The trail I didn’t mean to take.

I didn’t plan to be on that trail.

It was tucked behind the resort in Orlando—shady, overgrown, quiet in a way that felt sacred and unsettling. I found it by accident, and by the time I saw the warning sign, I was already too deep to turn back.

“DANGER: Alligators and snakes may be in the area. Stay away from the water.”

I had heard the splash the day before. I knew what it was. But there I was, standing in the middle of a trail that felt more like a metaphor than a mistake.

I kept walking.

Not because I was brave. Not because I was reckless. But because something in me knew this was about more than Florida wildlife. This was about the journey I was about to take in my life—alone, uncertain, and surrounded by unseen threats. And I had to decide: would I trust myself, or would I trust God?

That trail reminded me of what trust really looks like. It’s not polished. It’s not always peaceful. Sometimes it’s pressing forward when everything in you wants to turn back. Sometimes it’s walking through the places where fear lives and choosing not to feed it.

I’m not glorifying danger. If you see the sign, get to safety. But if you’re already on the trail—if you’re already in the middle of something you didn’t plan, can’t control, and don’t fully understand—this is for you.

You’re not alone. You’re not forgotten. You’re not foolish for feeling afraid.

But you are invited to trust. Not in your instincts. Not in your strength. In the One who sees the whole trail.