I Struggle With Self-Care, Too
Self-care felt selfish until my body broke under the weight of ministry life.
I remember the exact moment I hit rock bottom.
It was a Sunday night, and I had nearly finished another marathon day at church with my seven, four, and two-year-old kids.
As I leaned in to pull a package of lunch meat out of the fridge in our family’s kitchen, my gag reflux nearly sent me running for the bathroom. Part of the problem was my pregnancy, which had kept me sick for months on end at this point.
But the real trigger was how dirty my refrigerator was.
Sticky residue spotted the shelves, and layers of old veggies were stuck to the bottom of my crisper like rotting wallpaper. No telling how long it had been since I’d had the energy to clean it out.
I felt more than saw the visiting minister’s wife moving behind me, so I quickly grabbed the package of lunch meat (which I desperately hoped wasn’t expired) and pushed the fridge door closed.
I turned to hand her the lunch meat and forced a smile, my eyes scanning the kitchen frantically. Was the entire house in as bad a shape as the inside of my refrigerator?
Gratefully, my hard-working husband had tidied things up before church to spare me further embarrassment. I sank with relief and exhaustion into a chair at our dining room table and ignored the conversation buzzing around my head.
At that moment—and for the first time in nearly a decade—I admitted something to myself:
I was crumbling: emotionally, physically, and mentally.
The Ministry Model That Left Me Empty
I grew up as a PK, and at 21 became a fourth-generation pastor’s wife.
Two years later, my husband, Jeremy, and I moved five hours away from our families to pastor a tiny church in rural West Texas.
Because of my background, I could tick every box when it came to theology and handling the many duties of being a pastor’s wife.
I could teach Sunday school, play piano, lead worship and women’s ministry, and clean the church… and I did, on repeat.
But there was one thing I had never learned how to do: take care of myself.
And I honestly never thought about the state of my mind, body, or emotions as I pushed through those first exhausting years of having babies, raising and homeschooling young children, and juggling the never-ending jobs of serving a congregation alongside my husband.
The truth is, I was a work horse and proud of it.
If I ever thought about self-care, I thought of it as a luxury for the weak…
or worse—something the world invented to justify selfishness.
Many days, the only thing I was “accomplishing” was surviving. But somehow I never stopped to question how long I could sustain such a life. I only knew women who ran on fumes, who wore burnout like a badage, who smiled in public and unraveled behind closed doors.
So I pushed until I unraveled too.
Quietly. Invisibly. Completely.
At 29, my spirit broke before my body did. But not by much.
That Sunday night in the kitchen? That was the beginning of the end for me. The nightfall of a darkness that engulfed me seemingly without warning—but there had been so many signs.
What ensued were days I could hardly get out of bed; nights I couldn’t sleep without night terrors; lab work that kept my midwife sending me back to the doctor for more tests; and the onset of depression and anxiety that lasted for years.
Fifteen years later, I wish I could slip my arm around that younger version of me and say gently,
“It’s okay to rest. It’s okay to lay down what you can’t carry right now.
You don’t have to earn rest, you’re already worthy.”
My breakdown was preventable.
But no one told me in Bible college that ignoring your limits isn’t holiness, or that it’s a slow, silent self-destruction.
So I learned the hard way. I broke.
And for a while, I had no idea why.
If this is where you are…
If you’re pushing through,
hiding your depletion with one more smile,
one more “yes,”
one more pat answer from an over-used Bible verse…
I see you.
And I’m not here to fix it.
Just to sit with you in this space.
And maybe to whisper,
“You don’t have to defend your tiredness.
You don’t have to explain away your emptiness.
You don’t have to fight for the right to rest…
because you’ve always been worthy.”
This moment is yours.
To breathe.
To weep.
To wonder.
Maybe even to ask—quietly—what comes next?
But for today, just be:
Be honest.
Be broken.
Be still—and wonder if there’s a way forward that feels less like Hell and more like abundance.
Because, sweet friend, there is.
If you’re craving real connection, our private Facebook community is home to over 1,500 ministry women just like you.
It’s a quiet, unfiltered space to exhale, be seen, and find steady encouragement for the road ahead.
We saved you a seat.
Veritas et gratia,
Kristy 💐