I’ve started noticing the signs again. Not good ones either.
The pain. The tightness. The quiet but persistent reminders that something in my body isn’t right. The constant concern in the back on my head that I try to ignore but it remains like a smoke detector that never shuts off. Symptoms I once prayed my way through, symptoms I believed were behind me, have found their way back into my days—stealing rest, dulling joy, and making it harder to simply be.
As someone with Chronic illness, I tried to ignore them. After all, I have lived with them for so long it doesnt seem like a problem that they are back, it felt familiar. I told myself to push through. That it is normal or I am overreacting. I reminded myself how much God has already carried me through and this isn't a problem now. I stay busy doing good things, meaningful things—pouring out for others, showing up, serving faithfully—while quietly neglecting the very vessel God entrusted to me.
Its not a purposeful neglect to cause harm. Truthfully its a neglect of just pushing it off and not focusing on it anymore. Chronic illness used to run my life. I mean RUN IT. I couldn't do specific events because it would trigger the pain or I would miss things because I couldn't get out of bed. Id be concerned on me eating and drinking, was it enough ir too much or wrong or good? I would panic when I hurt or ran a fever or coughed knowing it could be bad. It ran my entire life and all I ever wanted to do. So I turned the other eay and ignored, which is also an unhealthy coping mechanism.
But God has been gently, firmly reminding me of something I can no longer ignore:
You cannot pour out of a broken and empty vessel. Choosing to get healthier, seek doctors and focus on wellness through medicine, is NOT A LACK OF FAITH. Its a trust that God has given them the wisdom and ability to help and trusting the process more.
This body is not just something I inhabit—it is something God formed, redeemed, and continues to sustain. Scripture tells us that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, yet somewhere along the way, I began treating my own body like an afterthought. Like something expendable in the name of obedience, productivity, or perseverance. And that was never God’s heart.
This year, I feel a holy invitation—one that feels both tender and urgent—to return to health. Not as an act of control, but as an act of surrender. Not striving for perfection, but choosing stewardship. Not ignoring symptoms and calling it faith, but partnering with God in wisdom, care, and obedience. That means I’m choosing to listen.
To listen when my body speaks instead of silencing it.
To listen when God whispers rest instead of pushing harder.
To listen when something feels off and take action instead of delaying.
It means finding doctors and asking hard questions.
It means following through when it’s uncomfortable or inconvenient.
It means being diligent, consistent, and honest about what I need. It may mean surgery once again or medication that I have long avoided.
I’m learning that faith is not proven by how much pain I can endure—it’s revealed by how willing I am to trust God with every part of my life, including my health.
I don’t believe God is asking me to sacrifice my well-being on the altar of burnout. I believe He is calling me to wholeness.
Jesus often withdrew to rest. He healed bodies, not just souls. He noticed suffering and responded with compassion—not expectations to “just keep going.” If the Son of God valued rest, healing, and care, why have I treated those things like luxuries?
I want to enjoy the life God has given me again.
I want to move without constant pain reminding me of my limits.
I want to rest without feeling like I’m failing.
I want my strength to come from fullness, not survival.
So this year, I’m making a choice—one rooted in prayer, humility, and trust.
I’m choosing to be proactive instead of reactive.
I’m choosing obedience over denial.
I’m choosing healing over hustle.
Getting back to health is not a detour from my calling—it’s part of it.
Because I want to pour out from a place of strength.
From a vessel that is tended, not neglected.
From a life that reflects God’s care, not constant exhaustion.
This year, I’m inviting God into my appointments, my routines, my rest, and my recovery. I’m believing that the same God who sustains my spirit also cares deeply about my body.
And step by step, with His guidance, I’m choosing to honor the vessel He gave me—so I can live fully, love deeply, and serve faithfully from a place of health and healing.
