Leaving the Stage, Learning to Stay

My Old Solutions Don't Work Anymore

I didn’t expect trust to be the hardest part.

A few months ago, I packed up my life in Texas and planted new roots in Tennessee. New home. New job. New church. New rhythms. On paper, it was an exciting season—fresh beginnings, open doors. But in reality, it has felt more like a long inhale that I haven’t quite exhaled yet.

Trust is the undercurrent of it all—not in the sense of learning to trust others, but in proving that I am trustworthy.

• Sundays feel like middle school kickball tryouts—standing in the lineup, waiting to be picked. Each payday, I check my motive: Am I tithing to honor God with my first fruits, or am I trying to prove to some stranger on the other end of this app that I’m committed? That I’m trustworthy? That I matter here? Hey, over here! Does anybody see me?

• At home, I carry the weight of being the man my wife can trust to show up healthy—especially through the uncertainty of this transition. My track record has some fragile history, so I make it a priority—one day at a time.

• And then there’s me—trying to prove to myself that I’m capable of this transition. Trusting myself. Believing that I’m not just surviving but becoming.

And if I’m honest? That last one might be the hardest.

For years, I was a pastor in Texas. A leader. And with that title came an unspoken rule—sometimes even a spoken one—that you don’t let people see you struggle. You’re the stable one. The strong one. You have to lead from a place of victory, not vulnerability. Tell them how you are an overcomer, but leave out the messy part you are still trying to overcome. So, you learn to edit yourself. You learn how to package your pain into something digestible, something redemptive, something with a sermon-friendly resolution.

But do you know what happens when you spend years keeping your struggles beneath the surface? Your relationships never reach maturity. You never reach vulnerability. You become well-loved, but not truly known. Eventually, that distorts into another lie - if they really knew the real me, they wouldn’t love me. It’s the perfect recipe for public charisma with an extra measure of private self-hatred.

One of the hopes I had in leaving pastoral ministry was that I could finally feel free to be me, to experience authentic connection—people I could be real with, people I wouldn’t have to perform for. I wouldn’t have to be a superhero, have all the answers, or carry the weight of leading. (To be clear, the wonderful church family I had the honor of leading never placed that burden on me. It’s just the nature of the beast, I suppose, fed and strengthened by my own unhealthy parts.)

But now that I have the opportunity, I’m realizing I don’t even know how to live authentically. I’ve spent so long being "blessed and highly favored" that I’m having to learn how to show my wounds to my fellow warriors.

You’ve heard of the typical stress and trauma responses? Fight, Flight, Freeze, and Fawn. I’ve never been much of a fighter, and I don’t freeze. My immediate responses always land somewhere in flight or fawn.

Flight is escape. It’s busyness, achievement, distraction, addiction, numbing out—anything to outrun the fear of not being enough. It can look responsible and productive, even admirable. But at its core, it’s avoidance. If I just keep moving, keep performing, keep proving, maybe I won’t have to sit with my own insufficiency.

Fawn is a different kind of survival. It’s wearing a mask, blending in, saying what’s expected—anything to be accepted, anything to keep the peace. It’s nodding, smiling, making sure everyone else is comfortable, even at the cost of your own authenticity. It’s pretending everything’s fine, even when your soul is unraveling.

When faced with my weaknesses, lack, pain and insecurity, my life script is to flee or fawn. I’m trying to change that. In fact, by simply sharing this with you and shining a light on it, I’m stripping it of power.

Here is where the real tension comes in—between my lack and God’s sufficiency.

Historically, I’ve seen my lack as something to overcome. I thought if I just worked hard enough, learned fast enough, and proved myself valuable enough, then maybe I would be worthy of the trust I’m trying to build. But what if my lack isn’t a problem to be solved? What if my insufficiency isn’t an obstacle, but an invitation?

Paul wrestled with this same tension. He begged God to remove his weakness, his "thorn in the flesh," but instead of removing it, God gave him a promise:

"My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness." — 2 Corinthians 12:9

Not despite weakness. In weakness.

I don’t want to waste this season resenting my lack. I want to live well in it. That’s why I’m doing the hard work—not just hoping things will change, but actively stepping into growth. I’m investing in a fantastic counselor, someone who’s helping me untangle the narratives of shame I’ve carried for too long. I’m pushing past my comfort zone and showing up in spaces where authenticity is the expectation, not the exception. I’m seeking out community with others who are walking similar journeys, because healing doesn’t happen in isolation.

I know what I would tell a close friend going through the same thing. I would remind them to enjoy the journey. To step gently. To be kind to themselves. I would assure them that God isn’t finished yet.

So I guess today, I’m choosing to tell myself the same thing.

If you’re in a season of uncertainty—of transition, of tension, of learning to trust when everything feels fragile—know that you’re not alone. I see you. More importantly, God sees you. And He isn’t through with us yet.

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