to that email with “Kind regards.”

But I still believe in you.
Not because of what you’ve published—but because of how you see.
Because you notice the quiet things. The ache behind a sentence. The way some people speak in ellipses and others in punctuation marks.
Because you feel everything like it’s your job.
And maybe it is.

Writing is a long, strange becoming.
It rarely feels like success.
It mostly feels like returning. Sitting with yourself. Listening. Starting again.

So no—maybe you’re not “a writer” in the polished, podcast-interview, book-tour way.
But you’re writing.
Even when you feel like a ghost in your own pages.
Even when you think no one sees you.

I do.

And I’m rooting for you.
Not the polished, perfect version.
You. Half-baked. Becoming. Trying again.

With softness,
Meestique.
The Empathic Social Observer.

There are some battles you fight with your voice—loud, visible, dramatic.
But there are others where the battleground is your mind, your relationships, your inner silence. These are the kinds of wars you can’t always name, but you feel them…
In your discernment.
In the shift in the atmosphere,
In the part of you that knows something deeper is going on.

I’m not writing this to impress you with spiritual talk.
I’m writing this because I’ve seen firsthand how unseen wars can erode trust, twist perception, and try to mute your spiritual clarity.

So this is for anyone quietly fighting a war they didn’t choose, but can no longer ignore.

I’ve been thinking a lot about war lately.
Not the kind that makes headlines, but the kind that happens quietly—between the “Amen” and the argument, in the strange hollowness after worship, in the too-loud silence of a room where love once flowed freely.

Spiritual warfare.
We say it like we understand it, but most of us imagine either cinematic exorcisms or philosophical metaphors. Rarely do we recognize it in the moment it’s actually happening:

when forgiveness becomes impossible

when bitterness becomes seductive

when the perception of Christians and our faith in pop culture is one of weirdos and misguided fanatics

when to speak the truth of Jesus Christ makes you stand out as a troublemaker who doesn’t encourage logical thought

when sleep steals your prayerlife and offense becomes your love language.

Nobody tells you how sneaky the enemy is.
That he rarely knocks loudly. He whispers. He rewrites reality in small, believable sentences:
“You’ve failed again.”
“She doesn’t care about you.”
“Why bother?”
“You’re not enough.”

He is not creative, but he is consistent.
And if you are not armed, you are available.

Ephesians 6 is not poetic filler.
It is God’s strategy for people living behind enemy lines. Paul didn’t say, “Put on the vibe of resilience.” He said, Put on the full armour of God.
Because this war does not wait for you to feel ready. It doesn’t care about your calendar or your therapy appointment. It will attack you through your relationships, your emotions, your insecurities—and it often begins in your mind.

This is not a call to paranoia. It is a call to sobriety.
To know when what you’re feeling isn’t just hormones or mood or miscommunication—but a targeted scheme to rob you of joy, clarity, unity, and peace.

And in those moments, the real work is not to “win the argument” or “fix the situation.”
The real work is to stand.
To resist the temptation to return fire in the flesh.
To pick up your sword (Scripture), your shield (faith), your helmet (salvation), and pray like the war depends on it—because it does.

There is no soft way to be a soldier.
But there is grace.
Grace to stand even when your legs shake.
Grace to repent when you fall.
Grace to forgive when it costs you pride.
And grace to be alert—not anxious, but awake.

Because if you’ve ever felt like something invisible is trying to steal your peace, distort your love, silence your prayers, or drain your joy—
you’re not crazy.
You’re just in a war you were born into.

But child of God, you were also born to overcome.

This post is not the final word on spiritual warfare.
It’s a flashlight in a dark hallway—just enough light to help you reach for your armour again.

So if you’re in the thick of it, feeling misunderstood, misrepresented, or just spiritually numb—
Know this: you’re not alone. And you’re not powerless.

We fight from victory, not for it.