We all long to feel safe—to be known and loved, not for what we do, but simply for who we are.
But somewhere along the way, that longing gets tangled up in performance—being the one who holds everything together, showing up strong for the people who depend on us, even when we’re running on empty. I’ve been guilty of this more times than I can count.
Lately, I’ve been working with a biblical counselor who’s helping me reframe my thinking and relearn what’s actually true. (If you’re looking for someone gentle and gospel-centered, I can’t recommend Christy at Gospel Care Collective enough.)
Maybe you learned early that being good earned approval—it certainly works in the classroom. Or that staying quiet, especially when other voices were loud, helped keep the peace. Or that if you did everything right at home, maybe things wouldn’t fall apart. That kind of safety might appear strong on the outside, but inside, it’s exhausting. And it’s not the kind of safety God intended for us.
I remember growing up in full-time ministry, living in the “glass house.” Always visible. Always expected to meet standards I didn’t set. I watched other families unravel and silently vowed I’d never let that happen to mine. So I built routines and expectations around control, believing that if I just tried hard enough, I could protect the people I loved from pain.
But fear makes a shaky foundation, and control—the thing I often cling to—is a fragile god. So, I’m learning to tell a different story. I’m loosening my grip on what was never mine to carry. I’m asking better questions.
- What if safety doesn’t come from holding it all together?
- What if being enough doesn’t mean doing everything?
- What if God really is as gentle as He says He is?
These days, prayer is where I go to sort through the swirl of thoughts. To ask God for clarity. To help me filter truth from fear. And in that space, I remind myself of what’s real: I’m not the glue that holds everything and everyone together. My value isn’t rooted in my productivity. My gifts aren’t wasted just because they’re poured into quiet, unseen, ordinary moments.
There are days when the needs around me feel louder than my capacity—when the classroom feels purposeful, but home feels like I’ve faded into the background. And yet, home is the most important classroom I’ll ever lead, and my children are my most important students. On other days, it’s the reverse—the classroom leaves me completely depleted, and it’s home that gently fills the bucket back up.
I’m learning to name what’s mine to carry and release what isn’t. I can’t control other people’s responses. I can’t fix every problem. But I can be faithful. I can offer presence. I can take the next honest step. And I can practice kindness—to others and to myself.
Small doesn’t mean insignificant. Quiet doesn’t mean unseen. The daily work of love—in homes, in classrooms, in communities, in churches—matters deeply to the heart of God. He isn’t measuring our worth by what we produce; He is shaping us, day by day, through the process of becoming.
If you’re feeling like you’re falling short today, pause. Be curious, not critical. Ask better questions. Let the Spirit gently rewrite the story that fear wants to tell, and rest in the truth that safety isn’t found in control—it’s found in Christ.
Faithfulness matters more than perfection.
Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. — Isaiah 41:10
Grace in the Disarray 