For years I was the capable one. I showed up. I held it together. I led a small group, showed up for my family, and smiled in the parking lot on Sundays.

Inside I was anxious, exhausted, and running on a lie I had never examined: that a strong enough faith should have fixed this by now.

Nobody said it out loud. Nobody had to. It was just in the air, quiet and heavy at the same time. And I breathed it in for years. When I finally stopped pretending, it was not a graceful moment. But it was an honest one. And honesty turned out to be the thing I had been missing the whole time.

What helped me was not a formula. It was permission. Permission to stop performing. Permission to need rest. Permission to be a human being who loves God and is not holding it together today.

That permission is what I carry into every room I speak in, every chapter I write, and every email I send. It is not a programme. It is just the truth. And I think you are ready to hear it.