Square Peg In A Round Hole

Anyone who knows me knows I'm a collection of contrasts. I'm open and welcoming, but so fiercely protective of my home as a sanctuary that most of my friends have never been there. I'm a strict, present, and sometimes authoritative parent, but I'm also the reason my children know how to cuss in perfect context and exactly when to flip the bird. I'm outgoing but painfully introverted, and always friendly but will rarely make the first move. I'm doormat-level kind...until I'm a battle-cry of vengeance.

I'm a professional, but I live my life in yoga pants and oversized t-shirts. I teach what I've learned about purpose and intentional living, but much of that learning is in response to cPTSDs impact on my emotional health—and I still struggle with self-worth, people-pleasing, burnout recovery, and setting boundaries without guilt.

I spend multiple days a week in Bible study groups, where it's not uncommon for me to make a dick joke right there in the space between verses twelve and thirteen. And I'm a deeply faithful Christian whose calling as a writer is a constantly confirmed piece of who I am. But I don't use my writing in the church.

Because they don't want me to. And that's okay.

Ironically, it was the church I attended 20 years ago that taught me how to be comfortable with giftedness even when your gifts aren't valued. And it was the leadership of the church I attend now that taught me the power of personal fulfillment and the difference between servanthood and servitude. Perhaps even accidentally, they taught me to embrace influence without authority and purpose beyond religion. Because here's an uncomfortable truth: when you're asking how to use your gifts authentically, sometimes the most faithful answer is to use your gifts outside the church.

My youngest daughter's been taking a class at church, designed to help people discover their gifts and how to use them. Naturally, we've talked a lot about what this class is for, what it might lead to, and how to implement the wisdom gleaned.

For her, it's exciting. She's sixteen, and eager to understand more about herself and her place in the world. She's thrilled to explore how she's wired, what comes naturally, and how who she is might help other people become more of who they are. For me, it's an exercise in grace—and a motherly call to action.

While I love watching her explore her strengths, I'm also using our conversations to gently remind her that discovering your gifts doesn't always mean you'll fit into the places that taught you to look for them. Because sometimes, calling is deeper than finding the right box. Sometimes, it's realizing the box was never built for you in the first place.

And I know that because I learned it the hard way.

I've been a writer longer than I've ever been anything else, and it's not a skill I learned on purpose. It showed up early (like, we're talking floppy disk-early), it stuck around stubbornly, and it became the way I processed the world, long before I had language for trauma, faith, or purpose.

As an abuse survivor, it took me a long time to feel safe sharing the realities of my life. As a woman, it took even longer to acknowledge pain without minimizing its origin or severity. And as a mom, I'm still learning that my desire for fulfillment isn't selfish—it's just human.

Motherhood is one of my greatest callings, and my children are my greatest sources of pride, joy, growth, and inspiration. Raising them has clarified my gifts just as much as it revealed my limits, just like church taught me to nurture my faith and recognize my calling, even as it showed me that some gifts aren't meant to be used inside its walls. Not because they lack value, but because they exceed accepted limitations.

Because of the contrasts that make me who I am, I'm used to having my convictions challenged—and over the years, I've learned to appreciate what those challenges bring. Our challenges open space to explore who we are and why, label the things that matter and how we came to value them, and share the roots of what we believe, even when our fruitfulness doesn't look the way other people expect it to.

Our challenges give us freedom to be influenced, even as they permit us to influence others, and when we learn to appreciate the complexity of what it means to be human, we begin to see our challenges in new ways. We recognize that a Christian is not only a Christian, just as a Mom is not only a Mom. We are not only our color, our size, or our nationality.

And if the parts of us that are too square for round holes show us we're not in the right place yet, it's okay to pause and think about what that means—because discovering our gifts may not always secure our position, but they do help us find our calling.

My daughter is the poster child for ADHD, and as a kid on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum, she's spent her whole life learning to interact in a world that tells her to sit still, be quiet, pay attention, try harder. And while she does need to learn those skills, I've also made a point to acknowledge the perks of her "flaws." She may not be able to sit still, but she's got energy for days. She may not be very quiet, but she's open and articulate. And she may not notice or care about some things, but she feels deeply for others.

When she was little, we called her quirks her "superpowers." And just like Clark Kent, struggling to blend in with fledgling hyperspeed and the teenaged temptations of a boy with x-ray vision, I taught my daughter to ask herself how she could use her powers for good.

Watching my daughter learn to recognize new aspects of herself has reminded me that it's important to understand how you influence others, because calling doesn't need confirmative applause. Calling is found in the consistent choice to show up authentically—even when it doesn't lead to recognition because the room you're in wasn't ready for you yet. 

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The thing is, gifts don't mature all at once, and it's not always easy to find meaning beyond institutional roles. But serving others without losing yourself is a gift of balance found in the acts of courage we repeat daily, sometimes without even noticing. It's "How can I help?" just as much as it's "Is this what I'm here for?"

A purpose-driven life isn't just what you're doing on Sunday. It's who you are and how you live Monday through Saturday. It's trying and adjusting and trying again, and realizing that present follow-through matters more than future resolution—because becoming who we're meant to be rarely happens by grand declaration. It happens in the everyday moments, as we learn new things, grow in new ways, and use our "superpowers" for good, even when it costs us comfort or approval.

Sometimes that means the path feels slower and the walk is a lonely one. Sometimes it's quiet, and the celebration you expected just...doesn't come. But true leadership walks anyway, on that road less traveled, paving the way for others to come later.

And walking alone doesn't necessarily mean you're on the wrong path. It just means you're walking it first. So keep on walking. And as always...

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