Turns Out I Can’t Do It All—and That’s Okay
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
I turn 30 in 30 days.
It’s funny, because 29 was supposed be the easy year. The last lap before the big milestone I wasn’t ready for. But instead, 29 came in like a wrecking ball—diagnoses, disruptions, and detours I never saw coming.
For most of my life, I’ve prided myself in being healthy. Active. Energized. The “yes girl” who didn’t sit still much. But in college, I started noticing something strange: by 9 p.m., I was completely wiped out. My friends thought I was just an introvert who needed tons of “recharge time”, but it wasn’t a personality thing. My body simply couldn’t keep up.
After a few sleep studies, I was diagnosed with narcolepsy. Not the kind that makes you fall asleep mid-sentence, but the kind that means my body needs what feels like excessive amounts of sleep just to function—usually 10 to 11 hours a night.
Even then, I still considered myself pretty healthy. I managed. I adapted. I made it work.
But 29? Well, let’s just say things have been interesting!
In the past twelve months, I’ve been diagnosed with diabetes, ADHD (more on that later), and a new autoimmune condition. Add in chronic fatigue, lifestyle changes, mental adjustments, and now—just for fun—a concerning spot on my abdomen that needs to be removed.
It feels strange to list all of that out, even now. Please know, I’m not looking for pity—just being honest about what this season has looked like.
I feel like I’ve spent more time this year talking with doctors and friends about new diagnoses than doing ministry or living life. And honestly? It’s made me feel like I’m living in a strange kind of twilight zone. A version of myself I don’t quite recognize.
The imposter syndrome is real.
I still find myself leaving boxes unchecked at the doctor’s office because maybe I don’t have it that bad. I don’t feel “sick enough” to wear all these labels. And I really am blessed. Nothing I’ve been diagnosed with is life-threatening. I can walk. I can lead. I can laugh with students and keep up with life (for the most part). And I’m so thankful.
But it’s also been humbling to admit that my body doesn’t bounce back like it used to. And even more humbling to learn how to listen to it.
Here’s what God’s been gently teaching me in the middle of it all:
1. Rest Isn’t Laziness— It’s Obedience
I’ve always been a doer. I find value in hustle, in being dependable, in always saying yes. But this year, my body simply couldn’t keep up—and at first, I felt guilty about that. Like I was letting people down by not being “on” all the time.
But God’s been reminding me: rest is not laziness. It’s obedience. It’s trust. It’s a declaration that I am not the one holding everything together—He is. And He doesn’t need me to burn out in order to be faithful.
I’m truly starting to grasp the meaning of “Come to me, all who are weary or heavy laden.” It’s not just an invitation to those who don’t know Him—it’s for those of us who do, and still need to keep turning things over to Him.
I think my mom has seen this coming for years; I can’t count the number of times she’s said to me, “Anna, you probably don’t need to add anything else to your plate right now. Just rest.”
And she’s right. Sometimes obedience actually looks like not signing up. Not pushing through. Sometimes it just looks like rest.
2. My Journey Can Be a Testimony—Even When I’m Tired
I’m learning that not always being “on” is a powerful witness.
A sweet gentleman came up to me after a church meeting last night, gave me a hug, and simply said, “Take care of yourself.” I’m not sure if he knew what I’ve been walking through, but it reminded me how easy it is—especially in ministry—to hide our exhaustion in the name of serving well.
It’s not always the mountaintop moments that show God’s glory. Sometimes it’s when I have the freedom to say, “I’m tired, and I’m going to have to lean on Jesus right now.”
In fact, I think there’s something deeply powerful about being in ministry and still being able to say, “I don’t have it all together right now.” That kind of vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s a witness. It reminds people that strength doesn’t come from having it all figured out. It comes from knowing Who to lean on.
3. Getting Older Means Leaning In
I used to think getting older meant having things more figured out. But now I know—it really means learning how to lean on Jesus more than ever before.
I’m learning that strength isn’t found in figuring everything out—it’s found in trusting the One who already has.
And maybe that’s the gift of this season: the realization that dependence isn’t a flaw— it’s growth.
Wherever you are in life, know this: Jesus doesn’t want us to overwork our bodies trying to serve Him. He never asked for that. He asked for our hearts. And He delights in our rest.
Rhythms of Rest—and Grace
In the midst of this strange, sacred unraveling, God is teaching me about rhythms of rest—and rhythms of grace.
Not the kind of rest that’s forced by illness or burnout.
But the kind of rhythm that slows me down before I crash. The kind of grace that meets me before I feel like I’ve earned it. The kind that reshapes the way I live—not just physically, but spiritually.
Here’s what that’s starting to look like in my actual, imperfect life:
Sunday afternoon naps—not because I’m lazy, but because my soul and body need stillness after pouring out.
Healthier meals—not from a place of restriction, but because my body is a gift I want to steward well.
Long walks in the sunshine—where I slow down enough to notice how good God is, even in the small things.
Unhurried conversations with friends—the kind where no one’s checking the time, and we talk about Sabbath, slowness, and soul care.
I’ve had to face the fact that my body is not perfect. It never will be—not this side of Heaven, at least. But one day—I’ll get a new one. A restored one. A healed one.
And until then, I’m learning to live gently with this one. To rest in the grace that’s been given to me right now.
So here’s to 30.
To fewer late nights and more early mornings.
To slower walks, deeper friendships, quieter faith, and better boundaries.
To ministry that flows from rest—not exhaustion.
To the God who doesn’t just call us to go, but who invites us to abide.
