Every time I see my dermatologist, we end up having the same conversation.
I have a skin condition that affects my face and ears, and when stress increases, it flares. My dermatologist prescribes a cream and tells me to use it “during flares.”
The problem is that my body apparently never got that memo.
I always laugh and tell her, “Every day is a flare.”
I’m not exaggerating.
My life is full. I travel frequently. I lead, write, direct, teach, and pastor. I care deeply about people. And while I love my life, stress has become such a constant companion that my body often reminds me of its presence before my mind does.
Because I travel internationally, I am able to stop into pharmacies overseas to purchase extra tubes of the cream when it is available without a prescription. I like knowing I have a backup supply because, in my experience, another flare is rarely far away.
I’m the girl writing the book about stress
Seriously, if you don’t know I’m currently contracted to write a book entitled, The Stress She Carries: A Trauma-Informed, Bible-Based Guide to Regulation, Boundaries and Peace, releasing in the fall of 2027 with Leafwood Publishers (Abilene Christian University Press.)
Lately I’ve been struck by the irony that I’m currently under contract to write a book about stress. Sometimes I think, “Lord, of all people, why me?”
Then again, maybe that’s exactly why. I don’t write about stress as someone who has conquered it. I write about it as someone who has lived with it, and is still navigating it.
I know what it feels like when your mind is tired but keeps racing anyway.
I know what it feels like when your body carries what your heart has been trying to carry alone.
I know what it feels like to wake up already burdened by the weight of responsibilities waiting for you.
And I know what it feels like when your body begins waving a little white flag and saying, “Enough.”
One of the most important lessons I am learning is that our bodies are often telling us the truth long before we are willing to admit it ourselves. Sometimes the flare isn’t the problem. Sometimes the flare is the messenger. And perhaps the invitation isn’t merely to treat the symptom, but to pay attention to what the symptom is trying to tell us.
My skin reminds me of that almost every day.
So what do you do when your whole life feels like a flare? Not a bad week, or a difficult month, or a temporary season. But a life where the responsibilities are real, the burdens are significant, and the stress never seems to completely disappear. Not to mention things that happen along the way that are grief-inducing losses of life.
Here are a few things I am learning.
Stop waiting for a stress free life before you start taking care of yourself
For years I thought rest would come after the next deadline, the next event, the next crisis, the next season. It turns out there is always another season. If we wait for life to become calm before we care for ourselves, we may wait forever. Years ago I would say things like, “When this event is over and I’m able to get some breathing room…” or “When I have more time in my schedule, I’m going to start going to an exercise class.” I genuinely believed that one day life would settle down and self-care would naturally fit into the margins.
What I know now is that breathing room is rarely handed to us. Time does not magically open up in our schedules. Most of us have to create space for the things that matter.
I’ve realized that if I am going to take care of myself, I cannot wait for ideal conditions. I have to start doing something, even if it isn’t what I originally envisioned.
Would I love to join a Zumba class? Absolutely. I enjoy group fitness and the energy of being around other people, particularly with a dance class of any kind. But I also know myself. Many evenings I have meetings. Other nights I am simply exhausted after a long day of work, ministry, writing, travel, or teaching. The thought of getting back in the car and driving somewhere feels overwhelming. Yet even on those nights, I usually end up sitting in the living room grading papers, answering emails, or watching a few minutes of a show with Larry before bed.
So recently I made a decision. I bought an exercise bike and put it right in front of the couch. (I move it to another room when company comes over.)
There it sits.
When it’s raining and I can’t walk outside, it’s there.
When it’s dark outside, it’s there.
When it’s unbearably hot, it’s there.
When it’s 9:30 at night and I don’t feel like going anywhere, it’s there.
All I have to do is stand up and get on the bike.
That’s it. Just stand up and get on. I tell myself, “It’s right in front of my face, two feet away….I can do this…just stand up!”
Earlier this week I came home from work, sat down on the couch to grade papers, and didn’t even have the energy to go change clothes. The old me would have said, “Well, I guess today isn’t happening.” Instead, once I had graded the papers, I stood up and got on the bike in my work clothes. Afterwards I cleaned up and went to bed. I know myself well enough that I would have talked myself out of it if I had to change clothes.
Was it glamorous? No.
Was it my ideal workout? Also no.
But it was movement. And movement is better than another day of waiting for perfect circumstances.
I think many of us spend years waiting for a version of life that never arrives. We imagine that one day we will finally have enough time, enough energy, enough margin, enough motivation.
But what if the answer is not waiting for life to change?
What if the answer is making it easier to do the things we already know we need to do?
Sometimes caring for yourself is not about finding more willpower. Sometimes it’s about removing barriers.
Put the walking shoes by the door.
Keep the journal on the nightstand.
Schedule the counseling appointment.
Take the lunch break.
Buy the exercise bike and put it right in front of the couch if you have to.
Sometimes you have to take away every excuse when it comes to taking care of yourself.
Not because your health doesn’t matter, but because it does.
Build recovery into your life, not just productivity
Most high-capacity people know how to push. Far fewer know how to recover.
God created day and night, work and Sabbath, activity and stillness. Our bodies were never designed for nonstop output. The question is not simply, “How much can I accomplish?” The better question is, “How am I recovering from what I accomplish?”
Yesterday a friend asked me about work-life balance and how I manage it. I’ll be honest. It’s hard.
Like many women, I carry a lot of responsibilities. Leadership, ministry, writing, travel, teaching, family, relationships. Some days it feels as though I have a dozen plates spinning at once and I’m praying none of them come crashing down.
What I have learned is that balance is probably the wrong goal.
Life isn’t balanced.
Life moves in seasons.
What I aim for instead is recovery.
Years ago, I realized that if Sabbath meant taking the exact same twenty-four hours off every single week, it was probably never going to happen in my life. My schedule is too unpredictable. Speaking engagements, conferences, travel, ministry opportunities, family commitments, and unexpected situations constantly shift things around.
So I stopped trying to force Sabbath into a rigid formula and started building it into my life intentionally.
My Sabbath could be on any given day of the week depending on the schedule.
I have learned that if I don’t build recovery into my life, nobody else will do it for me.
One of my favorite forms of recovery is surprisingly simple. I take a bath almost every day, instead of a shower.
Not because it’s glamorous. It’s just soothing for me.
I’ve decided it’s worth waking up a little earlier to sit quietly, breathe, pray, and begin the day at a slower pace.
I also love sitting on the swing outside. Sometimes it’s only fifteen minutes. No phone. No agenda. Just fresh air, stillness, and a chance to remember that I am a human being and not a machine.
And then there are naps.
I am unapologetically pro-nap.
I keep a small tri-fold mat in my office. (You can find it here.) When I can tell my energy is crashing, I pull it out from under my desk along with a small pillow, close the blinds, turn off the lights, and lie down for twenty minutes. When I get up, I am often a completely different person.
Some people might think that’s lazy. I think it’s wisdom.
Somewhere along the way we began treating exhaustion as a badge of honor and recovery as a weakness. Yet children are given rest because we understand they need it in order to learn, grow, and function well. I’m not entirely convinced adults have outgrown that need.The truth is, many of us don’t need more productivity strategies. We need permission to recover.
The strongest people I know are not the ones who never stop. They are the ones who understand when it’s time to pause, replenish, and begin again.
Pay attention to what your body is trying to say
My skin talks.
My churning stomach talks.
My head talks.
Does yours?
Your body may use a different language.
Perhaps it speaks through insomnia. A racing heart. Tight shoulders. Exhaustion that sleep doesn’t seem to fix. Maybe it’s brain fog, jaw clenching, or that feeling of being constantly on edge. The body often reveals what the soul has been trying to carry silently. Instead of fighting every symptom, sometimes we need to ask what message it is bringing.
For years, I got angry at my body. After a sleepless night, my eye would start twitching. During stressful seasons, my skin would flare. Sometimes I would become frustrated and literally say out loud, “Stop! Stop! Stop doing that!” As if I could command my body into submission. As if my body was somehow the problem. Looking back, I realize my body wasn’t betraying me. It was communicating with me. My body was telling me things I wasn’t yet willing to admit.
You can ignore stress for a while, override exhaustion and tell yourself you’re fine.
You can push through one more deadline, one more responsibility, one more crisis. But eventually the body starts raising its hand.
At first it whispers. Then it speaks more clearly. And if we continue to ignore it, sometimes it starts shouting. The older I get, the more convinced I am that our bodies are not enemies to conquer but gifts to steward.
Think about what your body does for you every single day. Your heart beats without asking permission. Your lungs breathe while you sleep. Your immune system fights battles you never even know are happening. Your brain processes millions of pieces of information. Your body works tirelessly on your behalf every moment of every day.
That is nothing short of remarkable.
Instead of being angry at the amazing body God has given us, perhaps we should become curious.
What if the headache is telling me something?
What if the exhaustion is trying to get my attention?
What if the anxiety is revealing a burden I was never meant to carry alone?
What if the symptom isn’t the enemy?
What if it’s the messenger?
I’m not suggesting that every physical symptom is caused by stress. Bodies get sick. Medical conditions are real. Good healthcare matters. But I am suggesting that many of us have spent years silencing signals that were trying to help us. Sometimes wisdom begins when we stop demanding that our bodies be quiet and start listening to what they have been trying to say all along.
Stop treating resilience like it’s a spiritual gift
Many of us wear endurance as a badge of honor. We are proud of how much we can handle. We take pride in pushing through, carrying on, and doing whatever needs to be done. But surviving impossible amounts of stress is not always evidence of health.
Sometimes resilience becomes a way of avoiding the changes we desperately need.
For years, I proudly described myself as resilient. In fact, I used to joke, “I have a degree in bouncing back.” And it was true. Life would knock me down, and I would get back up. A crisis would come, and I would keep moving. A disappointment would hit, and I would find a way forward. I viewed resilience as one of my greatest strengths.
Now, I’m not so sure.
Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful that God has given me the ability to persevere. Resilience is a gift.
But lately I have found myself thinking something I never used to think:
I’m tired of bouncing back.
I’m tired of needing to.
I don’t want another opportunity to prove how strong I am.
I don’t want another lesson in perseverance.
I don’t need another chance to demonstrate resilience.
I’d just like a break.
Perhaps some of you understand exactly what I mean. At some point, we have to ask ourselves a difficult question: Is resilience helping me thrive, or is it helping me tolerate things that should change? Just because we can handle a lot doesn’t mean we should have to.
Just because we can survive unhealthy levels of stress doesn’t mean those stress levels are healthy.
Just because we can keep carrying the load doesn’t mean the load belongs entirely to us.
One of the dangers of being highly capable is that people begin assuming we can carry more than we should.
Sometimes we make the same assumption ourselves.
We become so accustomed to handling difficult things that we stop questioning whether they are ours to carry in the first place.
Resilience is a wonderful gift. But it was never intended to become permission for chronic overload. God did not create us merely to endure life. He created us to live it.
Perhaps true wisdom is not found only in learning how to bounce back.
Perhaps it is also found in learning when to set something down.
Accept that some things must be carried differently, not eliminated
This may be the hardest lesson of all.
There are burdens in my life that I cannot simply remove, as much as I would like to. There are responsibilities that are not going away tomorrow. There are situations I cannot control, people I cannot fix, and outcomes I cannot guarantee. But while I may not be able to eliminate every stressor, I can learn to carry them differently.
First, I can refuse to carry them alone.
And I do.
Somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that strong leaders suffer in silence. We were told not to let people see us sweat. We were warned that leadership is lonely. In ministry, some of us heard things like, “You can’t have close friends,” or “You can’t talk about struggles while you’re still going through them.” I have come to believe much of that is nonsense. Leadership can be lonely if we isolate ourselves. Ministry can be lonely if we refuse connection. But neither has to be.
I am grateful for the trusted people in my life who know the real story, not just the public one. The people who pray with me, listen to me, encourage me, challenge me, and occasionally tell me to take a nap. I need those people. We all do. God never intended for us to carry life’s heaviest burdens by ourselves.
I can also release what does not belong to me. This has become one of the most important spiritual practices of my life. Not every problem is mine to solve.Not every crisis is mine to manage. Not every person’s emotions are mine to carry.Not ever y outcome depends on me.
For years I lived as though everything was my responsibility.
If I sat in a meeting and someone said, “What about this problem?” my mind immediately started looking for ways to help solve it, even if it had nothing to do with my actual assignment.
Part of that came from genuinely caring. Part of it came from being a high-capacity person who is accustomed to getting things done. And part of it came from a mistaken belief that if I was aware of a need and capable of helping, then somehow it automatically became my responsibility.
I don’t believe that anymore.
These days, I try to ask a different question:
“Is this mine to carry?”
For example, I have sat in meetings with women’s leaders where we are celebrating what God is doing among women across our state. Inevitably, someone will say, “But what about the men? What are we doing for the men?”
Years ago, I would have immediately started thinking about how I could help address that concern. Now I simply remind myself that ministering to men is not my assignment.
That doesn’t mean I don’t care about men.
It doesn’t mean I don’t want them to flourish.
It simply means that God has called other people to carry that responsibility.
One of the most freeing lessons I have learned is that caring about something does not automatically make it my job.
Not every need is a calling.
Not every problem is an assignment.
Not every burden belongs on my shoulders.
Sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is bless the work God has given others and stay faithful to the work He has given us.
These days I am learning to ask a different question: “What belongs to me, and what belongs to God?” That question has brought me more peace than almost anything else.
I can stop borrowing tomorrow’s worries.
I can stop rehearsing conversations that haven’t happened.
I can stop trying to control outcomes that are beyond my control.
And I can remember that God never asked me to be a Savior.
Perhaps that is the real invitation when life feels like one long flare.
Not to wait for all the stress to disappear.
Not to pretend the burdens aren’t real.
Not to become someone who never feels overwhelmed.
But to learn how to live faithfully, honestly, and peacefully in the middle of it.
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