Wrestling with Insecurity, Worth, and the Voice of God
I don’t always recognize it when it starts. That quiet craving for approval. The way I pause before doing something that feels true to me. As if I’m waiting for someone to nod, to say, “Yes, you’re allowed to do this.”
Sometimes I think it comes from a deep insecurity. A root of not feeling accepted. Not for what I can do, but for who I am.
The Job Was Taken
As a child, I always felt like the job was taken. The role I wanted—the singer, the dancer, the joyful one—was already filled by someone else. I learned to adapt, to perform a different version of myself, even if it didn’t quite fit.
In my family, love looked like provision. My mom survived a storm inside her mind, and she gave us what she could: food, clothes, a safe home. But affection? Celebration? The kind of attention that whispers, “I see you, I delight in you”? That wasn’t there.
We were a “look what I can do” kind of family—talent shows and vetting. I felt judged, and so I judged right back. Because somehow, that was how we knew we existed.
Who Gets to Speak?
Even now, I find myself asking for permission to speak, to teach, to belong. Years ago, I wanted to start a blog. I asked a friend, and her response was enough to convince me I wasn’t qualified. I believed her. Then I watched someone else start one—no degrees, no credentials. Just boldness. And she was celebrated.
So I carried that quiet question: “Am I allowed to be here, too? To think? To write? To sit among the ones who speak in city squares and say things that matter?”
When I taught aerobics, it brought me joy. But I stopped. Because I didn’t have a certificate. Because I didn’t have the body I thought was required. So I told myself I couldn’t.
Even when I was invited to teach at a school that believed in me, I carried the fear that maybe I didn’t belong. And when I was promoted and struggled, that fear was confirmed. The same voices that once said, “You’re more than enough” now said, “You’re not enough.”
What the Voice Really Says
That voice in my head that asks for permission? It’s really saying, I want to be here, too. I have something to offer. Let me sit and learn.
And I believe God hears that voice. I believe He says yes.
God doesn’t measure success the way this world does. I may never finish the degree. I may never publish the book. But I have poured out my life in love. I have pointed to Him. I have forgiven, and prayed, and ached to love like Jesus loves.
That counts in His kingdom. That counts in His economy.
Joy is a balm. Rest is permission—to stop proving, and start trusting. Boldness isn’t volume—it’s quiet devotion. It’s showing up in ordinary places with extraordinary love.
What If I Lived Like I Was Already Accepted?
The truth? It’s terrifying.
To ignore what others think. To quit school and just write. To ride a bike instead of owning a car. To believe that God’s nod is enough.
But maybe that’s the invitation. Not to wait for permission. But to live like I already have it.
What I Would Tell Her
If a younger woman came to me with these same fears, I think I’d want to say:
Love loud. Live the you God made.
And if Jesus sat across from me right now?
I think He’d say, You don’t have to prove yourself. I already chose you. I already called you. You can trust Me with your right now. And that’s enough.
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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