The Moment That Changed Everything
The warm spring air filtered through the screened-in porch, carrying the sound of my toddlers’ laughter. They played in the sun-dappled area, blissfully unaware of the storm raging within me. This porch was my haven—a place where they could roam freely in the sun without me chasing after them, because chasing wasn’t an option that day. I was fourteen weeks pregnant with my third child in just over two years, and my body and spirit were unraveling.
My hands rested on the worn arms of the porch chair, trembling from fatigue. I was nauseous, light-headed, and utterly drained. Tears slipped silently down my face as I sat there, unable to summon the energy to wipe them away. That morning, I’d had a panic attack—the kind that leaves you shaking, breathless, and grasping for answers. I couldn’t understand why everything felt so impossibly hard, why I couldn’t meet the expectations I had been taught were non-negotiable.
I was failing—or so I thought. Failing as a wife, as a mother, as a person. In the world I grew up in, the role of a wife and mother wasn’t just a calling; it was my only path, my sole measure of worth. Yet here I was, struggling to even keep my children fed and safe, let alone embody the impossible standard of the "perfect" wife and mother. Beneath the exhaustion, beneath the tears, a quiet anger simmered—an anger I couldn’t yet name.
The Weight of Belief
The teachings of my childhood loomed over me like a shadow. Raised in the IBLP/ATIA Bill Gothard cult, I was taught that following the rules would bring blessings and straying from them would bring curses. These weren’t abstract ideas—they were woven into the very fabric of who I believed I was. To question them felt like questioning God Himself.
Using birth control was one of those unbreakable rules. It was a direct rebellion against divine order, I was told—a choice that would bring financial ruin, marital discord, or worse. But as I sat there on that porch, unable to muster the strength to chase after my toddlers, the cost of this transactional obedience felt too high.
I didn’t feel like I could survive another pregnancy—not physically, not emotionally, not spiritually. And as I sat there, clutching the edge of that chair with trembling hands, a quiet but fierce thought rose within me:
What if my survival was sacred too?
The Moment of Rebellion
In that moment, something within me shifted. It wasn’t clarity; it wasn’t even questioning. It was desperation. I looked at my children, their bright faces lit by the sun, and realized I couldn’t keep living like this. My body was breaking. My mind was breaking. I felt like I was disappearing, and if I disappeared, who would care for them?
I made the decision that I would start using birth control after this pregnancy, knowing it would be seen as a rebellion in my circles. I didn’t know what the consequences would be—I was terrified that I might lose everything. But alongside that fear, there was a sliver of relief. For the first time, I could breathe. I didn’t have to live in constant dread of another pregnancy. I could focus on the children I already had.
The Awakening
Weeks turned into months, and I began to notice something unexpected: the curses I had been taught to fear never came. I didn’t lose financial stability. My marriage didn’t crumble. Instead, I began to feel a freedom I had never known.
This realization planted a seed of doubt. For the first time, I questioned whether I believed the things I had been taught—or whether I had simply accepted them because I had no reason not to. If this rule wasn’t true, what else might I be carrying that wasn’t mine to hold? Did I want to believe in this transactional God?
This moment became the spark of something much bigger. It wasn’t a lightning-bolt awakening or a sudden moment of clarity. It was the first, shaky step on a long road of remembering myself—who I was before I had buried my needs, my desires, and my voice beneath the weight of expectation and fear.
The Truth I Found
For me, the first step toward awakening wasn’t questioning my beliefs—it was trusting my needs. It was the quiet yet radical act of acknowledging that my survival, my health, and my joy mattered. In honoring those truths, I began to peel back the layers of who I thought I had to be, discovering the essence of who I truly am.
This journey inward—toward self-knowledge—opened the door to something far greater: a relationship with Love itself. For it is only when we are honest with ourselves, when we have faced the truths hidden beneath our masks, that we can truly encounter the divine. We cannot know Love until we see ourselves fully, and in that seeing, we begin to reflect the sacred Love that has always been there, longing to be known.
This is the paradox and beauty of self-remembering: the path to knowing God is inseparable from the path to knowing ourselves.
An Invitation to Remember
To anyone who feels lost in the roles they’ve been told to play: You are not failing. You are not weak. You are simply being called back to yourself. Trust your needs, your desires, and your worth. Self-remembering begins with small rebellions—moments when you choose to honor yourself, even when it feels terrifying.
The world does not need you to disappear. It needs you to show up—fully, powerfully, unapologetically you.
Reflection Questions: Trusting Your Needs
How does honoring your needs/opinions feel to you?
Does it feel freeing, terrifying, or somewhere in between? Why?When have you felt relief after finally listening to what your body, mind, or soul needed?
Recall a moment when you trusted yourself, even if it felt hard. What did you learn from that experience?What small step can you take today to acknowledge your survival, health, or joy?
Choose one need you’ve been neglecting and take one action to meet it, no matter how small. What would that look like for you?How might your beliefs about yourself shift if you started prioritizing your needs?
Imagine a version of yourself who honors their health, joy, and survival. How does that person think, act, and feel differently?What does trusting your needs teach you about who you truly are?
Consider how meeting your needs might align you closer to your authentic self. What does this tell you about your own worth?
