For years, I didn’t even realize I was performing.

As a child, performance was survival. In chaos, I learned to wear a mask—pretend everything was okay. If I was on my best behavior, maybe the chaos wouldn’t touch me. That mask became so natural, I carried it into adulthood.

When my daughter was diagnosed with autism and developmental delays, performance became routine. For twelve months I lived like a robot: wake up, get dressed, drop her at school, go to work, pick her up, come home, eat, sleep. Repeat. On the outside, I looked fine. On the inside, I was deeply depressed—but no one knew. It was the same mask I had learned to wear as a child, only polished for adulthood.

In relationships, performance was protection. I shaped myself into whatever version felt safest in the moment, even if it wasn’t really me.

And when I stepped into entrepreneurship, performance became expectation. I showed up online, in business, and in life with the rhythm I thought was required—podcasting, blogging, weekly newsletters, posting multiple times a day, chasing algorithms, following the unspoken “rules” of how to succeed. On top of that, I was serving clients, teaching classes, managing a home, being a wife, raising kids.

It was too much.
I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and stretched thin.

And then, in November 2022, everything came to a full stop.

The Identity Crisis

When my daughter passed away, everything cracked open.

I felt gutted. Raw. Empty. Time stopped for me while the world kept moving. For the first time, I could see it clearly: I wasn’t just grieving her—I was grieving an identity I had built on performance. Without the mask, without the routine, I didn’t know how to be present.

That loss forced me to slow down. And in slowing down, I discovered something: I didn’t want to perform anymore. I couldn’t. Presence wasn’t just a choice—it was the only way I could survive.

The only things that felt real in that season were my husband, my children, and my faith. And even if everything else had been stripped away, I still had God. He had always been my anchor.

So I clung to Him.

I built small, steady routines—Bible study, prayer, quiet presence—that grounded me when nothing else made sense. I stripped away what would only numb me: alcohol, unrealistic expectations, grief eating. Slowly, my relationship with God deepened, and from that place, I found the strength to move forward—not perfectly, but fully present.

Why We Perform

When I slowed down, I started asking myself: why have I been performing for so long?

Here’s what I’ve come to understand, both from my own reflection and from studying psychology:

As children, many of us learn to perform because it feels safer than being fully ourselves. If the room is tense, we put on a smile. If love feels conditional, we behave “just right.” If chaos surrounds us, we try to make ourselves small, pleasing, or perfect so maybe the chaos won’t touch us.

That’s the mask. And for a child, it works. It creates the illusion of safety. It becomes the strategy to keep the peace, to hold onto love, to belong.

But survival strategies don’t just vanish when we grow up. They follow us. They mature with us.

By adulthood, that same instinct to “perform” can look like:

• Perfectionism: Needing every detail to be polished because imperfection feels like exposure.
  
• Overachievement: Believing worth is tied to success, so we chase validation through doing.
  
• Masking pain: Looking fine on the outside, while hiding depression or struggle inside.
  
• People-pleasing: Saying yes when our heart longs to say no, just to keep the peace.
  

And because we’ve practiced it for so long, performing can feel seamless. At 22, I was working in corporate America, depressed for an entire year—and no one knew. I smiled. I delivered. I looked the part. But really, I was just living what I’d learned as a child: keep the mask on, and maybe the world won’t see the cracks.

What I Came to Notice

With time, space, and healing, I started to see the difference between performing and being present:

Performing

• Comes from outward focus — trying to be perceived a certain way.
  
• Sounds like: “Let me show you…”
  
• Costs you energy, leaving you drained.
  
• You leave moments replaying them in your head, wondering how they came across.
  

Being Present

• Comes from inward alignment — you’re grounded in the moment.
  
• Sounds like: “Let me be with you…”
  
• Leaves you steady, not emptied.
  
• You leave moments remembering the connection, not critiquing yourself.
  

The tricky part is this: the lines blur when what’s natural to you inspires others. The temptation is to replicate it because it “works.” That’s fine—until the focus shifts from being to producing an effect. That’s when it turns back into performance.

What Changed

In December 2022, I made a decision: I was done performing.

I became intentional in everything—because intention requires presence. In my self-care. In motherhood. In being a wife. In running my business.

Instead of rushing, I slowed down. Instead of trying to be who I thought others needed, I showed up as myself. I practiced listening more closely to my body, my spirit, my kids, my husband.

And it changed everything.

The way I parented felt gentler. My marriage felt steadier. My work felt more aligned. Even my quiet moments of rest felt like they mattered.

And when I carried that same presence into how I showed up online, something beautiful happened. I didn’t follow trends or chase algorithms—I just shared my life as it was: real conversations, everyday moments, messy and beautiful in equal measure.

The result? In three months, my following grew from 5,000 to over 300,000. But the truest reward wasn’t the numbers. It was that I felt lighter, freer, and more myself than ever before.

The Invitation

If you’re tired of performing—at work, in relationships, in motherhood, or even online—please hear this: you don’t have to. Presence is always more powerful than performance.

For me, presence began with the smallest shifts: daily practices that deepened my relationship with God and grounded me in what was real. That’s why I created my 26-Week Bible Study Guide—not as another rulebook, but as a simple anchor that helps me stay steady.

If faith is part of your journey too, you’re welcome to join me here.

And if not, take this with you anyway: you don’t have to perform to be loved. Your presence—messy, beautiful, real—is enough. It always has been.