When most people hear the word surrender in a faith context, they picture a dramatic moment. A woman on her knees, tears streaming, finally releasing the thing she has been holding onto for years. A turning point. A before and after. A single, identifiable moment when everything changed and she walked away lighter than she had been in longer than she could remember.

And sometimes it does look like that. My own journey had a moment like that — the gentle, clear prompting of God saying Enough, and the obedience that followed. I have written about that moment before (read my first blog post if you are interested), and it was real and it was significant and it did change the trajectory of everything that came after it.

But what nobody talks about is what comes after that moment. The ordinary Tuesday, weeks or months or years later, when the grip starts to tighten again and she has to choose, for what feels like the hundredth time, to open her hands. The moment that does not feel dramatic or significant or worthy of a blog post, but that is, in many ways, the truer and more important practice.

That king of surrender is what I want to talk about today.

She notices something. A flare. A rash. A strange fatigue that wasn't there yesterday, settling into her bones like weather she didn't see coming. And before she has even fully registered what she is seeing or feeling, the familiar cascade begins — the tightening in her chest, the reaching for her phone, the opening of browser tab after browser tab, the spiral of worst-case scenarios that carries her far away from the present moment and deep into a fear she can't quite name but has been living with for longer than she wants to admit.

She believes she is helping her body. She is doing what she has always done — gathering information, searching for answers, trying to stay one step ahead of whatever this is. But what she is actually doing, what most of us do for years before we learn any differently, is responding to her body's communication with so much noise and urgency that she can no longer hear what it is actually trying to say.

This post is about learning to hear it.

I want to share with you about a season of my life that I have been sitting with differently lately. It’s not really regret, per se, because I genuinely believe that every experience is a data point and every hard season a thread in the story that brought me here. But with a tenderness. A subtle acknowledgment of something true that I want to say out loud.

I missed some parts of the little years with my son.

Not because I wasn't there physically. I was there at the dinner table, going through bedtime routines, at the school pickup line and the Sunday morning French toast, and all the ordinary moments that make up a childhood. My body was present for all of it. But mentally, I just always felt like I was deep in a fog. I was not always there in the way that matters most, in the full and available and genuinely inhabiting way that I understand now, on the other side of it, to be the thing he most needed from me.

And I think a lot of women reading this know exactly what I mean, even if they have never said it out loud either.

"Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my life." Psalm 143:8 NIV

That verse has lived on my heart for a long time. Not because I memorized it as a spiritual discipline or wrote it on a sticky note on my bathroom mirror, but because I have come to experience it as deeply, personally true — that the morning, when approached with intention and trust, becomes one of the most life-giving parts of the entire day. It has taken me years to understand this fully, and even longer to build the kind of morning that reflects it. But what I have learned along the way is something I rarely hear anyone talk about, and I think it might be exactly what you need to hear today…

She picked up her phone looking for answers.

Maybe she was searching for something specific — a recipe, a supplement recommendation, a protocol that might finally work. Or maybe she was just scrolling, the way we all do, looking for something without quite knowing what.

And then she found her.

The woman who glows. Whose gut is healed. Whose energy is through the roof. Who has found the thing — the diet, the routine, the morning ritual — that fixed everything. And she's sharing it all, helpfully, generously, with before and after photos and a caption about how she finally feels like herself again.

And something in your chest tightened.

Not because you're not happy for her. But because you're doing everything right too. And you still don't feel that way.

If that moment sounds familiar — this post is for you.

She has a version of her life she's been saving for later.

Later — when the symptoms settle. When the energy comes back. When she finally figures out what's wrong and fixes it. When she feels well enough to really show up.

In the meantime she is managing. Getting through. Doing what needs to be done while keeping one eye on her body and one hand on the door — ready to fully arrive as soon as her health gives her permission.

But later keeps moving. And the life she's been saving herself for keeps passing by in the background.

If this is where you are — this post is for you.

She wakes up and before her feet hit the floor she's already checking in.

How does my stomach feel? Is that a headache coming on? Did I sleep well enough or am I going to crash this afternoon?

She moves through her morning assessing. Through lunch evaluating. Through the afternoon anticipating. Through dinner monitoring.

By the time her head hits the pillow she has spent a significant portion of her day inside her own body — scanning, assessing, waiting for something to go wrong.

And she is exhausted. Not just physically. But from the relentlessness of her own attention.

If this sounds familiar — this post is for you.

She finally sits down. The kids are occupied, the to-do list is still running in her head, and instead of feeling relief she feels restless. Uncomfortable. Like she should be doing something. Like sitting here is somehow falling behind.

So she picks up her phone. Or starts mentally reorganizing the pantry. Or adds three things to tomorrow's list.

Because sitting still — really, truly still — feels almost impossible. And if she's honest, it feels a little wrong.

If that's you — you're not alone. And you're not lazy. You're living in a culture that has convinced you that your worth is measured by your output. And that belief — however unconscious — is costing your body more than you realize.

She's sitting down to eat. Maybe it's a family dinner, maybe it's lunch alone. And before the first bite, her mind is already running the checklist.

Does this have gluten? Is this going to cause a flare-up? Should I have eaten that yesterday if I'm eating this today? Is this food going to hurt me?

What should be one of the most nourishing moments of her day has become one of the most stressful.

If that's you — this post is for you.

How do we, as Christian women, feel at peace in our bodies while in the trenches of trying to heal? What does Scripture say about it? Inside this blog post, we’ ll explore this topic that is sure to bring up a lot of emotions. Let’s take a deep breath and walk through it together…

These are 7 daily rhythms that I, a Christian woman who was struggling to heal her body, incorporated to bring peace and restoration back to my overworked nervous system.

Over time, as your body lives in a state of fight-or-flight, this creates a spiraling of internal pressure, affecting many body systems like digestion, cardiovascular, and immune systems.

It may not always be obvious.
But it is constant.

I battled with frustrating health symptoms for years, tried everything to heal, and wrecked my nervous system. It wasn’t until I let go of the striving to heal and lived in sync with God’s beautiful rhythms that I felt empowered in my health and at peace with my body and in my life.