The Price of Becoming

The price to pay to become better is worth it. Yes, it involves an incredulous amount of self‑awareness, patience, temperance, and love. But that price is holy and worth every moment of the cost.

What does self‑care really mean? Today, it’s often defined too shallowly — walks in the park, bubble baths, or a quiet evening in. These moments have value, but I’ve learned that the depth of that definition is far vaster than we give it credit for.

The Lord has had me in a place recently — a place of being humbled beyond belief — and it has shown me myself in ways I didn’t know I needed to see.

The Ground and the Air

Last year, during the pandemic, my pastor announced that we were entering a cocoon season. We would go in as caterpillars, and by the end of it, emerge as fully formed butterflies. We cheered. We jumped. We celebrated in faith and hope as the enemy tried to use that season for intimidation and fear.

And that part was beautiful.

But the revelation we embraced stopped at what comforted our fears. At least for me, I can say I came out as a butterfly. I started the pandemic laid off, living on the grace of my best friend and roommate, and on the verge of moving home to start over. By the end of 2020, I was in my career field, had my own apartment, and was gaining footing.

That was the win I celebrated.

But now I understand that although the butterfly’s emergence marks a new stability, it doesn’t erase its instability. Its movement hasn’t just evolved — it’s been completely redefined. The ground is no longer the standard of travel. The air is. And the first few flights? They are trembling, awkward, and unsteady.

We often fail to recognize that the ground was as appointed as the air. The caterpillar was as appointed as the butterfly. Yet we idolize the new state as if it were the only one God intended for us. We reject where we came from and judge ourselves for where we started.

The first flight of a butterfly is meant to be awkward. Its trembling is holy. Its instability is appointed. To dishonor the former state is to reject the path that led to this very moment.

The Gift of Stillness

Self‑care at its simplest is doing what’s best for your health. But its deeper truth is this:

Self‑care is honoring the stillness and allowing the inward work of the Word to transform you.

Self‑care is making space for the Word of God to shift your mechanics as you assume your appointed forms. It’s giving your mind permission to catch up with your new reality. It’s initiating flight — awkward, unsteady, and holy as it may be.

Self‑care is honoring who you were for the role it played in making you who you are and who you will be. It is NOT looking for a “better” place to land, but inhabiting fully the place that God has appointed for this moment.

Redefining Self‑Care

Self‑care is relinquishing the abuse of the future. It’s releasing the tendency to cling to “what’s next” as a means of escaping “what is now.”

The future is NOT an idea to run toward in desperation or to use as an escape from the present. The future is a place of present obedience, a promise that is nurtured and tended in the here and now.

Self‑care means understanding that every state of being — every chapter, every form — is holy and appointed. The future is born from obedience in the present.

Honoring the Past Form

It took me a long time to understand why my old ways of “unwinding” felt empty. Movies, long walks, hours of podcasts… none of it satisfied. Why? Because I was serving a former form out of fear of the present one.

To cling to the old is to reject the work of the new. It’s to walk backward into a space that can no longer hold you. True self‑care is making peace with both where you came from and where you’re going — honoring each for its place in your story.

The Inward Work of the Word

If I had stopped a year ago to consider this more deeply, I would’ve learned this lesson sooner:

Stillness is NOT the absence of activity. It is the intensification of the inward work of the Word.

Movement can make you feel productive, but it’s in the stillness that transformation takes root. It’s where the caterpillar becomes the butterfly, where a being defined by crawling is reshaped for a life defined by flight.

It’s in stillness that God’s design does its work. The butterfly doesn’t struggle for its new form. The work was appointed for it from the very moment it was conceived. Its only job is to be still and let the Word do its work.

Cheers to Our Awkward Flights

So, here’s to our awkward, holy flights — those moments when we feel unsteady, disoriented, and not yet fully confident in the air. Here’s to those who missed a moment of stillness and wondered if they’d ever get it back.

It’s here for you.
Right now.
In this moment.

Trust the inward work. Honor both the ground and the air. Let the Word reshape you, redefine you, and carry you where only He can take you.

Be still. The air will come. And when it does, you will rise knowing this was always a part of His design for you.