Stumble

It’s happened again. 

Busyness, pouring out, showing up, all work and no play — and bam, I’m burnt out. Nothing left to give. Despite my outgoing nature, I need to retreat.

Phase one: do my nails.
Phase two: an expensive trip to Marshalls.
Phase three: excuse myself from some normal engagements.
Phase four: tell my hubby I need a day out in nature with him.

Quite frankly, I’m sick of myself. My workouts have decreased. My career demands that my phone always be by my side, and unfortunately, I’ve turned to social media far too much. Now that I work from home, I’m beginning to feel in a slump in my own space. My haven is muddied by my workday.

All of these things combined have me looking at what needs to change. I need to lose weight. I need a new house with a legitimate separate office. I need more business prospects. My hair is thinning, and time is slipping. Gratitude fades, and desire screams.

To make matters worse I feel terrible for complaining. So much of my life is the reality of what I hoped and prayed for ten years ago. Logically, I’m grateful — maybe this is just middle age? Sure, I could use a vacation, but if I’m honest, more than anything I want a makeover.

I don’t hate myself, my house, my career, or my daily activities — they all just need a revamp. Maybe the midlife part is that I no longer have the capacity to do it all myself. I can’t seem to rally to make it all better. My capacity is spent.

Sunday morning comes, and I’m glad to be going on a bike ride with my best friend — my husband — but if I’m honest, I have to dig deep to make myself go. There’s no natural excitement. Spiritually on cue, a dear friend texts me that she’s been praying for me, and that she feels the Lord wants me to remember that He knows my name. In faith, I receive this word. There’s no physical reaction or emotional excitement, but I know it’s God.

Rob and I ride our bikes and take in the appealing fall leaves, perfect weather, and refreshing breeze. Slowly but surely, the heaviness begins to lift. Eventually, we come to a park bench and sit for a moment. Rob begins sharing what the Lord has been speaking to him — that there’s about to be a major breakthrough. Immediately, the heaviness returns. I articulate that in all my years of walking with the Lord; I’ve repeatedly mustered the faith to believe for the thing. True to my identity in Christ, I’ve created a womb after womb to carry and eventually give birth to the vision of the season. Yet it never seems like the breakthrough comes — there’s never that grand moment of arriving.

But after trudging along, I occasionally look back and see that God has accomplished everything He promised, even without those momentous quantum leaps. And so, I know He is good. I know He is faithful. But the naïve excitement makes me weary these days. I know God knows my name — yet there are no butterflies. A pregnant woman in her last trimester is not the starry-eyed mom-to-be she was when she first found out she was expecting.

That night, I dreamt my mom was reminiscing about when I was seven or eight years old. I was going through a hard time, and she explained that in addition to everything I was going through I had also been “pregnant” then — not by a man, but because of a rare condition that made my hormones mimic pregnancy. It felt so real that when I woke up, I almost called her to confirm it. But I realized it was just me processing. I’m sick of being pregnant. Where is the baby?!?

Suddenly, like a flood, I begin to see clearly. It’s one thing to say, “I’ve been on social media too much.” It’s another to confess that life isn’t what it should be — and that, as a means of escape, I’ve turned to social media, only to find it’s made things worse. This is the reforming moment — not an awe-inspiring triumph, but a stark reminder that I am flawed. No, I’m not stuck in the old “I’m a sinner” mindset. I know full well that I’m a daughter of the King. Yet what a relief it is to realize that it’s okay to make mistakes and admit them wholeheartedly.

God is more concerned with transforming us — giving us a true makeover — than He is with changing our circumstances or determining our destination. With clearer sight, I was able to share a few things with friends who’ve recently reached out to me. There wasn't any big theological revelation — just a real person sharing her struggle and how God ministered to her. To my surprise, their responses were life-giving. Not that it was about the response, but it served as an exquisite reminder that true vulnerability and authenticity are where real connection happens.

But also, it’s from that place of true connection that healing begins. One thing that burns me out more than anything is being asked for advice — only to have that advice ignored — and then being metaphorically handed a front-row seat to watch people make missteps they wanted to avoid. Honestly, I’d rather just be blissfully ignorant of their struggle. 

Cass means “unheeded prophetess" and is the middle name I chose when I was adopted. If you don’t tell me, I don’t care. Ask me, and now I’m involved. Ask me but ignore my advice, and now I’m subject to disappointment. Spare me, please.

But, when I stop giving advice and start sharing my struggles, the fruit is almost always sweet. God didn’t name me Cass — He knows me by my real name, the one He gave me. From my identity in Him, everything begins to flow again. Gratitude becomes natural, connection effortless, and hope starts to bubble up once more. Suddenly, the trials and tribulations of yesterday seem almost humorous in the hands of the Creator of the cosmos.

When I stumble, may I remember to gaze at the stars He created.