I used to think the deal with God—and with people, honestly—worked like this: perform first, love second. Do more, be better, tighten up, hit your marks. Then maybe you earn a pat on the head and a little peace.
It sounds ridiculous written out, but a lot of us live that way. We put our nervous system on a leash and call it discipline. We grind for applause and call it purpose. We white-knuckle our way through the day and call it faith.
Underneath all that performance is fear. Fear that if I stop juggling, everything shatters. Fear that if I’m not impressive, I’ll be invisible. Fear that if I don’t produce, I don’t deserve.
Grace doesn’t bargain with fear. Grace doesn’t respond to résumés. Grace walks into the room like a friend who doesn’t knock and says: I’m here because I love you, not because you earned me.
And that’s where my brain glitches. Because if love arrives without conditions, what do I do with my favorite coping mechanism—overachieving? What do I do with the part of me that’s learned to survive by outworking the emptiness?
I kept trying to make grace a paycheck. Do my quiet time, get my gold star. Serve people, get my peace. Perform the right spiritual calisthenics, collect the reward. But if love has to be earned, grace becomes useless. It’s just another economy where I run deficits and call it righteousness.
The truth that finally got under my skin was simple and offensive: I am loved before I do anything about it. Not tolerated. Loved. Not “on probation.” Loved. That doesn’t make effort meaningless—it makes effort free. It turns obedience from a hostage negotiation into a love response.
How I Started Living Into Grace
1. I named the idol
Approval had me by the throat. I didn’t just want people to like me; I needed them to confirm I existed. When approval is god, anxiety becomes liturgy. Naming it didn’t fix it, but it made the war honest.
2. I let people see the mess
Community isn’t cute; it’s protective gear. I told the truth to people who wouldn’t weaponize it. When you say the quiet thing out loud—I’m terrified you’ll think less of me—shame loses its leverage. Grace grows in honest rooms.
3. I replaced scoreboard questions
Instead of “Did I do enough?” I try: “Was I honest? Was I loving? Was I faithful to the task in front of me?” Scoreboards keep you anxious. These questions keep you human.
4. I listened for the undertow
The itch to perform doesn’t always shout; sometimes it hums. I look for it when I’m overcommitting, rehearsing conversations in my head, refreshing stats, polishing sentences that were already clear. That hum usually means: I’m chasing worth again.
Grace answers that hum with a different rhythm: You’re already held. Now move.
The Moment It Shifted
And here’s the part I never wanted to write—the hinge where this stopped being theory and started re-wiring my life. It was one ordinary morning when the approval machine inside me finally sputtered, and something truer took the wheel…
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