Boss B!tch

I used to love the way “boss bitch” rolled off the tongue.
It felt powerful. Fierce. Untouchable.
I wore it like a crown, like a badge of honor.
A woman who built something. A woman who ran things.
A woman who could row upstream in a storm and still arrive smiling.

But here’s the truth: that crown got heavy.

Right after my river baptism, an elderly woman came forward and told me she’d had a vision.
She said she saw me in a little rowboat.
Jesus at the helm.
Me curled up in the back — resting.
The scripture echoed: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

For most of my life, I didn’t understand those words.
But that day, something cracked open.

What I heard in that verse wasn’t weakness as failure.
It was weakness as surrender.
As rest.
As the moment when I stop gripping the oars
and let the current hold me.

I knew upstream well.
Upstream was my native language.
The grind. The survival mode.
White-knuckling the paddle through every rapid and obstacle, convincing myself that this was strength.

But grace lives downstream.
Ease lives downstream.
Joy, peace, healing — downstream.
And downstream is not something I earn.
It’s something I allow.

For years, I ran a company.
And my ego whispered, “Boss b!tch. Look at you.”
But at night, under the weight of my own striving, I’d collapse under the blankets and weep.
I can’t even count the number of times I whispered through tears, “I’m so tired. I’m so fucking tired.”
Decades of upstream caught up with me.

Eventually, I couldn’t paddle anymore.
My body stopped letting me.
My soul stopped letting me.

And so I surrendered.

I stepped away from the company.
I let everything that was built from fear burn to the ground.
Business. Relationships. Identities. Expectations.
I let it all die — not because I wanted to — but because something deeper wouldn’t let me do anything else.

The river had always been waiting.

This is where trust was born:
Not in building more,
but in letting go.
Not in steering harder,
but in being carried.
Not in being the “boss bitch,”
but in realizing it was never about me in the first place.

Jesus at the helm.
Me at the back of the boat.
The way knows the way.

Less is more.
Ease is power.
Surrender is strength.
And this river?
It will take me exactly where I’m meant to go.

—

And still, there are days when the old current calls — when the hum of the grind feels familiar, when trust wavers and I catch myself reaching for the oars again.

On those days, the universe sends reminders.
They show up in the simplest ways:
rowboats.

Sometimes one, sometimes five or six of them in a single afternoon,
strapped to the roofs of passing cars, gliding through traffic like small prophecies.

Every time I see one, I smile through tears.
Each little boat whispers the same thing:
You’re still in the river.
You’re still being carried.
You never left.

And I exhale.
Because grace always knows how to find me—
right where the current runs easy,
right where I finally let go.