Feel Like Too Much? Not Enough? The Key to Moving Forward

Tabitha Panariso is deeply committed to offering more than just pithy platitudes to cover our suffering. As someone who’s traversed the darkness of rejection and abandonment, she grew tired of quick fixes that allowed her to avoid her pain and instead, learned to look for a steady hand to guide her through it. That hand belonged to Christ, who invited her to see rejection not as an end – but as merely a beginning. And, through Christ, was able to find healing, wholeness, and unrelenting courage to continue to love those who inevitably would disappoint and fail her. It’s a joy to welcome Tabitha to the farm’s table today…

Guest Post by Tabitha Panariso

The tendons in the backs of my legs groan and buckle under the weight of my expectations.

I can feel every ache of my body as I run on our cheap treadmill in our unfinished basement. Anxiety bubbles under the surface of each loud breath I take. Is my body capable of this? My arms feel heavy as I move them up and down.

I feel weak.

This task I signed myself up for seems impossible. 

We’re deep in the throes of a Colorado winter.

Sometime at the advent of the New Year, I had decided this was the year I would run my first half-­ marathon—13.1 miles of just my body and me making amends for all the hurt we had caused each other. United once again. For good.

Through Covid, I had gained the weight not just of the countless quiches I’d eaten, but of a broken heart finally making its presence known. Its cries had gotten loud, pleading for me to take notice of its pain. But it had been too hard to listen, so—­ like with my phone and the spotty cell service in the forest near my home—­ we became disconnected. 

Pride had blocked any attempts my body had made at reuniting with my heart and soul.

“Rejection made me afraid to embody all that I was. But in resisting, I became more of a walking shadow than a light on a hill.”

If I spent too long paying attention to the undercurrent of belief that fed my anxiety, it would become too much. I found myself asking, Am I not enough? Am I too much? Why do I always feel as if I am lacking?  

Rejection had made its mark on me, and instead of fighting it, I succumbed—­ my perspective of myself dwindling into regular plays of passive self-­ hatred. I didn’t have much to hold on to in January. I was still reeling from losing my friends, and I felt lost all over again. 

So many significant people had rejected me that I began to reject myself. And while I had done much work to heal, I began to hide under the idea that I was just fine on my own.

On my own, I thought, I can fully heal again. There could be no tenderness there. Vulnerability wasn’t allowed. I had to harden myself and make a way through this life avoiding the possibility of hurt. Oh, how could God make me so incomplete? So weak? I vowed never to feel such lack or disappointment again. 

Yet this posture did nothing but usher in more of what overwhelmed me. Instead of taking the risk to see my life filled with goodness, I could only ever see emptiness. 

“I had to come to the end of myself to meet myself and to see God again—­ to live a faith embodied life not just in my strength, but in my weakness too. “

I had limited the work God could do. I let Him into only the parts of my healing I felt I could control or grasp. As long as I could come out looking like I had it all together, I would let God heal me.

Somewhere in the trenches of my faith I thought this was what it looked like to be a good Christian. I didn’t realize I’d only ever known disconnected faith, one that left my body out of the equation. I only let God into the parts of my life that had already been made complete, made perfect. 

Rejection made me afraid to embody all that I was. But in resisting, I became more of a walking shadow than a light on a hill. 

I had to lay it all down. I had to come to the end of myself to meet myself and to see God again—­ to live a faith embodied life not just in my strength, but in my weakness too. 

But how could I do this? You might be wondering the same thing.

It starts with not only admitting our fragility but leaning into it. 

Jesus demonstrated the nature of humility in His life by His mere presence—­ His willingness to come to Earth and be one like us. But we also see it poignantly in the death of his friend Lazarus, a man whom Jesus loved. 

Twice Jesus said to those who sent for Him and to Mary wept for her brother that Lazurus would not stay dead. For God’s glory, Lazurus would rise to live once again. Although Christ had the confidence of one who knew the plans of God, he was moved by Mary’s grief at her brother’s tomb. 

“…it’s in our humanity that we find our humility. “

Jesus wept. 

These two words convey the heart of the Man of Sorrows, well acquainted with suffering, unafraid to feel the weakness of the mortal human body, its bounded and limited life, and aware of how quickly this life can be taken. Spurgeon taught, “He wept to baptize our prayers unto God.” He wept to show us that we can do the same. 

Christ instructs us in how we can live in this finite world. Though we know death is not the end for us, we can still be attuned and present to the groans and aches this world compels in us. Jesus was not ashamed of His humanity, and neither should we be. In fact, it’s in our humanity that we find our humility. 

“His tears did not minimize God’s glory. And neither do ours.“

Our tears reflect this.

We offer our weeping in surrender and trust that Christ meets us in the valleys just as he carries us to the mountaintops.

We so easily spurn our weakness, compartmentalizing our pain and our lack.

From this pride, we speak in platitudes.

We convince ourselves that rejection doesn’t hurt. We pretend that we’re content with being redirected elsewhere. We declare that something else will come along. We are desperate to prove ourselves and to prove God. Yet even God did not hurry to do so. Jesus had no need to defend His Father by policing Mary or His grief.

His tears did not minimize God’s glory.

And neither do ours. 

Tabitha Panariso regularly reflects on the unseen things that happen in our everyday lives and writes about them. Her work as a Christ-Centered and Trauma-Informed Therapist (MA, LPCC) allows her the privilege of walking alongside those who are navigating the dark and as Christ has done for her, offers a steady and kind hand to cling onto. In both her practice and writing, Tabitha explores how our psychology, spirituality, and theology are all intricately intertwined.

Tabitha is a wife and mom and lives in Colorado Springs with her husband and three kids. She feels most like herself in the mountains.

In a world that’s desperate to ignore the pain of rejection, Loyal in His Love: An Invitation To Be Held By Jesus When Others Let You Go, reminds us that each devastating moment of rejection is an opportunity to build a bridge that will lead us into hope and transformation. Jesus lived a life and death marked by rejection. Yet we remember him for his compassion and generosity, We can be remembered that way too. Tabitha’s newest book isn’t just another Christian self-help book. It’s space to truly see yourself in your hurt and let the Lord in.

{Our humble thanks to Zondervan for their partnership in today’s devotional.}