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I prepared a healthy lunch… but left it in the refrigerator.

I made sure my kids had everything they needed for school… but forgot to send in a note about a transportation change.

I started the laundry before work… but got distracted and left the wet clothes in the washing machine all day.

Every single day, it seems, I mess something up. Sometimes it’s small, like a load of laundry that can be rewashed, but sometimes it’s major, like unkind words that damage a relationship.

I get that I’m a human who’s imperfect, and I recognize that I will always make mistakes, but it’s so tempting when my mistakes confront me to see myself as a person who just always falls short.

Always messes things up.

Is always a mess.

I’ve learned that I’m a person who highly values competence, both in others and myself. I want to excel in all the things I do, and I want to be seen as someone who manages all that’s hers to manage. For better or for worse, one of my greatest insecurities is people thinking I can’t handle it. And “it” can be any number of things — my work, my children, my housekeeping, my laundry, my meal prep… “It” is really “everything.”

Another difficulty is that I’m also a realist. I can recognize the facts in a situation, and I don’t live in a dream world or a land of idealism. If I screw up, I know it. If I should have made a different choice, I recognize it.

A realist who’s afraid of incompetence can be a recipe for a disaster.

Most of us feel like we’re always behind, don’t we? We see the list of to do’s always growing longer, and as we scratch and claw our way up the list but only fall further behind, we feel like we’re falling short.

But here’s the question we have to ask: what am I falling short of? Because if it’s only falling short of marking things off the to do list, that’s ok. Things that need to be done don’t all have to be done today, and they don’t all have to be done by me.

If I’m falling short of chores, that’s forgivable. If I’m falling short of arbitrary deadlines I impose on myself, that’s ok. Most of what we feel we’re falling short of doesn’t really matter in the long run.

Here’s what matters that we can’t fall short on: investing in relationships with people. Serving those who need us. Showing love. Practicing forgiveness. Extending grace.

Laundry can wait. Forgotten meals can be replaced. Notes can be run back up to the school.

But people matter. So often in the temptation to feel I’m falling short, it’s with tasks. Accomplishments. Chores. Activities. And each of those can wait. The people in my life can’t.

What are the things racing through your head today that need to be done and have to be faced? List them, sure, but also prioritize them. Choose which of them you can fall short on today, on purpose.

Fall short where it doesn’t matter so you can measure up where it does.

Disclosure: the links in this post are affiliate links, which means if you go through them and make a purchase, I receive a commission. Keep in mind these links are for products I have purchased on my own. The decision to buy for yourself is completely up to you!

I couldn’t find my way out.

Eight years ago, after my marriage fell apart and my labels became “divorced” and “single mom,” my world lost its color. All around me, I saw only black and white. Mostly black. Mostly darkness.

It makes me think of driving in the fog, where my headlights are on and they’re pushing the light as far as they can, but an invisible force reaches out and pushes it back. High beams don’t help — the fog is too real. Too thick. Too present.

Instinctively, I lean forward, scrunching my eyes to improve my vision, and I move my hands to the tippy-top of the steering wheel as I peer over the wheel into the murky scene ahead. I have a faint idea of where the road is, but my heart beats faster with uncertainty and worry as I inch forward.

When you can’t see what’s ahead, it’s natural to be gripped with fear.

In the fog of divorce, fear gripped me, but it wasn’t my only companion. Daily, I battled for identity and worth and against rejection and hopelessness. I heard lies proclaiming my obvious faults and my ruin.

Once, driving home from work, panic held me in a vise, my pulse racing and my body trembling.

I wept.

Bessel Van Der Kolk writes in the prologue to his book The Body Keeps the Score that “trauma produces actual physiological changes, including a recalibration of the brain’s alarm system, an increase in stress hormone activity, and alterations in the system that filters relevant information from irrelevant.”

The trauma I experienced may not have come in a war zone, but it traumatized me nonetheless, and my brain certainly recalibrated to be flooded with stress hormones. Van Der Kok writes, “survivors of trauma often begin to fear that they are damaged to the core and beyond redemption.“

Eight years later, his words make me cry because they describe that time period for me so perfectly.

Damaged.

Beyond redemption.

What’s interesting now, looking back, is that this is the time period I also fell in love again. An amazing man chose me, and he affirmed me daily. He knew my struggles and watched my battles, and he still chose to love. It was his love, in fact, that demanded I get help.

“If our relationship is going to work,” he said, “you have to work. If we’re going to be healthy, you have to be healthy.”

His words stung, but I couldn’t deny their truth. I was as far from healthy as a woman could be. I was going through the motions of life without really living, and I carried weighty baggage I just couldn’t seem to put down.

So, at his urging, I made an appointment with a counselor. And, immediately, I felt great shame.

I was someone who needed help. I couldn’t handle what had happened to me. My emotions were beyond my control.

More than anything, I wanted to be normal, and in my eyes, the need for counseling meant I was anything but. Needing a counselor meant I was broken and needed repair.

Back then, I felt shame over being broken. Today, I feel freedom, and this is why. We humans are all broken. To be human is to break — because terrible things happen, and our hearts get hurt, and we can’t control everything in our paths. Sometimes fog descends, and our own headlights aren’t strong enough to pierce the darkness. Our strong emotions show we love deeply, and why should that bring shame? The only people whose hearts don’t break are the people we should fear — so we shouldn’t fear being the ones who do break. Our brokenness is a sign that we love and feel and pay attention. It means our hearts still work.

As I sat on the couch across from my counselor, I coached myself to breathe in and out. I forced myself to unclench my fists, and I willed myself to be present in that small room.

I wanted to run. I wanted to leave. I wanted to pretend.

Instead, I stayed. I spoke. I cried. I answered questions and leaned in to the pain.

I used every single tissue she had.

Nothing that happened in that little room cured me. Nothing took away my pain. Nothing magical happened. But it was the first step in the long process that extends to today. It was the first step in a gradual healing.

Deep wounds don’t heal overnight. Great hurts don’t suddenly disappear. And the notion of pulling yourself up by the bootstraps is crap.

Every hurt requires a process of healing, and the first step is always an admission of pain. Admitting it to yourself, certainly, but also to someone who is qualified to help. A broken leg needs a healer, and a broken heart does, too.

It has taken me a long time to refuse shame entrance to this story. I needed a counselor to walk me through my pain. So what? She helped me heal. Had I not spent time with her, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

My heart would still be broken. I would still be drowning. And I fear bitterness would be my story instead of joy.

To you, the ones hurting and trying desperately to heal on your own, I offer this advice: allow yourself to be needy. Let yourself feel what you feel, need what you need, and seek what will help. Give yourself permission to take time for healing, and pursue it desperately. Find yourself a qualified counselor. Tell her all your thoughts. Banish shame from the room. Hear what your body is telling you, and refuse to stay as you are.

See your brokenness as a sign that your heart still works, my friend, and give it what it needs to work better.

There’s a point in every conversation where the other person breaks eye contact, glancing away to look at, well, who knows what. Maybe it’s another person, maybe a painting on the wall, or maybe it’s just to see anything other than my face.

You know that feeling, too? The one that says, “Well, they’re done talking to you. You’re boring, you have nothing interesting to say, and they are tired of you.” I know it’s not rational to think that a person’s inability to look into my eyes without glancing away means they’re tired of me. It’s probably not realistic to think that a glance away means they’re ready to dismiss me forever.

But I’m not always rational, and goodness knows I’m not always realistic. My insecurities lie just under the surface of my consciousness, ready to assume control and lead me astray. That’s because my insecurities are from my enemy.

I’ve always had a hard time being comfortable in a group of people. I’ve assumed I don’t fit in, whether there’s evidence to suggest it or not. Even in a one-on-one conversation, I often wonder what the other person would rather be doing. My assumed belief is that, at some point, people always get tired of me.

I’ve realized lately I assume the same of God.

Without one legitimate reason to believe it, I think sometimes God sees me coming and wants to hide like I do when I see people I want to avoid at the grocery store. I think sometimes my prayers enter his ears and he thinks, “Here she goes again.” I think he sees me like we see that chatty neighbor who doesn’t understand social cues and won’t let us get off the phone.

I let myself think he’s bothered by me, and I let myself think he gets tired of me.

This is the trap I fall into when I humanize God and limit him to my experiences with people. I unconsciously impose on him the characteristics I’ve seen in people.

But God is not like people, and I need daily reminders that he’s not.

Jennifer Dukes Lee writes in her incredible book It’s All Under Control, “Oh, the indefatigable ways of Jesus” (6). When I read that line, I stopped, underlined it, wrote it in my journal, and then sat and thought about it. Jesus doesn’t get tired of me. He doesn’t grow weary of my presence, and he doesn’t start looking around for an escape route when I approach. I don’t bother him, and he doesn’t see me as a nuisance. He feels only love and compassion for me.

It’s beyond comprehension. There’s One who never needs a break from me.

I don’t know where you are with God right now, but I’m pretty sure you could use this simple reassurance. You are safe with God. He wants you near. And he will never, ever get tired of you.

Do you ever wish life could be reduced and simplified, just like our teachers taught us to do with fractions? Take the numbers you see and reduce them until they can’t be reduced any more — 50/100 becomes 1/2, the large and complex becoming small and simple.

It doesn’t work that way.

I often find myself wishing for simplicity, wishing that everything in life could be categorized into either/or segments. Either people are good or they’re bad. Either decisions are right or they’re wrong.

But it doesn’t work that way.

Everything is not always black and white.

We live in a world of both/and, not a world of either/or. People can have good motivations but choose wrong actions. Decisions can be right in some people’s eyes and wrong in others’.

Everything doesn’t fall neatly into a category, and everything doesn’t lend itself to being either one thing or another.

I don’t get to simplify everything, even though I wish that were the case.

Walking with God is a both/and journey. We can be both scared and stepping forward into the unknown. We can be both unsure of what will happen and confident in God’s goodness. Both remembering the pain of our past and anticipating the goodness yet to come.

I’ve worried before that my fear nullifies my faith, or that my questions indicate my distrust. But they are allowed to exist simultaneously. Jesus never said to solve all our human hang-ups, then come to faith in Him. He said to follow Him. This is what I’ve learned about following: you don’t always know where you’re going. You can’t always see ahead of the leader. You don’t always think the chosen path is best. But you follow anyway.

Emotions can co-exist with faith and not eliminate it. You can be both human and a follower of Christ.

The enemy will whisper either/or statements to you. Remind him life is both/and.