What is insecurity?
The dictionary definition is “uncertainty or anxiety about oneself; lack of confidence” or “the state of being open to danger or threat; lack of protection.”
To me, insecurity is not being able to look myself in the mirror or make eye contact with strangers.
To me, insecurity is replaying conversations over and over again in my mind, wishing I had said or done something differently.
To me, insecurity is never being the first one to start a conversation or raise my hand to answer question.
It is always second-guessing. Always assuming the worst. Always waiting to make sure I’m not wrong, I’m not alone. Always making sure someone else agrees before I speak out. It is weakness disguised as meekness. It is shame disguised as humility. It is a web of lies that I’ve curled up in and called a safety net.
Insecurity is paralyzing. It is crippling. It is physically painful, and mentally draining. It is a parasite on the inside, eating me alive.
I’ve lived 26 years on this earth, and I’m just now beginning to recognize the damage insecurity has caused in my life. Insecurity is like a storm that I slept through, and now I’m waking up and looking through the window of my heart to see all the destruction left in it’s wake.
For years, I’ve masked it as a personality type. This label has instilled in me the lie that insecurity is ingrained into who I am. I’ve called it a “humble spirit” – but there’s nothing humble about a spirit that is so concerned about what other people see, and hear, and think about me that I’ve let their opinions shape and mold me. And I’ve taken that image, the image of who I thought they wanted me to be, and I’ve placed it on the throne of my heart. And I’ve bowed down. I’ve bowed down in worship to an image constructed by the chisel in my own mind. I’ve bowed down under the weight of a burden that is too heavy to bear, and wasn’t meant for me to bear.
The only One strong enough to bear the weight of perfection, already did.
There has been a war being waged in my mind, and I’ve let it take me prisoner. I’ve surrendered in defeat to a war that’s already been won for me. I’ve locked myself up in chains, when I’ve already been set free. I can hear Him calling me out of hiding, but I’m ignoring His voice. I’m too afraid of being seen. I’m too afraid of disappointing, too afraid of being rejected. I’m too concerned with that self-image, forgetting that I was made in His image. So I keep it hidden. Out of sight, out of mind – that’s the lie that’s made me blind.
Only darkness. That’s all I see now. The lies have made me blind, so I’ve tried to navigate by depending solely on what I’m feeling, but what I’m feeling can be deceiving. And my soul can still hear You calling. Even in my wandering, even in my stumbling. When I feel myself falling, and my knees hit the ground, You reach out Your hand to me. And when I reach up and grasp Your hand, I feel the hole. And I feel whole.
Your word, sharp as a sword, the light of truth – It pierces through the darkness. When you speak, I know who I really am. You speak life, and purpose, and promise. You call me by a new name. You call me Your child. You call me beloved. You call me worthy, and beautiful, and chosen. You call me by Your name. You give me a new identity. And now I can rest in security.
“I waited patiently for the Lord; He inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.”
– Psalm 40:1-2 ESV