There comes a time when you cannot talk it over with anyone else or seek counsel; you must find that answer within yourself.

For years, I told Leonore, my now-wife, about Anguilla. Not as a passing mention. I sold it: the white sand, sunset at Cap Juluca. Dinner at Blanchard’s; it wasn’t just a trip I wanted to take; it became a promise I made to her.  “One day, we’ll go.” You’ll love it.

There was a gap in our diaries, so we decided to book. The route seemed simple enough: London to Grenada to visit her beloved aunt, Rita, spend a few days and then onwards to Anguilla.

Booking London to Grenada? Easy.

The trip from Grenada to Anguilla was harder because travelling across the regions is almost like travelling internationally.

For more than 6 weeks, I couldn’t find a flight with LIAT, the main airline at the time. I tried every day but found nothing, and I began to worry we wouldn’t get there.

I decided to say nothing.

 

The day of departure came. London to Grenada, eight hours, and somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean, listening to Lemar’s “Just Can’t Live With Each Others Love,” she turned to me and asked: “The flights from Grenada to Anguilla are booked, right?”

In that moment, I had two choices.

I could lie. Say “yes” and buy myself time to scramble once we landed. Or, I could tell the truth.

I looked at her directly and said, “No. I haven’t been able to book them yet.”

Her face changed. She went silent.

And in that silence, the promise I had made was gut-wrenching.  We enjoyed a lovely day with my mother-in-law and Auntie Rita. But under the smiles, I was worried because I hadn’t booked our flights, and when they asked about Anguilla, I gave an unclear answer.

We were due to check out of our hotel the following morning, and as we lay in bed that night, I was restless and could not sleep. At about 3:30, I got out of bed, picked up my bible and journal, went onto the veranda, and closed the door behind me.

I looked up at the sky, listening to the calm of the early morning and the stars, and sat there thinking.

I took out a specific Bible verse I’ve kept for over 20 years: “Be still and know that I am God.” That morning, as I read the verse, I reached for my journal, wrote down how I felt about this situation, and finished off with, “Later today we are travelling to Anguilla.”

But here’s the important part: I didn’t write about my fears.

  • I didn’t write: “I hope we can get flights.”
  • I didn’t write: “If it works out, maybe we’ll arrive.”

Instead, I wrote as if it had already happened.

I didn’t write it as a wish. I wrote it as a decision and imagined it happening.

I went back to bed.

 

Later that morning, as we left our room, I took one last look and felt a deep resolve that we would not be returning to that hotel.

We arrived at Grenada’s airport at 10:30 am. I asked Leonore to wait with the bags and take a seat while I walked to the desk.

I said to the Airport Passenger Assistant, “We want to travel to Anguilla today.”  She tapped at her keyboard, frowned, and shook her head. “No flights available, I’m afraid.”

My heart sank — deeper confirmation of a promise broken — but I was still confident.

I continued to look at her, and she said, “Come back in an hour; sometimes things change.”

I walked back, and Leonore looked at me. “She said there are no flights, but we should wait for about an hour.”

She was silent, then calmly said, “Maybe we should start looking at hotels here?”

And there it was.

At that moment, a quick thought came to me: if I agreed to this (start looking at hotels), Anguilla wouldn’t happen. I knew I had to stop any doubt or encouragement that might lead me to consider other choices.

This is what happens: you decide, and then someone says, “Maybe you should…” or “Why don’t we…” It sounds harmless enough, but if you listen, you get distracted. You start doubting yourself. You let someone else’s idea pull you away from your goal.

That’s the most dangerous time, when you hesitate. You must believe in your decision. I calmly but firmly said, “No, we’re flying to Anguilla today.”

Silence followed. Long, heavy silence.

Then, an hour later, the attendant waved me over. “Passports, please.”

Ninety minutes later, we were in the air.

As the plane taxied down the runway, heading to our first changeover in Barbados, I looked out of the window, and all I could think was: This is exactly as I imagined it.

There are moments in life when you must decide. Not wish, not hope, not “see what happens.” Decide.

When you’re chasing a goal, building a relationship, or holding onto a vision for your life, people — good people, people who care for you — will offer alternatives.

 

  • “Maybe this isn’t the right time.”
  • “Maybe you should try something easier first.”
  • “Maybe you need a backup plan.”

Their suggestions will sound rational. Even wise. But if you aren’t grounded in your decision, their doubts will grow on you.

This isn’t about ignoring counsel because coaches and mentors matter. But there comes a time when advice must stop and resolve must begin.

That morning in Grenada, I closed the door to opinions, to alternatives and decided. And once that decision was made, every other option had to become noise.

 

Here’s what I learned:

  • When you make and stick to a decision, it creates movement. The moment I wrote “we arrive” and pictured it, I was already living in that future, and everything I did after came from it.
  • Our doubt can spread easily. The moment I considered: “maybe we should stay,” I would have invited uncertainty in. And once doubt is there, it rarely goes away quietly.
  • Resolve is magnetic. When you are sure, the world, your family and friends often reconfigure themselves around you. Was it luck that those seats opened? Maybe.

We arrived in Anguilla the following day, (as you can see in the picture, we’d just arrived at Blowing Point from St. Martin). The beaches were as beautiful as I’d described. The sunset at Cap Juluca was just as I’d promised. We did Johnno’s with music on the Sunday and did the Blanchard’s thing. The promise became reality.

But the greater lesson is not really about Anguilla. It’s holding firm to your decision and your faith.

At 4:30 a.m. that morning, in a quiet hotel room in Grenada, I stopped entertaining possibilities. I stopped negotiating with doubt. I wrote a future as if it had already happened, and in that moment, I wasn’t waiting for life to decide for me. I had already decided. And when God sees that level of conviction, He takes over.

That is the difference between living with uncertainty and leading with conviction. Most of us lose strength by keeping options open “just in case” and listening to others. We try to protect ourselves.

We share our fears hoping for support, but it often makes things worse. You have to look inside and listen.

Sometimes the only way forward is to close every door but one. To let go of every contingency plan and stand fully in the decision you’ve made. That definiteness is what carries you through the uncertainty when someone says, “No flights.”