The air was crisp as I strolled down the street with my walking buddy. He had eagerly asked to be paired with me, confident that if anyone could knock this project out of the park, it would be me. Our class’s social initiative had taken us into the community, knocking on doors, engaging with people, and making connections. 

After what felt like hours, we landed on the steps of the small community church he attended. Proudly, he led me inside, eager to show me around. We greeted a few passersby and then entered the chapel — sunlight spilling through the stained-glass windows, casting warm colors across the wooden pews. 

And then I saw it. The podium. It called to me the way an introduction beckons someone before they step onto a stage. 

I had never preached before, but I knew I was meant to. So I did it. I stepped up to the podium like a child at a dress rehearsal — half-playing, half-wondering if the stage was really mine. I greeted an imaginary audience, letting the weight of the moment settle on me. 

And then I heard it — that condescending remark. With all the boldness my walking buddy could muster up with his deep voice, he looked me square in the face and said, “There’s no way they’d let you preach here. You’re Black and a woman.”

The absolute audacity of it all.

I wasn’t sure what I felt in that moment. Embarrassment? Anger? A quiet confirmation of something I had always seemingly known? Truth is, I’d been here before. Not always in a chapel, not always at a podium, but in spaces where my presence was questioned.

Maybe you’ve been there, too? Maybe it wasn’t your Blackness or your womanhood called into question, but you still felt it — the sting of being unwelcome. Maybe it was in an email response to your work proposal, a passive-aggressive comment in the boardroom, or a moment at a family gathering where you were outed or othered. Maybe it was a rejection wrapped in politeness or an unspoken rule that someone decided applied to you. 

When you hear, “You don’t belong here,” enough times, it does something to you. You start to measure your voice, shrink your presence, and dim your own light before someone else does it for you. You start second-guessing things you know God has confirmed in you. 

That day in the chapel, I felt silenced. Shut down. Even though I had only been playing at the podium, still, that moment was me trying on purpose — seeing what it felt like on my skin. My Black skin, rich with shea butter and coconut oil. My single-mother-and-proud skin. My woman-living-out-loud skin. That brief moment of standing and speaking at the podium was me warming up my voice, both new and familiar. I wanted to hear the sound of my purpose reverberate back into my ears. Maybe, just maybe, my imaginary audience would have nodded in agreement, would have leaned in as the weight of my words settled on them. 

Trying on purpose is supposed to result in confirmation and affirmation, not silencing and shame. 

But here’s the hard truth: Stepping into your purpose will sometimes invite resistance. When people can’t see it for you, they assume it doesn’t exist. When they don’t understand how you got there, they assume you don’t belong. But their inability to recognize your calling has nothing to do with your worthiness of it. Here’s what else I’ve learned: 

Their permission is not required for you to actualize your purpose. 

Sometimes they’ll clap for you, and sometimes they won’t. Even still, each time, your purpose remains true. Guess what? I never did get invited to speak in that chapel. But that podium moment wasn’t my final destination. 

I don’t know what they’ve told you. I don’t know what lie you’ve rehearsed so many times that it now sounds like truth. But I do know this: 

You were created for a divine purpose that cannot be canceled. 

Your voice was meant to be heard.

Your presence was meant to take up space.

Your calling was meant to be lived out.

And whether they welcome you or not, whether they invite you in or keep the door shut, whether they affirm you or stay silent — your purpose and your worth cannot be muted.

So, speak. Stand. Take up space.

Not only when or because they allow you to, but because God has called you to.