Someone asked me a question this week that stopped me in my tracks.
“Do you have a Plan B?”
It was asked kindly. Practically. Sensibly.
But it didn’t land practically.
It landed here — in that quiet place where fear lives.
What will you do if Danie dies?
What will you do if your small business doesn’t work out?
What if everything you are holding together… simply unravels?
I smiled at the time. Gave a reasonable answer. Something about taking life one day at a time.
But later, alone, the question replayed in my mind.
Do I have a Plan B?
The truth is — my life already feels like Plan Q.
Some days it feels like I’m doing a strange, disjointed dance. One step forward, two steps back. A sale here and there … followed by an unexpected expense. A moment of hope… followed by exhaustion. A burst of confidence… followed by doubt.
It’s not a graceful waltz.
It’s more like a dismal shuffle on uneven ground.
And I find myself wondering:
Is everyone’s life like this?
Or is it just mine?
From the outside, other people’s lives look choreographed. Stable. Linear. Forward-moving.
Mine feels improvised.
But maybe that’s the illusion we all live under — that other people have clear maps and backup plans neatly filed away in labelled folders.
Here’s what I’ve realized.
Most of us don’t really have a Plan B.
We have responsibility.
We have love.
We have bills.
We have bodies that sometimes fail us.
We have dreams that tug at us from distant shores.
And we have resilience.
I did not plan to become the sole provider.
I did not plan to navigate prosthetics and medical realities as part of daily life.
I did not plan to build a business out of necessity and stubborn hope.
Yet here I am.
Still standing.
Still building.
Still loving.
Still trying.
If you had asked me years ago what my Plan A was, I would have painted something far more predictable. Something safer.
Life had other choreography in mind.
The honest truth? Some days I don’t feel hopeful at all. Some days the dance feels pointless. Some days I genuinely cannot tell whether I’m moving forward or simply circling the same patch of worn-out floor.
But then I look at what is still here.
Danie is still here.
My hands are still capable of creating.
My mind is still dreaming of seeing my children.
My heart is still stubborn enough to believe there is more ahead than behind.
Maybe Plan B isn’t a document.
Maybe it’s a muscle.
And maybe every time we get up after the music stumbles, every time we adjust our footing on uneven ground, we are strengthening that muscle without even realizing it.
This season of my life may feel like a dismal dance.
But perhaps it’s not dismal.
Perhaps it’s unfinished.
Perhaps I can’t hear the full music yet.
So for now, I will keep moving — even if the steps feel uncertain. Even if the rhythm feels off. Even if I sometimes cry in between the beats.
Because movement, however small, is still movement.
And as long as I am moving, I have not lost.
If you’re in your own strange dance right now — the one that feels like two steps back for every one forward — I want you to pause for a moment.
Look at yourself honestly.
You are still here.
Still loving.
Still trying.
Still carrying what feels too heavy some days.
Still showing up when it would be easier to disappear.
That is not weakness.
That is quiet strength.
The world celebrates loud victories — promotions, milestones, dramatic turnarounds. But it rarely applauds the woman who wakes up worried and moves anyway. The man who is afraid and continues anyway. The family who doesn’t know how it will work out… and keeps going anyway.
Quiet strength doesn’t make headlines.
But it builds lives.
Maybe we don’t need perfectly drafted Plan B’s.
Maybe what we need is the courage to take the next small step, even when the music falters.
Because here’s what I’m slowly beginning to understand:
The dance may feel dismal.
But if you are still moving — even awkwardly, even tearfully — you are not losing.
You are enduring.
And endurance is powerful.
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