“In another universe, I harvest instead of hustle, but even there, I STILL need God.”
-E. H Abraham
In an alternate universe, I wake up every morning to the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs outside my seaside cottage in Cape Town. The sun peeks through sheer white curtains as I stretch, barefoot, into a day that holds no chaos, no deadlines, only purpose and peace.
In this universe, I’m not juggling a dozen roles. I’m not questioning if I’m doing enough or if I’m too much. Here, I am whole. I run a small wellness and writing retreat for women where every guest is reminded that healing is not a luxury, but a necessity.
Instead of racing to meet the expectations of the world, I spend my mornings teaching journaling workshops under the olive trees and my afternoons sipping tea with women who have forgotten how to dream. Together, we write ourselves back to life.
There is no pressure to perform, only permission to be.
In this universe, I never doubted my voice. I never silenced my story. I published my first book at 19, not 39. I spoke on stages, not from a place of ambition, but from a place of sacred assignment.
My children run barefoot in the garden, fluent in three languages, and utterly free. My partner is a man of prayer and poetry, a quiet storm who believes in miracles as much as I do.
We are not rich, not by the world’s standards, but we live abundantly. There is music, there is laughter, there is deep rest. There is rhythm.
I don’t hustle. I harvest.
But even in this perfect parallel, I carry one thing from the world I came from, my faith. In every universe, I would still need God. I would still crave His whispers in the stillness. I would still fall apart and find Him in the pieces.
Because maybe the beauty of this alternate world isn’t that it’s perfect, but that it reminds me what’s possible. What’s already inside me. What I can slowly build in this life, one sacred yes at a time.
And you?
What would your alternate universe look like?
Would you change the world, or just finally change yours?
Let yourself imagine. And then, perhaps, let yourself begin.




