Between reporting for duty, raising babies, and showing up for everyone else, I realized I had forgotten who I was without the uniform. Not just the physical one I wear to work, but the invisible ones too, the one that says “leader,” the one that says “mama,” the one that says “I’m fine” even when I’m exhausted. There was a time when I could feel God’s presence in everything I did, when I was aware of His hand guiding every step. But as life started stacking responsibilities on top of my shoulders, motherhood, leadership, marriage, ministry, and military life, I began to lose touch with the woman underneath all the roles. I became the woman who was always on a mission, performing, and serving. And yet, when the mission ended, the house got quiet, and the world stopped needing me for just a moment, I didn’t know who I was anymore.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love my life; I did. I do. I loved being a wife, a mom, a leader, a woman who could handle things. But somewhere between all those titles, I stopped checking in with myself. I forgot how to be instead of doing simply. My life became a cycle of responsibility and resilience. I wore strength like it was stitched into my skin, but deep down, I knew I was running on empty. Every time I sat still, it felt uncomfortable because stillness forced me to face the parts of myself I had been neglecting.

That realization hit me hard: I had been so busy showing up for everyone else that I stopped showing up for me. I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror. She looked capable, but tired. Strong, but silent. Present, but not connected. And that’s when I understood, so many women carry this same quiet ache. We love deeply, serve selflessly, and lead boldly, but inside we whisper the same question: Who am I when the titles fade and the applause stops?

It’s a question that doesn’t demand an immediate answer; it invites a journey. A journey back to the woman God created before life layered her with labels. Before expectations. Before roles. Because underneath all the uniforms, military, motherhood, ministry, marriage, there’s still a woman who longs to feel seen, known, and loved for who she is, not just what she does. And it’s in that sacred rediscovery that peace returns, piece by piece.

When you’ve been strong for too long, sometimes strength becomes a mask.

For me, the mask looked like “having it together.” Rank, uniform, credentials, and responsibilities all blended into my identity. I was so used to leading that I forgot how to be. I forgot to sit still in God’s presence without a to-do list. I forgot what peace felt like when it wasn’t earned through productivity. The world claps for the strong, the busy, and the accomplished, but the spirit quietly longs for something deeper: stillness, softness, and connection.

I’ve met so many women who carry the same quiet weight in their hearts, the wife who stares in the mirror and doesn’t recognize the woman looking back, the soldier who can’t remember the last time she rested without feeling guilty for it. This mother secretly wonders who she is outside of being needed. We’ve all learned how to perform strength so well that we forget what it feels like, actually, to be free. We wear our responsibilities like armor, convincing ourselves that protection and peace are the same thing, when in truth, that armor often becomes the very thing keeping us from healing. Somewhere along the way, we started believing that exhaustion is honorable and that rest is a sign of weakness. That lie has kept too many of us surviving instead of living.

That realization shook me because I saw myself in all of them. The woman who pushes through. The woman who knows how to keep it together. The woman who will keep showing up, even when her spirit is whispering that something isn’t right. I remember reading Galatians 2:20 one morning,

“It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me”, 

and it stopped me in my tracks. It was as if God held up a mirror and said, ‘This is who you really are.’ Not your title, not your rank, not your role, not your productivity. If my life is supposed to reflect Christ, then my worth cannot be tied to what I do or how well I perform. It has to be anchored in who I am, who I’ve always been, His daughter.

That verse reminded me that I carried identity before I ever carried responsibility. God wrote it before my first assignment, before my first “yes,” before I tried to prove myself. He didn’t ask me to be perfect; He asked me to be present. To walk in grace, not grind. To move in purpose, not performance. When we finally remove the armor and let Him in, we realize that He never needed the version of us we’ve been pretending to hold together; He just wanted us. The woman He designed before life got heavy. The one who knows how to rest in His presence and still rise in His power.

At some point, God began whispering to me in the quiet moments I tried to fill with noise, “Daughter, before you were a leader, you were Mine.” I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear those words until they broke through my exhaustion. For so long, I wore strength like it was part of my DNA, like taking off the armor meant I was failing. I thought being strong meant holding it all together, showing up no matter how heavy it felt, and pretending I was fine even when unraveling inside. But God started tugging at that armor, piece by piece, showing me that true strength has nothing to do with how much I can carry and everything to do with how much I’m willing to surrender.

I used to believe that rest was earned, that it was something I got to enjoy after I finished doing everything for everyone else. But God started to shift that perspective. He reminded me that rest is not a reward; it’s a requirement. It’s holy. It’s obedience. Absolute power doesn’t come from grinding harder or proving my worth; it comes from peace. And peace is found when I let go of the illusion of control and allow Him to do what I’ve been trying to do on my own.

That’s when Matthew 11:28-30 came alive for me.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” 

I had read that verse countless times before, but recently, it struck me differently. It wasn’t just words; it was an invitation. It felt like God was saying, “Stop performing for Me and just be with Me.” I realized He never asked for my perfection or productivity; He asked for my presence. And that truth wrecked me in the best way.

Now I understand that surrender doesn’t mean weakness; it means wisdom.

It means I know where my help comes from. It means I’m done fighting battles that God already won. It means I trust Him enough to rest, even when the world tells me to hustle. I’m learning that sometimes, the most courageous thing you can do is to sit still, breathe, and let peace do the heavy lifting. Because in God’s presence, I don’t have to prove I’m strong; I just have to remember that I’m His.

There was a season when I was so focused on doing enough that I stopped being enough for myself. Every day felt like a mission to prove my worth to God, others, and the version of me that thought peace was something you earned after exhausting yourself. I was performing faith like a checklist instead of living it like a heartbeat. I woke up to read my Bible, but it never hit me. I prayed out of habit, not out of hunger. I confused discipline with divine direction, thinking I was in alignment as long as I kept moving. But in reality, I was outpacing grace. I had mastered order but misunderstood obedience. I thought control meant everything was under God’s will, but really, I was trying to run the show. I was missing peace, the kind that only comes when you let God take His rightful place as the one who leads.

I was tired, not just physically, but deeply in my spirit. The kind of tired that sleep can’t fix because it’s spiritual. I was depleted from striving to be everything for everyone, yet I was neglecting the very thing that kept me anchored, stillness. God began to remind me that stillness is not weakness, it’s a strategy. Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still and know that I am God.” I had always read that verse as a call to pause, but now I understand it’s a call to trust. It’s an invitation to release the illusion of control and allow God to do what only He can do. Sometimes He needs us to sit down so He can stand up. Sometimes, He has to strip away the noise, pace, and pressure to reposition us for the next season.

When I finally slowed down, I started to meet the woman I had buried under all the hustle and expectations. She wasn’t gone; she was waiting for me to make room for her again. I started journaling, not to plan my next move but to process my heart. I began waking up early, not to get ahead, but to hear God’s voice before the world’s noise could shape my mood. I found joy in things I had overlooked, dancing with my kids in the kitchen, reading scripture without an agenda, sitting in silence with a cup of tea and my thoughts. It wasn’t about doing more; it was about being present, aware, and grateful.

And as I leaned into that stillness, I realized that wholeness wasn’t something I had to chase; it was something I had to return to. The more I stopped striving and started surrendering, the more I felt God piecing me back together. Not the polished, public version of me, the real one. The woman He created was layered with labels and expectations before life began. That’s the power of stillness; it reminds you that you were never lost; you just needed to stop long enough to find your way back home.

Isaiah 43:19 says,

“Behold, I am doing a new thing.” 

That verse has become my anthem in this season because it reminds me that God is never stagnant. He constantly moves, creates, and births something new within us, even when we can’t see it yet. But here’s the truth I had to face: sometimes, God isn’t waiting to move; He’s waiting for me to let go. We hold onto old versions of ourselves, the version that survived, the one that kept everyone together, the one that played it safe, thinking that’s who we still need to be. But God can’t fill hands that are holding onto what He’s trying to free us from. Rediscovery is holy work. It’s not glamorous or instant. It’s quiet, intentional, and often uncomfortable. It happens when you stop pretending you’re fine and admit you’re tired. It happens when you stop performing and start being honest with God, yourself, and the people who think you have it all together. Rediscovery happens in the pauses, not the performance. It’s when you choose presence over pressure, peace over perfection, and alignment over approval.

Don’t overcomplicate if you’re ready to begin reclaiming your spiritual identity. Start small, but start intentionally. First, detach from your titles. Write down every role you carry: wife, mother, leader, soldier, business owner, and then ask yourself, “Who am I without this?” That question alone can shake something loose in your spirit. Because if all those titles were stripped away, you’d still be His. Second, revisit what God says about you. The world will always try to define you by your output, but God defines you by your origin. Open His Word and find the scriptures that speak to your worth, purpose, and identity. Write them down. Speak them out loud until they sound like the truth again.

Third, rebuild your rhythm with God. You don’t need a whole hour or a perfect setting; start with fifteen minutes daily. Let that time be sacred. No agenda, no phone, no checklist. Just you and Him. Talk, listen, breathe. Let Him remind you that your presence matters more than your productivity. Fourth, redefine success. Stop measuring your day by what you accomplished and start asking, “Did I move in peace? Did I operate in purpose?” Because true success isn’t about how much you do; it’s about how aligned you are while doing it. And finally, reaffirm your voice. Start journaling again, or record a voice note when the words feel too heavy to write. Give your truth a place to live. Sometimes healing starts with simply hearing yourself again.

God is doing something new in you, but you need space to move.

Let go of who you think you’re supposed to be and make room for who He’s calling you to become. The new thing He’s doing isn’t about reinventing yourself; it’s about returning to the version of you that was never lost, buried under everything you thought you had to be.

If you need a place to begin your rebuilding, my Prayer Journal from iHopePrayLove was created for moments just like this. The quiet, reflective seasons when your spirit is ready to reconnect with God and rediscover who you are beneath everything you’ve carried. It’s more than pages and prompts; it’s a safe space to release what’s heavy, reflect without judgment, and realign your heart with God’s voice. Every page is designed to help you slow down, breathe, and find your rhythm again, not the rhythm of performance, but of peace. It’s where faith meets healing, reflection meets revelation, and you finally permit yourself to be in His presence.

To the woman beneath the rank, the mother beneath the smile, and the leader beneath the weight, you are not lost; you are being found. You are not defined by what you manage, your uniform, or how much you produce. You are defined by who you belong to. You are a woman of God, becoming whole again, layer by layer, prayer by prayer. Every season that tries to break you becomes the soil God uses to grow you. Keep rediscovering her, the woman underneath the roles, the one God has been patiently waiting for you to remember. She’s worth it.

If you’re ready to go deeper, download your free “7 Prayers for Overwhelmed Mamas” or grab your Prayer Journal to begin your restoration journey today. It’s time to pour back into the woman who has been pouring into everyone else. God isn’t just calling you to rebuild your life; He’s inviting you to rebuild you.