We Were Taught to Be Needed Before We Were Taught to Be at Peace

I’m a Gen Xer, the youngest of four. My sisters are Baby Boomers, and our parents valued one thing above almost everything else: stability.

Women of my era were expected to become dependable. Responsible. Self-sacrificing.

But no one taught us how to be at peace.

Personal needs and healthy boundaries were practically verboten.

When I look back, I see my mother caring for my grandparents, teaching Sunday school, helping neighbors, and rolling up her sleeves whenever family, friends, or our church needed her. Her contributions to other people’s lives were beautiful.

And exhausting.

She seemed to live in a constant cycle of self-sacrifice, exhaustion, and emotional collapse.

It’s no wonder that when tragedy struck my own family years later, this was the model I followed.

I poured myself into caring for my young children, my husband as he fought cancer, and my aging mother. I fought hard to keep myself and my family from the exhaustion and meltdowns I had witnessed growing up.

But if I’m honest, I think I mostly learned how to develop an incredibly high pain tolerance.

Now, two decades after Steve’s diagnosis and more than a decade after his passing, I realize I’m still recovering from years of over-functioning.

Women absorb countless messages from the generations before us, from culture, from religion, and from the times in which we live.

Many of those messages were well-intentioned. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they were healthy.

We learned:

• A good mother puts herself last.

• A good wife carries the emotional weight.

• A good daughter always says yes.

• A good Christian woman serves without complaint.

But what if some of those inherited beliefs are quietly wearing us down?

Because you are more than the roles you fulfill. You are more than what you do for others.

Your worth has never been measured by how much you accomplish. Your worth has always existed simply because you are God’s beloved daughter.

Over-functioning rarely happens overnight.

It happens slowly, almost imperceptibly. Little by little, service shifts from something we do into someone we become.

The problem isn’t serving.

The problem is believing our value depends on always being the one who carries everyone else.

This is difficult for me to write because I loved my family deeply. They needed me, and I would choose them all over again. I still believe sacrifice is one of the highest expressions of love.

But somewhere along the way, many of us began confusing sacrificial love with self-erasure.

Those are not the same thing.

Putting everyone else’s needs ahead of your own, year after year, comes with a cost.

For many women, that cost looks like:

• Exhaustion

• Resentment

• Loss of identity

• Creative dreams postponed

• Physical depletion

• Health challenges

• Forgetting what actually brings you joy

Many women don’t burn out because they worked too hard. They burn out because they forgot they were people too.

The biblical account of Mary and Martha has always been a favorite since becoming a wife, mother, and homemaker. As I am in a new stage of life, it has taken on new meaning.

If you are unfamiliar with this story or it’s been a while, it’s about two sisters who hosted Jesus. When he came to their home, Martha got busy serving. There were meals to prepare, guests to host, and details to manage.

Mary, however, chose something different. She sat at Jesus’ feet and listened.

Martha grew frustrated. Who was going to help with all the work?

The tension became so obvious that Jesus addressed it directly.

What’s fascinating is that Jesus never criticized Martha’s service. He reminded her that Mary had chosen what was better in that moment.

Service mattered. But so did presence. So did receiving. So did simply sitting at His feet.

Perhaps peace isn’t the reward we receive after a lifetime of faithfulness. Perhaps peace is meant to accompany faithfulness all along.

Maybe they were never meant to compete. Maybe they were always meant to coexist.

Maybe the second half of life isn’t about learning to love people less.

Maybe it’s about finally believing that God loves us enough to invite us into both rest and service.

I don’t think He asks His daughters to disappear.

I think He invites us to sit at His feet, to receive His peace, and then to serve from a place of fullness instead of depletion.

And perhaps that is one of the holiest invitations of all.

• Who would I be if no one needed me today?

• What have I postponed because everyone else’s needs came first?

• What restores my soul?

• How might my life change if I believed peace was part of faithfulness, not the reward for it?

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