I’m taking a much-needed break from the deliriously mundane task of cleaning my house, somewhere between wiping down counters and mindlessly scrolling through my phone. Lately, these breaks have been happening more often, and I’ve learned that they aren’t a sign of laziness or lack of motivation. They’re a sign of listening.
Since being diagnosed with Graves’ disease last fall, listening to my body has become less of a suggestion and more of a necessity. Some days, I have the energy to tackle all the things: laundry, errands, lesson planning, life. Other days, simply getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other feels like an accomplishment. And I’m learning, slowly but surely, that both kinds of days matter.
Living with an autoimmune disease and chronic pain has a way of humbling you. It forces you to slow down in a world that constantly tells you to hustle harder, do more, be more. I’ve had to learn that rest is not weakness. Rest is obedience. Rest is listening to what my body is whispering before it has to scream. Rest is learning to give myself much needed grace in a world that is always on the go.
There are moments when I grieve the version of myself who could power through anything without a second thought. The girl who never stopped moving, never needed a break, never had to weigh her energy like a precious resource. But there’s also a deeper beauty in this season—a quieter strength. A deeper awareness. A stronger dependence on God.
I’ve learned that it’s okay to pause. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to let the dishes wait and the laundry pile up while I choose healing instead. God didn’t design us to run on empty, and He certainly didn’t intend for us to ignore the bodies He so intricately created.
More importantly, it’s okay to ugly cry and cry out to heaven. Talking to God isn’t about having it all together or saying the “right” churchy words. He wants our raw, messy prayers—the ones spoken through tears and trembling faith—because He already knows what we’re carrying. Give Him the most shattered places of your heart, and watch Him create beauty from the ashes. Even in the middle of chaos and pain, He is quietly orchestrating the most beautiful symphony of our lives.
So today, I’m choosing grace over guilt. I’m choosing rest over rushing. I’m choosing to listen—to my body, to my heart, and to the gentle nudges from God reminding me that I am human, not superhuman.
If you’re in a season where your body or heart is asking you to slow down, I see you. You are not weak. You are not failing. You are learning to care for yourself in a deeper, more compassionate way—and that, my friend, is holy work.
Leave a Reply