There is a particular kind of tiredness that sleep cannot fix.
It settles somewhere deeper.
Beneath the muscles.
Beneath the mind.
It quietly makes a home inside the soul.
I've known women who slept eight hours and still woke up exhausted.
Not because their bodies hadn't rested.
Because their hearts never had.
For years, I thought that kind of exhaustion was simply part of being a good woman.
A good wife.
A good mother.
A good employee.
A good Christian.
A good daughter.
A good friend.
Good women, I believed, carried a lot.
They handled things.
They figured it out.
They kept everyone else from falling apart.
And somehow...
they still smiled.
The strange thing about becoming "the strong one" is that eventually people stop asking whether you're okay.
Strength has a way of making suffering invisible.
People begin to admire your endurance.
They compliment your work ethic.
They marvel at how much you accomplish.
And after a while...
you begin believing them.
You begin believing that your value lives inside your productivity.
That if you stop...
even for a moment...
you might stop mattering.
I didn't realize that's what I believed.
Not at first.
Beliefs like that don't usually arrive all at once.
They settle quietly into our lives.
One responsibility at a time.
One expectation at a time.
Until eventually...
our calendars know more about us than our hearts do.
Somewhere Along the Way
I've been thinking a lot about identity lately.
Not the kind we introduce ourselves with.
The deeper kind.
The one we quietly answer when no one is listening.
If someone had asked me years ago who I was...
I probably would have answered with a list.
I work in the emergency department.
I'm a wife.
I'm a mother.
I'm raising four children.
I'm dependable.
I'm busy.
I'm always helping someone.
Notice something?
None of those answers would have told you who I was.
They would have only told you what I did.
Somewhere along the way...
my doing became my identity.
I don't think I noticed it happening.
Most women don't.
Because society applauds women like that.
We celebrate the woman who never sits down.
The one who always says yes.
The one who somehow keeps everything moving.
People call her amazing.
Strong.
Selfless.
Faithful.
But every now and then...
I wonder if we're applauding women while they're quietly disappearing.
The Place Where I Thought I Had Found Myself
The first day I walked into the emergency department felt magical.
I know that sounds strange.
Most people imagine bright lights.
Chaos.
Ambulances.
Heartache.
But when I walked through those doors...
I felt something I had never felt before.
Purpose.
I had found my calling.
The emergency room became home.
Eventually, the night shift became familiar.
Seven in the evening until seven the next morning.
People often tell me,
"I don't know how you did that."
The truth is...
the emergency room wasn't what exhausted me.
The work made sense.
People came in hurting.
We cared for them.
We stabilized them.
Sometimes we laughed.
Sometimes we cried.
Sometimes we celebrated miracles.
Sometimes we held space for unimaginable grief.
It was meaningful work.
The hard part wasn't the hospital.
The hard part was what waited for me when I left.
Every morning I drove home just as the rest of the world was beginning its day.
There wasn't time to crawl into bed.
The children needed to get ready for school.
Thank goodness they were old enough to dress themselves.
I would help where I could.
Load everyone into the car.
Drive them to school.
Come home.
Take a shower.
Sleep for a few precious hours.
Wake up around three.
Pick everyone up.
Run to after-school activities.
Figure out dinner.
Start the laundry.
Prepare for another twelve-hour shift.
Then do it all again.
The job wasn't what made life difficult.
The work waiting at home did.
I was living two full-time lives.
One inside the hospital.
One inside my house.
Somewhere between the two...
I stopped existing.
The Morning My Body Told the Truth
There was one morning I'll never forget.
Nothing terrible had happened.
No argument.
No crisis.
No bad phone call.
I was simply sitting at the breakfast table before leaving for work.
Then...
without warning...
tears began rolling down my face.
Not dramatic tears.
Quiet ones.
Steady ones.
The kind that don't ask permission.
I wasn't thinking about anything in particular.
I wasn't praying.
I wasn't talking.
I was simply sitting there.
And my body began crying.
I wasn't crying.
My body was.
Looking back now...
I don't think my body was asking for a vacation.
I think it was asking to be noticed.
It wanted sleep.
It wanted stillness.
It wanted permission to stop carrying everything.
But I didn't know how.
Because by then...
my identity had become my productivity.
If I wasn't accomplishing something...
I didn't know who I was anymore.
The Woman in the Driveway
There were mornings when I would pull into my driveway...
turn off the car...
and simply sit.
Sometimes for five minutes.
Sometimes longer.
Trying to gather enough strength to walk inside and begin another shift.
No one knew.
No one saw.
People saw the woman who worked overtime.
The mother who always showed up.
The dependable one.
The strong one.
They praised my work ethic.
They admired my endurance.
But I've learned something since those days.
People often compliment the very thing that's quietly killing you.
I believed I was succeeding.
In reality...
I was disappearing.
And the saddest part is...
I didn't even know it.
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The Room Where I Realized Something Was Wrong
There was a season when I started picking up extra shifts in the emergency department.
Not because I loved working more.
Because I needed the money.
Eventually, I had my own room at the hospital.
It wasn't fancy.
Just a quiet place where I could close my eyes for two or three hours before beginning another shift.
I think about that now, and it almost feels unreal.
I had a place to sleep...
at work.
Not because I was traveling.
Not because I was on call.
Because life had become one continuous shift.
Looking back, I don't think I realized how abnormal that was.
When you're surviving, survival begins to feel normal.
You stop questioning things.
You stop asking if this is how life was meant to be.
You simply keep moving.
Isn't that what so many women do?
We normalize the very things that are breaking us.
We laugh about functioning on four hours of sleep.
We joke about forgetting to eat lunch.
We wear exhaustion like it's a medal someone might pin to our chest.
And the world applauds us for it.
The harder we work...
the more valuable we feel.
Until one day...
we don't know who we are without the work.
When Your Name Becomes a Checklist
One day I asked myself a question that stopped me in my tracks.
"If I couldn't work tomorrow...
who would I be?"
At first, I answered the way I always had.
"I'm a nurse."
"I'm a mother."
"I'm a wife."
"I'm dependable."
"I'm responsible."
Then I realized something.
Every answer I gave described what I did.
Not who I was.
I had become so accustomed to introducing myself through my responsibilities that I no longer knew the woman beneath them.
That's a frightening place to be.
Because life has a way of changing our roles.
Children grow up.
Careers end.
Parents pass away.
Bodies grow older.
If our identity is built upon titles...
what happens when the titles change?
God never intended for our identity to be that fragile.
Long before I ever worked in an emergency department...
before I became someone's wife...
before I held my first baby...
before I carried everyone else's expectations...
I belonged to Him.
Not because of what I could accomplish.
Simply because I was His daughter.
Martha Wasn't Wrong
For years, I misunderstood the story of Mary and Martha.
I thought Jesus was criticizing Martha for serving.
But that isn't what happened.
Martha wasn't wrong because she was working.
She was distracted because she believed everything depended on her.
Jesus gently said,
"Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one." (Luke 10:41–42)
I wonder how many of us have become modern-day Marthas.
We love deeply.
We serve faithfully.
We carry so much.
But somewhere along the way...
we forget to sit.
We forget that before God asks us to do anything...
He simply invites us to be with Him.
I used to believe God wanted more from me.
More volunteering.
More serving.
More meetings.
More ministry.
Until one day...
He whispered something I'll never forget.
"I didn't call you to the church."
"I didn't call you to choir practice."
"I didn't call you to the women's board."
"I called you to Me."
Everything changed after that.
Because I realized I had spent years doing things for God...
without spending enough time simply being with Him.
There is a difference.
One builds a résumé.
The other builds a relationship.
The Woman Sitting in the Driveway
Tea at Today's Table
This week, I'm drinking lavender.
Not because it solves every problem.
Not because one cup of tea can undo years of exhaustion.
But because every time I breathe in its fragrance, it reminds me of something I spent far too many years forgetting.
Rest is holy.
Lavender doesn't rush to bloom.
It doesn't apologize for growing slowly.
It simply becomes what it was created to be.
I've often wondered why we give ourselves so little permission to do the same.
Maybe that's why tea has become such an important part of my own healing.
Not because it's magical.
Because it asks something of me.
It asks me to stop.
To wait while the water warms.
To breathe while the leaves steep.
To be present long enough to notice that God is already here.
Sometimes the greatest miracle isn't that our circumstances change.
Sometimes it's that our souls finally become quiet enough to hear Him.
If you've been longing for a gentle reminder to slow down, we've carefully chosen lavender for several of our Rooted Vines teas and botanical offerings. I hope they become more than something you drink. I hope they become a small invitation to pause, breathe deeply, and remember that your worth has never depended on how much you accomplish.
Return Practice
Before you leave today…
I'd like you to do something that may feel surprisingly difficult.
Set your phone down.
Leave the laundry for ten minutes.
Don't answer another email.
Don't cross another item off your list.
Simply sit.
Wrap both hands around your warm cup of tea.
Take a slow breath in through your nose.
Hold it for four seconds.
Now slowly exhale.
Again.
As you breathe, quietly ask yourself:
If I stopped trying to earn my worth today…
Who would I be?
Don't rush to answer.
Just listen.
Sometimes the first voice we hear is guilt.
Wait a little longer.
Eventually…
you may begin to hear God's voice instead.
And His voice never begins with what you need to do.
It begins with who you already are.
His daughter.
His beloved.
Enough.
🌿From My Journal 🌿
For years I believed my greatest gift was my ability to carry more than anyone else.
Today…
I believe my greatest gift is finally learning when to set things down.
The world taught me to admire the woman who never stopped working.
God has been teaching me to admire the woman who finally learned how to rest.
Those are two very different women.
Only one of them is free.
A Moment at The Table
If I could sit across from every woman reading these words…
I wouldn't ask how much you've accomplished this week.
I wouldn't ask how clean your house is.
Or how many hours you worked.
Or whether everyone else is happy.
I'd simply ask…
How is your soul?
Because one day the calendars will be empty.
The children will grow.
The meetings will end.
The titles will change.
The to-do lists will disappear.
And when they do…
the only thing left will be the woman God has loved from the very beginning.
Friend…
she's still there.
She's waiting beneath the expectations.
Beneath the responsibilities.
Beneath the pressure to prove herself.
You haven't lost her.
You've simply been carrying so much that you haven't had the chance to hear her voice.
Today…
give yourself permission to stop carrying what God never asked you to hold.
Not because you're weak.
Because you're finally learning where your strength truly comes from.
Reflection Questions
Take your time with these.
There are no perfect answers.
Only honest ones.
-
When did I begin believing my worth was connected to what I accomplish?
-
What part of my life feels like constant performance instead of peaceful purpose?
-
What would change if I truly believed God delights in me even when I'm resting?
-
What is one thing I can gently lay down this week?
Continue the Conversation
Some conversations deserve more than a quick answer.
I've created a beautiful printable page from The Table Journal to help you spend a little more time with God and continue reflecting on today's conversation.
Print it.
Place it inside your journal.
Or save it for a quiet morning with a warm cup of tea.
Thank you for pulling up a chair with me today.
🌿 Continue the Journey
If today's conversation encouraged your heart, I'd love to continue walking alongside you.
Whether it's through a warm cup of tea, a quiet Sunday conversation, or a simple moment of reflection, there's always a place for you here.
🍃 Visit the Rooted Vines Shop
Discover handcrafted herbal teas, botanical blends, tea rituals, and mindful gifts created to help you slow down, breathe deeply, and return to yourself.
📖 Join Me Every Sunday at The Table
Every Sunday, we gather for a new heartfelt conversation about faith, healing, identity, and living with intention. Pull up a chair—I'd love to have you there.
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