Never Hers To Earn
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There’s a particular kind of ache that doesn’t scream—it whispers. It doesn't knock down walls or throw punches—it simply lingers.
She feels it most in the stillness, when the house is asleep, and the hum of the dishwasher is her only company. She folds laundry with aching fingers, not just from the work but from the weight of invisibility.
Does any of this matter?
Her name is _________.
A mother. A wife.
A woman who once dreamed loudly and now tiptoes through life, careful not to ask for too much.
Somewhere along the way, she began measuring her worth by productivity.
By how little she needed.
By how much she could offer without being a burden.
She scrolls through social media, pausing on photos of women radiating confidence and purpose. Their highlight reels sting like salt in wounds she can't quite name.
She feels behind. Less-than. Forgotten.
But one morning—tired of running on empty—she opens her Bible with the same aching fingers. She doesn’t go looking for a motivational verse. She just needs truth.
And she lands in Psalm 139.
"You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me.… I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.... all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be."
Tears fall slowly and quietly.
The beginning of her healing.
It isn’t flashy. It doesn’t erase the ache.
But something shifts.
She realizes that God sees her. Not just the work of her hands, but the soul beneath the skin. He isn't waiting for her to perform.
Her value isn't found in likes or lists or late-night striving.
It’s etched into her by the One who formed her in secret and calls her Beloved.
She still folds laundry. Still catches herself comparing.
But now, tucked inside the ache, there’s a seed of hope. She’s learning to believe what’s always been true: that her worth was never hers to earn.
It was gifted.
Blood-bought.
Secure.
And slowly, she begins to live like it.