I still forget sometimes. I want to say that plainly, up front, before anything else, because it would be easy to read a book about divine identity and assume the woman who wrote it has it handled. I don't. I've written the entire thing. Lived every word of it. Buried a son, survived deployments, sat in rooms full of people who wanted to see me fail. And I still wake up some mornings and need to remind myself who I am, out loud, sometimes literally in the mirror, which is a weird habit but it works.
Not Sara Jane the director. Not the MBA. Not the Army wife or the author. Just, I am His. Most days that should be enough to get up and do what needs to be done. Some days I still want to pretend it's not me who needs to make dinner. I'm human, turns out. But here's a strange thing. Remembering my weaknesses is usually what brings the confidence back. Not in spite of them. Because of what they prove. I don't hold it together because I'm especially capable. I hold it together because something steadier than my mood that particular day is doing the actual holding, and it isn't me.
The book opens with three women, same moment, saying the same hard thing for three different reasons. By the last chapter, there's a fourth.
The first is the woman who apologizes just for existing when she walks into a room, yet leads an entire production with quiet, unmovable authority. Ask her if she's a leader and she'll laugh and tell you she's just a mom. She is not just a mom. The apology she keeps making isn't humility. It's a lie she's been told so many times she started to believe it.
The second has never married, never had children, and has poured herself into her community and her work with a faithfulness that has quietly changed dozens of lives. Ask her if she's a leader and she'll tell you she's just doing what anyone would do. Nobody else could do what she does the way she does it, because nobody else is her.
The third is in the middle of her career, knows exactly what needs to happen in the room, and says nothing, because she's still waiting for someone to confirm her voice belongs there. That confirmation was never going to come from the room. It was already spoken over her before she was born.
And then there's the fourth: the woman who wrote the book and still forgets. Still stumbling, still repenting and hoping and fighting and dreaming and getting back up. Here's what I know about her, because she's me on a Tuesday. Every time she gets back up, she's standing on stronger ground than before. Not because she's finally figured it out. Because God has been building something in her the whole time, whether she noticed or not.
Divine purpose is alignment. Between who God says you are and how you show up. Between truth and love. Between conviction and restraint.
That alignment doesn't just survive hard seasons. It endures. It outlasts every title you'll ever hold and every person who ever doubted you would.
So here's the only instruction I have left to give you, and it's the one the whole book has been building toward. If you want to put any of this on a motivational poster, I won't stop you. Frame it. Hang it somewhere you'll see it. Not the guest bathroom nobody uses, we both know that poster's just decoration in there. But don't let it stay on the wall.
Put the book down. Pray for guidance. Then act.
That's chapter ten, more or less. The whole book gets you there properly. Or leave your email below and I'll tell you the day you can finally act on all of it, not just this part.