The Surrender

Reaching the end of myself and finally letting God lead.

There comes a point when trying no longer feels brave.

For a long time, I believed endurance was faith. If I could just keep going, keep believing, keep standing, then surely that counted for something. I prayed, but I also decided. I trusted God, but I kept the authority over outcomes. I told Him I was willing, as long as I remained the one steering my life.

But eventually, the self-effort required of this “I’ll do it myself” approach runs empty.

I did not reach surrender through courage or clarity. I arrived there tired. Worn thin by my own authorship. I had reached the end of what I could manage, explain, or improve.

It was there, in that quiet exhaustion, that I realized I was not resisting God out of defiance, but out of fear. I was afraid of what obedience might require if I stopped negotiating.

The exhaustion of self-rule

There comes a point when you can no longer stand the life you’re living.

One day you wake up and realize everything you have accomplished still hasn’t brought the relief you expected. Relentless disappointment. Repeated relational failure. Self-betrayal. A deep mistrust of your own judgment after years of trying everything your way. A restlessness that will not resolve. These thoughts plague your mind as you move through the ordinary tasks of daily life.

You tried every tool you had to find joy. Laughter. Peace.

You weren’t doing wrong for the thrill of it. You were looking for the happiness promised in movies and magazines.

If you’re attractive enough, the right person will fall for you. If you’re sexy enough, they will commit to you forever. If you make enough money, your worries will end. If you’re successful enough, you’ll be respected by colleagues. If you’re stronger, smarter, faster, more talented than everyone else, you’ll secure your place.

Promises.

All of them, lies.

You were trying to survive with the only tools you had. You tried them all. You even found what the world calls success. But even in success, the tools were not working. You weren’t fulfilled. They weren’t delivering on what they promised.

Life felt lifeless. Dry. Empty. Disappointing.

You experience the desperation, loneliness, and exhaustion of self-rule. A restlessness that will not resolve.

That is where I found myself.

It was a cold February day, driving to campus. I was weeks away from completing my degree before moving back to Kansas City to begin my career. Reaching that milestone should have sparked joy and anticipation. Instead, I realized I was completely empty.

There was no lack of grief in my life.

My first husband, Drew, had devoured my empathy and trust and left behind shame, confusion, and debt I had no means to pay. While my children were with their father and grandmother, untruths about me were spoken to them, shaping their understanding of who I was and who (between the two of us parents) could be trusted. These narratives were meant to maintain control and secure allegiance, regardless of the harm done to the children’s emotional safety.

I carried grief daily.

All while trying to meet the demands of an architecture program. Studio hours. Multiple overlapping deadlines. Expectations of weekend work. At the same time, I was driving hours for visitation with my children, often losing time with them through Drew’s deliberate absence or evasion. This was maddening. I was burning out faster than I could acknowledge.

When school required me to stay and work on weekends, my absence from my children’s side was met with condemnation from Drew and his mother, Drucilla. My love as a mother was questioned. My character was judged. Words were spoken to me that cut deeply. Worse were the imagined words that were spoken to my children. I feared the damage and experienced deep frustration at not knowing what was said or how to protect my children’s hearts.

Living closer to my parents than I did, Drew and Drucilla had access to my own family, who were vulnerable to their persuasion. Soon the condemnation echoed from places that should have been safe.

I couldn’t win.

Living the worldly pattern of giving myself fully to men who demanded everything and returned nothing left me empty, despairing, and self-loathing.

Life hadn’t followed the fairy tale. And I wasn’t enough to force it to.

I had finally achieved what I had been pushed toward since childhood. A degree. A profession. Independence. And yet it felt anticlimactic. Hollow.

I felt dirty. The kind of dirty that settles into the sense of who you are. I was clawing at the walls of another pit I could not escape. No matter how resilient or resourceful I believed myself to be, I could not pull myself out. I was out of answers.

Empty.

Sitting in the campus parking lot as the amber light faded on a cold winter day, I gave up.

I remember thinking, I don’t want my life anymore. Not the way I’ve been living it.

And in that moment, I realized I wasn’t alone.

Through the entire inner dialogue, God was there.

Not condemning. Not distant.

Present.

I was waving a white flag. Not out of cowardice, but because I was completely out of ammunition. Out of ideas. Out of strength. I had tried everything I knew to try, and I knew the only way left was His. I surrender.

For years, He had been calling me back to Him and to His church. I had resisted with intensity, my fears shaped by earlier experiences in that space that taught me I wasn’t good enough and that grace was theoretical, not personal. Returning felt like I would be walking back into judgment. I was desperate enough to risk that. If going back to church was this important to Him, maybe there was something I had not yet seen.

God’s invitation came as a persistent thought, a quiet knowing. Gentle, but insistent. It felt like the only way forward.

I was terrified, desperate, and at last resigned.

When I sensed God’s presence, it wasn’t new. My attention was. He knew everything I had done and everything I had endured. He did not condemn me. He just waited.

Surrender did not feel humiliating. The humiliation was what I felt before surrender. After, I felt peace. It felt like the bleeding would finally stop.

My prayers were not eloquent.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” “I can’t fix this.” “I don’t trust myself.” “If You want my life, You can have it.” “I’m done choosing.”

I did still resist one last time, in a practical way. I told myself it would start when I moved back to Kansas City. A new city. A new version of myself. Less risk of being exposed.

Obedience didn’t stay theoretical forever.

The first step was walking into a church alone. Sitting in the back. Leaving quietly. Returning again the next week.

It wasn’t comfortable. But it was obedience.

Today, when I look back at that woman, I feel gratitude for her surrender. I feel grief for the years spent running. And I know this now: following God is the only path that has ever led me to peace, rest, and life.

God does not force obedience. He allows wandering. He allows rebellion. Not with anger, but with patience and sorrow for the consequences we will face.

Rescue requires surrender. Not perfection. Not instant maturity. Just willingness.

God was in that car with me that day, just as He had always been. He was waiting for the moment I was finally willing. He lifted me again out of the pit I had created for myself.

I did not lose myself as I had feared when I surrendered.

I found the life I had been starving for. And more abundantly than I can describe in words.

Thank you for taking this walk with me.

If this story stirs something in you, if you find yourself empty, tired, and lifeless, consider what God might be asking you to lay down. Not to punish you, but to give you relief. To replace survival with abundant life.

Scriptural Framework

Luke 15:4–7

God’s patient pursuit and repeated rescue.

Proverbs 3:5–6

Relinquishing authorship and direction.

Psalm 40:1–3

Waiting in the pit and being lifted out.