Ditching the Doormat

I’ve always been better at yes than no. Yes to helping, yes to serving, yes to juggling a dozen things at once because surely, somehow, I’ll make it work. Overperformance and people-pleasing, touched with a little part-time perfectionism, have been lifelong coping skills. They protected me when survival meant usefulness and worth was tied to self-sacrifice. They kept me safe when acceptance required carefully creeping through a childhood that felt like a minefield.

As I began to lay those things aside, I nursed the wounds of losing people I loved. People who watched me learning to set boundaries, cheered me on as I grew...and then left me behind when I stopped suffocating myself to keep them breathing. I told myself it was good, even if it hurt. That those people showed me the difference between who valued me and who valued what I could give. That saying "no" as self-care was part of learning how to balance servanthood vs servitude.

And honestly, I thought I had done pretty well...but the last few weeks have taught me that there's still work to do. Still balance to be found between serving and self-care.

Because now, it's bigger than finding peace in boundaries. It's about resting in the space between exhaustion and obedience, realizing when helping hurts.

I still say yes when I don’t have time or energy. When it costs me money or meals. When it means living on less sleep than an African bush elephant—with the weight of one strapped to my shoulders. 

I show up because I enjoy being helpful. I'm in umpty-billion groups because I value the invitation to participate. But now I wonder if there's still an echo of the old belief that taught me love had to be earned. And I wonder if that echo has been drawing me slowly away from a purpose that makes my soul sing, only to pacify people who don't (or don't want to) understand it.

This year began with incredible hope. The promise of restoration. And I'm still trusting in that promise...but after the last few months of chaos, I feel more devoured than restored. So I wasn't that surprised when this week, through a string of moments far too ironic to ignore, God reminded me that saying yes isn’t always the right move. Sometimes it’s obedience—but sometimes it's distraction. Often, it's hidden under the veil of good things, like mold that goes unnoticed until it makes you sick. Someone once told me, "If the enemy can’t take you out, he’ll wear you out." And they were right.

So maybe my word for the year ahead is one I’ve never thought of as “spiritual” before. Maybe my word is a very quiet, very simple, perhaps sometimes frightening...No.

Monday, I suited up and spent the morning cleaning house for a friend—alone. My own house sat neglected, waiting patiently for "later" while I gathered supplies, reorganized writing time, and lent energy borrowed from empty reserves. I was thrilled to be able to help someone with something they truly could not do on their own. I was honored to be the kind of person someone else could see as a blessing.

But I was also silently seething.

The anger I drowned in worship music and Fabuloso had nothing to do with the person whose home I scrubbed; it was about being the only one who made time, out of so many. In the Christian church we talk about being “the hands and feet of Jesus,” but that day I wept in frustration because sometimes when the work gets dirty, Jesus looks like a quadruple amputee.

And it's me who shows up when no one else will. The divorced, single mom who gets the chronic side-eye for writing women’s fiction instead of devotionals. The one who doesn’t fit, has never fit, may never fit...but shows up anyway.

By evening, running on heat exhaustion, caffeine withdrawal, and a handful of gluten free crackers smeared with cream cheese, I was studying my schedule for the rest of week and crying out to God. "Why is it always me?"

And in his quiet way, he arched timeless eyebrows and raised an age-old shoulder. "You do this to yourself," he said. "You never say no. But you'll learn."

Every year he gives me a word. I guess next year, it's No.

Later that night, God gave me a verse—and the next day he gave me another. And they're not about judgment or selfishness or abandoning the people I care for; they're about discernment and stewardship. They're a reminder to protect my calling.

Wednesday, the message got louder. During church, I saw how easily even good things can pull us from right things. How easily a calling can be swept under and drowned in a sea of “yes.” If my pastor had played every sport, coached every team, and organized every tournament, he might never have had time to pastor those who count on him. Sure, he might still have taught and coached with mindful intention. He might not have been taken out.

But he would have been worn out. Like me.

Thursday morning’s Bible reading hit me like a ton of bricks. Micah, chapter seven. Discouragement tempered by hope, lamentation wrapped in restoration. I was still carrying those moments on Friday morning, turning them over like pebbles in my hands as I discussed boundaries and stewardship with my surrogate spiritual "Mama" in the bright lights of the local Dollar Tree.

And there it was, sitting right beside the checkout line: a literal NO button. The box promised this button would cycle through half a dozen ways to say no—and my little "Mama" and I broke into giggles as she plucked the button from my hands and tossed it in the cart.

If God had been standing there with us, between cheap pregnancy tests and cute back-to-school notebooks, I think he would have been laughing too. "Mama" might have bought it, but that button felt like a gift from my Father.

I've pressed it dozens of times throughout the weekend, just for the joy of it, unable to hold back the smile it brings. And for the first time in a long time, "no" doesn't feel like failure. It feels like freedom.

*****

I never meant to trade peace in the name of service, and I never intended to let exhaustion become a qualifier for obedience. Either way, it hasn’t been fair—to me, to my kids, to the people I serve, or to you, the reader for whom I am called to write.

Because the truth is, while overperformance and people-pleasing in various areas of my life are habits I picked up to survive, they no longer serve me like they used to. They're not protecting me anymore. Still, I think the hard part is yet to come—choosing differently will probably cause tension. It may bring a wave of rejection or loss.

But I'm ready now. Because servanthood and servitude are not the same thing, and my no doesn’t diminish my faith or hurt my calling. Actually, it makes me more available to the call I've always been meant to follow. And it's okay if the people around me don't get it, because they didn't hear it.

So maybe in 2026, my word is no. No to emotional exhaustion. No to constant overwhelm and distraction. No to playing the rope in a tug-of-war between the Word I count on and World I live in. But maybe even the no is a yes in some ways. Because I'll still be serving where and when I can. But I'll do it when it serves in a way that works, saying yes to stronger boundaries, greater discernment, and truer freedom.

And maybe that's the next step in learning to...

Sometimes the best way to stay grounded is to step away from the noise. That's why I've created a space for us to do that together, with a free weekly recap that includes recent blog and social content links as well as occasional giveaways or behind the scenes info. The best part? You can find it right in your inbox.