I have had, for about as long as I can remember, a chip on my shoulder. I needed to get the job done perfectly right the first time, and manage to get it done faster than anyone else. I hustled to everything, with everything and for just about everything, and was consistently about 10 minutes behind. I overfilled my schedule to the point of breakdown (or three), and scheduled, down to the minute, what had to be done during my day. I prided myself in the fact that I earned, worked and strived for everything I had. I didn’t see that while tenacity and grit are things to be praised, pride in my refusal to need anything or anyone was not.
I needed to keep the peace in my family and be consistently in the “black” in the grace bank that exists within our family dynamic. I needed to be the best in my classes, and earning A’s in everything so that no one could say I should have done better. I needed to be involved in every ministry I touched, and integrally so, so that I was showing God how much I loved him. I needed to be holy, and consistently improving so that no one could accuse me of abusing grace. I needed to be the friend who would bend completely over backwards to help anyone, so that my place within the friend group was secure. I needed to atone for the teenage mistakes I had made in dating by doggedly avoiding any and all romantic relationships that weren’t with the one, which meant that every single guy I met was immediately examined to see if he could be Him.
I had a running list of things I needed to do and to be to ensure that I was worthy and welcome. And not surprisingly, things got added to that list faster than I could check them off, so it grew and grew and grew. On all sides, there was this pressure to perform. To always be on. To live up to my perceived expectations from the world and the people in it whose opinions I valued. It seemed like I could get one area of my life on track for my constant barrage of to-do lists, and then I’d turn around to discover that I had fallen further and further behind in everything else.
Failure was a four letter word, and it felt like I spent most of my time narrowly avoiding it being branded across my legacy. Still bigger than a size 10? Failure. Still not employed in a career? Failure. Still not able to love people completely like Jesus loves them? Failure. Still not holy and an ideal Christian? Failure. Still not done with school? Failure. Still uncertain about so many things that seem to be do or die in the faith? Failure. Still not married? Failure. Still not financially secure? Failure. Still not a home owner, buying a new car, paying off student loans, having my 10 year plan figured out, having children, having enough money to confidently buy groceries every month? Failure, failure, failure.
If God helps those who help themselves, then it was no wonder that I was failing at so much and feeling set adrift, because I wasn’t managing much of anything that looked like progress. Even when I was, it was overshadowed by the fact that no matter how far I came, I couldn’t seem to ever feel like I’d arrived.
I remember sitting on my therapist’s couch about 8 months ago, and unloading the stress I couldn’t seem to shake and the worry, fear and anxiety that all I was destined to do was fail and miss the mark. She asked me when I was going just let go, and let life happen. I’m sure I gave her a face that plainly said, “Does not compute” because that made no sense to me. If I wasn’t planning my next move, how on earth could I measure my progress? How on earth could I make sure I wasn’t falling behind? How on earth could I plan to pick myself up from my next plan that didn’t quite work? Everything would fall down around me if I stopped all the panic and stress and worry, I was sure of it. It wasn’t like I was one of those people who didn’t feel like they had anything to prove. I had goals. I had drive. We were two fundamentally different groups of people, those of us who have to earn anything and everything, even if it’s done the hard way, and the people who just feel entitled to be there, even without an explicit invitation.
Except that we aren’t. And though there are people, I’m sure, who feel entitled, what I was seeing as entitlement was actually a confidence in the fact that they had nothing to prove. They didn’t need to hustle to fix, improve and change themselves to be welcome, because at the core of who they are, they know that they’re already enough. It was the one thing I couldn’t ever possibly check off a to-do list, because it comes from the place where the fears are stilled and the striving has ceased.
My process of letting go was ugly. I fought it kicking and screaming, and burned myself out to the point that even my body was showing it. I felt powerless in a way that I’d never experienced before, and wore failure and uncertainty like my own scarlet letter. I came to the end of what I could fix, plan and reframe. I yelled, I wept, I raged. I doubted God (understatement of the decade), I pulled away from every ministry I was a part of, I gave up on things God has called me to stand faithfully in, I quit my job, I fell off of the face of the planet, and attempted to sleep my way to a better season.
And still God persisted.
Persisted in calling me to rest, in calling me to peace. In calling me to trust that He speaks truth. In calling me to trust Him with the details and to come along for the ride. In calling me to let go of needing to control and hustle. In calling me to stop trying to earn things that had always been mine. In calling me to realize that I’d never been anything less than enough.
And though there are significantly less details on this side of things, there is so much more peace. So much more rest. So much more contented security in the knowing that I’ve got nothing to prove, because I’ve never needed to do anything more than follow where the Lord is leading. If He wants big, scary, impressive things for me, He’ll make the doors open when they need to, and all of my planing and frenzied attempts at control won’t help that process along any faster.
And while I may have moments where I forget, I’ll never lose my seat at the table. I’ll never manage to make myself more worthy, or more enough. There’s no shortage of room here, no rationing or reserving of seats for those who are working hard enough to earn a place. I am, and have always been, welcome.
Would you like to sit down?