It's never as it seems

Permission to live a life worth living

There used to be a desire to document my life online. To share my scars for public display so others don’t feel alone. But that felt like too much. Too much to keep up with, to keep refining, to keep testing new ideas. And still not meet the expectations I set for myself.

I remember dreaming big in college. I had a plan to become a creative director for ESPN.

But in senior year, something started shifting. I sat in design class, sad because my desire for design was changing. I felt it. I felt my ambition being tampered with. As someone who grew up in the faith, it was during this time that I decided to make the relationship personal. I started learning the language of surrender. In that tension, God whispered deep into my soul: choose me or forge a path I never intended for you to venture down.

Then Ogilvy arrived—a final round interview with a New York and British advertising, marketing, and publishing agency. The dream is within reach. And a few days before my granddad and I were set to fly out, I politely declined.

I was afraid of success.

Afraid of actually achieving the dream embedded in my heart.

And I let the fear of the unknown, the fear of success, and my immaturity drown out my pursuit. The grief of being a senior with no plan haunted me.

I’ll never forget one of my design teachers chewing me out the entire class for turning down such a wonderful opportunity. He was right—I owed it to myself to see it through. And in that decision, something died. It followed me for years. But I didn’t know then what I know now that saying no would shape who I was becoming.

The invitation came in the middle of my first relationship. I remember him finding out, looking at me, and saying our relationship wouldn’t survive the distance.

I looked at him and said I refuse to be someone who sacrifices her dream for a man who will leave anyway.

A year later, I was single.

The relationship ended the day I moved to Charlotte to start my internship at Elevation Church. I disconnected from social media for the entire four months. I needed to be fully present for the internship, for healing, for God. That breakup brought me to my knees. I learned I was willing to shrink for someone else’s comfort, but God no longer allowed it.

Losing the idea of the relationship hurt worse than losing him.

I entered that season desperate to meet God.

And somewhere in those four months, faith stopped being inherited and became mine.

I started documenting my journey. Sharing videos and words to encourage others as I navigated the discomfort of not having the success I thought I should. I sought to grow an online platform with pure intentions but no clear direction. I showed up online endlessly until I burnt out, went into hiding, and emerged months later, repeating the cycle. Constantly feeling an urge to live an anonymous life.

I’ve never been one to share intimate details online.

I don’t like showcasing my family, my house, cars, or anything that makes me easily identifiable within the region I live.

I started understanding the importance of privacy. Of controlling the narrative. Of sharing after, even when some people want to see the in-between.

I shared moving to Texas after I moved.

I shared bits of my relationship after I was married.

I ended up sharing that I was pregnant, going into my third trimester, because she was too much of a blessing to contain. Yet, I kept intimate details to myself and didn’t announce her arrival until weeks later.

Some things need to be protected in infancy for development and growth. It’s not to be secretive but intentional. It’s to shield it from people’s good intentions and negative words spoken.

Fear and I have an unfortunate history.

I’ve known panic attacks. I’ve also learned to move scared. I’ve learned to divorce its grip, but I’d be remiss not to admit that it still attempts to hijack my thoughts and decisions. I feel its presence.

So it’s in solitude that I have to lean into my relationship with God to navigate the next step I take. Even when He feels distant, His presence is stronger.

Each year, I shed my desire to be online. I want to show up on my terms, not feeding the machine. Only if I want to. Not because I feel like it’s the only way to build a brand or business. I want to explore new models. Create what feels poetic. I want to write my way through, make videos that accompany, sit on podcasts, having thoughtful conversations that don’t lead people to a product offering.

I remember during my internship at Elevation, I shared my desire to be a creative director for ESPN, and one of my peers said I spoke about it as if it were something to be embarrassed about, when really it pointed to my ability to dream big.

It hit me.

What if I dreamed with God instead of from my own striving? What if I found contentment in where I am and made the best of what’s in front of me instead of always looking to be somewhere else based on what others reflect through the smoke and screens of social media?

It’s never as it seems.

I’ve made peace with my now. Though unknown. I’m no longer holding onto old dreams birthed from old versions of myself. I’m a mother now. I owe it to her to teach her what I’m unlearning. To let her be part of what I'm building from a place of intentionality and rest, as I wrestle with remaining present and document for my own remembrance.

Most of life is a blur. Pictures and videos help us remember.

I owe it to myself and her to show up each day, without the pressure to be great in the eyes of social media.

I’m done curating for an audience. I’m choosing presence over performance. Privacy over access.

I’d rather live a life worth remembering than one worth posting.

You’re invited to do the same,
Janae Carlee