The Walk Away Is Where You Find Yourself…

Remember when God told Lot and his family to leave and not look back? Like literallysaid: “Run for your lives. Do not look back.” And Lot’s wife, bless her salt-crusted heart, couldn’t help herself. She turned around. One peek. Boom. Human salt lick.

Now, I’m not here to shame her. Who among us hasn’t turned around to stare at a dumpster fire in slow motion? That messy ex, that job that was killing your soul but had dental, that friendship that ran entirely on guilt and meme exchanges. It’s human. It’s normal. It’s deeply tempting to look back on the life you built—even if it was built on shaky ground, passive aggression, or really good sex with someone who couldn’t spell “accountability” if their life depended on it.

But the lesson is less about salt and more about stuck.

Because turning back isn’t just about your eyes—it’s about your energy. It’s about where you’re placing your faith. When we keep looking over our shoulder, we’re telling the universe, “I don’t fully trust what’s ahead.” We’re prioritizing familiarity over freedom. Comfort over calling. Nostalgia over necessity.

And it’s hard. Let’s not pretend it’s not. Walking away sounds so clean in theory—cue the montage of you packing a suitcase while Florence + The Machine swells in the background. But in real life? Walking away feels like your knees are made of spaghetti and your heart forgot how to beat in a straight line.

Sometimes we don’t walk away because we think we owe it to the years we already spent. That kind of emotional math? It’ll bankrupt your soul. Staying just because you stayed isn’t a reason to stay. That’s just how you get more stuck. Salted. Frozen mid-sentence.

But here’s the part I love: God didn’t ask Lot’s wife to understand it. He didn’t give her a TED Talk or a Pinterest board. He just said go. Sometimes the answers come later. Sometimes the peace comes five exits past heartbreak, three playlists deep into a solo drive, long after the texts stop and the silence settles.

Walking away is a discipline. A spiritual muscle. You train it not just with logic, but with faith. The faith to say: I don’t know what’s next, but I trust it’s better than what nearly destroyed me.

And that’s the walk.

It’s one step at a time.

Without fanfare.

Without full closure.

Without perfect conditions.

You walk because your future needs you alive. Needs you whole. Needs you looking ahead, not back. And yeah, the first few steps might feel like betrayal. To them. To your past self. To the dream you had. But then? One day? You realize you’re not walking away from something anymore.

You’re walking toward something.

Your peace. Your alignment. Your next chapter. The kind of love that doesn’t beg you to shrink.

So to anyone standing in their own private Sodom, dragging their feet, wondering if maybe—just maybe—they could take one last glance?

Don’t.

You’re not a statue.

You’re not stuck.

You’re not salt.

You’re a wild, brave, messy, magnificent human with somewhere new to go.

And I promise—it’s better ahead.

Even if it doesn’t look like it yet.

Even if all you’ve got today is one wobbly, spaghetti-legged step.

That’s enough.

Keep walking.