Healing Moves

INTRODUCTION

Barefoot on Holy Ground

“What do you call it when your heel snaps but heaven still claps?
A healing move.”

If you’ve never experienced the kind of public humiliation that makes you question your entire calling, let me lend you mine.

I wish I could tell you my healing started in some deep, candle-lit prayer moment — but no. It began somewhere between hallelujah and help me, Lord. It started with a wardrobe malfunction on a Sunday morning.

I was preaching at a women’s event, feeling all sorts of anointed and confident — full of revelation, dressed in my best God-is-good-and-so-is-my-outfit attire. I had my favourite heels on and a very bold sermon about how “God will hold you up when life falls apart.”

And right in the middle of saying it, He decided to give me a live demonstration.

I was pacing the stage, making my point, when suddenly — mid-message — the strap of my heel snapped. Just clean off.

Right there. In front of everyone.

I tried to style it out, pretending it was part of my prophetic illustration about walking by faith and not by sight. The strap snapped. The sermon continued. But let’s be honest — I was limping in the Spirit.

There I was, half barefoot, half holy, trying to keep my balance while declaring, “God will hold you up when life falls apart.” And I could almost hear heaven laughing: “Exactly, daughter. Keep preaching.”

That was the day I learnt two things.
First — humility and humour make excellent ministry partners.
Second — sometimes your healing doesn’t start with a hallelujah. It starts with a snap.

Because healing isn’t always tidy. Sometimes it’s awkward, sweaty, unplanned, and just a little bit funny.
And somewhere between the wobbling and the Word, I heard that quiet whisper that would become the heartbeat of this book:

“Even this is holy ground.”

Now, if you’ve ever tried to look anointed while wobbling, you’ll understand the unique kind of humility that moment brings. For a split second, I froze. Then I did what every strong woman holding it together in public does — I improvised.

I kicked off both heels, looked the nearest lady dead in the eye, and said,
“We move.”

And that was it.
That was my sermon before the sermon.

Because really — that’s what this whole book is about.
Healing Moves.
The holy art of moving anyway.
Moving barefoot if you must.
Moving when the script breaks.
Moving when the plan snaps.
Moving when you’re standing there trying to look composed while your soul is whispering, “Lord, why now?”

You move even when life breaks mid-step.

This book is about the sacred rhythm between laughter and tears, between falling apart and getting back up again. It’s about the divine comedy of being human — the way God can take even the most awkward moments and turn them into altars of grace.

Because the truth is — sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do after life breaks your heel … is keep walking anyway.

But before we go any further, I need to let you in on something.

This isn’t just a book about cute metaphors and clever punchlines. Behind every laugh in these pages, there’s a limp. Behind every story I share, there’s a scar. What you’re holding isn’t polished performance — it’s lived experience, spilled ink from a heart that’s been cracked open and kept beating anyway. So, if you’re expecting perfection, you might want to put this down now. But if you’re here for something real — something messy and holy and still healing — then keep turning the page.

My story isn’t sugar-coated. It’s honey from a cracked jar — sticky, messy, sometimes spilling over the sides. But still sweet. Still healing. Still worth tasting.

I didn’t write this from a mountaintop. I wrote it from the valley — hair out, heart limping, tea cold beside me. From scars that still ache. From lessons learnt the hard way. From the kind of healing that only comes when life cracks you open and you choose to pour anyway.

Now, I know — not every minister, leader, or public figure would be comfortable being this open. Some prefer polish. Some prefer privacy. And honestly, I get it. But this is my truth.

And the truth — even when it trembles — will always set me free.

So I’m unashamedly telling it. Because freedom demands honesty and someone, somewhere, needs to know that even your most human moments can still host God’s glory.

Writing this book scared me. Not because I doubted God’s healing, but because I knew the cost of being this open. I thought about my course-mates, my lecturers, my church folk, my mentees, my aunties — the ones who still call me “that girl who went through that thing.”

I imagined the whispers, the side-eyes, the polite smiles that sometimes carry silent judgement. And for about five minutes, I almost let that stop me.

But then I realised — that’s exactly why I had to write it.

Because healing isn’t about polishing your story until it sparkles. Healing is about dragging shame into the light so it can’t hide anymore.

So yes, some people may read this and think less of me. That’s fine. But if even one woman reads this and thinks more of herself — then it’s worth every raised eyebrow.

If you’re holding this book in your hands, I want you to know: this is me lending you my courage. Every page is proof that I chose to speak, even trembling, so you don’t have to stay silent.

So let them read it. Let them whisper. Let them wonder.

Because this isn’t exposure — it’s freedom.
And freedom, my friend, is contagious.

No, I’m not the flawless preacher type — the ‘her life glows, her faith never shakes’ kind. I’m the kind that’s real, resilient, and still rising. I’m the one who’s been side-eyed in church. Whose name’s been whispered in corridors. Who sometimes preaches barefoot because the heel of her life broke mid-sermon.

And that’s alright. We weren’t made to be perfect. We were made to be real.
And real is where the power lives.

God has turned me into something like a mirror — not the shiny showroom kind, but the kind that’s been dropped, chipped, and glued back together.
A cracked mirror that still reflects His light — maybe even more beautifully because of the broken edges.

Through those cracks, you can glimpse what it looks like to be healed after heartbreak.
To be made whole after being shattered.
To be moulded in fire and still come out shining.

Because if nobody ever got hurt, how would we know there’s a God who heals?
If nobody ever got lost, how would we know there’s a God who finds?
If nobody ever made a mess, how would we know there’s a God who restores?

And here’s the wildest part: what brought me here was barefoot surrender.

I didn’t arrive at healing striding in with certainty. I came exposed, unsure, with more questions than answers — shoes off, heart bare. And that’s precisely where God met me. Not in the polished places, but in the barefoot ones — where I stopped performing and simply stood still.

Because healing doesn’t begin when you feel brave. It begins when you dare to uncover what’s been buried and remain there long enough to realise: even this ground is holy.

That’s the kind of sacred ground this book was born from. And if you’re reading this, then ready or not — you’re already standing on it too.

When Healing Feels Like a Dance Pad

Healing isn’t a straight line — it’s a dance.
But not the graceful, gliding-across-the-ballroom kind.

No — healing is more like a round on one of those dance machines at the arcade. You know the ones — the Dance Dance Revolution pads that flash arrows faster than your feet can think?

Months ago, I found myself on one of those very machines. My son had convinced me to try it. “It’s easy,” he said — famous last words. I followed him sheepishly, trying to look confident while secretly praying for mercy.

I stepped up, ready to prove that I still had rhythm. The music started, the arrows lit up — and within seconds, I was missing every single step. Left, right, up, down — I was flailing like a worship flag in a tornado. Kids were watching. Strangers were recording. And I was sweating like it was the day of Pentecost.

Just when I thought I’d found my groove, the tempo changed. The lights sped up. The machine decided to test my sanctification. I missed half the beats, tripped over my own shoe, and by the end I just threw my hands up like, “Lord, this is officially above my pay grade!”

But here’s the thing — I stayed on the pad. I laughed, wiped my sweat, and kept moving.

And somewhere between my missed steps and complete disorientation, God whispered something that’s stayed with me ever since:
“This is healing.”

Because that’s exactly what healing feels like — stepping when you’re unsure, missing the mark, finding your rhythm again, and realising the goal isn’t perfection; it’s presence.

Sometimes it’s two steps forward, one step back.
Sometimes it’s spinning in circles, wondering if God still remembers your name.
Sometimes it’s standing completely still because you’ve lost the rhythm and need to breathe again.
And sometimes it’s collapsing into His arms — breathless, sweaty, mascara running — because you’ve got nothing left but a whisper.

And here’s the good news: that whisper counts too.
God doesn’t need your perfect choreography — He just needs your yes.

He’s not scoring you on performance; He’s teaching you the rhythm of grace.
He doesn’t stand there with a clipboard saying, “Minus ten points; you missed the beat.”
He leans in and says, “It’s alright, love. We’ll catch the next one together.”

That’s who He is.
He specialises in beginnings that look like endings.
He builds altars out of ashes.
He writes resurrection into stories the world already wrote off.

Even when you fall behind or lose your balance — the music doesn’t stop.
That’s grace — the divine song that keeps playing while you relearn how to move. It’s the rhythm that says, “You can start again, even from here.”

So here’s my invitation:

Let’s move together.
Through the rubble.
Through the rest.
Through the raw and the real.
Not perfectly — just honestly.

Because every time you move — even when it’s a crawl, even when it’s clumsy — heaven moves with you.

This is not a book about perfection; it’s about permission.
Permission to feel.
Permission to rest.
Permission to stop performing faith and start living it.
Permission to be seen by God — not as a project to fix, but as a daughter to love.

I know right now your heart is geared up to receive these permissions. You’re ready for the breakthroughs, the blessings, the miracles waiting in these pages. But before we take the next step on this sacred ground, I need you to know this:

You are not behind.
You are not broken beyond repair.
You are not disqualified.
You’re simply becoming.
Becoming more whole.
Becoming more honest.
Becoming more like the healed version of yourself that’s been waiting underneath the pain.

So take a deep breath.
Shake the dust off your expectations.
And get ready — because what’s coming next might not look like what you imagined,
but it will feel like freedom.

And if, along the way, your strap snaps, your voice cracks, or your plans collapse — don’t panic.
That might just be your breakthrough dressed up as chaos.

Welcome to Healing Moves.
It’s time to move again.