Casting the Net

The bathroom has a working Jacuzzi and no floor. There’s no sink, no toilet, exposed studs, Hal’s tools stacked in the corner, and a shop vac sitting where the vanity should be. But the tub works. Technically, I could light a candle tonight and soak in bubbles while drywall dust settles around me. And somehow, that feels like progress.

Maybe that’s why I’m excited.

Or maybe it’s the gym—thirty minutes, twice this week. My legs hurt just enough to prove I showed up. Maybe it’s those endorphins people talk about—the legal kind.

Or maybe it’s because today I did something I’ve been avoiding for years.

I bought my own domain.

That sentence doesn’t sound dramatic. No one faints when you say it. There are no violins swelling in the background. But my finger hovered over the “Submit” button like I was disarming a bomb. I’ve filled out that form at least ten times before… and then closed the laptop.

I told myself I was being wise. Careful. Financially responsible. What I was really being was afraid.

Afraid someone would read my words and laugh.
Afraid someone would read my words and not laugh.
Afraid I’d run into someone at the grocery store who recognized me from my blog and start throwing tomatoes in the produce aisle.
Afraid it would all amount to nothing.

For years, I’ve texted links to friends and family just to get readers. It’s like paying someone to play with me.

So today, when I typed in my credit card number and pushed submit, my eyes may have been closed. My husband would probably tell you I acted like I was jumping out of an airplane at 30,000 feet.

But I did it.

And I feel lighter.

Earlier today, I met with a friend and admitted something vulnerable out loud—the kind of sentence that makes your stomach drop before it leaves your mouth. I braced for rejection.

She didn’t run.

Instead, she told me her story—how God had asked her to move before she felt ready, before she had proof, before she had guarantees. It felt like someone handing me oxygen.

I can do hard things and survive.

We watched a Bible study on faith—the kind that makes you shift in your seat because you know it’s about to cost you something.

Faith isn’t loud.

It’s movement.

I keep thinking about the Apostle Peter—the disciple who denied knowing Jesus three times, yet was still called. A fisherman who had been out all night with empty nets. I imagine the smell of fish, the ache in his shoulders, nets dragged through dark water for nothing. Coming back to shore empty, salt-crusted and tired.

That’s how writing has felt lately.

Like casting and casting and pulling up nothing but water. Like rowing back in and telling myself maybe this just isn’t for me.

And then Jesus says, Throw the nets again.

Not because the conditions changed.
Not because the market shifted.
Not because Peter suddenly felt confident—or I suddenly became a great writer.

Just because He said so.

That’s the part that undoes me.

Today, buying a domain wasn’t really about internet real estate. It was about obedience. Maybe trust. It was about deciding that if God planted the desire, I shouldn’t suffocate it with fear.

I don’t know if anyone will read what I write. I don’t know if this will grow or sit silent and unnoticed. I don’t know if my nets will stay empty.

But I know this:

You can’t catch fish if the boat never leaves the dock.

For me, faith looked like a blinking cursor and a deep breath.

And today—

I cast the net.