My son recently had surgery, and his recovery has been a bit rough. As someone with OCD who has to manage his illness around the clock, having less capacity because of his surgery led to a few moments of pretty significant dysregulation.

Now, as his mom, I want to be there for him in those moments to co-regulate him. Unfortunately, his expression of dysregulation often triggers my own.

So here we sat, two dysregulated people trying our best. And I thought - I wonder what God thinks about all of this.

There’s a voice that shows up for me in those moments, and it doesn’t sound like compassion. It sounds like the shame cycle.

A good mom would stay calm. A good Christian wouldn’t need a minute to breathe before she could show up for her kid. That voice doesn’t care what I know clinically, or what I’ve walked through in years of trauma work. It just wants someone to blame, and in those moments, it picks me.

As someone with a trauma past and BPD, I know what reactions dysregulation has produced in me in the past, before a lot of healing had happened. Yelling. Screaming. Storming out.

And now as a Christian Mental Health coach, I see women describe much of the same. Followed by the shame cycles I spoke about in my last article.

And I come back to: what does God think about all of this? Because certainly the fruit of the Spirit is not on display when we are activated.

The truth is dysregulation is not disobedience. God knows the difference. And He showed me this so wonderfully in the tale of two fleeing prophets.

Jonah: A Heart That Said No

On one hand, we have Jonah. Called to go to Nineveh, but instead he flees.

He doesn’t flee because he is scared. Or because he lacks faith. He actually knows God can accomplish what He wants to accomplish.

But Jonah doesn’t like God’s plan. And disobedience flows from a heart that does not want to do what God is telling him.

Look at how far he’s willing to go to avoid it. He books passage on a ship headed the opposite direction from Nineveh (Jonah 1:3).

When the storm hits and the sailors are terrified, Jonah is asleep below deck. He has to be woken up and told to pray (Jonah 1:5-6).

When they cast lots and the lot falls on him, he doesn’t deny it. He tells them plainly who he is and what he’s running from - then tells them to throw him overboard (Jonah 1:9-12).

That’s not a man too overwhelmed to function. That’s a man with a clear head, making a clear choice, every step of the way.

And how does God meet this fleeing prophet?

With a time out session inside the belly of a fish. Immediate correction.

Elijah: A Body That Said Stop

On the other hand, we have Elijah. Having just witnessed God’s awesome power on Mount Carmel, he flees at the word that Jezebel wants to kill him.

He knows what God can do. But his physiology puts him into fight or flight. And he cannot embody his faith.

This is not a heart bent on defiance of God’s will. This is a nervous system that is actually doing what it was designed to do, overriding everything else when danger is present and the capacity to manage through it is depleted.

And how does God meet this fleeing prophet?

With a nap and some snacks.

Because God cares about our physiology.

Why though?

Why God Cares About Your Physiology

Because He’s the one who built the physiology in the first place. Paul prays for the Thessalonians’ “whole spirit and soul and body” to be kept - naming all three like they’re equally his concern, not just a soul wrapped in a body it merely tolerates (1 Thessalonians 5:23).

David says he is “fearfully and wonderfully made,” and he’s not just talking about his character. He’s talking about his frame, knit together by God before anyone else had seen it (Psalm 139:13-14).

Scripture never treats the body as a problem faith has to work around. It treats it as something God made on purpose - something He still tends to in the moment it’s overwhelmed.

Let’s go back to Elijah. Once Elijah’s nervous system needs were met, God didn’t just have Elijah sit back and retire.

No. God met Elijah where he was at, so Elijah could be equipped to continue on to meet God, have his perspective challenged and his mission reignited.

Fed, Then Sent

God asks him a piercing question. What are you doing here, Elijah?

Elijah answers with the skewed, but very real to him, version of the story he’s been telling himself: I’m the only one left, and they want to kill me too.

God doesn’t just comfort that answer. He corrects it. Not in the earthquake, not in the fire, but in the still small voice that follows.

God tells him the truth: you are not alone, seven thousand have not bowed to Baal. And then God gives him a mission again. Go anoint this one. Go appoint that one. Raise up your successor.

God meets us at our physiological needs so He can lead us into deeper spiritual formation.

Nervous system regulation is not a competitor to spiritual formation. It’s often the doorway to it.

Which Prophet Are You?

So if you’re spiraling, snapping, or isolating right now, and calling it sin or disobedience, I want you to ask yourself which prophet you actually are.

Are you Jonah, running from something God has clearly asked of you, needing your will confronted?

Or are you Elijah, having done everything right and still landing under the broom tree, needing your body met before your mission can be reignited?

It’s important that we don’t confuse the two. Call Jonah’s rebellion dysregulation, and you never actually repent, you just wait it out. Call Elijah’s exhaustion sin, and you pile shame on top of a body that was already running on empty, which only pushes it further from regulation, not closer.

God knows the difference. He’s never once confused the two.

Reflection Questions

1. Which prophet’s story feels closer to your own right now - Jonah’s or Elijah’s?

2. Where do you first notice it in your body when you’ve moved into fight, flight, or freeze? What do you usually call it when that happens?

3. What would it look like to let God feed you before you try to fix yourself?

A Prayer

God, You already know the difference between my rebellion and my dysregulation, even when I can’t tell the two apart myself.

Thank You that You don’t wait for me to have it together before You meet me. Meet me now, in whatever state I’m actually in.

Feed me before You ask anything else of me. And when I have the capacity again, lead me back to the mountain. Reignite what’s gone quiet in me.

Thank You that You care about every part of me — body, mind, and spirit.

In Jesus’ name, amen.

If this is a pattern you know well - but want healing and freedom from it - this is exactly the work I’m building Rooted & Regulated for. The waitlist is open now, and joining it gets you first access when doors open. Join Waitlist

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I know it can feel like you are failing somehow though.

You are racing through the morning. Trying to get everyone ready and out of the house on time. The kids don’t stop asking questions. Your husband can’t find his keys. The dog is barking at a squirrel. And then a glass of water gets knocked over.

The next thing you know you are yelling at your kids, yelling at your husband and feeling like you are existing outside your body.

I can’t tell you how often that used to happen to me.

And then the crash that follows.

The shame of losing control. The shame of turning into someone you don’t even recognize. Shame that runs deep.

But shame never leads to healing. It leads to isolation from community and God.

It’s in these moments that shame tries to convince us that we are “bad”.

Your Nervous System Did Its Job

The truth is much different though.

The truth is that an overwhelmed nervous system did what it was designed to do when it sensed a threat.

God designed our nervous system. It’s part of the many incredible intricacies that he created us with - and called it good. In fact, in Genesis 1, God looks at all he created and called it very good.

As we know though, the story doesn’t end in Genesis 1.

Sin entered the world and all that God had created was corrupted. Including the human body.

Because of this corruption, what once worked perfectly sometimes doesn’t.

In that moment where the glass of water spilled, the nervous system detected a threat and reacted with a fight response (other responses are flight, freeze and fawn).

The nervous system can’t distinguish between a real threat or not. It gets its messaging from your warning system - the amygdala.

The amygdala notices an overwhelmed and over-stimulated body, recalls past instances where that was unsafe and responds accordingly.

The reaction to the spilled glass of water doesn’t match the trigger size because of CAPACITY, not character.

When the Alarm Fires for No Reason

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I really want to call out this truth again - because this is what can make it feel so condemning when we react.

Sometimes the alarm goes off even when nothing is actually wrong.

The amygdala isn’t just responding to today. It is using information from the past where you were overwhelmed, unsafe, or unsupported - and asking, is this like one of those times?

It’s looking at a time when you were a child and the overstimulation might have meant a parents arguing and your sense of security being shaken.

It’s scanning for the instances where performing perfectly was the only way to receive love and affection.

It’s registering that the last time your body responded like this, your developmental needs weren’t being met and that was scary.

And this is why sometimes we can feel stuck in a response cycle that doesn’t reflect what is happening in the here and now.

What God Does With Depletion

God in his goodness gives us examples of this in the Bible - and showcases his response.

One of my favourite stories is seeing ELijah’s fight or flight response kick in in 2 Kings. Even tough he has just seen God’s miracles power at Mount Carmel - he is now running for his life as if God has abandoned him. His nervous system is kicked into high gear.

And what does God do?

Condemn him? Chastise him?

No. He actually tends to his nervous system first. An angel comes and offers him food and rest. And then - only after the physiological needs are met does he invite Elijah to move forward in faith.

God met Elijah’s depletion with safety before He met it with correction. Because that is what your nervous system is longing to know. That you are safe. Not necessarily comfortable, unchallenged or “happy”. But safe.

Safety, Not Shame

This is what I really want you to hear today is you are struggling with a nervous system that is hyper sensitive and reacts before you can reassure it of your safety: God is not mad at you. Or disappointed in you.

You do not have to shame yourself into healing. In fact, you can’t. Shame will never be the thing that makes you feel safe enough to change.

What actually retrains a nervous system is safety. Not punishment. Not proving your faith is strong enough. Safety.

Rewiring the amygdala-nervous system response takes time.

But I believe it starts with one thing: compassion.

Looking at yourself through the lens of God’s grace, naming that the reaction you regret was just your nervous system reacting the way it was trained to do under situations that were hard for you.

Compassion.

That is the first step.

Yes - healing with take more work. And I can outline what that type of work looks like another time.

If you want somewhere to start today, try this the next time you feel the wave rising. Before you speak, put a hand on your chest and just notice. Racing heart. Tight jaw. Feet that want to run. You don’t have to fix it in that second. Just naming it, even silently, is often enough to put half a second of space between the trigger and the reaction. That half second is where change actually starts.

But for today, I want you to approach yourself with grace.

Coming Back to the People You Love

Now, compassion for yourself doesn’t mean the people you yelled at don’t matter. It doesn’t mean that we are not still accountable for repair.

But it does mean you can go back to them without shame driving the conversation.

Repair doesn’t mean dragging yourself unnecessarily. And it doesn;t mean making excuses. It’s about telling the truth with repentance.. “I got really overwhelmed and I yelled, and that wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry.” That’s it. That’s the whole repair.

This does something shame never models. Repair lead by copassion teaches your kids what it looks like when someone messes up and comes back in h9onesty instead of disappearing into guilt. You are modeling the exact thing you want them to learn to do themselves one day.

And it moves you back toward connection instead of the isolation shame was pulling you into. Confession has always done that. It was never meant to be a punishment. It was meant to be a bridge back to each other, and back to God.

So the next time a glass of water tips over, and your husband asks one more question at exactly the wrong moment, I hope you remember this. That reaction rising in your chest is not sin. It is not proof your faith is too small. It is a nervous system trying to protect you, doing its best with old information. And you, right there in the kitchen, get to meet it with the same thing God met Elijah with. Care and safety.

REFLECTION QUESTIONS

• When was the last time your body reacted bigger than the moment called for? What might your nervous system have actually been protecting you from?

• What’s the difference between “I am a bad person” and “my nervous system hit capacity”? Which one do you usually default to?

• Where do you see shame keeping you isolated instead of leading you toward healing?

• What would it look like to bring your overwhelmed moments to God without hiding them first?

PRAYER

Father,

Thank You for creating me with a body that fights to protect me, even when it gets it wrong. Thank You that You do not condemn me in my most overwhelmed moments.

Forgive me for the shame I’ve carried instead of bringing my exhaustion honestly to You. Meet me the way You met Elijah, with rest and provision before correction.

Teach me to see my reactions with compassion instead of judgment, and give me the safety I need to slowly retrain what’s gotten stuck. Thank You that healing doesn’t require me to shame myself first.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

I’ve been watching a lot of reels lately from Christian therapists talking about self-denial.

And honestly, it’s been bothering me.

Because so many of them are villainizing the concept altogether.

Self-denial gets talked about like it’s the root of every burnt-out, people-pleasing, perfectionist woman in the church. Like “deny yourself” was always code for “ignore yourself.”

And I get why they’re saying it. I’ve watched that misuse do real damage too.

But I don’t think the answer is throwing out the words of Jesus because we’ve seen them misused.

I’ve had a client - more than one actually - who struggled so much with the idea of sacrifice and self-denial that she completely burned herself out.

People-pleasing until there was nothing left. Ignoring her own needs, her own desires, her own body - because somewhere she’d learned that wanting anything for herself was selfish. Even desires that weren’t sinful at all. Desires that, honestly, God had placed there Himself.

And then I’ve had other clients - particularly women who’d never learned to live well with something like BPD, ADHD, or OCD - who went the opposite direction. Their feelings were so big, so loud, so immediate, that the feeling became the truth in the moment it showed up.

Feelings were the basis of every decision and reaction.

And that led to real relational wreckage. Broken friendships. Shame spirals. Marriages under strain. Not because these women were bad people, but because no one had ever taught them what to do with a feeling that big except obey it.

Two very different women. Two very different ditches. Both of them in real pain.

Friends - neither one of these is what Jesus meant when He said deny yourself.

Gethsemane Is the Answer to Both

If you want to know what it actually looks like to deny yourself without denying your pain, you don’t have to guess. Jesus already showed us. The night before the cross.

Matthew tells us Jesus took Peter, James, and John into the garden, and “he began to be sorrowful and troubled.” He said to them, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death” (Matthew 26:37-38).

Read that again.

Overwhelmed. With sorrow. To the point of death.

This is the Son of God, hours before He willingly lays down His life for the world. He does not fake Christian joy. He does not smile through it. He does not spiritually bypass the horror of what’s coming.

He tells His closest friends the truth about His inner world.

And then He goes further out, alone, and He falls to the ground. Luke tells us His sweat became like drops of blood because of the sheer intensity he was feeling. He asks the Father, not once but three times, to remove this from Him. “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me” (Luke 22:42).

Full honesty.

No hiding.

Free to feel what He felt.

But then, in the very same prayer -

“yet not my will, but yours be done.”

That’s it, friend. That’s the whole answer, right there.

Denying yourself was never the absence of a Gethsemane experience.

Denying yourself is what happens inside Gethsemane.

What Spiritual Bypassing Actually Costs You

Let’s talk about the first ditch, because I think it’s the one that hides best inside church culture. And it’s the one I see the most in my coaching practice.

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For the last few months, I’ve been mostly quiet.

No weekly podcast. Very few Instagram posts. No coaching launches.

No pressure to stay visible.

If you’ve been following along for a while, you probably noticed my absence.

The truth is, I wasn’t taking a break from ministry. I was responding to an invitation from God.

Or maybe a better way to say it is this...

I was responding to a question.

A question I couldn’t answer.

Months before my sabbatical officially began, I sensed the Lord asking me something that immediately made me uncomfortable.

“Who is Carla if she isn’t useful?”

Not...

“Who is Carla if she isn’t successful?”

Not...

“Who is Carla if her ministry doesn’t grow?”

Simply...

“Who is Carla if she isn’t useful?”

At first, I didn’t know why that question unsettled me so deeply. After all, I know the right answer.

My worth isn’t found in what I do. It’s found in Christ.

I’ve taught that for years.

I’ve coached women through those very truths. I’ve written devotionals about identity in Christ. I’ve opened my Bible with women across coffee shop tables and Zoom screens, reminding them that they are already loved, already chosen, already accepted because of Jesus - not because of their performance.

I believed those words.

I still do.

But there’s a difference between believing something theologically and having it become the quiet foundation your heart actually stands on.

God wasn’t questioning my doctrine.

He was exposing where my foundation had cracks.

Not long after that question, I sensed the Lord asking me to do something that made even less sense.

Let it all go.

Step away.

Become hidden for a while.

No podcast. No striving to grow the ministry. No constant creating. No chasing the next opportunity.

Just...let go.

If I’m honest, I thought it would last about a month.

Long enough to catch my breath.

Long enough to feel refreshed.

Long enough to come back with fresh ideas and renewed energy.

I didn’t realize God wasn’t inviting me into a vacation.

He was inviting me into pruning.

John 15 has always been one of my favorite passages.

Like many of you, I’ve read Jesus’ words countless times.

“I am the true vine... Every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.”

I’ve always loved that verse because it reminds us that pruning isn’t punishment. It’s preparation. It isn’t evidence that God has abandoned us. It’s evidence that He loves us enough not to leave us where we are.

What I don’t think I had fully appreciated was this:

Jesus wasn’t speaking to branches that had failed.

He was speaking about branches that were already bearing fruit.

The Vinedresser doesn’t prune dead branches to make them alive.

He prunes living branches because He sees possibilities they cannot yet see.

And pruning, it turns out, is far more painful when you see what you think is good fruit cut away.

As the weeks passed, God slowly began revealing what He was after.

It wasn’t my schedule or my workload.

It wasn’t even my exhaustion.

It was my heart.

Somewhere along the way, something subtle had happened.

The ministry God had so graciously built through me had slowly become something I felt responsible to maintain.

Nothing about my beliefs had changed.

If you had asked me whose ministry it was, I would have said, “God’s.”

And I would have meant it.

But our hearts have a way of drifting long before our theology does.

Without realizing it, I had begun carrying responsibilities Jesus never asked me to carry.

I worried about growth.

I worried about income.

I worried about algorithms.

I worried about opportunities.

I worried about whether I was doing enough.

None of those things seemed sinful on their own - but underneath them was something much deeper.

I had quietly started looking to ministry to tell me something only God could.

That I was valuable.

Looking back I know I didn’t I consciously chose that shift.

I think it happened the way most idols are formed. Quietly. Slowly.

Until one day, God loved me enough to interrupt it.

I wish I could tell you that I immediately surrendered.

That I joyfully stepped into this season with open hands and an open Bible.

I wish I could tell you that my first morning of sabbatical was filled with unhurried prayer, deep worship, and long conversations with the Lord.

It wasn’t. Not even close.

For the first two months, I mostly avoided Him.

I started increasingly scrolling mindlessly on my phone to distract myself from any of the uncomfortable work.

And of course I tried to justify it at first. I was exhausted after all. I needed a break.

But then I had to really look at myself.

The endless scrolling wasn’t refreshing my soul.

It was keeping me from sitting still long enough to hear the questions God was patiently waiting to ask.

There is a profound difference between rest and avoidance.

Rest brings us into God’s presence.

Avoidance keeps us distracted enough to never have to face what’s happening beneath the surface.

Mine happened to look like social media.

Yours may look completely different.

But I wonder how many of us mistake distraction for rest.

Eventually, I became so frustrated with myself that I bought a little device called a Brick to block the apps I kept reaching for without thinking. I just couldn’t will myself enough to put my phone away and sit with God.

I smile as I write that because it feels strangely humbling.

Here I was - a Christian mental health coach who teaches women about renewing the mind - and I needed a small plastic device to help me stop reaching for my phone.

But maybe that’s part of humility too.

Maybe wisdom isn’t pretending we’re stronger than we are.

Maybe wisdom is simply removing whatever keeps us from hearing the voice of God.

The Brick didn’t change my heart.

Only the Holy Spirit could do that.

But it did remove enough noise for me to finally hear the gentle voice that had never stopped calling me.

And when I finally stopped resisting...

The real work began.

When the noise finally quieted, I expected God to start talking to me about burnout.

Instead, He started talking to me about my heart.

He lovingly shined light into places I’d stopped noticing, not to shame me, but to heal me.

That’s exactly what He began doing with me.

Instead of giving me a five-step plan for avoiding burnout, He started highlighting a few things for me as I was working through 1 & 2 Samuel and 1 & 2 Kings.

Saul and David had both been chosen by God.

They had both been entrusted with much.

But they were men who both, at different points in their lives, lost the plot.

Lost the plot.

Not because they suddenly stopped believing in God.

Not because they abandoned their calling.

But because somewhere along the way, their eyes shifted.

Saul slowly became more concerned with protecting his position than obeying the God who had given it to him in the first place.

David, too, lost sight of the Lord during different seasons of his life. Yet when confronted with his sin, he didn’t spend his energy defending himself. He fell on his face in repentance.

The difference between them wasn’t that one failed and the other didn’t.

They both failed.

The difference was what they did when God lovingly exposed what had gone wrong.

One hardened.

One humbled himself.

As I read their stories again, I found myself praying something I hadn’t prayed in a long time.

“Lord...never let me become more committed to preserving what You’ve given me than remaining close to You.”

That prayer still lingers in my heart.

Because the truth is, I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to make ministry an idol. Idols are rarely built overnight.

They’re usually built one small compromise at a time.

One glance at the numbers. One conversation where success quietly becomes more exciting than faithfulness.

One subtle belief that says, “Maybe this all depends on me ”

Before long, we’re carrying burdens Jesus never asked us to carry.

Looking back, I can see how easy it happened.

God had been so faithful.

He opened doors I never could have opened.

He brought women into my life that I never could have found on my own.

He provided financially in ways that still amaze me.

He sustained me through seasons when I felt completely inadequate.

The ministry existed because of Him.

Every bit of it.

And yet, somewhere along the way, I slowly started acting as though it depended on me.

Not because I stopped trusting God.

But because I quietly started trusting myself too much.

That’s a frightening sentence to write.

But I think it’s true.

Not just for me.

For many of us.

Especially those of us who love Jesus and sincerely want to serve Him.

The enemy doesn’t always tempt us away from ministry.

Sometimes he tempts us to carry ministry in our own strength.

And the result looks remarkably similar.

Exhaustion.

Anxiety.

Pressure.

Fear.

Not because God asked us to carry those things.

But because we’ve picked up a yoke He never placed on our shoulders.

Jesus’ invitation in Matthew 11 has taken on an entirely different meaning for me over these past few months.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest... Take my yoke upon you... For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

For years, I read that passage primarily as an invitation to find peace when life felt overwhelming.

Now I wonder if Jesus was saying something even deeper.

What if we’re exhausted because we’re wearing the wrong yoke?

What if we’ve quietly slipped our shoulders underneath expectations He never placed there?

What if we’re carrying outcomes that only belong to Him?

That realization led me into one of the deepest seasons of repentance I’ve experienced in years.

Not repentance over obvious outward sin.

Repentance over the posture of my heart.

I repented for taking ownership of something that had always belonged to God.

I repented for believing lies about my worth that had been quietly driving me for far longer than I realized.

Because underneath the striving...

underneath the overworking...

underneath the pressure...

was an old lie I thought had already died.

If I’m useful...then I’m valuable.

If I’m producing...then I’m significant.

If people need me...then I matter.

Those lies are especially dangerous because they often wear Christian clothes.

We call it faithfulness.

We call it sacrifice.

We call it serving the Kingdom.

And sometimes it is.

But sometimes it’s simply our old wounds finding a respectable place to hide.

As these months unfolded, I slowly realized something that has changed the way I read so much of Scripture.

God has always been more interested in forming His people than simply using them.

When I look throughout the Bible, that’s the pattern I see over and over again.

Moses spent forty years in the wilderness before leading Israel.

David spent years hiding in caves after being anointed king.

Even Jesus spent thirty largely hidden years before three years of public ministry.

God is never in a hurry - we are.

He is never anxious about timelines - we are.

Somewhere along the way, I think I quietly began believing that what mattered most to God was what I could accomplish for Him.

He lovingly showed me that what matters most to Him is who I am becoming in Him.

Those are not the same thing.

I don’t believe God called me into hiddenness because He needed less from me.

I believe He called me into hiddenness because He wanted more of me.

More of my trust.

More of my dependence.

More of my heart.

More of my attention.

More of my surrender.

Looking back now, I don’t think my greatest struggle was burnout.

Burnout was simply the symptom.

The deeper issue was ownership.

Somewhere along the way, I had started carrying something that belonged to God.

And the beautiful thing about our Father is that He doesn’t expose those places to embarrass us.

He exposes them because He loves us.

Every branch that bears fruit He prunes...

so that it will bear more fruit.

Notice what Jesus doesn’t say.

He doesn’t say the Father prunes because He’s disappointed.

He prunes because He delights in what He sees growing.

That changes everything.

Pruning isn’t rejection.

It’s confidence.

The Vinedresser sees what the branch cannot yet see.

He sees the fruit that is still to come.

I don’t know exactly what this next season looks like.

And for someone who has spent much of her life wanting a plan...

that’s surprisingly okay.

Months ago, I would have wanted to return with a clear strategy.

A five-year vision.

A roadmap.

An announcement.

Instead, I find myself returning with something much quieter.

Open hands.

God hasn’t called me back to what I left.

He’s calling me deeper.

I don’t fully know what that means yet.

I know He continues to stir something in my heart around helping women heal from trauma and thrive even in the midst of mental illness.

But even that feels incomplete.

Because healing has never been the destination.

Christlikeness is.

The more I sat with Jesus during these months, the more I became convinced that He isn’t simply inviting wounded women to recover from what happened to them.

He’s inviting them to become deeply formed by Him.

To become women whose identity is no longer shaped primarily by trauma, fear, shame, rejection, anxiety, or performance...

but by the love of Christ.

That kind of formation takes time AND courage.

Because allowing God to heal our wounds is one thing.

Allowing Him to dismantle the identities we’ve built around those wounds is something else entirely.

That’s what He’s been doing in me.

And I suspect I’m not alone.

Maybe you’ve never led a ministry.

Maybe you’ve never had a podcast.

Maybe you’ve never coached another person.

But perhaps you’ve quietly built your identity around something else.

Being needed.

Being productive.

Being the dependable one.

Being the strong one.

Being the fixer.

Being the provider.

Being the one everyone counts on.

Those things may not be sinful.

In fact, they may even be beautiful gifts.

Until they become the answer to the question,

“Who am I?”

Only Jesus gets to answer that question.

Everything else is a fragile foundation.

If these months have taught me anything, it’s this:

God loves us far too much to let us build our identity on anything that can be taken away.

Not because He’s cruel.

Because He’s kind.

He will patiently remove every false foundation until Christ Himself becomes our only secure place to stand.

And although that pruning is painful...

it is also one of the greatest expressions of His love.

So where do I go from here?

Honestly...

I’m not entirely sure.

And I mean that in the best possible way.

I’m returning slowly.

Prayerfully.

Holding this ministry with much looser hands than I did before.

Not because I care less.

But because I finally remember whose it is.

It never belonged to me.

It never depended on me.

It never will.

If you’ve waited patiently for me over these past months, thank you.

More importantly...

thank you for giving me the space to become a student again.

To sit quietly before the Lord.

To repent.

To listen.

To be reminded that before I am a teacher...

before I am a coach...

before I am a writer...

before I am a speaker...

I am simply His daughter.

And that has to be enough.

Because if it isn’t...

nothing else ever will be.

Reflection Questions

• If God asked you, “Who are you if you’re no longer useful?” how would you honestly respond?

• Is there an area of your life you’ve quietly begun carrying as though it depends entirely on you?

• What burdens have you picked up that Jesus never asked you to carry?

• Is there a distraction you’ve mistaken for rest?

• What might God be pruning - not because He’s disappointed in you, but because He loves you?

• Where have you confused your assignment with your Source?

• What would it look like to trust God’s formation more than your own productivity this week?

A Prayer

Father,

Thank You for being the kind of Father who loves us enough to prune us.

Thank You that You never expose our hearts to shame us, but to heal us. Thank You for Your patience when we resist You, for Your gentleness when we run, and for Your faithfulness when we slowly find our way back into Your presence.

Forgive us for the ways we have quietly built our identities on things that were never meant to carry that weight. Forgive us for believing that our worth is found in what we produce, how much we accomplish, or how useful we appear to others.

Teach us to abide.

When Your pruning hurts, remind us that Your hands are always motivated by love.

Strip away everything that keeps us from seeing You clearly.

Form Christ in us.

And may our greatest desire become not to be impressive, productive, or even influential - but to become women who increasingly look like Jesus.

Apart from You, we can do nothing.

But with You...

that is enough.

Amen.

That sentence alone probably doesn’t sound remarkable. Most people have disagreements with their parents from time to time.

But if you’ve followed my story for any length of time, you know that my relationship with my mom has always been complicated.

Growing up, love was conditional. Or at least that was the message I received.

There was silent treatment and ice outs.
There was emotional distance.
There were words that cut deeply.
There were moments when affection felt withheld rather than freely given.

As a child, you don’t have language for those experiences.

You just learn the lesson.

You learn that approval is earned.
You learn that conflict is dangerous.
You learn that love feels secure only when everyone is happy.

Now, decades later, I find myself in a different role.

My parents are aging.

My dad has dementia.

My mom relies on me for support and help navigating life.

The parent-child relationship has shifted in many ways.

Recently, my mom treated me in a way that crossed a line.

Instead of staying and absorbing it, I did something younger Carla never would have done.

I left.

A little while later, she called and left a voicemail.

She said:

“Sorry I lost my patience, okay? It’s just been one of those hot days. Okay, well, take care. I just want to let you know. I still love you, okay? Bye-bye. God bless.”

At first glance, it sounds like a perfectly reasonable apology.

And perhaps for many people, it would be.

But one phrase lodged itself in my heart.

“I still love you.”

Not I love you.

I still love you.

And suddenly I realized why it bothered me.

Because the word still implies that love was somehow in question.

As if the message underneath was:

“Despite this conflict... I still love you.”

Most people would probably miss it.

But children who grew up with conditional love rarely miss those things.

We become fluent in the language of insecurity.

We learn to listen for what isn’t being said.

And what I heard wasn’t simply love.

What I heard was a lifetime of wondering whether love could be withdrawn.

Whether approval could disappear.

Whether belonging was dependent upon my behavior.

Maybe that wasn’t what she meant.

In fact, I don’t think it was.

But healing has taught me something important:

Intent and impact are not the same thing.

And while my mother’s intent may have been loving, the impact landed in a place that has been tender for decades.

The Wound Beneath the Words

One of the greatest tragedies of childhood wounds is that they don’t stay in childhood.

They travel with us.

They influence how we interpret conversations.

They shape our expectations.

They create stories in our minds about who we are and what relationships are supposed to feel like.

A child who grows up with consistent affection learns:

“I am loved even when there is conflict.”

A child who grows up with inconsistent affection often learns:

“I am loved when I perform correctly.”

That lesson doesn’t disappear simply because we become adults.

Many of us carry it into our friendships.

Our marriages.

Our churches.

Even our relationship with God.

We become people who are constantly asking:

“Am I still okay?”

“Do they still love me?”

“Did I disappoint them?”

“Have I done enough?”

What began as a childhood survival strategy becomes an adult way of living.

And it is exhausting.

Read more

If we feel hurt, it must mean someone wronged us.
If we feel anxious, we assume something is unsafe.
If we feel peace, we assume God must be in it.
If we don’t feel peace, we assume He isn’t.

We make decisions based on how we feel.
We determine truth based on how we feel.
We evaluate relationships, churches, convictions, boundaries, callings, and even doctrine based on how we feel.

And I think much of modern Christianity has quietly absorbed this way of thinking too.

Somewhere along the way, feelings stopped being indicators to be explored and became authorities to obey.

Now before I continue, let me be clear: Feelings are not bad.

God created emotions.

Jesus Himself experienced sorrow, anger, grief, compassion, distress, anguish, and joy. The Psalms are filled with emotional honesty. David poured out fear, confusion, frustration, sadness, and even despair before God.

The goal is not emotional suppression.

The goal is understanding and release.

Because while feelings are real, they were never meant to be the drivers in our life.

Feelings are indicators.
They can reveal wounds.
They can expose beliefs.
They can alert us to burnout, fear, grief, insecurity, or unmet needs.

But feelings are not always reflective of reality.

And they should never become our master.

Yet if we are honest, many of us are living emotionally-led lives while calling it discernment.

We forgive when we feel like it.
We pray when we feel inspired.
We open our Bible when we feel motivated.
We worship when it feels emotionally rewarding.
We serve when it feels fulfilling.
We obey when it feels comfortable.

Spiritual maturity cannot be built on the ebbs and flows of our emotions.

I think one of the greatest discipleship issues in modern Christianity is that many believers are being formed more by their feelings than by truth.

We have elevated emotion above obedience.
Experience above Scripture.
Self above surrender.

And because of that, many Christians now interpret discomfort as evidence that something must be wrong.

But what if discomfort is often where transformation begins?

Because almost everything Scripture calls us into requires dying to self.

Forgiveness is uncomfortable.
Confession is uncomfortable.
Waiting is uncomfortable.
Fasting is uncomfortable.
Silence is uncomfortable.
Serving is uncomfortable.
Repentance is uncomfortable.
Submission is uncomfortable.

Even love itself can be uncomfortable.

We say we want to become like Jesus, but Jesus Himself “learned obedience through what He suffered” (Hebrews 5:8).

The Christian life was never meant to revolve around emotional ease.

And yet many of us have unknowingly made comfort and emotional validation our highest priorities.

We’ve started asking:
“What feels right?”
instead of:
“What is true?”

“What feels good?”
instead of:
“What is holy?”

“What feels authentic?”
instead of:
“What aligns with Christ?”

The problem with being ruled by feelings is that feelings shift constantly.

You can feel abandoned and still be deeply loved by God.
You can feel anxious and still be safe.
You can feel unforgivable and still be redeemed.
You can feel numb and still be held by Him.
You can feel afraid and still obey.

Our feelings are real.
But they are not sovereign.

Scripture never tells us to be led by our emotions. It tells us to be led by the Spirit.

That distinction matters.

Because the more we are formed by our feelings, the less we are being transformed by Christ.

Romans 12 tells us that transformation comes through the renewing of the mind - not the surrendering to every emotion that rises within us.

That doesn’t mean we ignore emotions.

It means we learn to bring them under truth.

We acknowledge them honestly.
We get curious about them.
We allow them to reveal what may be happening in our hearts.
But then we ask:
Does my response align with who I am in Christ?

For example:

“I feel angry.”
Anger may be revealing hurt or injustice.
But rage, slander, bitterness, and vengeance do not align with my identity in Christ.

“I feel anxious.”
Anxiety may reveal fear or uncertainty.
But anxiety is not prophecy.
It does not get to determine truth.

“I don’t feel like forgiving.”
That feeling may be real.
But forgiveness is still obedience.

“I don’t feel motivated to pray.”
The feeling is real.
But intimacy with God was never supposed to depend on emotional hype.

Mature faith is not the absence of emotion.

It is the refusal to let emotions sit on the throne that belongs to God alone.

I think many believers today are exhausted because they are constantly chasing emotional certainty before they obey.

But faith has never been built on emotional certainty.

Faith is choosing obedience even when your emotions are loud.

It is continuing to pray when God feels silent.
Continuing to forgive when your flesh wants revenge.
Continuing to trust when circumstances feel unstable.
Continuing to show up when you don’t feel inspired.

This is what spiritual formation actually looks like.

Not emotional indulgence. Not worshipping feelings.
But also not pretending emotions don’t exist - just refusing to let them become king.

Reflection Questions

• Where have I allowed feelings to determine my obedience?

• What emotions most often compete with truth in my life?

• Have I mistaken emotional discomfort for spiritual danger?

• What spiritual disciplines have I abandoned because I “don’t feel like it”?

• What would it look like to acknowledge my feelings without surrendering to them?

Prayer

Lord,
Thank You for creating us with emotion, tenderness, and depth. Help us not to fear our feelings, suppress them, or shame ourselves for them. But also help us not to be ruled by them.

Give us wisdom to discern what is true even when our emotions are loud.
Teach us how to bring our feelings honestly before You while remaining anchored in Your Word.
Strengthen us to obey even when obedience feels uncomfortable.
Renew our minds so that we are transformed into the likeness of Christ rather than conformed to the patterns of this world.

Help us to become people who are led by Your Spirit, not by every shifting emotion.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

I’ve noticed that as God has called me into a season of sabbatical - of stepping back from what I thought was purpose - I am avoiding doing the uncomfortable task of sitting with him in silence. And letting the silence speak.

And so I distract myself. Because heaven forbid I feel uncomfortable, right?

As I see this in me, I am noticing it all around me too.

It’s not something loud or obvious.
It’s subtle. Quiet. Almost socially acceptable.

Here it is: I think North American Christianity has made comfort an idol.

Not intentionally.
Not consciously.

But functionally.

Because we say we want to be like Jesus until being like Jesus asks something uncomfortable of us.

We Want Formation Without Friction

We talk a lot about spiritual growth.

We attend Bible studies.
We listen to podcasts.
We read books.
We pray for transformation.

But when growth actually costs us something - when it stretches us, inconveniences us, exposes us - we hesitate.

We opt out.

We say things like:

• “I just don’t feel led.”

• “That’s not my season.”

• “I need to protect my peace.”

And sometimes those things are true.

But sometimes they’re just sanctified avoidance.

Because real formation doesn’t happen in comfort.

It happens in surrender.

And surrender will always feel like a loss before it feels like freedom.

Jesus Was Not Comfortable

When we say we want to be like Jesus, what version of Jesus are we actually picturing?

Because the real Jesus…

• Touched lepers when it was socially unacceptable

• Sat with the broken instead of avoiding their pain

• Spoke truth even when it cost Him relationships

• Withdrew to pray when He was exhausted

• Walked all the way to the cross

There was nothing comfortable about His obedience.

And yet, His life was the fullest expression of peace, purpose, and alignment with the Father.

Somewhere along the way, we started equating comfort with peace.

But they are not the same thing.

Peace is rooted in God. Comfort is rooted in circumstance.

And if we’re not careful, we will choose comfort in the name of peace and miss the very formation God is inviting us into.

Where Comfort Shows Up in Subtle Ways

This isn’t just about big, obvious acts of obedience.

Comfort shows up in the small, everyday decisions.

It looks like:

• Avoiding hard conversations because we don’t want tension

• Offering quick Bible verses instead of sitting in someone’s grief

• Staying surface-level in relationships because depth feels vulnerable

• Not stepping into ministry opportunities because we feel unqualified

• Choosing distraction over stillness because silence feels confronting

And sometimes it’s even saying “yes” to everything because the “no” feels unsafe.

The Discomfort We’re Avoiding Is the Formation We Need

Here’s what I keep coming back to:

The very discomfort we avoid is often the place God is trying to form us.

Because discomfort reveals things.

It exposes:

• our need for control

• our fear of rejection

• our attachment to ease

• our resistance to dependence on God

I think that’s why it’s been so hard for me personally to sit with silence in God. And yet, I now that until I surrender to the uncomfortable I won’t get the breakthrough in my life that God wants to gift me.

But I don’t want to feel it.
I don’t want to sit in it.
I don’t want to face what it might expose.

So what happens when you feel this way?

We distract.
We stay busy.
We spiritualize just enough to avoid going deeper.

We hold tightly to comfort.
To control.
To the familiar ways we cope.

We don’t want to lay down the very things that are keeping us stuck.

And then we wonder where God is.

We say:
“Why do I feel distant?”
“Why am I not growing?”
“Why does my faith feel stagnant?”

But God hasn’t moved.

We’ve just avoided the place where He’s doing the work.

Because so often, He meets us in the discomfort, not outside of it.

Refining doesn’t happen when everything feels easy.

It happens when we stay.

When we let Him into the hard places.
When we stop numbing and start noticing.
When we surrender. Not just in theory, but in the places that actually cost us something.

Jesus didn’t avoid suffering.

He entered it.

And if we are going to be formed into His likeness, we can’t keep running from the very process that makes us look like Him.

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It comes from trying to live the Christian life - without actually living from Christ.

We read about abiding.
We talk about surrender.
We’re told to seek God’s will.

But if we’re honest, much of it still feels abstract.

What does it actually mean to abide?
What does it look like to be hidden in Christ?
And how does any of this change the way I live on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon?

Abiding Is Not a Feeling

In John 15, Jesus says:

“Abide in me, and I in you.”

He doesn’t say:

• Feel close to me

• Think about me occasionally

• Try harder to follow me

He says: abide.

The word means to remain, to stay, to dwell.

Not visit.
Not perform.
Not strive.

Stay.

And this is where many of us get tripped up.

Because we’ve been discipled - subtly or directly - into believing that closeness with God is measured by:

• how consistent we are

• how disciplined we feel

• how emotionally connected we seem

So when we don’t feel close to God, we assume we’ve drifted.

But abiding was never meant to be measured by your emotions.

It is measured by something far more secure.

Abiding Begins With Union, Not Effort

Before abiding is something you practice, it is something that is already true of you.

Jesus’ invitation in John 15 is not into a distant relationship.

It is an invitation into union.

Scripture makes this clear.

In 1 Corinthians 6:17:

“Whoever is united with the Lord is one with Him in spirit.”

And in Colossians 3:3:

“For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.”

This means that if you are in Christ, you are not trying to get close to Him.

You already are.

Abiding is not about achieving connection.

It is about living from the connection that already exists.

What Does It Mean to Be Hidden in Christ?

To be hidden in Christ is not poetic language.

It is a statement about where your life is now located.

Your life is no longer sourced from:

• your performance

• your ability to get it right

• your emotional stability

• your capacity to hold everything together

Your life is now hidden with Christ in God.

This is the doctrine of union with Christ.

Everything that belongs to Christ now defines your position before God.

His righteousness becomes yours.
His sonship becomes yours.
His access to the Father becomes yours.

Not gradually.

Not conditionally.

Already.

And yet, many of us don’t live like this is true.

Why We Still Strive (Even When We Know the Truth)

You can know you’re hidden in Christ and still live like everything depends on you.

This shows up in subtle ways:

• You overthink every decision, trying to get it right

• You feel pressure to fix your emotions quickly

• You manage how others perceive you

• You try to control outcomes so you can feel safe

This isn’t because you lack faith.

It’s because your mind and body have been trained in self-reliance.

And that doesn’t disappear overnight just because something is spiritually true.

Which is why the New Testament holds two realities at the same time.

The Tension: Union and Communion

You are already:

• united to Christ

• hidden in Him

• secure in Him

And yet, you are also invited to:

• remain

• walk

• live from that reality

This is the difference between union and communion.

Union is fixed.
Communion is practiced.

Union cannot be broken.
Communion can be neglected.

So abiding is not maintaining your union with God.

It is participating in it.

Why Abiding Feels Difficult in Real Life

If this is already true, why does it feel so hard?

Because while your spirit is united to Christ, your:

• nervous system

• thought patterns

• emotional reflexes

have been shaped by years of living as if everything depends on you.

So when you feel:

• anxious

• overwhelmed

• out of control

your body is not responding from theology.

It is responding from learned survival.

Which means abiding will not feel automatic.

It will feel like:

• slowing down when you want to speed up

• trusting when you want to control

• staying when you want to escape

This is not failure.

This is formation.

What Abiding Looks Like in Everyday Life

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She could feel one season of her life coming to an end, and at the same time, she felt like God had placed something new on her heart.

A new direction.
A new idea.
A new assignment.

She felt excited about it.
Clear about it, even.

And her instinct was the one most of us have.

“I think this is what God wants next… so I should start moving toward it right away.”

But as we talked, I had a very different sense.

Not that the new thing wasn’t from God.

It very well could have been.

But I didn’t sense permission yet.

I sensed that before the next season begins, there needed to be a season of restoration.

And that’s one of the hardest places to be spiritually.

When you feel the vision…but God still calls you to be still.

We assume that when God shows us the next step, it means go

We often think that clarity means action.

If God puts something on our heart, we assume the timing must be now.

If a door looks like it’s opening, we assume we should walk through it.

If we feel excitement, passion, or desire, we assume it must be confirmation.

But Scripture shows us over and over again that God does not always reveal things in the same order we expect.

Sometimes He shows the promise first…and then calls us to wait.

Sometimes He gives the vision…and then leads us into a season that looks like nothing is happening.

Not because He changed His mind.

Because He’s preparing us.

Or restoring us.

Or strengthening us for what comes next.

And this is where I was reminded of a law in the Old Testament that we don’t talk about very often.

God commanded the land itself to rest

In Leviticus, God gave Israel instructions about farming.

And the pattern He set wasn’t constant production.

It was rhythm.

“For six years you shall sow your field, and for six years you shall prune your vineyard and gather in its fruits, but in the seventh year there shall be a Sabbath of solemn rest for the land, a Sabbath to the Lord.”
— Leviticus 25:3–4

Six years of planting.
Six years of harvesting.
Six years of productivity.

And then - a full year where the land had to stop.

No planting.
No forcing growth.
No trying to get one more harvest out of it.

The land was required to rest.

Not because it was done being useful.

Because it needed to be restored before it could be fruitful again.

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The kind of sick where your body just shuts down. Fever, aches, sore throat, exhaustion. The kind where even getting out of bed feels like too much effort.

At first, it felt like things were getting worse by the hour.
The fever climbed. My throat hurt more. My whole body ached.

And then something shifted.

The fever started to come down, but suddenly my nose wouldn’t stop running.
My cough picked up.
Everything felt congested, messy, uncomfortable.

It almost felt like I was getting sicker again.

But I’m wasn’t.

This is the part where the body pushes the virus out.

When a virus first enters the body, the immune system reacts with inflammation.
Fever. Aches. Fatigue. Sore throat.

It feels terrible, but that’s actually the body fighting.

Then comes the stage where symptoms change.
The fever drops, but the draining starts.
The nose runs. The cough increases. Mucus builds. Everything feels like it’s coming out all at once.

That stage isn’t the illness getting stronger.

It’s the body clearing what doesn’t belong.

The dripping nose, the coughing, the congestion - those are signs that the immune system is doing its job so the body can return to health.

And laying in bed this week, feeling miserable and clogged and exhausted, I had the thought:

This is exactly what the work of the Holy Spirit often feels like.

We Expect Healing to Feel Peaceful

We like to imagine that when God starts healing us, it should feel calm.

Clean.
Comforting.
Steady.

Sometimes it is.

But sometimes healing feels more like inflammation.

Things surface.
Emotions rise.
Old wounds ache again.
Patterns you thought were gone suddenly show up.

You find yourself reacting in ways you thought you were past.

You feel more sensitive, not less.
More aware, not less.
More uncomfortable, not less.

And it’s easy to think:

Something is wrong with me.
I thought I was doing better.
Why does it feel like I’m going backwards?

But what if you’re not getting worse?

What if your soul is doing exactly what the body does when it’s fighting off a virus?

What if the discomfort is part of the healing?

The First Stage: Inflammation

There’s a stage in spiritual growth that feels a lot like fever.

God starts exposing things.

Attitudes you didn’t notice before.
Motives you didn’t question before.
Wounds you learned to live around.
Patterns that used to feel normal.

And when the Holy Spirit shines light on those places, it doesn’t always feel gentle.

Sometimes it feels hot.

Conviction can feel like inflammation.

Not because God is punishing you.

Because He’s fighting for you.

Because your soul is reacting to something that doesn’t belong there.

Not to harm.
Not to shame.
Not to reject.

To heal.

The Second Stage: The Messy Part Nobody Talks About

But then there’s another stage.

And this is the one we often misunderstand the most.

It’s the messy stage.

It’s when things start coming out.

You cry more.
You feel more.
You notice triggers you didn’t know you had.
You remember things you thought were over.
You feel grief, anger, fear, insecurity, doubt - sometimes all at once.

It doesn’t feel like healing.

It feels like everything is falling apart.

But this is the stage where the body is clearing the infection.

Not getting sicker.

Getting clean.

When the immune system pushes a virus out, it’s not neat.

It’s mucus.
Coughing.
Drainage.
Congestion.
Fatigue.

The body looks worse before it gets better.

And spiritually, it’s often the same.

When the Holy Spirit starts cleansing places we’ve protected, buried, or ignored, it can feel like everything is coming to the surface at once.

Not because God is making you worse.

Because He’s removing what was already there.

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Because that’s what had been implied.

“Maybe you need to pray more.”
“Maybe there’s unconfessed sin.”
“If you had stronger faith, you wouldn’t struggle like this.”
“Medication is limiting God.”

For a long time, parts of the Church treated mental illness as a spiritual causation issue.

Depression? Lack of gratitude.
Anxiety? Lack of trust.
Bipolar? Spiritual instability.
Borderline Personality Disorder? Emotional immaturity or rebellion.

The message was subtle but clear:
If your spirit was stronger, your mind would be fine.

And when you live with bipolar and BPD, that message doesn’t just sting.
It destabilizes. It adds spiritual burden to a person already hurting.

Because when your brain chemistry shifts, when your nervous system floods, when your mood cycles - and you’re told it’s your faith - shame multiplies the suffering.

But here’s the thing.

In our attempt to correct bad theology, many of us have swung the pendulum too far the other way.

We moved from:
“Your mental illness is caused by weak spirituality.”

To:
“Your spirituality has nothing to do with your mental health.”

And neither is true.

The Harm of Spiritualizing Mental Illness

Let’s be clear:

Mental illness is not something caused by a direct personal sin.
It is not the result of weak faith.
It is not proof of spiritual failure.

And it certainly isn’t God’s judgement against you.

Bipolar disorder is a complex neurological condition involving brain chemistry, genetics, and environmental factors.

BPD involves trauma, attachment wounds, and nervous system dysregulation.

Anxiety disorders are linked to brain circuitry and stress response patterns.

These are real conditions that impact our brains.

God made our brains.
Brains can fail to work as God originally designed.

Just like pancreases can malfunction.
Just like thyroids can misfire.

Medication is not limiting God.
It can be one of the ways He sustains us.

Therapy is not unspiritual.
It can be stewardship.

And yet…

The Overcorrection No One Talks About

In our rightful rejection of harmful doctrine, many Christians with mental illness have quietly disengaged from spiritual formation altogether.

We say:
“It’s just biology.”
“It’s just trauma.”
“It’s just nervous system.”
“It’s just psychology.”

But if we ignore the spirit entirely, we don’t escape bad theology. We just create a different kind of imbalance.

And this is where the conversation gets uncomfortable.

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I know it would be hard to step back back from producing, launching, recording, planning - but I didn’t realize how important it would be.

Leading up to this sabbatical was burnout - and a question God gently asked me:

“Who are you if you’re not being useful?”

Not who are you if you’re not working.
Not who are you if you’re not serving.
Not who are you if you’re not helping.

But if you’re not useful.

And that word landed.

Because usefulness feels holy.

It feels aligned with calling.
It feels aligned with obedience.
It feels aligned with being a Proverbs 31 woman, a faithful steward, a good servant.

But the Spirit gently pressed further:

Is that where your worth is rooted?

When Good Intentions Slowly Drift

Most of us don’t set out to build identity on performance.

We start with the right heart posture.

We want to glorify God.
We want to serve well.
We want to steward our gifts.
We want to be obedient to what He’s called us to.

But something subtle can happen.

The fruit grows.
People are helped.
Emails come in.
Clients are transformed.
The podcast reaches someone.
The program fills.

And without noticing it, our nervous system starts to attach safety to output.

“I matter because I’m helping.”
“I’m valuable because I’m producing.”
“I’m worthy because I’m needed.”

And that shift is so quiet, so gradual, we often don’t see it until its too late.

The Cross Already Settled Your Worth

The gospel does not say:

“You are worthy because you are useful.”

It says:

“But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8

Before you served.
Before you obeyed.
Before you cleaned up your life.
Before you launched the ministry.
Before you became dependable.

While you were powerless.

The cross did not respond to your usefulness.

It responded to God’s love.

That means your worth was settled long before you proved anything.

The Nervous System Loves Usefulness

Here’s where this gets layered.

For many of us - especially women with trauma histories, people-pleasing tendencies, or anxious attachment - usefulness equals safety.

If I am helpful, I won’t be rejected.
If I am productive, I won’t be overlooked.
If I am indispensable, I won’t be abandoned.

Our bodies learn early that contribution earns connection.

So even when our theology says:

“My identity is in Christ.”

Our nervous system whispers:

“Yes… but don’t stop producing.”

And sabbatical interrupts that.

When there are no launches to plan.
No reels to film.
No metrics to track.
No one praising your insight.

You sit in the silence and feel the discomfort of not earning your place.

And God asks:

Are you still secure?

Rooted in Role or Rooted in Christ?

Jesus began His ministry with these words spoken over Him:

“This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased.” Matthew 3:17

And that happened before He performed a single miracle.

Before teaching.
Before healing.
Before crowds.

Beloved.
Pleased with.
Chosen.

Identity preceded ministry.

If Jesus Himself received affirmation before usefulness, what makes us think we need to reverse that order?

When Calling Becomes Identity

Calling is beautiful.

Obedience matters.

Stewardship matters.

But calling is something you do.

Identity is who you are.

When we collapse the two, burnout isn’t far behind.

Because if calling slows…
If fruit decreases…
If a season changes…
If God asks you to step back…

It feels like loss of self.

That’s not a productivity problem.

That’s an identity attachment.

Who Is Carla If She’s Not Useful?

That question has been difficult to sit with.

Without teaching, am I still wise?
Without producing, am I still valuable?
Without being needed, am I still significant?

The honest answer?

There’s a part of me that feels shame and worthlessness when I’m not contributing.

And that tells me something important.

It tells me where some roots have grown.

Not in blatant pride.
Not in rebellion.
But in subtle reliance.

Reliance on role.

The Invitation of Sabbatical

Sabbatical is not punishment.

It’s pruning.

Jesus says in John 15 that the Father prunes branches that already bear fruit so they can bear more.

Pruning doesn’t just remove obvious sinful things. It removes things that can seem good - but stifle growth.

Which means sometimes God removes output not because you failed - but because He loves you too much to let your identity wrap around it.

Sabbatical is asking me to sit in belovedness without productivity.

To let my nervous system learn that I am safe even when I am still.

To let the cross be enough.

Questions for You

Maybe you’re not taking a sabbatical.

But maybe you feel uneasy when you’re not needed.

Consider gently asking:

• Do I feel more secure when I’m producing?

• Do I equate rest with laziness?

• When someone doesn’t need me, do I feel invisible?

• If God asked me to lay down my role for a season, would I feel free or threatened?

There is no shame in your answers.

Only information.

Re-rooting in What Is True

Colossians 3:3 says: “For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.”

Hidden.

Secure.

Covered.

You are not held together by your usefulness.

You are held together by Christ.

And that identity is not fragile.

It does not fluctuate with metrics.
It does not depend on fruit.
It does not shrink when you slow down.

It was secured at the cross.

A Prayer

Father,

Where I have quietly attached my worth to usefulness, gently untangle it.

Where my nervous system confuses productivity with safety, retrain it in Your love.

Thank You that my identity was settled before I ever served You.

Teach me to sit in belovedness.

Teach me to rest without fear.

Teach me to know who I am apart from what I do.

Amen.

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:21)

I’ve read that verse dozens of times. But this time, something shifted.

What struck me wasn’t just what Jesus said - but the order of it.

He doesn’t say, “Where your heart is, your treasure will follow.”
He says the opposite.

The heart follows the treasure.

And that reframes so much of what we often label as “mental health struggles.”

The Heart Is Not the Problem.It’s the Follower

We spend a lot of time trying to manage the heart.

Why am I so anxious?
Why do I care so much what people think?
Why do I feel crushed by criticism or elated by praise?
Why do I keep overworking, overgiving, overfunctioning?

We often assume the heart is unruly, disordered, broken.

But Jesus suggests something else:
The heart is loyal.
The heart is responsive.
The heart is following what it has learned to treasure.

So the more honest question might not be, “What’s wrong with my heart?”
But rather, “What have I been treasuring?”

Naming the Treasures We Don’t Always Admit

When I sit with this verse - personally and in my work as a coach - I start to see how subtle and socially acceptable some of our “treasures” are.

• Is the treasure approval?

• Is it being seen as competent, wise, or spiritually mature?

• Is it validation - being told we’re doing a good job, being chosen, being needed?

• Is it status, even in Christian spaces?

• Is it control, disguised as responsibility?

• Is it safety, defined by predictability and outcomes?

None of these are inherently evil. That’s what makes them tricky.

But when these become our treasure, the heart will faithfully chase them - no matter the cost.

And often, the cost shows up as:

• People-pleasing

• Perfectionism

• Chronic anxiety

• Burnout

• Fear of disappointing others

• Feeling “not enough,” even when we’re doing everything right

We treat these as personal failures or psychological flaws.

But what if they are signals?

In the rest of this reflection, I want to explore how Jesus’ words invite us into a different kind of healing - one that doesn’t start with fixing our emotions, but with reorienting our treasure. We’ll look at how this connects to people-pleasing, perfectionism, and anxiety, and what it might look like to slowly shift our hearts toward kingdom treasure instead.

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The not knowing.
The waiting.
The suspended moment where the ground beneath your feet feels less solid than it did yesterday.

Right now, I know a date.
February 26.

That’s the day my husband, Terry, will officially lose his job.

What I don’t know is how long the space after that date will last.
I don’t know when the next opportunity will come.
I don’t know what provision will look like on the other side.

And if I’m honest, that unknown is where worry likes to make itself at home.

It would be easy - very easy - to run mental simulations of worst-case scenarios. To brace myself for lack. To tighten my grip on everything I can control in an attempt to quiet the anxiety about what I can’t.

But here is what I keep coming back to, again and again:

God has never failed to provide for us.
Not once.
Even when His provision didn’t look the way I expected.

And still… trusting Him here isn’t always simple.

Because peace in the unknown isn’t just a spiritual issue.
It’s also a nervous-system one.

When Trust Feels Unsafe

For some of us, “just trust God” lands softly.
For others, it lands like a threat.

If you’ve lived through instability - financial, emotional, relational - then letting go of control can feel anything but holy. It can feel dangerous.

Trauma teaches the body a lesson long before the mind catches up:
When things are uncertain, you are not safe.

So when Scripture invites us to surrender, to wait, to trust, our bodies may respond with tension, vigilance, or fear - not because we lack faith, but because we’ve learned what it costs when provision disappears.

This is important to name.

Because peace is not the absence of concern - it is the presence of safety.

And sometimes, trusting God requires us to move slowly, compassionately, and honestly with ourselves.

God’s Provision Is Real, But Not Always Predictable

One of the hardest truths I’ve had to accept is this:

God is consistent in His character, but not always predictable in His methods.

I wish provision always looked like clarity.
Like certainty.
Like a neatly timed answer that arrived before anxiety had a chance to take root.

But often, provision looks like:

• Enough for today, not answers for tomorrow

• Strength that meets you mid-collapse

• A door opening just as another closes

Scripture tells us that God is Jehovah Jireh - the Lord who provides. But it does not promise that He will provide according to our preferences, our timelines, or our sense of control.

What it does promise is His nearness.

And I’m learning that peace is less about knowing what will happen and more about trusting who is with me while it unfolds.

If you’ve ever felt caught between trusting God and feeling unsafe letting go of control, the rest of this reflection is for you.

Below, I share how trauma complicates trust, practical ways to find peace in the unknown, reflection questions, and a prayer to anchor you when fear rises.

This portion is reserved for paid subscribers - women who want to go deeper in the wrestling and walk this journey together.

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If 2025 was hard for you, God is not disappointed in you.

Not because you didn’t accomplish enough.
Not because you didn’t grow fast enough.
Not because you’re still carrying wounds you thought would be healed by now.

God does not look back over your year with a checklist and a sigh.
He looks at you with compassion.

When the Year Didn’t Go the Way You Hoped

For some, 2025 was a year of loss.
For others, it was a year of survival.
For many, it was a year of trying - and feeling like it still wasn’t enough.

Maybe you entered the year with intentions that fell apart.
Maybe you thought you’d be further along by now.
Maybe you spent more time holding things together than building anything new.

And in quieter moments, you’ve wondered:
Did I miss something? Did I fail God somehow?

Let me be clear: you did not fail Him.

Scripture tells us God remembers that we are dust (Psalm 103:14).
He is not surprised by your limitations, your exhaustion, or your humanity.

What feels like “falling short” to you often looks like faithfulness to Him - especially when getting out of bed, staying kind, and continuing to trust Him required everything you had.

God Is Not Disappointed in Your Survival

Some of you didn’t thrive this year. You survived.
And that matters.

You kept showing up.
You kept praying even when the words felt thin.
You kept choosing love in the middle of pain.
You kept trusting God when life didn’t make sense.

That is not spiritual failure.
That is perseverance.

God is not disappointed that you didn’t hustle your way into transformation.
He is near to the weary, the burdened, and the worn down.

And if all you did this year was hold on, He honours that.

Releasing the Pressure to “Make Next Year Better”

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Everyone else seems joyful. Festive. Baking cookies. Hosting gatherings. Posting cozy photos with twinkling lights and matching pajamas.

And you?

You feel tired. Heavy. Distracted. Maybe even numb.

You love Jesus. You want to feel grateful. You know what Christmas is “about.”

But if you’re honest, your heart just isn’t there.

And so the guilt creeps in.

What’s wrong with me?
Why can’t I just be more joyful?
Am I failing spiritually if I don’t feel the Christmas spirit?

If this is you, I want you to hear this clearly:

You are not failing. And you are not alone.

The Pressure We Put on Ourselves at Christmas

Somewhere along the way, Christmas became synonymous with emotional performance.

We’ve unintentionally absorbed the message that:

• Joy should feel automatic

• Gratitude should come easily

• Peace should be instantly accessible

• And if it’s not… we must be doing something wrong

But that pressure doesn’t come from Scripture.

It comes from comparison, expectations, and a culture that confuses sentimentality with spiritual depth.

The truth is, many women enter the Christmas season already exhausted:

• You’re grieving something or someone

• You’ve been carrying mental and emotional weight all year

• You’re overwhelmed by finances, family dynamics, or health concerns

• You’re burned out and running on fumes

And then December arrives and whispers, “You should feel joyful now.”

That’s not an invitation.
That’s a burden.

The First Christmas Wasn’t Emotionally Polished Either

We often romanticize the Christmas story - but when you slow down and really look at it, it wasn’t tidy, calm, or emotionally easy.

Mary was young, misunderstood, and facing enormous uncertainty.
Joseph was confused, afraid, and wrestling with obedience.
There was no comfortable place to rest.
No peaceful lead-up.
No guarantee of safety.

And yet - God chose that moment to come near.

Not when everything was prepared.
Not when emotions were settled.
But right in the middle of disruption, vulnerability, and surrender.

Which tells us something important:

God does not wait for you to feel festive before He draws close.

You Don’t Have to Feel Joy to Choose Faithfulness

One of the most freeing shifts you can make this season is this:

Stop measuring your spirituality by how you feel.

Feelings are real - but they are not reliable indicators of faith, obedience, or love for God.

You can:

• Love Jesus and feel tired

• Trust God and still feel anxious

• Be deeply faithful and emotionally flat

Joy in Scripture is not a manufactured emotion.
It’s a fruit - something grown over time, often in quiet, unseen ways.

Sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is simply stay present, not cheerful.

5 Gentle Ways to Recenter on the True Meaning of Christmas

(Without Forcing Yourself to Feel Something You Don’t)

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The ones we apologize for.
The ones we don’t have language for.
The ones we swallow because “other people have it worse.”
The ones we pray away because we assume “good Christian women shouldn’t feel this.”

But here’s something I’ve learned through my own healing and through walking with so many of you:

The emotion you’re most ashamed of is usually the place Jesus is most eager to meet you.

Not after you’ve cleaned it up.
Not after you’ve tucked it neatly away.
Not once you’ve prayed enough, journaled enough, smiled enough, or held it together for long enough.

Right there.
In the raw, unedited, honest version of you.

Let’s talk about that today.

Because healing doesn’t begin when you become stronger. It begins when you feel safe enough to be seen.

When Emotion Feels Like Failure

I hear this almost weekly:

“I shouldn’t be reacting like this.”
“I should be stronger by now.”
“I’m so emotional… something must be wrong with me.”
“If I had more faith, I wouldn’t feel this overwhelmed.”
“I hate that I cry so easily.”

Can I tell you something gently?

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“If I were stronger in my faith, I wouldn’t feel this overwhelmed.”

We assume our emotional world is a reflection of our spiritual maturity.
We assume that tears = weakness.
That spiraling = failure.
That shutdown = immaturity.
That big emotion…

Read more

Where you’re doing all the “right things”- praying, reading Scripture, showing up for your family, trying to keep it together - and yet something inside still feels shaky.

In the last few weeks, life has felt like a storm for my family.

Caleb’s emergency surgery.
New breast lumps and ongoing tests.
Terry losing his job.
A flooded basement.

Layer upon layer of stress landing on an already tender heart.

I haven’t felt “strong.”
I haven’t felt “on top of it.”
I haven’t felt like the composed Christian woman it sometimes seems like we’re supposed to be.

And yet… I’ve felt held.

I’ve cried. I’ve prayed.
I’ve woken up exhausted and gone to bed overwhelmed.
But the entire time, I’ve sensed God anchoring me - not by removing the chaos, but by meeting me inside it.

And it’s had me thinking of the women I walk with:

Women who are so faithful.
Women who long for healing.
Women who love God deeply but feel emotionally fragile.
Women who keep asking, “Why am I like this?”

Your Emotional Spirals Are Not Evidence of Weak Faith

We’ve been told - sometimes directly, often indirectly - that emotional intensity means immaturity.

That crying easily is a lack of strength.
That shutting down means you’re not trusting God.
That spiraling is a character flaw.

But friend, hear me clearly:

Your emotional patterns didn’t appear out of nowhere.
They were shaped by your story.

Your childhood relationships taught your nervous system what safety felt like.
Your wounds created protective responses.
Your inner child learned to survive by adapting - whether through perfectionism, people-pleasing, withdrawing, or reacting quickly.

These patterns were not chosen.
They were learned in the dark, long before you knew how to name them.

And God - your ever-present, ever-tender Father - does not shame you for them.

He invites you into healing.

God Heals From the Inside Out

One of the things I love most about Jesus is that He never rushed people into pretending they were okay.

He invited them into honesty.
Into naming their pain.
Into bringing their whole, messy, emotional selves to Him.

Healing isn’t about “pulling yourself together.”
It’s about letting God strengthen the parts of you that never had the chance to grow in safety.

It’s about:

• Understanding your attachment wounds

• Meeting your inner child with compassion

• Learning how your body keeps the score

• Untangling trauma-rooted beliefs

• Rebuilding identity around truth instead of fear

• Practicing emotional resilience with the Holy Spirit

This is the slow, holy work Jesus does in us.

And it’s the work I get to walk women through inside Rooted & Resilient, my 12-week group coaching program opening in January.
(Waitlist in the PS.)

God Is Not Threatened by Your Feelings

If your emotions feel bigger than your faith right now, you are not broken.
You are not failing.
You are not behind.

You’re human.
You’re loved.
And you’re invited to heal.

As I navigate my own difficult season, I’m reminded again and again:
God doesn’t wait for us to steady ourselves before He holds us.
He holds us so we can become steady.

Reflection Question

Where have you been judging yourself for your emotional reactions, and what happens when you choose compassion instead of shame?

Prayer

Jesus, You see every overwhelmed place in me - every tear, every spiral, every quiet fear. Thank You for meeting me with compassion instead of criticism. Help me understand my patterns, not resent them. Teach me to see myself the way You see me - beloved, safe, and capable of healing. Strengthen the parts of me that feel fragile, and anchor me in Your presence as I continue this healing journey. Amen.

PS:

If this resonates, I’d love to walk with you in a deeper way.
My 12-week program Rooted & Resilient opens for enrollment in January, and the waitlist is officially open.
You’ll be first to know + receive special bonuses when doors open.

Join the waitlist here: https://carla-arges.myflodesk.com/v6slser7rb

Caleb got his nose broken and needed emergency surgery.
I found a lump in my breast - and early imaging showed abnormalities.
My husband was told he’s losing his job.
Then Caleb got injured again and is now on crutches as we wait to see a knee surgeon.
And to top it off, we woke up to a flooded basement because of a sewer backup.

It’s been relentless.
It’s been excessive.
It’s been obvious.

This isn’t random.
This isn’t coincidence.
This is resistance.

But here’s the truth - and I say it boldly:

I am not panicked.
I am not shaken.
I am not afraid.
I trust God fully.

Because when the enemy comes in like a flood, I remember something he hopes I’ll forget:

I already know how this ends.
I am victorious in Christ.
And no attack can overturn what God has ordained.

Recognizing the Attack Without Bowing to It

I’m not the kind of Christian who blames the devil for every inconvenience.
But there are moments where the pattern is too strategic, too stacked, too targeted to ignore.

Scripture tells us:

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.”
—John 10:10

And that’s exactly what these last few weeks have felt like. A coordinated attempt to steal my peace, kill my momentum (especially as I launch cohort 2 of Rooted & Resilient), and destroy the ground my family is taking back.

But here’s what the enemy always underestimates:

He mistakes pressure for weakness.
But pressure is where God produces power.

Every single attack has only firmed my stance.

Every disruption has deepened my faith.

Every wave has reminded me who my Anchor is.

I don’t crumble under pressure. I crystallize.

This Is War, and I’m Not Naive About It

We are children of God, but we are also soldiers.
We are loved, but we are also equipped.
We are cherished, but we are also dangerous to darkness.

And I know this attack is happening for one reason:

The enemy is threatened.

He sees the ground I’m taking in my calling.
He sees the healing happening in my family line.
He sees the women being discipled.
He sees the Kingdom advancing.
He sees purpose rising.

So he’s scrambling.
Throwing everything at once.
But all he’s done is expose his desperation.

And here’s the thing:

Pressure doesn’t push me down - it pushes me deeper into Christ.

God’s Faithfulness Has Been My Steady Strength

Not once in these weeks have I felt alone.
Not once have I doubted God’s presence.
Not once have I questioned His goodness.

That’s the beautiful thing about walking closely with Christ. Storms don’t scare you anymore.

There has been no panic in my spirit.
No wavering.
No spiraling.

Because I know my God.
And I know His voice.
And I know His track record.

He has never failed me.
He is not starting now.

I have peace - not because life is calm, but because He is unshakable.
I have clarity - not because circumstances make sense, but because His Word does.
I have confidence - not because the battle is easy, but because the victory is mine.

The Enemy Overplayed His Hand

All of this chaos?
It’s confirmation.

Confirmation that I’m on the right path.
Confirmation that the enemy is terrified.
Confirmation that the Kingdom ground I am taking matters.

He overplayed.
And now the attacks are serving as fuel - reminding me exactly why I must keep going.

What was meant to intimidate me has ignited me.
What was meant to distract me has focused me.
What was meant to shake me has only made me more rooted.

I’m not backing down.
I’m building anyway.
I’m trusting anyway.
I’m praising anyway.

The Outcome Is Already Settled

I don’t know what every test result will show.
I don’t know what job God will bring for Terry.
I don’t know how every situation will unfold.

But I know this:

The outcome is victory because Christ is victorious.

Whatever God allows, He will redeem.
Whatever God ordains, He will finish.
Whatever God starts, He will complete.

And whatever the enemy tries, God will overturn for my good and His glory.

Reflection Question

Where is the enemy trying to intimidate you - and what would it look like to stand in your God-given authority instead of fear?

Prayer

Lord, thank You that no weapon formed against me will prosper. Strengthen my spirit, steady my mind, and anchor my heart in the victory You’ve already won. Make me bold in the face of attack and confident in Your power. I trust You. I stand with You. I walk in victory with You. Amen.