What We Carry Forward

Powerhouse Signal is for people who sense there is meaningful work they’re meant to contribute—but want to understand it before they spend another decade proving themselves.

These essays explore stewardship, discernment, formation, and the ordinary moments that quietly reveal who we are becoming.

They aren’t written to tell you what to think. They’re written to help you ask better questions, recognize what has been shaping you, and discern what is truly yours to carry forward.

Sometimes we assume that because we are capable, it means we should. If we’re able to understand something quickly, solve a difficult problem, build a successful business, lead a team, or shoulder responsibility with relative ease, we quietly begin believing that those things are ours to continue carrying. Capability becomes obligation, and somewhere along the way we stop asking whether the work still fits the person we’re becoming.

I found myself thinking about this earlier this week while catching up with a long-time friend and business client. We had scheduled time together to talk about how I could continue supporting her as I began winding down my branding agency. That’s one of the gifts of owning a business—you eventually get to choose not only how you work, but what kind of work you want your life to be about.

She asked what had prompted the change.

I started explaining recent shifts in the industry, the direction of my writing, and how my interests had slowly begun moving elsewhere. Halfway through the sentence I stopped myself.

“I think I’m beginning to realize that just because I’m able to do something well doesn’t mean I should.”

She smiled and nodded in a way that told me she already understood.

Most of us have experienced some version of this, even if it has nothing to do with business. A role we’ve quietly outgrown. A responsibility we’ve continued carrying because we’re dependable. A path we keep walking because we’re good at it, long after we’ve stopped asking whether it still belongs to the life we’re trying to build.

Capability is a wonderful servant.

It’s a terrible compass.

As our conversation continued, she asked if there was anything else new.

I laughed.

“Well... the biggest news—and I usually get one of two reactions—is that I’m becoming Catholic.”

Her eyes widened exactly as I expected.

“But honestly,” I said, “it’s been defining. Not because it’s become about religion, but because it’s become about living. About deepening my faith and allowing my life to become more integrated.”

It wasn’t the answer I expected to give.

In fact, I thought we were talking about business.

Instead, I realized I was talking about my life.

The agency wasn’t really the story. It was simply one expression of something much deeper that had already been changing for quite some time.

Over the past few years I’ve spent an enormous amount of energy trying to hold everything together. Building a business that could replace a corporate income. Supporting clients I genuinely care about. Homeschooling my son. Carrying responsibilities that, over time, became less like choices and more like expectations. From the outside it probably looked like ambition. From the inside, much of it felt like obligation—not because the work itself was wrong, but because somewhere along the way I had begun believing that if I could carry something, then I probably should.

That belief reaches far beyond work.

Years ago I bought whitening trays from my dentist because I thought I needed to look more polished before recording online trainings. It’s funny to think about now, because I never actually used them. The thought of giving up my nightly glass of Cabernet felt far more difficult than whitening my teeth. At the time it seemed unrelated—just another small contradiction in an otherwise busy life.

Looking back, I don’t think it was about wine or whitening trays at all. I was trying to change the presentation without asking what was happening underneath it. I wanted to look like the person I thought I needed to become while quietly carrying habits that reflected the life I was actually living.

Something unexpected happened over the past year.

Not because I discovered more discipline. Not because I downloaded another habit tracker or promised myself this time would be different. As my faith deepened and my priorities slowly shifted, I found myself wanting different things. I stopped looking forward to that nightly glass of wine. Not because someone told me it was wrong, and not because I finally developed enough willpower to resist it. I simply found myself enjoying my evenings differently. I wanted to be more present with my family. I wanted to wake up feeling clear. The craving didn’t disappear because I fought it. It disappeared because something else quietly took its place.

That has taught me more about formation than discipline ever has.

Formation isn’t simply changing behavior. It’s becoming the kind of person whose life begins moving in the same direction as their deepest convictions. It’s less about managing ourselves and more about allowing the different parts of our lives to stop pulling against one another.

My friend listened patiently while I stumbled through all of this before smiling and saying something that has stayed with me ever since.

“You couldn’t have found yourself here had you not gone through the various steps you took.”

She paused.

“There are no shortcuts.”

It’s one of those statements that sounds almost obvious when you first hear it, but continues unfolding long after the conversation has ended.

Like most people, I’ve often wondered whether there was an easier path. Could I have skipped the years in corporate? The certifications? The businesses? The financial investments? The mistakes? The long seasons spent trying to prove that I could build something worthwhile?

If I’m honest, I don’t think so.

Not because every hardship was necessary. And certainly not because suffering is something we should seek. But because there are no shortcuts around formation. Those experiences didn’t simply teach me new skills. They shaped my judgment. They exposed assumptions I didn’t know I carried. They slowly revealed the difference between being recognized for what I could do and becoming more attentive to what I felt called to contribute.

Looking back, I don’t see a collection of wrong turns. I see seasons. Each one carrying me exactly as far as it was meant to.

Perhaps that’s what we miss when we’re too eager to label parts of our lives as failures. We assume the value of a season lies in whether it lasts, when perhaps its greatest gift is how it forms us before asking us to move on.

That changes the questions we ask.

Instead of asking whether I could have gotten here faster, I find myself wondering what each season was quietly trying to teach me. Of everything it gave me—the skills, the relationships, the disappointments, the clarity—what is actually mine to carry forward?

Because I no longer believe stewardship begins with capability.

It begins with discernment.

Not every strength is a calling. Not every opportunity is an invitation. Not every season is meant to last. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is recognize when something has carried us as far as it was meant to, thank it for what it formed in us, and continue walking toward the work that is now asking something of our lives.