by Audrey Gaines
I used to think trust meant being strong enough to handle everything on my own.
In high school, dance was my entire world. It made sense. If I practiced more than everyone else, I got better. If I stayed late, stretched longer, and pushed through pain, I saw results. Competitions felt predictable in their own way. You put in the work and hoped it paid off. I trusted that system because it rewarded effort. It felt safe.
I did not grow up deeply involved in church. We went on special occasions, but faith was not something we talked about regularly or built our lives around. It felt more like a tradition than a relationship. Dance shaped me far more than anything else. It gave me discipline, confidence, and something to be known for.
When I chose to attend OBU, it was not because I was searching for a stronger faith. It made sense financially. The scholarship was good. The campus felt welcoming. I told myself it was simply the best option. I did not think much about the faith-centered environment.
Once I arrived, though, I could not ignore it. Professors prayed before class. Chapel was part of the weekly routine. Conversations about calling and purpose were normal. I often felt like I was observing from the outside, trying to understand something everyone else seemed to already know.
Trusting God felt unfamiliar. I was used to trusting what I could see and measure. In dance, you trust your body because you have trained it. You trust your teammates because you have rehearsed together. You trust choreography because you know the counts. Trust was built on repetition and proof.
Then I got injured.
It was not catastrophic, but it forced me to slow down. Sitting out, even briefly, made me realize how much of my identity was tied to performance. Without dance filling my time and giving me validation, I felt unsettled. I had built my confidence on achievement. When I could not achieve in the same way, I felt unsure of who I was.
That season exposed how much I depended on control. I believed that if I worked hard enough, I could secure the outcome. But there were things I could not fix with extra practice. There were situations I could not choreograph.
One night, I went to a worship event on campus. I did not go because I felt spiritual. I went because I did not want to sit alone with my thoughts. I stood toward the back and listened. No performance. No pressure. Just stillness.
For the first time, I realized how exhausting it was to carry everything myself.
In dance, if you are in a lift, you cannot halfway commit. If you hesitate or hold back, the movement fails. You have to release your weight fully and trust the person catching you.
I began to understand that I had never done that with God. I believed in Him in theory. I respected faith. But I had never surrendered control. I had never allowed Him to hold the parts of my life that felt uncertain.
Re-giving my life to the Lord did not happen in a dramatic moment. It happened quietly in my dorm room, in a simple prayer. It was me admitting that striving for control was not giving me the security I thought it would. I wanted something steadier than performance and approval.
Trust stopped meaning control.
It started meaning surrender.
Now, when I dance, I still work hard and care deeply. But my identity is not fragile in the same way. It is not built on whether I hit every eight-count perfectly. I am no longer searching for worth in a mirror.
Looking back, ending up at a faith-centered college does not feel accidental. It feels purposeful in a way I could not see at the time.
Trust was not about having everything figured out.
It was about finally letting go and realizing I was never meant to hold everything together on my own.
