The semi bad thing is… when it happens… it’s never casual for me. Which I guess is not really a bad thing, per se. It’s just really difficult to navigate, especially as a D1 lover girl, empathetic, Proverbs 31, crash-out.

If I’m spending intentional time with you or chatting with you, that means something to me. I don’t really do the whole halfway-invested thing. If I’m in, I’m in. The more I learn about someone, the more I want to know. I’m just naturally very inquisitive. I like asking questions. I like understanding how people think, what they care about, what they’ve been through. I want the details. I want the depth. I want to know you.

And I think because of that… I don’t just observe people, I start to study them. Not in a weird way, but in a “I see something here and I want to understand it fully” kind of way.

So yeah… I get excited.

There’s this genuine enjoyment in getting to learn someone you actually like. It feels energizing. It’s fun. It’s easy. Conversations flow, time moves fast, and there’s definitely a little serotonin boost in there too if we’re being honest. In those early moments of the crush development, it feels really pure.

Like, I’m just enjoying who this person is. I’m not trying to control anything. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just… present.

But then…

my curiosity slowly turns into attachment. It’s subtle at first. I start thinking about them a little more. I start replaying conversations. I start noticing patterns: how long they take to respond, what they say, what they don’t say. I start assigning meaning to things that were probably neutral.I cross this invisible line where I’m no longer just enjoying them…

I’m pretty much hyper-analyzing them.

To be so honest, I don’t even realize it’s happening until I’m already in it. It’s like my heart gets ahead of reality. Because in my head, I’m building a fuller picture of who they are, what this could be, how it feels… and meanwhile, in real life, we’re still just… getting to know each other.

So now there’s a gap. A gap between what is and what I’m starting to feel. The gap is where things get messy.

Because then the questions start:

Do they like me the same way?
Did that text mean something?
Am I reading too much into this… or not enough?
Should I pull back? Should I lean in?

Suddenly something that started off light and enjoyable feels… heavy. Crash-out Hannah enters the chat and I am literally just the epitome of this meme.

I truly feel shift in my body too. I’m more aware. A little more on edge. Checking my phone more. Thinking about them more than I want to. Trying to “read” where things are at instead of just letting them be.

This is what we call…. the dreaded anxious attachment.

Once my anxious attachment style is activated it’s not even totally about my crush anymore. It’s about the way my mind starts spiraling, the way my emotions start attaching to potential instead of reality, the way I start feeling slightly out of control in something that was never meant to carry that much weight this early.

That’s usually when everything starts to feel like it’s lowkey imploding.

So the question is how do I steward a crush unto the glory of the Lord…because no one wants to be a D1 crash-out over a man that is not even theirs…am I right?!

I think it is essential that we start with what Scripture says. I can sit here and label myself as “anxious attachment” or “avoidant” or whatever category feels the most accurate… but at the end of the day, that is not what has authority over me.

Scripture tells us: “We take every thought captive to obey Christ.” — 2 Corinthians 10:5

If I’m being honest, that’s usually the first thing to go out the window when I like someone. My thoughts don’t just stay thoughts… they multiply. They build on each other. They create narratives. They start shaping how I feel, how I respond, and how I show up. However, the truth is, just because a thought enters my mind does not mean it gets to stay there. Just because I feel something strongly does not mean I have to follow that thing.

Even if I naturally lean anxious… or avoidant… or somewhere in between… that does not control me. I am not led by my attachment style. I am not going to be dictated by my emotions. I am not going to bow down in reverence to my assumptions.

As a believer, I am called to be led by the Spirit—not my flesh. And my flesh? It wants to overthink. It wants to obsess. It wants to seek validation. It wants to be chosen, affirmed, reassured constantly. It just looks in all the fleeting areas.

But the Spirit leads me into truth, into peace, into steadiness. So when I feel my mind starting to spiral… when I feel myself becoming consumed with what he thinks of me, how he perceives me, where I stand with him…

I have to pause and ask:

Is this a thought I need to take captive?

Because if I don’t take my thoughts captive, they will absolutely take me captive.

Practical ways to actually chill out

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It’s treated like a specimen placed under a microscope—something to be examined, interpreted, and loudly diagnosed. But the analysis is often flawed from the start.

The moment singleness is perceived as unfamiliar…or worse, as a problem to solve…people begin to engage with it accordingly. They ask probing questions, offer suggestions, and prescribe what sounds like guidance but often functions more like “a cure.” They rarely hesitate to share their conclusions.

To be fair, most of this is not rooted in intentional harm. It’s rooted in assumption.

Singleness is widely viewed as a transitional state, something that is either leading somewhere or revealing something. It is rarely allowed to simply exist on its own terms. It has to mean something. It has to point to something. It has to explain something.

Once that framework is in place, the outcome is predictable: people begin forming theories about why someone is still single.

What needs to change.

What hasn’t been learned.

What might be missing.

At that point, the interaction shifts. You are no longer relating to a person, you are analyzing a condition. And that is where things begin to break down.

This is the source of much of the “advice” directed at singles. Not careful understanding, but confident assumption.

• Take the phrase, “your person will come when you least expect it.”

It is often presented as encouragement, but it lacks both theological grounding and practical substance. It is not a biblical promise, nor does it account for the diversity of real outcomes people experience. In effect, it functions as a conversational placeholder, something to say without requiring the speaker to sit in the complexity of the moment.

More significantly, it redirects attention away from the present. It implies that the current season is merely a waiting room for something better, rather than a legitimate and meaningful part of a person’s life that deserves to be engaged with seriously.

• A similar issue appears in the way contentment is often applied.

Scripture does call believers to contentment. However, contentment is not a superficial resolution to longing; it is formed through process, often through tension. When it is handed to someone as a quick directive, particularly by those who have not experienced prolonged singleness, it reduces something weighty into something simplistic.

It also overlooks an important distinction: the desire for marriage is not evidence of discontentment. It is a natural and biblically affirmed desire. Treating that desire as something that must be corrected or subdued imposes a burden Scripture itself does not.

• Then there is the constant emphasis on self-improvement.

Singles are frequently encouraged to “use their season well,” which, in principle, is good counsel. Growth and stewardship matter. But when this message is repeated without nuance, it begins to suggest causation. If you are still single, there must be something left to fix.

That assumption is not only unhelpful, it is theologically unstable (& like the peak form of discouragement).

It treats marriage as though it were the result of personal optimization, as if maturity, discipline, or healing can secure a particular outcome. But Scripture does not present marriage as a reward for spiritual performance. Faithful, mature believers are both single and married. Singleness, therefore, cannot function as a diagnostic tool for spiritual health.

It is not evidence of deficiency. It is a life circumstance. And yet, in practice, it is often treated as evidence…evidence of incompleteness, delay, or lack of readiness.

That underlying belief shapes the way singles are engaged within the church. Conversations drift toward advice rather than mutuality. Lives are framed in terms of preparation rather than participation. Over time, many begin to feel as though they exist on the margins rather than fully within the life of the church.

This is reinforced structurally as well. Many church environments are naturally oriented around couples and families. While this is not inherently wrong, it does mean that singles often navigate spaces where they are not the primary consideration. Over time, this can produce a quiet but real sense of displacement.

And in that space, advice is frequently inserted…advice that often assumes more than it understands and attempts to resolve what it has not taken the time to sit with.

What singles are asking for is not complicated, but it does require greater intentionality. It requires resisting the impulse to explain someone else’s life. It requires the discipline to not turn every interaction into an opportunity for input. And it requires the humility to recognize that not every experience is yours to interpret. Support is fundamentally different from advice. Support listens without attempting to resolve. It acknowledges without minimizing. It remains present without rushing to conclusions.

For many singles, that kind of presence is far more valuable than being told, once again, what they should be doing differently. If you have not experienced prolonged singleness, it is worth recognizing that your perspective, while valid, is limited. That limitation should inform how quickly you speak.Because not every situation requires insight. Sometimes, the most appropriate response is restraint and literally just a listening ear.

This one was bold but it was really heart felt. From one Christian single to another, you’re so deeply seen and cherished. For my married folks, love on a Christian single today & plz don’t insert unnecessary advice. Just listen to us or hug us or like… don’t make everything about our relationship status. Plz & thx. We love you! Xoxo, Hannah

Jesus! The God-Man! God incarnate! literally stepped down from His throne and entered into humanity to save you from hell. Why? Because He treasures you deeply. The Father gave a people to the Son, and Christ so delighted in that gift that He was willing to go to the furthest extent to redeem it—even unto an excruciating death on a cross.

While we can speak of the physical suffering—His body marred beyond recognition—we still cannot begin to grasp the full depth of what He endured spiritually. The weight of sin. The outpouring of wrath. The silence of the Father.

He drank the cup we deserved.

He stood in our place.

He became the propitiation, absorbing the wrath of God so that we could receive mercy, forgiveness, and life.

May that never feel small to us. Today we celebrate the miraculous truth: He did not stay dead.

Death held no sting over the Lord of Lords. The grave could not keep Him. Sin did not win.

He is alive.

In the middle of all of this overwhelming emotion, writing felt like the best thing I could do. It always has been. Even when I was little, too young to fully understand my emotions, but forced to be mature enough to carry them, I wrote. So I thought I would put this here, hoping it might bring someone else comfort too. I’m scared to say these things. I’m scared admitting them makes me a bad Christian and a bad daughter. Yet for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that other people ponder these things or feel this way too.

1) I am terrified that I’m going to marry someone who treats me the way my dad has treated my mom at times. And even saying that out loud, publicly, makes me feel like a terrible, guilty, awful, daughter. My life has been blessed. There are so many joyful, happy memories. But I have also spent so much of my life gaslighting myself into believing everything is okay. I’ve done it since I was little. It’s how I cope.

When my dad was on drugs, I used to create this perfect version of him in my head. I would share that version with other people…defending him, protecting him…the man I made up. Because I love him. I really do. Our relationship is so great these days, but I still fear. And I do sometimes still catch glances of the man that I walked on egg shells around at times… never knowing what version of him I’d get that day. I don’t want that. And it SCARES me. I’m terrified of giving a man power to hurt me. I so strongly desire to be loved tenderly by a man of reveres Christ, but I’m scared they don’t exist.

2) Sometimes I feel scared when I think about the doctrine of election. I know that fear says more about the limits of my flesh than it does about God. He is just. He is sovereign. His choosing is right and good. I believe that.

But I still wrestle with it. I don’t fully understand how God can truly desire all to be saved and yet not save everyone. I guess that’s the element of free will? But then that also doesn’t make sense. I don’t know… I mean I know Scripture holds both—that He desires all to come to repentance, and yet that He chooses, calls, and saves according to His will. I know those things don’t contradict in Him, even if they feel like they do in me.

I think this is where my humanity presses up against His divinity. My mind wants to resolve it, make it neat, make it make sense. But God isn’t asking me to fully comprehend Him, He’s asking me to trust Him. To trust that His justice is never flawed, His mercy is never misplaced, and His ways are higher than mine. So even when I don’t understand, I want to land here: God is good. He does what is right. And whatever I cannot reconcile, I can entrust to His character. It’s still a simple thought. Still a very human one. But it’s real. And sometimes it unsettles me.

3) I know I’m saved, or at least I have a real assurance of that. But the “what if” still creeps in sometimes, and it makes me tremble. I know Scripture calls us to work out our salvation with fear and trembling, but sometimes my fear feels less like reverence and more like anxiety. If I’m honest, a lot of that fear isn’t even about me. It’s about the people I love. I get so overwhelmed thinking about their salvation that it makes me sick. Like physically sick. It grieves me in a way that is hard to put into words.

I want them to know Him the way I have…to experience His grace, His nearness, His saving power, His radical and redefining love.

I don’t say that to sound hyper spiritual or like some “elevated” Christian. I mean it literally. It weighs on me. I know that salvation ultimately belongs to the Lord—that He is the one who saves, not me. I know I’m called to be faithful, to pray, to share, to love, and to trust Him with what I cannot control. But surrendering that is hard. Letting go of that weight is even harder. I find myself living in that tension…assured of my own salvation, yet deeply burdened for others. Trying to hold both trust in God’s sovereignty and a heart that aches for people to know Him. The ache of that is just really crushing.

4) Sometimes I’m scared that I’m too much and not enough at the same time. I feel things too deeply, care too much, carry too much…but somehow still fall short of being who I’m supposed to be.

I worry that my emotions are overwhelming, that my thoughts spiral too far, that I’m exhausting to be known fully. At the same time, I’m afraid that I’m not doing enough, not being enough—for God, for the people I love, for the life I’ve been given.

I know, truthfully, that my identity isn’t found in how much I carry or how well I hold everything together. I know that I am already fully known and fully loved in Christ. That I don’t have to strive to be enough because He already is. But sometimes my heart forgets what my head knows. I very much so sit in the tension between truth and feeling, between what I believe and what I experience…and I have to remind myself again that His grace is sufficient for both.

5) Sometimes I’m scared that I’ve learned how to sound spiritually mature without actually being as formed as I think I am. I know the language, the right answers, the right responses…but my heart isn’t always as aligned as my words are.

I can articulate truth. I can write it, say it, even encourage other people in it. I know how to talk about God in a way that sounds sincere, grounded, even wise. Sometimes I wonder how much of it has actually settled deep into me…or if I’ve just become familiar with it.

I’ve spent so much time around truth that I know how to handle it—but not all of it has handled me. And that scares me. Because it’s possible to be close to things of God and still keep parts of your heart untouched. It’s possible to say the right things and still have quiet areas of resistance, pride, or self-reliance that no one else sees.

Sometimes I worry that I’ve confused clarity with transformation. That because I understand something, I assume I’ve been changed by it. But knowing is not the same as becoming.

I don’t want to just be able to explain truth, I want it to shape me, confront me, humble me, and remake me.

I know sanctification is slow. I know the Lord is patient and faithful to finish what He started. I just never want anything I share or produce or live to be performance based rather than obedience based I guess?

I don’t really have a clean ending for all of this. Just honesty.

These are the things I don’t always say out loud. The tensions I carry. The fears that surface in quiet moments. & maybe part of me wishes they would all just disappear…but I think, in a strange way, they keep bringing me back to the same place.

Dependence.

I don’t have the ability to fix my own heart. I don’t have the clarity to resolve every tension or the strength to carry every weight. But I do know the One who does. And He is not intimidated by any of this.

Not by my fears, my questions, my inconsistencies, or the places where I still don’t fully understand. He is patient. He is kind. He is faithful to keep forming me—even when it feels slow, even when it feels hidden. So I’ll keep bringing all of this to Him. Not cleaned up. Not perfectly resolved. Just honest.

Trusting that He is the One who saves me and continues to shape me into someone who looks more like Him.

I don’t say that critically. I say that honestly, because I have lived it.

In my first year of salvation, I struggled deeply to find a church home. It wasn’t for lack of desire, I wanted one. I longed for real community, for discipleship, for people who could walk alongside me in my faith. But for a season, that just wasn’t my reality. And in that gap, I turned to what was available to me. I had a platform. I had people who listened. I had a space where I could process what God was doing in my life, and so I began to use it as if it were my community.

I shared openly. I confessed struggles. I wrote about what the Lord was teaching me. And in many ways, it felt meaningful. It was meaningful and it is still is meaningful to me. People responded with encouragement, affirmation, and shared experiences. There was a sense of connection that, at the time, felt very real.

But looking back, I can see that something subtle was happening beneath the surface.

Without realizing it, I began to associate being seen with being known. I associated posting with repentance. If I could eloquently write and share openly about my struggle then I was diligently dealing with it and repenting, right? It created this illusion that speaking about something was the same as surrendering it.

But it isn’t.

There is a difference between confession that is directed outward and repentance that is directed upward. Scripture calls us not only to confess, but to turn, to be transformed, to walk in obedience. That kind of transformation is not measured by how honestly or eloquently we can describe our struggles…it is revealed over time in a life that is actually being changed.

And that kind of change rarely happens in isolation, and it certainly is not sustained through an audience.

One of the things I did not understand at the time is that online spaces allow you to remain in control in a way that real community does not. You can share what you want, when you want, how you want. You can be vulnerable without being interrupted, honest without being questioned, transparent without being fully known.

But if I can press this a little deeper…this is where I think we need to ask ourselves some hard, honest questions.

• What are my motives when I post?

• Why do I feel the need to document certain moments?

• Why am I filming myself worshiping?

• Why do I feel compelled to showcase what should sometimes be sacred?

• And maybe even more importantly: what does my life look like when the camera is off?

Because it is entirely possible to cultivate an appearance of intimacy with God publicly while neglecting it privately. It is possible to share devotion without actually being devoted, to display worship without living a life of surrender, to build a platform centered on Christ while quietly avoiding the deeper, unseen work of sanctification.

That tension is not always obvious, because online affirmation can come quickly. Encouragement can come easily. Without realizing it, we can begin to feed off of that in a way that subtly replaces our dependence on God with a dependence on response.

This message becomes magnified all the more: the Lord is not after our performance, He is after our hearts.

He is not concerned with how our faith appears on a platform as much as He is concerned with how it is lived in the quiet, unseen, mundane places.

“Man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).

So before you post, pause.

Ask yourself honestly: What is my motive here? Am I seeking to glorify God, or to be seen by people? Jesus warns us to “beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them” (Matthew 6:1). Not because the action itself is wrong, but because the motive behind it matters deeply.

Is this flowing from genuine intimacy with the Lord, or from a desire to appear spiritually mature? Am I documenting my walk with God, or subtly performing it? And when the camera turns off, what remains?

Because God sees beyond the caption, beyond the video, beyond the carefully curated moment. He sees the quiet places. The hidden habits. The private devotion or lack thereof it.

Would I still worship like this if no one ever saw it? Would I still pursue God like this if it was never shared? Would this moment still matter if it remained completely unseen?

Because true devotion is not sustained by visibility it is sustained by sincerity.

“Search me, O God, and know my heart… and lead me in the way everlasting” (Psalm 139:23–24).

Let that be the prayer behind what you post and what you choose not to.

The kind of community Scripture points us to reflects that same depth. It is not built on visibility; it is built on proximity. It is made up of people who are close enough to your life to notice patterns, to ask hard questions, to lovingly correct you, and to walk with you as you grow. “Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another” (Proverbs 27:17).

That kind of discipleship requires presence. It requires humility. It requires being seen in ways that you do not get to curate. And social media, for all the good it can do, cannot replace that.

It can encourage, yes. It can edify. It can point people to Christ. But it cannot pastor you. It cannot truly hold you accountable. It cannot walk with you through the daily, often slow process of becoming more like Jesus.

At some point, growth requires more than expression. It requires surrender. It requires accountability. It requires people who know your life beyond what you choose to share.

The early church understood this. They did not gather around platforms; they gathered around tables. They devoted themselves to teaching, fellowship, breaking bread, and prayer (Acts 2:42–47). There was a nearness to one another that made transformation possible in a way that distant observation never could.

And I think if we are honest, especially those of us who create content, there is a tension here that we have to acknowledge. It is very easy to grow comfortable being vulnerable online while remaining distant in real life. It is very easy to build influence without cultivating intimacy. It is very easy to speak truth publicly while avoiding the kind of relationships that would press that truth deeper into our own lives.

But the life we are called to in Christ is not one of performance or presentation. It is one of transformation. And that transformation is meant to take place within the context of real, embodied, accountable community.

So yes, share what God is doing. Use your platform well. But do not confuse articulation with repentance. Because your life before God matters far more than your image before people.

It proposes compromises that appear small, almost harmless. It invites us into spaces that seem close enough to sin to produce the same excitement, yet distant enough to quiet the conscience. In this way, temptation often disguises itself not as defiance against God, but as something far more reasonable.

The flesh along with forces of darkness ask questions like:

Is this really that serious?

Is this actually the same thing as sexual immorality?

Isn’t this just conversation?

And this is where compromise begins.

Perhaps it is the sexually explicit conversation that gradually moves beyond playful banter. Perhaps it is lingering in messages that stir desire or awaken curiosity. Perhaps it is engaging in flirtation that carries a clear undertone, even if no physical act has taken place.

The reasoning often sounds convincing: This isn’t the same as having sex. This isn’t real immorality.

But this line of thinking misunderstands something crucial about the nature of sin and the transformation Christ calls His people to pursue. Scripture consistently teaches that sin is not merely a matter of outward behavior but of inward longing. Before actions appear, desires are already shaping the direction of the heart.

James describes this process with remarkable clarity:

“Each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death” (James 1:14–15).

Notice that the progression begins not with an act but with desire that is entertained and cultivated. Temptation becomes dangerous when the heart begins to make room for it. This is precisely why seemingly smaller compromises often feel spiritually unsettling afterward. A conversation may end, a phone may be set down, but the heart recognizes that it has participated in something that nourishes desires God calls us to crucify.

SIDE NOTE:

Let me be clear here, on the one hand, desiring sexual intimacy is not a bad thing. On the other hand, being governed by the desire to appease your flesh through viewing p*rnography, m*sterbaton, having sexually explicit conversations, or having sex outside of God’s covenantal marriage— is very much a damaging thing.

The uneasiness that follows is not merely emotional discomfort. It is often the work of the Spirit reminding the believer that holiness involves more than avoiding outward scandal.

Jesus makes this reality unmistakably clear in His teaching on lust. In Matthew 5:28, He declares that the issue of adultery extends beyond the physical act to the posture of the heart.

The point of Christ’s teaching is not to create an impossible standard meant to crush His followers. Rather, it exposes the deeper problem: sin is not simply something we do. It is something that grows from within us when disordered desires are allowed to flourish. This is why the question for believers cannot simply be, Did I technically cross the line? The more faithful question is, What direction is my heart being shaped toward?

Sexually explicit conversations and suggestive interactions may never become physical acts, but they still cultivate an environment in which lust and self-gratification are entertained. In that sense, they are not neutral. They participate in the same inward orientation that Christ calls His people to resist. The flesh operates strategically. It rarely insists that believers abandon their faith altogether. Instead, it attempts to persuade them that holiness can be approached casually. It encourages a posture of proximity rather than separation. Rather than fleeing temptation, it invites believers to stand near it, study it, and manage it.

Yet Scripture consistently presents a different approach. Paul’s instruction in 1 Corinthians 6:18 is remarkably direct: “Flee from sexual immorality.” The command is not to test one’s strength against temptation but to remove oneself from its reach.

This instruction recognizes a profound truth about the human heart. We are rarely as resistant to temptation as we imagine ourselves to be. What begins as curiosity or entertainment can quietly cultivate desires that eventually seek fuller expression. The flesh does not need immediate victory. It simply needs sustained proximity.

One reason these compromises feel spiritually heavy afterward is that believers possess a renewed conscience shaped by the Spirit of God. Conviction is not evidence of condemnation but of eternal life. The believer who feels the grief of compromise is experiencing the Spirit’s work of realignment, gently drawing the heart back toward righteousness. The flesh offers momentary gratification, but it never leaves the soul satisfied. Instead, it produces a subtle fragmentation within the heart: the awareness that one’s desires have been temporarily directed toward something lesser than the holiness to which God calls His people.

In contrast, obedience—even when it requires restraint—produces something deeper and more enduring: a clear conscience and a heart increasingly aligned with God’s purposes. The gospel fundamentally changes the way believers approach temptation. Christ did not just forgive sin; He broke its authority.

Romans 6 describes this transformation in terms of liberation. Through union with Christ, believers are no longer enslaved to sin’s dominion. They have been transferred into a new realm of life characterized by righteousness. This means the Christian life is not a constant attempt to manage sinful desires through sheer willpower. Rather, it is a life empowered by the Spirit, in which believers progressively learn to reject the impulses of the flesh and pursue the holiness that reflects their new identity in Christ.

The flesh will always attempt to bargain. It will frame compromise as harmless, manageable, or inconsequential. But the believer’s identity is no longer defined by those impulses.

Holiness is not pursued because Christians fear punishment. It is pursued because they belong to Christ, and their hearts are being reshaped to reflect His character.

Ultimately, the flesh persuades us by promising satisfaction. It offers excitement, attention, or temporary pleasure. Yet those promises consistently fall short of what they claim to provide. Holiness, though often portrayed as restrictive, actually produces a far richer form of freedom. A life ordered around righteousness brings clarity of conscience, stability of heart, and a deeper capacity to delight in God.

The flesh bargains because it wants dominion. The Spirit leads because He wants You.

A note from Hannah:

Hi friend, if this is something you’re really waging war against right now, please know that the Lord is your shield and your strength. It’s really hard being a Christian single, desiring intimacy, while also remaining steadfast in fleeing. I fight that battle daily. You are not alone. This is your friendly reminder that even if or when you fall, there is grace. Yet, do not allow the grace of Christ to become an excuse within your life to continue onward in whatever sin you’re wrestling with. His kindness brings forth repentance… not continual, habitual sin at the expense of abused grace. I’m thinking about writing an article on practical ways to flee from sexual temptation. Let me know if this is something you’d be interested in reading. Love you all. Thanks for being here !! <3

xoxo,

Hannah

A few questions I get all the time are:

“Hannah… how do you read your bible?”
“How do you annotate?”
“How do you actually understand what’s going on because I’m reading and it is not clocking to me?!?!”

And hey, I HEAR YOU.

There was a point in my walk of faith where opening Scripture genuinely felt like I was attempting to read hieroglyphics. I’d read a chapter, close my Bible, and think… what did I just read? And why did none of that make sense? I did the only thing I really knew to do at the time, which was to earnestly pray and beg God for understanding. I remember the very first time I read Scripture and actually grasped what I was reading. It was in the book of John and it was like the Lord ripped the scales from my eyes. The only response I could muster was one characterized by tears, worship, and more tears. Because what do you mean I am reading the Bible and am making the connections necessary for my soul to deeply comprehend what is before me?! Praise God for His Holy Spirit.

This term, I’m taking a course on the Psalms for my Master’s program. One of my assignments was to choose five different Psalms and write devotional reflections on each one.

As I was working through them, the Lord was just… so tender. He was intentionally revealing so much to me theologically— layers I hadn’t noticed before, themes that kept repeating, the heart of the psalmists, and the character of God on display in such personal, poetic ways.

One of my favorite things about Scripture is the imagery the Lord allows me to see as I read. Psalms especially is just rich with it— refuge, shelter, deep waters, steady rocks, flourishing trees, dark valleys, morning light. It’s theology, but it’s also picture language for the soul. So I read each Psalm, studied like I normally do: context, structure, repeated words, themes, and what it reveals about God— and then I had this thought:

What if this could be a dual effort? What if I do this assignment for school but also translate it to my audience as a way to answer the questions you guys ask me most? So, here we are! Let’s dive into the Psalms together.

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Devotional Reflections on Psalm 10, Psalm 32, Psalm 63, Psalm 92, and Psalm 121

Step 1: Grab your Bible, this is the most crucial part of this Substack post. Yes, you’re reading a few words from me, but the goal here is not for you to sit with my thoughts. The goal is for these words to lead you into His Word.

Step 2: Prepare your heart before you begin your study. I think it’s really easy to approach Scripture casually because—if we’re honest—many of us (most of my demographics and myself included) are Western Christians in America. We have constant access to the Bible. Multiple translations. Apps. Study tools. Notes. Commentaries. We are so familiar with it that we can forget what a divine gift it truly is. There are believers around the world who risk their lives for a single copy of Scripture, and yet we can sometimes open it quickly, skim a passage, and move on without recognizing the weight and privilege of what we’re holding. So before you dive into the Word, take a moment to steady your heart before the Lord. Bow to Him in prayer. Ask the Lord to soften your heart, to remove distraction, and to give you eyes to see and ears to hear and comprehend. This should never be a checkmark task to eliminate from your list of to-do’s on the agenda. This is a divine delicacy.

Step 3: If you are someone that gets easily distracted, like myself, this is where you yeet your phone across the room and into your desk drawer. Yes, I said yeet it. And I stand by that. I know many of you are thinking, “But I NEED my phone in order to read. How am I supposed to know and understand the Scriptures if I don’t even have access to a commentary at the least?” Hey so, quick question, do you think the apostles had access to a commentary at their finger tips? Right, right. But you know what they did have access to? The Holy Spirit. Good news is, so do you!

John 14:26 says this, “But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in My name, He will teach you all things, and bring to your remembrance all that I said to you.”

While resources are great tools for in depth study, they are not the source of illumination. The Holy Spirit is. Commentaries should be a support, not a substitute. They should come after you’ve wrestled with the text yourself, not before you’ve even given the Lord space to speak through His Word.

Read slowly. Observe what you see. Sit with the passage. Ask questions. Pray through it. Then, if needed, bring in outside resources to confirm or deepen your understanding. But don’t outsource what the Spirit desires to do personally in your heart.

Psalm 10

Read Psalm 10 slowly. As you read, don’t rush. This isn’t about getting through the chapter, it’s about seeing what’s there.

Here are a few things to look for:

1. Look for repeated or similar words.
Do you notice any themes in the language? Words related to the wicked, oppression, evil, pride, or violence show up multiple times. Repetition in Scripture is never accidental, it’s pointing you toward the main concern of the passage.

2. Ask: What is the main theme of the Psalm?
What problem is the psalmist describing?
You’ll notice a tension: the wicked seem to prosper, while the vulnerable are suffering. This Psalm wrestles with the apparent silence of God in the face of injustice.

3. Watch for the shift.
Many Psalms move from lament to confidence. Where does the tone change?
Around verses 12–15, the Psalm turns from describing the wicked to directly calling on God: “Arise, O Lord!” The focus shifts from the problem to the character and action of God.

4. Ask: What does this Psalm reveal about God?
Even when He feels distant, the Psalm reminds us:

• God sees (v.14)

• God hears the desire of the afflicted (v.17)

• God is King forever and ever (v.16)

• God brings justice for the oppressed (v.18)

When you study Scripture this way: noticing repetition, themes, structure, and what the text reveals about God… the passage begins to come alive.

Here is my personal reflection on Psalm 10:

Psalm 10 opens with a troubling question: “Why, O Lord, do you stand far away?” (v. 1). What follows is not merely a description of evil, but a theological portrait of the wicked mindset. The wicked boast, curse, exploit, and oppress, all while living as though they are untouchable. Their greatest deception is theological: “He says in his heart, ‘God has forgotten; he has hidden his face’” (v. 11). Pride distorts their view of both self and God. Like a predator lying in wait, the wicked operate under the illusion that divine justice is absent or delayed.

Yet the psalm turns in verse 12 from observation to petition. The psalmist moves from describing evil to appealing to God’s character. This shift reflects a crucial theological movement– lament is not despair but faith seeking understanding. Against the false theology of the wicked, the psalmist declares the truth, God does see. “You do see, for you note mischief and vexation, that you may take it into your hands” (v. 14). Divine silence is not divine indifference.

The psalm culminates in a confession of God’s kingship and justice, “The Lord is king forever and ever” (v. 16). His reign guarantees that oppression is temporary and accountability is certain. He hears the desires of the afflicted, strengthens their hearts, and acts on behalf of the vulnerable.

Psalm 10 reminds us that faith is anchored not in present circumstances but in God’s unchanging character. Though injustice may seem unchecked, the King sees, hears, and will act. The hidden suffering of the righteous is never hidden from Him.

Psalm 32

Now let’s do the same thing with Psalm 32. Read it slowly and intentionally. Look for repeated words, notice the themes that keep surfacing, and pay attention to the structure, where the Psalm shifts, what feels emphasized, and what the text is drawing your attention to.

Here is my personal reflection on Psalm 32:

Psalm 32 is a theological testimony to the transforming power of confession and the restorative grace of God. David opens with a declaration of blessedness, “Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven” (Ps. 32:1). True flourishing is not found in moral perfection, but in honest repentance and God’s divine mercy.

David’s experience reveals a profound connection between the spiritual and the physical. When he concealed his sin, he wrote, “my bones wasted away… my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer” (vv. 3–4). Unconfessed sin does not remain confined to the soul; it burdens the whole person. The weight of guilt manifests as spiritual exhaustion and emotional distress. This reflects the broader biblical principle echoed in 1 John 1:9, healing begins when sin is brought into the light.

Traditionally associated with David’s sin involving Bathsheba and Uriah, the psalm illustrates the danger of hiding in the shadows. Silence hardens the heart, but conviction—though heavy—is a gift of grace. The pressure David felt was not rejection but pursuit. Spiritual heaviness, in this sense, is mercy at work, awakening the conscience and drawing the sinner toward repentance.

The turning point comes in verse 5: “I acknowledged my sin to you… and you forgave.” Confession replaces concealment, and forgiveness replaces burden. The psalm concludes by portraying God not only as forgiver but as guide and protector.

Psalm 32 reminds us that conviction is not condemnation. The Lord presses upon the heart not to crush it, but to heal it, leading us from the weight of secrecy into the freedom of grace.

Psalm 63

Here is my personal reflection on Psalm 63:

Psalm 63 emerges from a context of deprivation and instability, written while David was in the wilderness after he had known both kingship and the presence of the ark. The setting is significant; having experienced the fullness of royal life and corporate worship, David now finds himself in isolation. Yet, like Paul composing letters from prison, some of David’s most profound theology is formed not in comfort but in constraint. The wilderness becomes a place of spiritual clarity.

David begins with covenantal intimacy, “O God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you” (v. 1). His language is intense– his soul thirsts, his flesh faints, and his whole being longs for God. The physical imagery of dryness reflects a deeper theological reality; human satisfaction is ultimately God-centered. Deprivation exposes what truly sustains the soul.

Rather than focusing on his circumstances, David turns to the character of God, namely His power, glory, and steadfast love. The climactic confession, “Your steadfast love is better than life” (v. 3), reveals a reordered value system in which communion with God surpasses physical survival. Worship becomes David’s response even in scarcity.

The imagery of refuge “in the shadow of your wings” (v. 7) reflects Hebrew poetic parallelism, reinforcing God’s protective presence through layered metaphor. The psalm concludes with confidence that divine justice will prevail (vv. 9–11), holding together both God’s mercy and His righteous judgment.

Psalm 63 teaches that the wilderness is not merely a place of loss, but of reorientation. When lesser securities are stripped away, the soul learns that God Himself is both its refuge and its satisfaction.

Psalm 92

This was one of my favorite Psalms I read today. I love the imagery presented within this Psalm. Here is my personal reflection on Psalm 92:

Psalm 92 is uniquely designated as a song for the Sabbath, situating its theology within the rhythm of rest and worship. The Sabbath was not merely cessation from labor, but participation in the ongoing reality of God’s sustaining providence. True rest, therefore, is found not in inactivity alone, but in renewed attention to the character and works of God.

The psalm opens by declaring the goodness of a life shaped by gratitude, “It is good to give thanks to the Lord” (vv. 1–2). Morning and night, the worshiper proclaims God’s steadfast love and faithfulness. Such repetition reflects the scriptural necessity––human hearts are prone to forget, and praise reorients the soul to reality.

A central contrast then emerges between the foolish and the righteous. The “stupid man” (v. 6) represents one who lacks spiritual perception, mistaking the temporary flourishing of the wicked for lasting security. Though evil may appear prosperous, its trajectory is destruction (vv. 7–9). The psalm affirms the moral structure of God’s world, apparent success apart from Him is ultimately unsustainable.

In contrast, the righteous are described with imagery of consecration and vitality. Being anointed with “fresh oil” (v. 10) suggests renewal and being set apart for God’s purposes. Like trees planted in the house of the Lord, they flourish with enduring fruitfulness, remaining “full of sap and green” even in old age (vv. 12–14).

Psalm 92 teaches that the righteous flourish not because circumstances are easy, but because their lives continually declare, “The Lord is upright; he is my rock.”

Psalm 121

Here is my personal reflection on Psalm 121:

Psalm 121 is a Song of Ascents, likely sung by sojourners journeying toward Jerusalem. Its setting reflects movement through uncertain and potentially dangerous terrain, making its central question deeply practical and theological, “From where does my help come?” (v. 1). The psalmist lifts his eyes to the hills—not as the source of help, but as a prompt to remember the true source beyond himself. His answer is immediate and decisive, “My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth” (v. 2). The Creator’s sovereignty guarantees His ability to sustain His people.

The psalm develops its theology through the repeated emphasis on God as the One who keeps. Six times the Lord is described as the vigilant Keeper who neither slumbers nor sleeps (vv. 3–4). This language communicates covenantal attentiveness. Divine care is not intermittent or reactive; it is constant, personal, and faithful.

God’s protection is then described through the imagery of shade and covering (vv. 5–6). In the harsh climate of the ancient Near East, shade signified preservation from exhaustion and harm. The promise that the sun by day and the moon by night will not strike the sojourner expresses comprehensive care across all circumstances.

The psalm concludes with a sweeping assurance, “The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore” (v. 8). The scope moves from immediate journey to lifelong—and ultimately eternal—security.

Psalm 121 reminds the believer that true stability is not found in safe conditions, but in the faithful presence of the ever-watchful Keeper.

I truly loved this assignment for my course. Honestly, everything about my Psalms class has been so life-giving to my soul. In the midst of heavier, more demanding assignments this semester, this class has felt like a well of fresh water— something the Lord is using to nourish what feels tired and, at times, a little frazzled.

There’s something about sitting in the Psalms that slows you down. It meets you where you are, whether that’s weary, distracted, overwhelmed, or even coming in with a heart that feels grateful, full, and energized.

The hand of the Lord has felt especially evident in this class. What could have been just another academic requirement has instead become a place of refreshment. Hopefully my thoughts and deep reflections can spur you toward reading God’s Word. It’s serious business, but it is also personal. He wants you to draw near to Him.

lately, i’ve noticed a pattern in many of my conversations with single Christian men. there is a tone that surfaces quickly when the topic of women comes up. it’s honestly like a kind of guardedness, sometimes even a pinch of resentment.

the language often reflects disappointment, but over time that disappointment seems to have hardened into callousness. literally every man seems characterize ALL women as overly selective, overly critical, and unwilling to give men a chance.

please here me: i am by no means saying women are perfect. we are flawed, depraved beings in need of Christ. just like man. and i understand where some of that frustration comes from. truly i do! rejection is never easy. disappointment, especially when it’s repeated, has a way of shaping our expectations and even feeding our pride.

BUTTTTT i want to offer a more honest and necessary observation.

in many cases, what is being labeled as judgment may actually be discernment.

Scripture does not call believers to approach relationships carelessly. wisdom literature consistently commends careful evaluation of character, direction, and fruit (Proverbs 4:23; 13:20). Jesus himself teaches that lives are known by what they produce (Matthew 7:16–20). for women who desire to walk honorably with Christ, discernment is not harshness or hypercriticism…it is like the bare minimum tbh.

it seems like instead of engaging in self examination, many men respond to rejection by externalizing the cause. responsibility is placed on women’s standards rather than on the possibility of personal gaps in maturity, consistency, or spiritual formation.

and from a theological perspective, this posture is worth paying attention to.

one of the clearest marks of spiritual maturity in the New Testament is teachability. the call to examine oneself before evaluating others is central to the life of a believer (Matthew 7:3–5; 2 Corinthians 13:5). when rejection consistently produces defensiveness rather than reflection, it may reveal not only woundedness, but resistance to accountability.

and often, that resistance is what women are actually responding to.

i can’t say this loud enough; most spiritually serious women are not looking for perfection. they are looking for humility. ownership. emotional and spiritual responsibility. a life that demonstrates alignment between confession and practice. fruit that proves you are actually abiding in Christ.

but there is another tension that many women feel.

sometimes, it becomes difficult to believe that men truly desire a Proverbs 31 woman. while the language may affirm a desire for godliness, the practical pursuit often reflects something else entirely. the attention is given to appearance, image, and cultural standards of attractiveness…as if the search is for the next top model rather than for evidence of spiritual depth. sure attraction holds some importance but like… is your heart attractive?

Scripture describes a woman whose value is found in her fear of the Lord, her character, her diligence, her wisdom, and her strength (Proverbs 31:10–31). charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the lord is to be praised (Proverbs 31:30).

when outward appearance becomes the primary filter while fruit is treated as secondary, it creates confusion. it communicates a desire for the benefits of a godly woman without a corresponding value for the substance that defines her.

over time, this disconnect makes it difficult for women to take the language of “i want a proverbs 31 woman” at face value.

because a man’s pursuit reveals what he actually honors.

this is why the conversation cannot remain at the level of women’s standards.

the more important questions are these:

what fruit is my life producing?

what qualities am i truly prioritizing in the women i pursue?

is my desire shaped more by cultural ideals or by biblical vision?

spiritual maturity is not measured by how strongly someone critiques the opposite sex. it is revealed by the willingness to receive feedback, to practice self-examination, and to bring both expectations and disappointments before the Lord with honesty.

because in the process of sanctification, even rejection can become a means of grace.

if women are stepping back, it may not be evidence of their harshness. it may be an invitation to growth, to humility, and to a deeper alignment between one’s profession of faith and the life being lived.

and the men who respond to that invitation, rather than resisting it, are the ones who begin to display the very fruit they say they are looking for.

while i’ve been typing from experience here, it’s super crucial for me to note that this is also applicable to the women of God who are viewing men of God in a similar way. stop romanticizing the 6’5, muscle mania man, with blue eyes, and 2 million in the bank. examine HIS FRUITS. is he giving Ephesians 5? how does he speak to people around him? is he intentional? does he listen? does he concern himself with your needs? does he read the Word? is he active in the church? like there’s so much more we need to be discerning than service level attraction.

ILY GUYS!! thanks for reading my long list of thoughts. i love this space.

XOXO, Hannah

I love the Church. I believe in the importance of local church deeply. I believe in gathering, in sitting under sound teaching, in worshiping alongside other believers.

But my relationship with the local church has been complicated for months now. For the first few years after I was saved, I wasn’t planted anywhere. I learned through online sermons and personal in depth study. About three years into my salvation, I finally found a church home. I got involved, served, and stayed connected for years.

Then things started to shift.

Questions I asked weren’t received well. Wanting to go deeper was seen as a problem rather than a hunger. At one point, I was told that a theology student is the worst kind of congregant. And that hurt more than I expected.

Later, when I began visiting other churches, assumptions were made about my motives— that I must be looking for a “position” or “financial opportunity.”

If you know me, you know how far that is from my heart. I don’t want a platform. I don’t want influence. I don’t want money.

I want Jesus. I want truth. I want to sanctification.

Since then, church has felt heavier than it used to.

I’ve started attending a friend’s church. But this season has been overwhelming. Graduate school is demanding. I’m balancing multiple jobs. Some weeks feel like survival, and I can tell my priorities have drifted under the weight of everything. I feel that tension, and I’m wrestling with it.

At the same time, I still long for what the local church is meant to be.

And if I’m being really real, I don’t want my presence to immediately turn into conversations about my singleness, marriage timelines, or motherhood. Can a girl just love Jesus entirely in peace? Why does it always have to be Jesus + something?

I’m not walking into a building looking for a life update conversation. I’m walking in because I need the Lord.

I recognize the church has not wounded me, people have. People have misunderstood me and they always will to some degree. Yet, I still believe in what God designed.

Scripture never promised perfect communities. It promised a body being sanctified over time. That means there will be immaturity, assumptions, and moments that don’t reflect Christ well.

I’m learning that disappointment with people doesn’t change the value of what God established.

So, I am pleading with the Lord, desperately asking Him to reorder my priorities and plant me where He wants me.

I also wanted to share this here because accountability matters to me. I take this space seriously, and being honest here feels like a form of public confession.

Right now, I don’t have a church home.

If I’m being honest, I’ve felt discouraged by the search and, at times, unmotivated because of how full my schedule is. But I know the truth: I can’t let busyness become an excuse for neglecting what matters most.

I need to set myself aside and show up.

If gathering to worship the Lord isn’t a priority in my life, then something else has taken its place—and I’m not okay with that.

This isn’t about guilt. It’s about realignment.

xoxo, Hannah

when you grew up in a space where your nervous system was constantly dysregulated because of the relationship you were always around, something in you learned to associate closeness with instability. there’s an unspoken fear that follows you into adulthood.

what if my relationship becomes a repeat of theirs?

i can take responsibility for my own growth. i can pursue healing, communication, emotional health. i can do the work to become someone who loves well.

but relationships are never built on one person alone.

i genuinely cannot guarantee someone else’s choices. i cannot control their consistency. i cannot ensure their loyalty.

and that’s where my fear lives.

to be honest…i don’t know, i think experience teaches you something most people don’t talk about openly: people are well acquainted with choosing betrayal. not always out of malice either! sometimes out of immaturity, avoidance, brokenness, or simply their own unresolved wounds. even people who intend to be faithful can still fracture trust. why? because of the fall of man in Genesis 3, for real.

when you’ve watched love become unpredictable, when you’ve seen the anger and the pain that are almost guaranteed as a side affect, commitment doesn’t really look all that romantic like in the movies. it feels more like chugging 17 red bulls while jumping onto train tracks just to see if you can move before the train literally plows you to your death.

trauma has a way of clouding desire like that. on the one hand, i am like ahhhh get away from me. and on the other i am like awww i want closeness with a safe man who mimics my Savior so well.

the trauma doesn’t really remove the longing for connection, it just over-complicates it. it makes your nervous system cautious where your heart might otherwise be open. it turns what should feel hopeful into something that feels weighty, uncertain, and, at times, unsafe. and i think it is crucial to note that this feeling is very different than a gut feeling of discernment. this feeling is one that is genuinely just fear wrapped in a blanket of avoidant tendencies.

somewhere in the midst of processing all these emotions lies the truth. and the truth isn’t as black and white as we often make it. a person can deeply desire love, intimacy, and connection while still feeling afraid—afraid of vulnerability, of being hurt, and of repeating patterns they’ve watched play out over and over again throughout their life.

and maybe this is where faith enters the conversation.

because let’s face it…the reality is, relationships will always involve what we cannot see. there is no way to guarantee another person’s choices. no way to secure their consistency. no way to protect ourselves from every possible outcome.

love will always require a level of trust that feels risky.

but the call to trust was never meant to rest in another person’s reliability.

it rests in the Sovereignty of God.

faith has always been about stepping forward without controlling the outcome. about believing that even if people are unpredictable, He is not. that even if someone else fails, His purposes do not. that nothing we entrust to Him is outside of His care, His authority, or His ability to redeem. even our very fragile nervous systems that are learning to recover from what we considered our “normal” growing up.

in hindsight the goal isn’t to eliminate the risk.

i actually think it’s to hold our hearts with open hands (nottttt white knuckled fists) and say, “Lord, i cannot control this. but i trust You with whatever comes.”

while we cannot dictate another person’s actions, we can trust the One who writes our story.

and the safety we’re looking for was never meant to be found in someone’s “perfection” or false sense of security. it’s found in the confidence that our Father is Sovereign, present, and faithful. no matter what! no matter what any relationship, romantic or now, reaps.

hi, I’m Hannah !! seriously love writing for the glory of the Lord so much. it’s my deepest passion paired with sharing the Gospel. 💌 would love for you to stick around and be apart of the fam here.

xoxo, Han

There is something familiar in her curiosity, her openness to wonder, her independence, her willingness to follow questions wherever they lead. I, too, have been captivated by the possibilities of this life, drawn toward exploration, growth, and discovery.

That curiosity has led me down many paths. Yet, in time, I real…

Read more

It’s the illusion that spiritual activity equals intimacy with Christ. The truth is, we can fill our days with spiritual things while our lives are moving in a direction opposite of Jesus.

You can listen to worship music every day. You can have deep theological conversations. You can serve at church, lead a group, post the verse, and know exactly how to talk about what God is “teaching you.” You can know the language of intimacy with God without actually living in intimacy with God.

Spiritual activity is not the same thing as spiritual surrender. If we’re honest, Christian culture today makes it easier than ever to confuse the two.

We live surrounded by sermons, podcasts, reels, playlists, devotionals, conferences, and Christian content—all within the click of a button. None of these things are bad. They can be beautiful gifts and incredibly helpful tools. In many ways, we are extremely fortunate to have access to so many resources.

But if we’re honest, we’ve also learned how to consume them without letting the Scripture rooted within them change us.

I often think about the apostles. They didn’t have endless teachings to stream or devotionals to scroll through. They didn’t have podcasts, conferences, or a library of content at their fingertips. They had some scrolls within the synagogue, public readings, and daily surrender to the voice and leading of Jesus.

The danger for us is that constant access to spiritual content can create the illusion that we are growing close to Christ when we are simply consuming things about Him.

It’s possible to talk about God more than you actually talk to Him. It’s possible to know Scripture intellectually while resisting it personally. It’s possible to be spiritually busy while your heart is spiritually distant.

Scripture gives us a sobering reminder of this reality. James writes:

“You believe that God is one; you do well. Even the demons believe—and shudder!”

—James 2:19

Let’s talk about faith language. Even the demons have correct theology in many ways. They know who Jesus is. They recognize His authority. They understand truth about God. But knowledge without surrender is not faith.

Orthodoxy without obedience is not intimacy. Knowing the right things about God is not the same thing as walking with Him. Jesus spoke directly to this kind of disconnect:

“This people honors me with their lips, but their heart is far from me.”

—Matthew 15:8

That verse should stop us dead in our tracks, honestly. Because honoring Him with our lips looks spiritual. You can sing the songs. You can give the advice. You can post the encouragement. You can sound wise, grounded, and faith-filled.

But where is your heart?

The Bible consistently shows us that God is not impressed by external spirituality if the heart is not surrendered.

In 1 Samuel 16:7, we’re reminded:

“Man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

God isn’t evaluating your playlist. He’s examining YOU. Sanctification matters. It isn’t a perfectly linear process, but the trajectory of our lives should be moving toward Christ. Toward greater surrender. Toward deeper dependence.

We can be surrounded by spiritual things while our lives are moving toward compromise, distraction, control, comfort, or self-will instead of obedience.

James warns us of this kind of deception: “But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves.”

—James 1:22

There is a form of spiritual deception that doesn’t look rebellious. It looks engaged, informed, and involved. Hearing while deliberately disobeying creates distance. You’re still listening to worship, but you’re ignoring conviction. You’re still having spiritual conversations, but you’re avoiding repentance. You’re still learning Scripture, but you’re not letting it confront the areas of your life that need to change. The danger isn’t that you’ve abandoned faith. The danger is that you’ve learned how to keep spiritual noise around you so you don’t have to sit with the voice of the Holy Spirit.

Real intimacy doesn’t just make you feel close to Jesus. It makes you willing to follow Him when it costs you something.

That’s where the tension often shows up. The Christian life was never meant to be built on spiritual exposure. It was meant to be built on abiding.

Jesus said in John 15:4,

“Abide in me, and I in you… apart from me you can do nothing.”

Abiding isn’t consuming content. Abiding is remaining and yielding. It’s letting His voice shape your decisions, your desires, and your direction. Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is pause and ask:

Am I obeying what He’s already said?

Am I surrounding myself with spiritual things while protecting areas of my life from His authority?

If this feels heavy, it’s not meant to produce shame. Conviction is not condemnation.

Romans 8:1 reminds us:

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

Conviction is an invitation back to alignment. Back to surrender. Back to walking with Him instead of just talking about Him. The goal of the Christian life isn’t to sound spiritual.

The goal is intimacy.

Lust didn’t just tempt me it enslaved me.

I was addicted. I was disgusted. I hated myself. I hated my body. I hated my sin. Explicit conversations and fleshly gratification offered a false sense of validation, but they always left me empty. Completely drenched in shame and sickened by how far I had drifted from who God created me to be. I kept sinning against God and against my own body.

And the hardest part? No one knew. Because in the church, we often measure purity by behavior you can see. Yet…lust lives in the hidden places. In the messages. In the fantasies. In the need to feel wanted. In the craving for attention that feels like affection.

I wasn’t sleeping with anyone. But my heart was constantly searching for validation from men. For attention. For affirmation. For someone to make me feel desirable, chosen, seen. And every time I got it, the feeling faded almost immediately.

Lust doesn’t satisfy. It consumes.

Scripture says, “Each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death” (James 1:14–15).

That was my reality. Not physical death. But spiritual heaviness. Distance from God. A constant cycle of conviction, repentance, and falling again. At this point, I had been walking with the Lord for three years. I gave my life to Jesus after high school, when He opened my eyes to the weight of my sin and the depth of His mercy. Salvation wasn’t just an emotional moment for me, it was surrender. I knew I needed a Savior, and for the first time, I understood that Jesus didn’t just want to improve my life. He wanted my all of me.

When I came to Christ, so much changed. Old patterns fell away. My desires began to shift. I experienced a freedom I had never known before.

Which is why this struggle felt so confusing.

I hadn’t wrestled with lust since before my salvation. That season belonged to the old version of me, the girl who didn’t yet know Jesus, who was searching for validation in all the wrong places.

So when lust began to surface again, it shook me. How could this be happening? I’m saved now. I’m new. This isn’t who I am anymore.

Struggling with the same sin I thought had been left behind made me question myself, my growth, and at times, even my sincerity.

But what I didn’t understand then, and what the Lord has been patiently teaching me, is that:

Salvation makes you new. Sanctification makes you holy. And sanctification is a process that isn’t linear.

In my struggling the Lord revealed to me that I wasn’t just struggling with lust. I was looking to men to give me what only God could. Which was… validation, worth, identity, security, and purpose.

Lust wasn’t just about desire.It was about misplaced worship. Honestly that realization broke me. Because the issue wasn’t just what I was doing. It was what I was believing.

Somehow I thought I needed attention to be valuable. That being desired made me worthy. That someone else’s affirmation could fill the ache in my heart.

I think purity culture infiltrated my mind in a really negative way. I hated myself because I desired to experience sexual pleasure. Yet this is when the Holy Spirit taught me something really valuable and formative to my battle with lust:

Purity isn’t the absence of sex. Purity is the surrender of your heart. You can be physically abstinent and spiritually entangled. You can be a virgin and still enslaved to lust. You can look “pure” on the outside while your heart is starving for something other than God. The good news is that Jesus doesn’t just forgive the behavior. He heals the hunger!!!!

He began to show me that what I was really craving wasn’t attention. I was craving intimacy. To be known. To be chosen. To be delighted in.

And I already was.

Deep down, I knew the truth. But my flesh was louder. I remember coming to a point where I had to sit with the Lord and pray something I had never prayed before:

Make me sensitive to this sin again.

I didn’t want to tolerate it. I didn’t want to excuse it. I wanted to hate what was pulling my heart away from Him. I asked the Lord to give me a holy discomfort and a tenderness of conscience that wouldn’t let me grow numb or casual with what was costing me intimacy with Him.

Even more than conviction, I needed truth. I needed to sit and meditate on the reality that I was already fully known, fully chosen, and fully loved by a King.

A King who didn’t want something from me—but wanted me. He wasn’t asking for my body to provide Him pleasure. He wasn’t asking me to compromise my convictions to keep His attention. He didn’t need me to abandon my standards to make Him stay. His love was never transactional. His presence was never dependent on my performance. The validation I was chasing from men was something I already had in Christ.

Freedom didn’t come overnight. It came slowly. Through confession instead of hiding. Through cutting off conversations that fed my flesh. Through learning to sit in the discomfort instead of reaching for validation. Through replacing the voice of men with the truth of Scripture. Also…freedom doesn’t mean the absence of temptation. It doesn’t mean the struggle disappears. It doesn’t even mean you’ll never fall again. Freedom means that when you do stumble, you know where to run. You know who to seek. You return quickly to the One whose grace is greater than your weakness.

Conviction is not condemnation. Conviction leads to repentance! Condemnation leads to guilt and shame that ensnare you. The enemy wants you there. Shame says, You’re disgusting. God is disappointed in you. Conviction says, this isn’t who you are anymore.

If you’re reading this and your story feels similar… I want you to hear this clearly:

You are not disqualified because your struggle is hidden. You are not less pure because your battle is internal. And you are not too far gone because the cycle feels repetitive. Lust loses its power when it’s brought into the light. Purity is choosing, again and again, to turn your heart back toward the One who satisfies better than validation ever could.

I’m still walking this out. Still learning. Still surrendering. But I can say this with confidence; the freedom Jesus offers is deeper than behavior management. He doesn’t just call us to purity. He gives us a new heart that actually wants it. This battle against lust isn’t won by trying harder, being better, or striving for perfection. This battle is won by honesty, openness, surrender, and total reliance upon Christ the Lord.

xoxo,

Hannah

Hey so I’m a 24 year old Christian single and I genuinely love Valentine’s Day.

Weird, right?

Somewhere along the way, Valentine’s Day has picked up an unspoken rule: if you’re single, you’re supposed to dread it. If you don’t have a partner to celebrate with, sadness is assumed and almost expected. That assumption often shows up not in outright comments, but in subtle, well-meaning remarks that land awkwardly:

“Aw, are you ready for Valentine’s Day? I can see how that would be tough.”

To be honest, that kind of “empathy” is rarely as compassionate as it sounds. When no sorrow has been expressed, assuming it exists says more about how we view singleness than about the person living it. It implies that life without romantic partnership is somehow incomplete, less full, less joyful, less meaningful.

And that simply isn’t true.

The problem isn’t Valentine’s Day itself. The problem is the narrow way we’ve been taught to define love.

Most Valentine’s Day advertising centers on romance: roses, candlelit dinners, handwritten cards exchanged between couples. Please hear me clearly, romantic love is a beautiful, God-given gift that should always be celebrated. But singleness does not need to be diminished in order to honor someone else’s joy. Both realities can exist in harmony because God lovingly crafts each of His children with unique plans, purposes, and gifts. Every season whether single or married is intentional, full of value, and designed to cultivate the person He has called us to be.

While romantic love is a good gift, it was never meant to carry the full weight of our understanding of love. Scripture reminds us, “God is love” (1 John 4:8), meaning love does not originate in romance, but in God Himself. Valentine’s Day, at its core, is meant to celebrate the essence of love and as a Christian woman, I am deeply acquainted with agape love.

Agape is the self giving, covenantal love revealed most fully in Christ.

“God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

This is a love that met me long before I have ever chosen romantically, and one that will remain steady long after every earthly season shifts. Because of that, my joy will never hinge on my relationship status. In the past, I allowed my longing for a relationship to take such deep root in my heart that it became an idol. There’s no room for idd when your focus is on the all consuming love of God.

Regardless of my “status,” my gratitude is already overflowing. My life is rich with friendships that feel like family, meaningful work that gives me purpose, laughter, growth, and the steady presence of the Lord Himself. As Psalm 16:11 declares, “In your presence there is fullness of joy”—not partial joy, not delayed joy, but fullness.

This doesn’t mean desire disappears. Wanting marriage is not a lack of faith, and contentment doesn’t require pretending longing doesn’t exist. Paul himself acknowledges that singleness and marriage are both gifts, each with their own unique purpose (1 Corinthians 7:7). It’s just extremely important to recognize that singleness is not a waiting room where life is on pause until something better arrives. It is a real, purposeful season the Lord uses to create depth, discipline, devotion, and joy within the heart of His beloved.

Scripture never frames singleness as a deficiency, only as a different calling. Our lives are not measured by milestones, but by faithfulness. And when we treat Valentine’s Day as something singles must simply “get through,” we unintentionally reinforce the idea that joy is reserved for couples.

But joy rooted in Christ isn’t seasonal. It isn’t conditional. And it certainly isn’t dependent on a relationship status.

“The Lord is my portion,” writes the psalmist (Psalm 73:26). If the Lord Himself is our portion, then we are not lacking.

So no Valentine’s Day doesn’t expose what I lack. It highlights what I’ve already been given!!! And let me tell you, I’ve been spoiled by my Father who loves me so tenderly.

Love worth celebrating doesn’t begin or end with romance. You’re allowed to love Valentine’s Day, to laugh with friends, delight in sweet friendships, soak in the Father’s love, hug your parents, cuddle your dogs, and find joy in the simple, everyday blessings that make your heart full.

Celebrate all of it, because love in every form is a gift from God and your joy is never limited by your relationship status.

Alongside that, I’ve been meditating on the Aramaic word Maranatha—Come, Lord Jesus. With all the insanity unfolding around us globally, my longing for the eternal has grown heavier, more present, more pressing. Honestly, it feels closer to the surface than it ever has before.

For a long time, my deepest desires were wrapped up in dreams of a life I thought would finally make me whole: having my own family, the perfect husband, the intimacy and joy of marriage (and yes, that might sound awkward, but it’s honest), the freedom that comes with building the “perfect” home, the “perfect” marriage, the “perfect” children. Hear me clearly, those are good gifts. They are gifts from above. But they are not my purpose, and they are not the foundation of my identity as a daughter of God.

I do not have to possess those things in order to walk faithfully in who I am in Christ.

That realization alone has been a profound answer to many of my prayers.

I spent so many hours grieving a life I had never actually lived, mourning dreams that always felt just out of reach, aching for something undefined yet deeply personal. However, over the last year Jesus has done something different in me. Those longings didn’t disappear, but they were radically transformed. They were redirected into a deeper ache…one that has truly penetrated my heart, my body, my mind, and my soul.

I always desired heaven, even while longing for earthly things. But this is different. This longing is more consuming. My craving for heaven has begun to overshadow every other desire.

I think that’s why reading Psalm 84 today felt so sacred.

I know many scholars explain this psalm as pointing to the beauty of the temple. The sons of Korah were enamored with it, not because of the structure itself, but because it was where the living God made His dwelling. That is what made it so glorious. While that interpretation is theologically true, as I read today, the Spirit emphasized my longing for heaven.

I think of heaven as the dwelling place of the Lord, not because God is confined there (He isn’t), but because it is where faith will finally meet sight. Just like the psalmist, my soul longs for the courts of the Lord. I do not desire the courts because they are adorned with gold or splendor, but because He is there. The absence of pain, suffering, and tears is a mercy…but the true gift is His presence.

One day, I will behold my Savior with unveiled eyes.

“A day in Your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere.” Psalm 84:10

One day in the dwelling place of the Lord is better than a thousand days spent chasing the dream life I thought would fulfill me.

The psalm says, “I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness.” And honestly? That line stops me every time. I don’t need prominence. I don’t need comfort. I don’t need the life I once begged God for.

I would rather stand at the threshold of His Kingdom fully seen and known by Him than flourish anywhere else without His presence.

When we look at Psalm 84, we see that it was written by the sons of Korah. And what’s so striking about that is where they come from. Their lineage is rooted in rebellion. Korah led an uprising against Moses in the wilderness, gathering 250 leaders in opposition to the Lord’s appointed authority (Numbers 16). Judgment followed, and Korah was swallowed up in it. Yet Scripture tells us something remarkable, the sons of Korah did not perish (Numbers 26:9–11).

They remained.

That alone is a powerful redemption story. From a family marked by rebellion came worshipers who would one day write some of the most tender, God-centered poetry in all of Scripture. They had a place in the courts of the very God their ancestors once defied.

Psalm 84 is saturated with the language of love and longing. The sons of Korah aren’t merely describing the Lord; they are marveling at Him. They write with affection, awe, and deep desire, cherishing what it means to be in His presence. Verse 2 says, “My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh sing for joy to the living God.”

That line is so amazing to me.

Because we know the flesh often wages war against us. We’re told to crucify it daily in order to walk by the Spirit. And yet here, even the flesh, the part of us that so often fails, recognizes its need for God. It joins the song. It longs for Him too.

Verses 3–4 move me in a quieter, more tender way. The psalmist points to something so small and seemingly insignificant, the sparrow. Even the sparrow finds a home, a place of safety, and refuge near the altar of the Lord. If something as fragile and overlooked as a bird is welcomed and protected in His presence, how much more are we? (Matthew 6:26)

There is comfort in knowing that the house of the Lord is not reserved for the impressive or the powerful…but for the humble, the weary, and those who simply need a place to rest.

Within verses 1–7, there is a strong emphasis on pilgrimage and what it means to live as the children of God who are passing through. We are visitors here, travelers and sojourners, because our true citizenship is not rooted in this world but in heaven (Philippians 3:20; Hebrews 11:13–16). Along this journey, the psalm makes it clear that our strength does not come from ourselves or our circumstances, it comes from God alone.

Verse 5 says, “Blessed are those whose strength is in you, in whose heart are the highways to Zion.” Even the Valley of Baca, a place of weeping, becomes a place of springs when the Lord is the source of our strength (Psalm 84:6–7).

Beginning in verse 8, there is a noticeable shift in the psalm. It moves from praise and tender reflection to prayer and petition. The sons of Korah begin to plead with God, grounding their prayer in His covenant faithfulness. They appeal to the same God who was faithful to Jacob, trusting that He will be faithful to them as well (Psalm 84:8–9). Their confidence isn’t rooted in their own merit, but in who God has always proven Himself to be.

Verse 10 is my favorite. While the sons of Korah are speaking about the house of God, my mind can’t help but lift toward heaven. “For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere.” One day with Him…fully unveiled and fully glorified will surpass anything we could ever experience on this side of eternity.

I think it is also important to note that this longing for heaven doesn’t mean we have to live in sadness while we’re still here. Because of Christ and because of Pentecost, we have access to God now. We are the temple of the Holy Spirit (Acts 2; 1 Corinthians 6:19). He dwells within us. His nearness is not distant or delayed. It is present, active, and glorious.

Verse 10 becomes not just a statement of longing, but a declaration believers can pray over themselves, truly such a powerful weapon of spiritual warfare:
“I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness.”

It’s a reminder that proximity to God is better than false comforts apart from Him.

In verse 11, the sons of Korah return again to the character of God, using beautiful figurative language. “For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord bestows favor and honor. No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.” He shines on us. He protects us. He provides. That promise is huge.

Charles Spurgeon comments on this verse by saying, “There are a thousand mercies we do not enjoy, not because they are withheld from us, but because we do not take them.”

The psalm closes on a note of trust: “O Lord of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!”

With all of that being said, Psalm 84 is a sure reminder to me that my longing isn’t misplaced…it’s actually prophetic. My soul was made for His courts!!!! Until faith becomes sight, my prayer remains the same, Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

For the first time in a long while, you feel seen. Truly seen. Admired. Desired. Wanted. Hopeful. Expectant. Alive. Every glance, every text, every shared laugh seems to hum with electricity. It’s intoxicating, the kind of joy that makes your chest ache in the best possible way.

And yet… slowly, almost imperceptibly, something begins to shift.

It starts in subtle ways. The things that once brought you life—your writing, your art, your music, the sparks of creativity God planted deep in your soul—begin to feel distant, heavy, or even absent. You love creating. You love pouring your heart into your gifts. You love sharing your passions with the world. But for some reason… you aren’t.

At first, you dismiss it. “Not inspired. Not the right time. I’ll return to it later.” But later keeps passing by. Weeks turn into months. The space that once overflowed with your creativity, encouragement, and wisdom grows quiet. The truth becomes undeniable: your focus has shifted.

Piece by piece, you notice it more clearly. Your thoughts orbit around him more than God. You measure your days by interactions with him rather than moments with the One who sustains your life. Your joy, once rooted in God and your God-given gifts, begins to feel tethered to his attention, his approval, his presence.

You are losing yourself. Not because he demanded it. Not because he asked it. But because your own excitement, longing, and hope have quietly taken over.

Even here the Lord, gentle yet unyielding, whispers: “Watch your heart.”

This is not a condemnation of men, or even of romantic love itself. However, it is a caution. Are you placing him on a pedestal reserved for God alone? Has your admiration, your hope, your excitement transformed, without you realizing it, into idolization?

Scripture offers both warning and guidance, misplaced devotion is a dangerous thing. “You shall have no other gods before me” (Exodus 20:3). “I say to the Lord, ‘You are my Lord; apart from you I have no good thing’” (Psalm 16:2). Jesus reminds us, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21). Your heart, your gifts, your joy, these are treasures. And God deserves them first.

A golden calf may glimmer. It may appear as attractive, desirable, joyful, hopeful, or loving. Yet it is so important to remember, no earthly person can sustain you the way God does. The man you’re dating is a gift, yes. But your identity, your creativity, your passions, your very soul…they must remain anchored in Christ alone.

So, how do you enjoy the beauty of romance without losing yourself? How do you celebrate love without letting it overshadow the Source of Love itself?

1. Guard your creative life.
Carve out time for the passions God planted in your heart. Write, paint, sing, dance, teach—whatever sparks life within you. Let your soul breathe without clinging to man as the false source of oxygen. Your boyfriend does not breathe life into your lungs, the Father does.

2. Examine your heart posture.
Take necessary time to pray and reflect. Ask the Lord, “Lord, am I placing You first? Am I loving him in a way that keeps You central?” Honest self-examination protects your heart from subtle idolization creeping in.

3. Celebrate without being consumed.
It’s okay to feel giddy. To squeal with excitement regarding romance. Your excitement is precious to God. Just make sure you are consulting with the Lord, seeking His guidance above all else. Discernment is so important.

4. Anchor yourself in community and Scripture.
Surround yourself with friends, mentors, and spiritual guides. Let God’s Word and prayer remain your daily anchors. Remember who you are, whose you are, and where your true hope resides. How you engage in conversation with those you trust can reveal a lot about your heart in this season. If your words constantly circle back to him, his texts, his presence, your excitement, it may expose a fixation that has taken root. On the other hand, if you refuse to talk about him at all, you could be shutting out the wisdom and perspective that others can offer. Both extremes are opportunities to pause, reflect, and realign your heart with God’s truth.

5. Name the danger before it becomes an idol.
Be straight up with yourself and the Lord. It is such a power move to honestly admit, “I am at risk of making my excitement an idol.” Once named, the heart can be redirected.

Romance, excitement, admiration, it is all beautiful. Yet, they are meant to be enjoyed with eyes wide open and hearts rooted in the Creator. Let God be the first place you run. He is your first and truest love.

Don’t let him become a golden calf.

I sinned; therefore, I believed sin defined me.

In many reformed circles, we often introduce ourselves this way: “I’m just a sinner saved by grace.” We emphasize our depravity, our inability, our fallenness. And yes—recognizing our depravity matters. Scripture is clear that apart from Christ we are “dead in trespasses and sins” (Eph. 2:1), enslaved to unrighteousness (Rom. 6:20), and unable to please God (Rom. 8:7–8).

Yet claiming that identity as a believer, continuously wearing “sinner” as your name, quietly undermines the inheritance you’ve been called into.

You cannot fully walk in your co-heir identity while insisting your truest name is the one Christ died to bury. A “deadbeat sinner” may describe who I was, but it cannot define who I am in Christ.

Because the gospel does not merely improve me…it recreates me.

My old self was crucified with Christ (Rom. 6:6).

I was raised with Him to newness of life (Rom. 6:4).

I am no longer a slave to sin but a slave to righteousness (Rom. 6:18).

I am not condemned but justified (Rom. 8:1, 30).

I am not an orphan but adopted (Eph. 1:5).

I am not unclean but washed, sanctified, and justified (1 Cor. 6:11).

Yes, I still stumble. Yes, I still wrestle with my flesh (Gal. 5:17).

But sinner is no longer my identity. My sin may describe my weaknesses, but it no longer defines my nature. I am no longer in Adam; I am in Christ (1 Cor. 15:22). And identity flows from nature.

In Christ, grace didn’t just pardon me…it re-created me (Eph. 2:10). God did not leave me as I was; He raised me to spiritual life (Eph. 2:5), sealed me with His Spirit (Eph. 1:13), clothed me in righteousness (2 Cor. 5:21), and placed me in His household (Eph. 2:19).

My identity has been rerouted, secured by mercy, grounded in union with Christ, and upheld by the Spirit who testifies to my adoption (Rom. 8:15–16).

So now, I live from who He declares me to be:

A co-heir with Christ (Rom. 8:17) sharing in His inheritance, not my old condemned nature.

A daughter of the King (Gal. 4:7) no longer a slave, but a child.

Redeemed and made new (2 Cor. 5:17) a new creation with a new heart and new desires (Ezek. 36:26–27).

The righteousness of God in Christ (2 Cor. 5:21) not because of my perfection but because of His substitution.

Citizens of heaven (Phil. 3:20) living from a kingdom identity, not a graveyard past.

Called saints (Rom. 1:7; 1 Cor. 1:2) not because we are flawless, but because He has set us apart.

This is not arrogance!!! It is agreement with what God has spoken.

To cling to “sinner” as my primary name is to cling to an identity God Himself has crucified.

To cling to “saint,” “beloved,” “redeemed,” and “co-heir” is to cling to what grace has accomplished.

This, what Christ calls me, is truly who I am.

To walk in a manner worthy of our calling (Eph. 4:1) requires the setting aside of self—our desires, comforts, and ambitions—so that Christ may truly reign as Lord over every part of our lives. This is not a mere behavior adjustment, but a transformation of the inner person by the Spirit (Rom. 12:1–2), leading to a life of obedience born out of love, not obligation.

Speaking candidly, there have been seasons in my walk with Christ where His nearness felt tangible, where my heart burned with holy fire and the things of this world faded into the background (Phil. 3:8). In those moments, I was utterly captivated by His majesty, overwhelmed by the beauty of His holiness, and silenced by the sheer weight of His redeeming love and mercy (Ps. 63:1–3). The noise of life dimmed, and He became the loudest voice, the highest affection, and the greatest treasure of my soul.

It was in these sacred seasons of spiritual vitality that discipline did not feel burdensome—it flowed as a natural response to intimacy with Christ. I did not wake with reluctance or obligation; rather, seeking God through His Word became an instinctive reflex of the soul. Scripture was not simply a task to complete but the very sustenance I craved. As Jesus declared, “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Matt. 4:4, ESV), so too did my spirit feast daily on the Bread of Life (John 6:35).

There was no hesitation—only hunger. I drew near to the Lord, and true to His promise, He drew near to me (James 4:8). His presence satisfied me deeply, equipping me with a readiness to carry truth into every conversation and encounter throughout the day. In those moments, I was not coasting in lukewarm routine—I was abiding. And my abiding was not self-produced; it was entirely Spirit-enabled. As Christ Himself said, “Apart from Me, you can do nothing” (John 15:5).

Indeed, even our faithfulness originates in Him. It is the Spirit of God who empowers true devotion, for we are dependent on Christ even in our very act of depending on Him. We love because He first loved us (1 John 4:19), and we follow because He first called and enabled us.

Just as there are mountaintop seasons in the believer’s spiritual journey, there are also valleys marked by dryness and distraction. Life happens. The noise of the world grows louder, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, our spiritual rhythms begin to fade. The enemy of our souls is cunning. Scripture calls him “a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour” (1 Pet. 5:8), and if he cannot claim your soul, he will certainly attempt to compromise your focus. He hates disciplined believers. He loathes those who are committed to walking in obedience, so if he cannot destroy your salvation, he will seek to dull your effectiveness.

One of his primary tactics is subtle distraction. He doesn’t always present rebellion as rebellion. Instead, he masquerades as an angel of light (2 Cor. 11:14), presenting lies cloaked in false beauty: love that is actually lust, freedom that is actually bondage, success that is actually slavery. What appears enticing is often ensnaring. And slowly, the to-do lists pile up. Invitations flood in. Life grows busier. The calendar fills and so does your mind. In the chaos, the rhythm of devotion falters. What was once a Spirit-driven discipline becomes a mechanical habit, and then, eventually, a distant memory. Before you realize it, you’re coasting—disconnected from the Word that once nourished you daily. Perhaps the music playing through your headphones mirrors the life you left behind. Perhaps old habits and thought patterns begin to reemerge. The spiritual drift may feel subtle at first, but it always points in one direction: away from the Cross.

Yet even here, in the valley of distraction and spiritual fatigue, the grace of God pursues. He does not abandon His own. “Return to Me,” He says, “and I will return to you” (Mal. 3:7). And we can trust the promise of Philippians 1:6, that “He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.”

So if this resonates with you and you find yourself spiritually coasting, I pray in the Mighty name of Jesus that the Holy Spirit would awaken within you a holy burden: a deep, compelling desire to return to the Word of God, to persevere in prayer, and to seek the face of Christ with fresh urgency and longing.

Sanctification is not a linear, upward-only progression. It is a dynamic journey marked by both valleys and peaks, moments of zeal and seasons of wrestling. Take heart: these fluctuations do not define you—Christ does. Do not let a season of dryness convince you that you are disqualified. Instead, press in. Return to the One who restores the soul (Ps. 23:3) and renews the weary heart.

Remember, spiritual renewal is not earned through performance, it is received through presence. Resist the temptation to compensate by overloading yourself with unrealistic expectations. God is not after your perfection; He is after your heart. Begin simply. Set aside an attainable amount of time—perhaps just 30 minutes each day—to commune with the Lord in quiet, undistracted fellowship. Let that space be sacred, not hurried.

As James reminds us, “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you” (James 4:8). Intimacy with God is not reignited through striving, but through sincere, steady pursuit—a pursuit made possible not by your strength, but by the grace of the One who first pursued you.

These were not just words, they were realities that had quietly tightened around my soul like a noose, suffocating joy, clarity, and communion with God. For years, I bore the weight of these chains, often in silence, afraid to lift the veil on my personal battle.

While I have spoken before on issues like sexual sin and pornography in broader terms, I rarely opened the door to the deeper parts of my own struggle. Maybe it was shame. Maybe it was the fear that my voice would be reduced to just that topic, rather than pointing others wholly to the glory of Christ. And yet, I’ve come to see that confession does not diminish the gospel, it magnifies it.

To acknowledge that I am a sinner, deeply flawed and in need of grace, is not to center sin, but to exalt the Savior who rescues. Perhaps, in that honesty, someone else might feel less alone.

My first exposure to pornography was unintentional. I was around eleven years old when I stumbled across it left open in a place it never should have been. I remember feeling shocked, disgusted, and confused. It shattered a sense of innocence and implanted questions I was far too young to carry.

Years later, sometime between eighth and ninth grade, the curiosity was reignited not by accident, but through conversation. Friends spoke of it casually, and my interest was piqued. Temptation met curiosity, and I found myself returning to what I had once recoiled from.

It wasn’t just about images—it became a war for my affections, for purity, and for peace.

That was the moment the war moved from the shadows into the open. Every image, every click, carried an ache I couldn’t name. Even before I knew the Lord personally, His holiness still whispered in my conscience: This is not what you were made for. I told myself it would be “just this once,” then another, and another, until mere curiosity grew into craving. What started as watching soon pressed me toward acting, and empty conversations masqueraded as intimacy. The rush felt like validation, yet it left me hollower each time, numbing sorrow the way a drug numbs pain.

When Christ found me and opened my eyes to His grace, I finally saw how tightly those chains had wrapped around my soul. In mercy He stripped the filth away and dressed me in robes of righteousness. Yet still—like a dog returning to its vomit—I sometimes reached again for the grave‑clothes He had already buried. That is the scandal and the solace of the gospel: the Son of God loves repeat offenders. He is not surprised by our relapses, nor stingy with His forgiveness. “Where sin increased, grace abounded all the more” (Rom 5:20).

This is not a license to sin freely, nor an excuse to trample the grace of Christ. Rather, it is a reason to rejoice with trembling—that even in our frailty, His love remains steadfast. For five years now, I have walked with Jesus. I confess: the echoes of old desires still whisper. There have been moments where I have stumbled, where the pull of the flesh overcame my better judgment, and I gave in.

Even as one redeemed—cleansed, sealed, and called—I still wrestle. This thorn has not been removed, and perhaps it won’t be this side of glory. But the battle has already been won. I anchor my soul in the promise that “the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us” (Rom 8:18). That glory includes freedom not just from guilt, but from shame.

I’ve had to learn that self-hatred is not the fruit of repentance—it’s a trap. Shame tells you to hide; grace calls you home. In those moments of failure, the enemy's strategy is clear: if he can’t keep you from falling, he’ll try to keep you from getting back up. He wants you stuck in the shadows, too ashamed to turn to Christ. However, we serve such a Savior endowed in humility, Jesus meets us even there, saying, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor 12:9). Let that be your banner, even in battle.

The Lord does not despise you in your weakness. He is not repelled by your brokenness, nor does He recoil at your need. Rather, He draws near to the contrite in heart (Psalm 34:18), longing to clothe you not in shame, but in forgiveness, grace, and divine covering. He is the God who sees you, knows you, and still loves you. There is no stain so deep that the blood of Jesus cannot cleanse it. You are not too far gone—He beckons you to come, as you are.

You can overcome, not in your own strength, but by the power of the Spirit who dwells within you. For years now, 1 Corinthians 10:13 has been a shield to me in times of temptation: “No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.”

Friend, the way of escape is always Christ. In every moment of weakness, there is a door open to the throne of grace (Hebrews 4:16). Draw near. Choose Him. Crucify the flesh and its fleeting pleasures, for “those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires” (Galatians 5:24). Sanctification is not a moment, but a journey—a daily dying, and a daily rising in Him. You are not alone in this war. In Christ, victory is not a possibility, it is a promise.

To love God’s creation necessarily includes a measure of respect and care for oneself—not as a pursuit of self-glory, but as an act of stewardship. Humanity is not merely a functional creation of God; we are His imago Dei—image-bearers, fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14). Moreover, believers are now temples of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). To dishonor ourselves is, in some sense, to dishonor the God who formed us and now indwells us.

For many years, I recoiled at the idea of “self-love,” equating it with vanity or theological error. This rejection, though well-intentioned, led me down a path of severe self-deprecation. I failed to regard myself as a daughter of God, a redeemed image-bearer, and instead allowed distorted self-perceptions to shape my identity. While I affirmed intellectually that Jesus loved me, that truth had not penetrated my understanding of personhood in Christ.

The biblical concept of love is fundamentally different from its worldly counterpart. God’s love is holy, sacrificial, and transformative. It does not condone sin, nor does it center the self. Rather, it renews the self by conforming it to the image of Christ (Romans 8:29). If God sees us as beloved, redeemed, and co-heirs with Christ (Romans 8:17), then surely we must regard ourselves through that same lens—not with arrogance, but with gratitude and reverence.

It is crucial to clarify that God does not worship us, nor should we elevate ourselves above Him. That would be a theological error. As Romans 8:7 reminds us, our natural state is one of enmity with God. Yet through the atoning work of Christ, we have been reconciled and made new (2 Corinthians 5:17). This new identity is not rooted in personal merit but in divine mercy. Therefore, embracing our identity in Christ does not lead to self-idolatry but to deeper humility and thanksgiving.

There are several key theological truths worth noting:

    1.    Love Does Not Equate to Idolatry: While the world often confuses love with idolization, Scripture teaches that love—when rightly ordered—is grounded in God. We can love ourselves rightly when we understand that our worth is derivative, not intrinsic. We are valuable because He values us.

    2.    Self-Denial Is Not Self-Hatred: Jesus calls His followers to deny themselves (Luke 9:23), but this is not a command to despise oneself. Rather, it is an invitation to submit the self to God’s purposes. Ironically, it is in self-denial that we often experience the deepest form of Christ-like love—one that extends not only to others but also to ourselves as vessels of His grace.

    3.    Transformation Leads to Proper Self-Regard: The love of Christ is not static; it is life-giving and sanctifying. As we are transformed by His gospel, we begin to see ourselves not as objects of shame, but as recipients of divine mercy. The self-condemnation that once felt appropriate is replaced with gospel-grounded dignity.

To love oneself, then, is not to indulge the flesh but to honor the God who has redeemed our humanity. It is to treat our bodies and souls as sacred, not because we are inherently glorious, but because Christ now dwells within us. A biblical posture toward self-love does not inflate the self; it submits the self to the Lordship of Christ and, in doing so, learns to steward well the life He has entrusted to us.

In conclusion, self-love rightly understood is not antithetical to the Christian faith—it is part of a holistic response to the gospel. By loving God first, we learn to love others, and in turn, to see ourselves not as worthless or exalted, but as beloved. In this, the love of Christ reshapes every facet of our identity, including how we view and care for ourselves.