The Season That Silenced Me

I didn’t realize how heavy I had become until I tried to rest. For years, I wore my discipline like a badge of honor. Structure, routine, execution,  I had mastered it all. As a Property Book Officer, both in Korea and Alaska, I lived in the rhythm of readiness: deadlines, accountability, Command Supply Discipline (CSDP) evaluations, leadership, repeat. I knew how to lead people, move equipment, and keep systems running. What I didn’t know was how to let peace lead me.

Korea was my grind era. Every day demanded excellence, reports, turn-ins, accountability reviews, you name it. And I gave it all. But behind the spreadsheets and the composure, a woman was running on fumes. I thought that if I could stay productive, the pressure would eventually feel purposeful. I was wrong. Somewhere between leading Soldiers, raising children, loving my husband, and holding everyone else up, I lost sight of the woman who was still trying to stand.

I didn’t see it coming at first. The irritation. The fatigue. The quiet disconnection that slipped in between the busy moments. Burnout has a way of sneaking up on you; it doesn’t always look like exhaustion. Sometimes it seems like a woman who gets everything done but feels nothing when she does. I looked composed on the outside, but inside I was unraveling. My depression started to feel heavier, like a weighted blanket I couldn’t pull off. My anxiety was no longer a visitor; it was setting up camp in my chest. I’d wake up with my heart racing before my feet even hit the floor, already behind on a day that hadn’t started.

I told myself I was fine because everything around me looked fine. But I wasn’t living in peace, I was performing it. My prayers became mechanical, my self-care became another appointment, and my joy became something I had to chase rather than something I carried. I was surviving on structure, not sustained by the Spirit. And if I’m honest, I think that’s why my first IVF cycle failed. My body was exhausted, but my spirit was suffocating. I was trying to force what only faith could nurture. God wasn’t punishing me; He was protecting me from a version of myself that was running on pressure instead of peace.

 

The Breaking Point

By the time I transitioned to Alaska, I was desperate for a change, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. My anxiety had been climbing fast. What started as racing thoughts turned into full-blown anxiety attacks that sometimes kept me from going back to places I loved. My chest would tighten, my breathing would quicken, and I’d spiral into what-ifs that left me running. I had a new baby, and in the quiet moments, I’d look at my husband and kids and think, they deserve better than the version of me that’s barely holding it together. And deep down, I knew I deserved better for myself, too. God deserved more than the fragments I was functioning from.

 

That’s when I decided to see a therapist. It was humbling, but it was also holy. Sitting across from someone who helped me untangle the mess in my mind felt like breathing again after holding my breath for years. I started taking anxiety medication, not because I was weak, but because I was finally strong enough to admit I needed help. Healing wasn’t instant; it was layered. But for the first time, I wasn’t running from it.

Alaska became my reset, my calm era. I told myself this would be the chapter where I stopped just surviving and actually started living. The long, quiet mornings. The endless white of snow. The stillness that stretched across miles stripped me down to the truth. You can’t escape what you refuse to heal. I had brought my busyness with me, but Alaska forced me to slow down. And in that slowness, I began hearing God again, not in chaos but in calm.

That’s when iHopePrayLove began to bloom in a new way. I started hosting small gatherings for Jacob, the baby of the bunch at the time, simple events that brought Manas and her babies together and reminded me what joy felt like. From there, God nudged me to step out even more. I started hosting women’s events under iHopePrayLove, and that opened my heart wider than I expected. I met a group of women who didn’t just attend, they connected. We shared stories, prayers, laughter, and healing. These women became anchors in my journey, a reminder that community isn’t just support, it’s strength.

Through it all, God was working on me. Alaska wasn’t just a new duty station; it was a divine intervention. The silence that used to scare me became sacred. In that stillness, God whispered truths I had been too busy to hear: that strength doesn’t mean suppression, that peace doesn’t require perfection, and that healing doesn’t happen in hiding.

It wasn’t easy. Some days, I still fought the restlessness. But the more I surrendered, the more I trusted the process instead of trying to manage it, the more peace I found. Slowly, I started recognizing myself again, not the woman performing strength, but the one rooted in it. The one who leads with love, nurtures with grace, and finally, finally lets God fight the battles I used to face alone.

 

The Lesson in Stillness

Isaiah 26:3 says, “You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in You.” For so long, I thought peace was something that came after the mess, something you earned once the storm passed. But I’ve learned that peace isn’t the prize; it’s the promise. It doesn’t wait until everything falls into place. It creates the order you’ve been praying for.

In Korea, I moved with force. Every day was about execution, precision, and performance. But in Alaska, God began teaching me faith. Faith doesn’t mean you stop working; it means you stop striving. It means you finally trust that the same God who called you is capable of carrying you. Faith is learning when to move and when to be still. It’s surrendering the pace to the One who already wrote the plan. Funny enough,  I’m being reminded of this again, in Korea, again!

When I started waking up early again, it wasn’t to get ahead; it was to get aligned. My mornings became sacred moments of silence and stillness. A cup of tea beside my journal, I’d sit quietly before the noise of the day began. I stopped planning and started listening. That’s where peace found me again, not in my performance, but in my presence with Him.

When I finally stopped forcing things, conversations, opportunities, outcomes, everything began to flow differently. My leadership became lighter. My words carried more grace. My family felt my presence again. I realized that control is the counterfeit of trust; the tighter you grip, the less room you give God to move.

God showed me that surrender doesn’t make you less effective; it positions you for favor. Even in the seasons when the workload was heavy, expectations high, and the pace relentless, I saw the difference peace made. Every time I chose peace over pressure, something shifted. I didn’t have to chase recognition anymore; it found me.

That’s when I understood this season wasn’t just about survival, but stewardship. The stillness that once made me uncomfortable became the clarity that sharpened my leadership. I started showing up differently. I prayed before meetings. I led with compassion instead of control. I paused before reacting. And the fruit of that change was undeniable.

 

Receiving “Most Qualified” more than once wasn’t about validation, but it sure was confirmation. It was God’s quiet way of saying, “See what happens when you let Me lead?” Those moments became proof that His peace produces what pressure never can. And the irony? Those recognitions came in my hardest seasons, when I was healing from burnout, navigating anxiety, and learning to breathe again. That’s how I know it wasn’t my strength. It was His. My calm became my credibility. My obedience became my elevation. My peace became my power.

Now, I lead differently. I no longer measure success by how much I can juggle, but by how well I can listen to my team, my family, and, most importantly, to God. Every promotion, every acknowledgment, every answered prayer is a reminder that surrender isn’t weakness, it’s strategy.

When you release control, God doesn’t just meet you where you are; He surpasses what you thought was possible. Peace is active trust. It’s the decision to rest while the world runs, to wait while others rush, and to believe that what God builds through stillness will stand longer than anything you could force through striving.

 

 

What Peace Looks Like in Practice

Peace doesn’t mean you’re passive. It means you’re intentional. It means you can lead a meeting and still know when to breathe. It means you can love deeply without losing yourself. It means you can mother, manage, and move forward without forcing what isn’t flowing.

In my work, I no longer needed to prove my productivity. In my marriage, I learned to pause before responding. In motherhood, I found beauty in being fully present, even in the chaos. And in business, I knew that my growth didn’t depend on constant motion; it depended on consistent obedience.

The shift was subtle but powerful. Peace taught me how to pace myself. It showed me that alignment is greater than achievement. When you move with God, what’s meant for you doesn’t require force; it finds flow.

 

The Rebuild After Burnout

Rebuilding peace required dismantling the version of me that was addicted to control. I had to let go of the need to be perfect, to be applauded, to be “on” all the time. I had to make peace with rest. I started creating space for restoration, journaling, reading, prayer runs, and affirmations. Slowly, I realized that peace wasn’t something I had to chase. It was something I had to protect.

And here’s the truth: restoration doesn’t happen in the spotlight. It occurs in silence. It’s the deep breath you take between assignments. It’s the prayer you whisper before the meeting. It’s the grace you give yourself when you drop a ball. Restoration is not instant; it’s intentional.

 

A Reflection for Women Who Lead and Love

Maybe you’re reading this from your own battlefield, trying to keep it together, balancing expectations, roles, and responsibilities. You’re not failing, Girlfriend; you’re evolving. The woman who once thrived in chaos is learning to rest in calm. That’s not regression. That’s growth.

If your peace feels buried under pressure, take this as your reminder: God never designed you to do it all alone. He created you to walk with Him, not work for Him. He doesn’t bless burnout. He blesses balance. And sometimes, His greatest miracle isn’t in the mountain you move, it’s in the stillness you finally honor.

 

A Call to Realignment

This week, I want you to slow down. Not because you’ve earned rest, but because you need it to keep becoming. Close the laptop earlier. Take a walk without your phone. Sit with your journal and ask yourself, “Where am I forcing what God wants me to flow through?”

Write down what peace means to you in this season. Then build around that definition. Protect it. Prioritize it. Because when peace becomes your priority, pressure loses its power.

If you’re ready to rebuild your rhythm, start with my 30-Day Faith & Mindset Reset Journal from iHopePrayLove. It was created for women exactly like you, leaders, mothers, and sisters in womanhood who are learning to rest without guilt and to lead without force. Pair it with your quiet mornings and watch how peace begins to fill the spaces where pressure once lived.

Your faith doesn’t have to be loud to be strong. Sometimes, it just has to be still.