Posted on November 20, 2025

This morning, sitting on the patio in the cold quiet of a wet November dawn, I found myself waiting for the sun to rise. The air held that crisp, wet stillness that only comes after a night of steady rain. Dusk settled gently across the partly cloudy sky, stretching itself over creation with a soft insistence that invited me to pay attention. It was the kind of moment where the world is dim but not dark, hushed but not silent, present but not fully awake. And in that in-between space, I felt God whisper again, nudging me toward an honesty I had been resisting. He reminded me that joy and truth are not opposites, and sometimes joy shows up wrapped in reflection rather than celebration. It was there, in the wet November quiet, that I sensed the Spirit inviting me to understand joy in a deeper, weightier way.

James 1:2 tells us to “count it all joy,” and those words have been working on me in ways I didn’t expect. This verse is not a call to deny hardship or pretend that the pressure isn’t real. It is an invitation to acknowledge that God forms things in difficulty that comfort never could. Joy becomes a posture, not an emotion, and it becomes a way of seeing beyond what the moment reveals. Lately, counting it all joy has looked less like uplifted hands and more like steady breathing, honest reflection, and endurance. It has looked like learning to trust God’s deeper work even when my heart feels heavy. And it has looked like naming the ache instead of hiding it, because joy and truth walk closely together.

Part of that truth is the reality of my listening fatigue, which has settled on me like a quiet weight. I listen for a living, and not in a passive way, but in a way that requires interpretation, discernment, compassion, and advocacy. My days are full of the voices of learners, faculty, leaders, students, colleagues, and family members who lean on my clarity and emotional availability. I carry their fears, doubts, frustrations, questions, hopes, and internal tensions as part of my calling. I do this willingly, faithfully, and consistently, because God has shaped me into a woman who stands in the gaps for others. But even the strongest ezers need space to exhale, especially when their own voice is longing to be received. Listening fatigue isn’t weakness; it’s evidence of love poured out for a long time without equal replenishment.

And when my own voice is not met with the same weight I give to others, the exhaustion reaches a deeper place in me. I’ve always had a big, strong, passionate, grounded, and present voice, but in this season, I’m learning that my voice is also weighty. It carries the imprint of lived experience, the depth of spiritual formation, and the insight of someone who has walked through both fire and refinement. It is shaped by discernment, tempered by compassion, and strengthened by truth. So when that kind of voice struggles to be heard, especially in the spaces where I long for the most safety, the fatigue feels sharper. It’s not simply frustration; it’s the ache of misalignment. And it’s the realization that the woman I am becoming can no longer shrink into patterns I outgrew long ago.

This is where the deeper revelation arises: an ache when new awareness collides with old patterns. I can feel the gap between my current clarity and the former ways of navigating life that once felt normal. The woman I used to be endured things she didn’t have language for, and she did it with steadiness because she didn’t yet know what wholeness would one day reveal to her. The woman I am now can see what she could not see before, and that clarity brings both gratitude and grief. There is grief for what she carried and gratitude for who she became because of it. And there is a quiet reverence in realizing just how much God has grown me beyond what I once accepted. Growth changes what the soul can tolerate, and that shift is both beautiful and unsettling.

Wholeness has a way of turning the lights on, and once they are on, nothing looks quite the same. You can’t unknow truth once it becomes clear, and your spirit won’t let you pretend you didn’t see what you saw. Wholeness can’t unknow what it knows, and that realization reshapes everything: your expectations, your boundaries, your capacity, and your vision. Dismissiveness that once blended into the background now stands out in sharp relief. Emotional asymmetry you once navigated quietly now disrupts your peace. And what you tolerated before now feels out of alignment with the woman God has formed you to be. Awakening changes your thresholds, and clarity changes your appetite for anything that contradicts who you’ve become.

So no, I’m not struggling because I’m falling apart. I’m struggling because I’ve risen, and rising changes the air around you. Rising shifts the atmosphere of your inner world, and the higher you rise, the less tolerance you have for what sits below your spirit’s level. This kind of struggle is not a sign of failure; it is a sign of transformation. It is the tension of elevation where God stretches you, strengthens you, and reveals what no longer fits. And the fatigue I feel is not from breaking down but from breaking out of old patterns that can no longer hold the weight of the woman I have become. This is the work of healing, and healing is not fragile; it is firm and steady.

And so what I feel now is a mixture of grief and clarity, awakening and memory. It is the woman I am today, looking back at the woman I was and honoring her for everything she endured without the insight she has now. It is a recognition that she did her best with the understanding she had, and that she did so with a strength that deserves to be acknowledged. It is an honoring of her courage and a release of her burdens. It is gratitude that God never wasted her tears, her silence, or her endurance. And it is a blessing over her, the blessing that she walked me all the way to this version of myself. This is the ongoing work of becoming.

And in the middle of all this, joy emerges again not as a fleeting emotion, but as a stance. Counting it all joy means standing in the truth with a steady heart, even when the moment feels heavy. It means trusting that God is forming endurance, sharpening wisdom, and strengthening faith through every layer of awakening. Joy honors the woman I was and supports the woman I am becoming. Joy becomes the grounding place where grief, clarity, strength, and hope all meet. Joy is how I rise without resentment, how I heal without hardness, and how I honor the God who guides my steps. And joy reminds me that even this, every part of it, is being woven into purpose.

Invitation to Go Deeper

If anything in this reflection stirred something in you, if you are navigating your own awakening, grieving what your past self carried, or trying to make sense of the shift between who you were and who you are becoming, you do not have to sort it out alone. Growth can be disorienting, especially when clarity reveals what you no longer have the capacity to tolerate. Sometimes we need someone who can sit with us, listen beneath our words, and help us interpret what life, experience, and faith are revealing. This is the heart of my coaching and consulting work: creating space for women and leaders to hear their own voices again, to make meaning of what life has shown them, and to find language for the places their spirits have outgrown. Whether you need support navigating transitions, clarity for your next steps, or a steady place to process your inner landscape, I would be honored to walk with you. If you’re ready to explore what rising looks like for you in this season, you can connect with me through The Ezer Roots Collective for coaching or consultation. Your growth matters, your voice has weight, and you don’t have to carry your becoming by yourself.