We live in a culture that confuses ambition with identity. From a young age, many of us are taught—directly or indirectly—that our value lies in what we accomplish. We celebrate being busy. We measure worth by output. Phrases like “grind,” “rise and hustle,” and “keep pushing” are not just slogans; they’re expectations. If you’re tired, you’re doing something right. If you pause, you risk falling behind.
For many women, especially those navigating early adulthood and starting their careers, the pressure to be productive becomes internalized. We learn to associate forward motion with self-respect. We treat slowness as an illness. Not knowing exactly what we want becomes a liability. We fill our days with action—working, responding, managing—and we learn to call this clarity. We praise ourselves for staying ahead, even when we don’t know what we’re trying to reach.
The culture doesn’t just reward output; it teaches us to narrate our own lives in terms of progress. When someone asks how you’re doing, you’re supposed to reference a project. Something you’re building. Something you’re fixing. Something you’re growing through.
This way of living trains us to manage our own inner lives like tasks. We don’t just feel things—we try to organize them. We talk about emotional growth in terms of traction. We start to expect our therapy, our healing, even our rest to demonstrate results.
The irony is that many of us don’t realize how much pressure we’re carrying until something quiets down. A canceled plan. A slow season. Then we hear it—the hum beneath the noise. A low-grade unease begins to surface. We begin to question whether stillness is actually restful, or just another performance we do not yet know how to evaluate.
“The wounds of a friend can be trusted, but an enemy multiplies kisses.” — Proverbs 27:6
This verse resists the logic of hustle culture. It refuses to equate support with constant affirmation or growth with constant movement. It suggests that what strengthens us may not feel good in the moment, and what feels good may not actually be trustworthy.
In a world that values ease and validation, this is a difficult truth. We’re used to measuring emotional health by how affirmed we feel—by whether something “resonates,” by whether we leave a conversation feeling more certain, more seen. But Scripture disrupts that standard. It reminds us that real care sometimes includes confrontation. That honesty may cut before it heals.
Not all encouragement sounds like praise. Not all help feels like support. And not all growth is smooth. The friend who loves you enough to say the hard thing is worth more than the one who only echoes your frustration.
This verse draws a line between comfort and character. It doesn’t celebrate pain—but it does recognize that not all discomfort is harm. Some of it is evidence that something deeper is being reshaped.
The same is true in our spiritual lives. If every message we receive—internally or from others—simply affirms what we already believe or feel, we’re not being stretched. And without that stretching, we mistake stillness for faithfulness when it might just be fear in disguise
Growth is not the same thing as momentum. It is not always measured by new insight, visible change, or emotional clarity. Sometimes growth looks like staying in a conversation that makes you uncomfortable. Sometimes it means making a shift—not because you’re giving up, but because you’re finally ready to tell the truth about what you need.
In Philippians 3:7, Paul writes, “Whatever were gains to me I now consider loss for the sake of Christ.” He’s describing a radical reordering of what counts as progress. Paul had achieved status, influence, and spiritual authority by every external measure. But when he encountered Christ, all of that ambition lost its appeal. What once looked like success began to look like distraction.
Paul’s transformation was not about passivity, but about direction. His passion wasn’t extinguished—it was repurposed. He still moved with urgency, but now it was rooted in obedience, not ego.
The same shift is available to us. We don’t need to abandon our desire to grow. But we do need to ask what’s driving it. Are we chasing clarity because we’re afraid of confusion? Are we pursuing change because we’re afraid of what happens if we stay?
Spiritual maturity is not about constant motion. It’s about alignment. It’s about letting the Spirit—not fear, not fatigue, not validation—set the pace.
What assumptions do you carry about what growth should feel like?
You don’t need to prove you’re growing in order to be faithful. You don’t need to explain every shift or justify every pause. The pressure to perform your healing—whether through words, achievements, or insights—does not come from God.
What He asks of you is honesty. A willingness to be shaped. The courage to stay open, even when you’re uncertain what’s next.
If you’re in a quiet season, one that feels slow or unclear, you are not behind. You’re not doing it wrong. You are simply not rushing what cannot be rushed.
Let the Spirit set the pace. Let Scripture hold the questions. Let discomfort be a doorway instead of a detour.
You are not falling short. You are being invited deeper.
Closing Prayer
God,
I confess how quickly I measure my worth by what I can show, prove, or produce. I admit that I often chase clarity more than I seek Your presence. But right now, I choose to pause.
I release the pressure to grow on a schedule. I surrender the need to feel constant progress. Teach me to trust You in the stillness, to listen when things are quiet, and to stay when I’m tempted to run.
Help me tell the truth—about what I want, what I fear, and what I’m becoming. Make me receptive to Your pace, even when it stretches me. Make me brave enough to let discomfort do its work.
I ask not for quick answers, but for deeper roots. Not for easy growth, but for real transformation. Hold me in that.
Amen.
The Better Portion
Trade your distraction for devotion and your busyness for belonging, through scripture-centered reflections and questions.
