Faith In The Ordinary

When self becomes the ground, no one stands there alone

INTRODUCTION

I did not come to these reflections academically. I came to them by living inside them.

I have lived inside environments shaped by this kind of self-rule—where control was not occasional, but foundational. I know what it is like to move carefully, to anticipate reactions, to manage tone and timing, to feel the weight of internal instability shaping the atmosphere of an entire relationship. I recognize the patterns described here not because I studied them, but because I survived them.

At the same time, this is not a piece written from moral distance. All of us, at some point, have relied on self. We have all defended, explained, justified, managed perception, avoided accountability, or rushed to regain footing when something felt threatening. These tendencies are human. They appear in moments of fear, insecurity, and unresolved pain.

But there is a difference—one that must be named honestly.

There are those for whom self-rule is not a season, a response, or a stress reaction. It is the only ground they know. For them, control is not occasional; it is constant. Accountability is not difficult; it is intolerable. Stillness is not restorative; it is threatening. And the cost of maintaining that inner arrangement is not paid by them alone. It is paid by everyone around them.

When self becomes the ground, relationships do not merely become strained—they become dangerous. Reality bends. Responsibility shifts. Emotional space narrows. And those who live nearby begin to carry what was never theirs to hold. Over time, this does not simply wound; it distorts. It creates confusion, exhaustion, self-doubt, and a quiet erosion of clarity and safety.

This reflection is written because I have lived inside that erosion.

It is not written to label, diagnose, or sensationalize. It is written to tell the truth—about what grows when self is forced to function as foundation, about what it does to others, and about why nothing truly changes until the ground itself does. Most importantly, it is written because there is another ground. And until that ground is named, understood, and received, the patterns explored here will continue—no matter how much insight, intention, or effort is applied.

What ultimately set me free was not insight alone. It was not finally understanding the patterns or even naming the harm. It was encountering truth through Jesus Christ Himself. As I learned to return again and again to His words, and to listen honestly to what the Holy Spirit was revealing, clarity began to replace confusion. What had once felt normal was exposed. What had once been excused was named. What had once kept me stuck lost its authority.

Truth did not arrive as accusation, but as illumination. Slowly, the fog lifted. I could see things for what they were—not through bitterness, but through light. And with that clarity came permission: permission to stop managing what was never mine to fix, to stop carrying what was never mine to hold, and to move forward in purpose and strength rather than survival. Freedom came not from confronting another person, but from standing on a different ground altogether.

What follows begins where many of us live more often than we realize.

WHEN THE GROUND IS YOURSELF

Most people don’t realize how unstable life feels when everything depends on holding yourself upright. Ordinary moments carry weight. A simple question can require careful balance—especially when an honest response might expose something real. When control is central and an off-hand comment is made, the instinct is not only to reinterpret what was said, but to prepare a clarification or defence for that reinterpretation.

In this posture, a remark does not simply land; it unsettles—internally first, before anything is said out loud. There is a quick tightening, a moment of recalibration, a sense that something has shifted and needs to be corrected. Thoughts race ahead of the conversation. Meaning is reassessed. Tone is adjusted mid-response. Explanations are pulled closer, not because they are needed yet, but because balance already feels threatened. When everything depends on staying upright, even small missteps feel costly.

When everything depends on holding yourself together, stillness doesn’t feel calm—it feels like the beginning of collapse. The quiet stirs anxiety rather than rest, as if stopping would allow everything being contained to surface at once—unprocessed fault, unresolved fear, buried shame, and the weight of being responsible for holding it all together. Stillness becomes a problem not because something new appears, but because the constant managing, explaining, and controlling has nothing to hide behind anymore.

Without confidence in what is actually holding things together, standing still feels less like rest and more like collapse. And this is the deeper problem: when a person treats themselves as the ground they must stand on, that ground is never steady. Collapse is never far away.

The rest of this reflection traces what grows out of that instability—and what happens when the ground changes.

WHAT GROWS OUT OF INSTABILITY – CONTROL, DEFENSIVENESS, DISTORTION, RELATIONAL GRAVIITY

The Weight of a Self That Must Be Protected

When stability has to be maintained instead of trusted, protection becomes a way of life. Attention turns inward—not always from fear alone, but from a growing conviction that the self must be guarded, prioritized, and preserved at all costs. Over time, this conviction hardens into a way of seeing the world: a belief system in which safety depends on vigilance, standing depends on control, and stability must be actively secured.

When the self is treated as the ground that must hold everything together, daily life takes on a defensive posture. Ordinary interactions are no longer neutral; they are assessed. Every interaction is quietly evaluated for risk. Every disagreement carries the potential to threaten balance. The work of living becomes the work of guarding—guarding reputation, guarding control, guarding the version of events that allows standing to continue uninterrupted.

Worst yet, accountability is delayed, softened, or redirected—not always from a desire to be unjust, but because responsibility feels destabilizing. Yet over time, the cost to others becomes clear. When that cost is known and the pattern remains unchanged, avoidance is no longer innocent. It becomes a choice to preserve stability at someone else’s expense. When the self becomes the ground, protection is no longer optional. It becomes the cost of staying upright.

Control

Control rarely announces itself. It shows up quietly, as vigilance. There is a constant sense that something needs to be managed—tone, timing, response, outcome. Conversations are not entered casually; they are monitored. Words are chosen not simply to be true, but to be safe. Silence is rarely allowed to stand on its own, because silence leaves too much unresolved.

Decisions feel urgent, even when nothing urgent is happening. Waiting feels irresponsible. Letting something unfold feels risky. There is comfort in staying one step ahead—anticipating reactions, steering conversations, shaping conclusions—because being surprised feels like losing footing. Control becomes the way stability is maintained, not through force, but through constant adjustment.

Defensiveness

Defensiveness does not always sound sharp or angry. Often, it sounds calm. Reasonable. Thoughtful. But it arrives quickly. A concern is raised, and explanations surface before the concern has fully landed. Context arrives before impact is acknowledged. The response is immediate—not to understand, but to protect what feels exposed.

Listening becomes difficult because it feels unsafe to remain open for long. The moment something threatens balance, the body tightens and the mind moves ahead, assembling reasons, clarifications, corrections. Nothing is denied outright, but nothing is allowed to rest either. Being wrong feels costly, so the conversation is redirected before responsibility can settle.

Distortion

Distortion rarely looks like lying. It looks like reframing. Events are remembered differently—sometimes from necessity, and sometimes from a quiet willingness to reshape reality in whatever way keeps balance intact. What was said is softened. What was agreed to become unclear. What caused harm is reinterpreted as misunderstanding, sensitivity, or poor timing.

Over time, reality becomes negotiable. Not because truth is rejected, but because it is filtered through what can be tolerated without losing balance. When others try to name their experience, it is gently questioned, recontextualized, or explained away. The effect is subtle but deeply destabilizing: people begin to second-guess themselves, not because they lack clarity, but because clarity is never allowed to stand uncontested.

Relational Gravity

Conversations begin to orbit one person—not always by design at first, but increasingly through patterns that are noticed, reinforced, and maintained. Attention drifts back to their perspective, their explanation, their reaction. Emotional space narrows. Other experiences are acknowledged briefly, then set aside—especially if they complicate or challenge what must be kept steady.

Care may still be present, but it has limits. Another’s pain is allowed only as long as it does not eclipse one’s own or demand humility. Over time, others learn to adjust—choosing words carefully, withholding concerns, managing reactions—to preserve stability. The relationship begins to feel asymmetrical, not because one person insists on the centre, but because everything quietly reorganizes itself around what must be protected.

THE RELATIONAL COST OF STANDING ON YOURSELF

When life is organized around protecting internal stability, relationships begin to carry weight they were never meant to bear. Other people are no longer encountered freely; they are navigated. Interactions become sites of risk—not to the relationship, but to the position that must be preserved. What could have been mutual becomes strategic.

One of the earliest signs is manipulation—not always obvious, not always aggressive, but persistent. Needs are communicated indirectly. Expectations are implied rather than stated. Information is shared selectively. Responses are shaped to guide outcomes rather than reveal truth. This is not always loud or openly hostile; it is often deliberate control practiced quietly, justified as wisdom, restraint, or emotional intelligence. But the effect is the same: others are steered rather than met.

Over time, reality itself begins to feel unstable for those involved. Conversations are revisited and subtly revised. Tone becomes the issue instead of content. Intent is emphasized over impact. When someone tries to name what they experienced, the response often reframes it—softening what happened, questioning interpretation, or offering an alternate explanation that sounds reasonable but leaves the original concern unresolved. The result is disorienting. People begin to doubt their perceptions, not because they are unclear, but because clarity is never allowed to stand uncontested.

There is also a quieter, more unsettling dynamic that can emerge: a sense of regulation through others’ destabilization. When another person becomes confused, emotional, or reactive, the imbalance can bring a strange relief. Control is restored. Attention moves off the one being questioned and onto the one who is now upset. This is rarely acknowledged, but it is felt. Calm returns not because anything was resolved, but because the pressure has shifted.

Care may still exist, but it becomes conditional. Support is offered generously—until it costs too much. Affection is present—until it threatens stability. Another person’s pain is acknowledged as long as it does not require humility, accountability, or change. When it does, attention withdraws. Help begins to carry expectation. Love becomes measured. Safety feels provisional.

Accountability struggles most in this environment. When concerns are raised, the conversation often shifts quickly: to context, to shared fault, to comparison. Responsibility is not rejected outright; it is redistributed. “You did that too.” “I wouldn’t have reacted if…” “You know how stressful things have been.” What remains unowned is quietly transferred. Over time, those closest begin to carry consequences that were never theirs—emotional labour, confusion, self-doubt, and the ongoing work of keeping things steady.

The damage here is cumulative, not explosive. Relationships do not usually end in dramatic rupture; they thin. Others adapt. They speak less. They ask for less. They learn where the edges are and stay within them. The relationship survives, but it no longer feels mutual. One person remains upright. Others do the adjusting.

This is the cost of instability when it moves outward. What began as self-protection becomes displacement. What was meant to preserve safety slowly erodes trust. And what was organized around staying standing leaves others carrying the weight of what will not be faced.

THE INNER ENGINE: INSECURITY, SHAME AND PERFORMANCE

By this point, the damage is usually visible—not only to others, but often to the one at the centre as well. Relationships strain. Patterns repeat. Consequences accumulate. And yet, the behaviour continues. Not because the cost is unknown, but because stopping would require something that feels far more dangerous than continuing: exposure without defense.

Insecurity

Beneath the vigilance, control, and distortion lies insecurity that has never been given rest. Insecurity, at this depth, is not the occasional feeling of inadequacy or doubt. It is a settled uncertainty about where one stands. It is the sense that position, belonging, or legitimacy can shift without warning—and must therefore be watched closely. Life is experienced less as something to inhabit and more as something to manage.

This insecurity shows up in how situations are entered. There is an alertness that never fully powers down. New environments are scanned quickly. People are assessed—who holds influence, who sets tone, who might threaten standing. Even familiar spaces require monitoring, because nothing feels permanently secured. Comfort is conditional. Acceptance feels provisional.

Because of this, feedback rarely lands neutrally. Even gentle correction can feel charged, not because it is harsh, but because it touches the question beneath everything: Am I still safe here? A raised eyebrow, a delayed response, a shift in tone can trigger internal recalibration. Meaning is assigned quickly. Motives are inferred. The body responds before the mind finishes reasoning.

Insecurity also reshapes how success and failure are experienced. Success brings relief, not rest. Failure brings urgency, not reflection. Nothing is simply informative; everything feels consequential. A mistake is not just a mistake—it is evidence that standing might be slipping. So, errors are managed quickly, often quietly, sometimes pre-emptively. Repair is attempted before harm is named. Control tightens not out of arrogance, but out of fear of falling.

Over time, insecurity narrows emotional range. Curiosity gives way to caution. Openness gives way to strategy. Vulnerability feels reckless, not because trust is impossible, but because the cost of being wrong feels too high. The person learns to stay composed, competent, and responsive—not because they are confident, but because insecurity has taught them that stillness invites loss.

This is why insecurity pairs so closely with control, defensiveness, and performance. It is not a surface flaw; it is the soil they grow in. Insecurity does not ask, “Who am I?” It asks, “Where do I stand—and how do I keep from losing it?” And when that question governs the inner life, everything else reorganizes around survival.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

Shame

Shame deepens this fear—but not as momentary embarrassment or public humiliation. This is not the discomfort of having done something awkward or being caught in a mistake. It is quieter and far more organizing. It is the belief that being fully seen, without explanation or protection, would be intolerable. Not because of what others might think, but because exposure itself feels destabilizing.

This kind of shame shows up long before anything visibly goes wrong. It is present in the impulse to explain before anyone has asked, to clarify before misunderstanding forms, to defend before blame arrives. It is felt in the tightening that happens when a fault is named, in the discomfort of silence after feedback, in the urgency to reframe what was said so it lands more safely. Nothing dramatic occurs outwardly, but inwardly, there is a sense that something must be managed quickly.

Shame like this does not shout. It instructs. It teaches what must never be left unguarded. Certain questions begin to feel dangerous. Certain conversations feel unbearable. Accountability is not experienced as correction, but as exposure. Fault cannot simply be owned; it must be softened, contextualized, or shared. Even apologies become careful—framed to explain rather than to listen—because listening too long feels unsafe.

When shame remains buried, it does not fade—it governs. It shapes memory, attention, and response. Past failures are monitored. Affirmation feels fragile. Rest feels undeserved. Visibility itself becomes something to control. The system stays alert not because the person is cruel or dramatic, but because shame has taught them that honesty without protection is not survivable.

This is why accountability feels unbearable. Owning fault is not experienced as correction; it feels like annihilation. Responsibility threatens more than reputation—it threatens identity. To admit wrong without defense feels like stepping into exposure with no ground beneath the feet. So, accountability is resisted, delayed, reshaped—not always consciously, but consistently—because shame makes honesty feel unsafe.

To survive this tension, performance takes over.

Performance

Performance does not always look like striving to impress. Often, it looks like adapting. Reading the room. Adjusting tone, values, language, even conviction to fit what will land well. The goal is not authenticity, but alignment — not with truth, but with whatever version of the self will be safest, most effective, or most admired in that moment.

This is where mirroring enters. The person becomes skilled at reflecting back what others value, expect, or reward. With one person, they are measured and restrained. With another, confident and decisive. In one space, they emphasize humility, in another, competence. Beliefs are emphasized or minimized depending on the audience. Emotional responses are calibrated carefully. Nothing is entirely false — but nothing is entirely free either.

Mirroring like this can look generous, even relationally intelligent. It is often praised as empathy, adaptability, or social awareness. But beneath it is a quieter motive: safety through fit. If the self can match what the moment requires, exposure can be avoided. Conflict can be managed. Standing can be maintained.

Over time, this kind of performance becomes exhausting. There is no stable centre to return to, only roles to sustain. The person learns how to succeed in many rooms, but rest in none. Being alone feels disorienting. Stillness feels empty rather than grounding, because without an audience, there is no clear script.

Performance also creates distance in relationships. Others may feel connected to a version of the person, but not to the person themselves. Trust becomes fragile, not because deception is obvious, but because consistency is missing. People sense that something is always being managed, even if they cannot name what it is.

This is not excellence. It is survival shaped into skill. And like all survival strategies, it persists not because it is fulfilling, but because it feels necessary. Performance becomes the way shame stays hidden, insecurity stays contained, and the system keeps running — even when the cost is exhaustion, fragmentation, and loss of self.

THE TURNING POINT: WHEN THE GROUND CHANGES TO THE SOLID ROCK

Everything traced so far makes sense—if the self is the ground. Control, vigilance, distortion, performance, and the avoidance of accountability are not random flaws; they are logical outcomes of standing on something that cannot bear weight. The system holds only as long as nothing presses too hard against it. But the self was never designed to function as foundation. It bends under the pressure of what it is asked to carry.

The turning point comes not when behaviour improves, but when the ground itself changes.

Jesus Christ does not enter this landscape by correcting behaviour first. He does not begin with instruction or demand reform. He begins by standing where the self cannot. Scripture does not present Him as an example to imitate before He is a foundation to rest on. Before teaching, before healing, before confrontation or sacrifice, a voice speaks over Him: “This is My beloved Son” (Matthew 3:17). Nothing has been proven. Nothing has been defended. Nothing has been managed. Identity is received, not achieved. This is not incidental. It is structural.

Jesus does not merely receive identity; He embodies a different way of being human—one that is rooted rather than reactive, secure rather than vigilant, present rather than performative. He can be misunderstood without rushing to clarify, accused without scrambling to defend, silent without losing authority. He does not need to control outcomes because He is not securing His place. He stands on what has already been spoken. This changes everything.

When identity is received rather than carried, accountability no longer threatens collapse. Responsibility can finally land without annihilation. To admit fault is no longer to lose standing, because standing is no longer self-constructed. Truth can be faced without explanation. Silence can be tolerated without panic. Exposure no longer signals danger, because belonging is not at risk.

This is why sonship makes accountability possible without shame. Shame depends on the fear that being fully seen will undo you. Sonship removes that fear at its root. “You did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption” (Romans 8:15). Being wrong no longer means being lost. Correction no longer means exile. Accountability becomes alignment with truth, not exposure to destruction.

Rest also becomes possible for the first time. Not because life becomes easier, but because stillness no longer invites collapse. There is nothing left to hold together by force. Performance loses its urgency. Mirroring loses its necessity. Control loosens its grip—not through discipline, but through displacement. A stronger ground has taken its place.

Christ does not merely support the self; He replaces it as foundation. “No one can lay a foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 3:11). What the self could never secure through vigilance, Christ provides through sonship. What control tried to preserve, grace holds steady. What performance tried to prove, love has already spoken. This is not an improvement of self, but a complete relocation of self. And from this ground, truth no longer threatens, responsibility no longer destroys, and rest no longer feels like collapse.

WHEN THE GROUND CHHANGES FOR THE ONE WHO HAS BEEN STANDING ON SELF

For the one whose life has been organized around holding themselves upright, this turning point does not feel gentle at first. It feels destabilizing. Because the invitation of Christ as the Rock is not an upgrade to the existing system—it is the end of it.

Jesus does not come to reinforce the narrative that has kept everything managed, defended, and controlled. He comes to interrupt it by standing where the self has been standing and quietly make it unnecessary. “Everyone who falls on this stone will be broken to pieces” (Luke 20:18) is not a threat—it is a description. The fall is not punishment; it is release from a foundation that was never meant to carry weight.

For someone who has relied on vigilance, explanation, performance, and control, this feels like loss. The loss of leverage. The loss of position. The loss of the story that justified staying in charge of how things are seen and understood. Christ does not negotiate with that story. He replaces it.

This is why repentance, in this context, is not primarily behavioural, it is a surrender of the self-narrative.  It is the willingness to stop protecting the version of self that must always be right, always composed, always defended. It is agreeing to let that identity collapse without rushing to rebuild it. “If anyone would come after Me, let him deny himself” (Matthew 16:24) is not a call to self-hatred, but to self-displacement.

Standing on Christ requires allowing the self-story to end.

This is where accountability becomes possible—not as self-improvement, but as truth without terror. Fault can finally be named without explanation. Harm can be acknowledged without justification. Silence can be endured without scrambling to regain control. “Whoever humbles himself will be exalted” (Matthew 23:12) does not describe humiliation; it describes release from the need to hold oneself up.

What replaces the old narrative is not emptiness, but dependence. “Apart from Me you can do nothing” (John 15:5) is not condemnation; it is an end to the exhausting lie of self-sufficiency. The ground no longer has to be maintained. It simply has to be trusted.

For the one who has always been the ground, this trust feels like death before it feels like rest. But it is precisely here that transformation begins. Not when the self learns to behave better, but when it finally steps down. Here, Christ does not ask the self to disappear. He asks it to stop being the foundation. And when that happens, what once had to be protected can finally be healed.

A NECESSARY WARNING: WHEN THE OLD GROUND IS DEFENDED

Scripture is honest that this invitation can be refused.

There are moments when Christ offers Himself as the Rock, and the response is not relief, but resistance. Not because the offer is unclear, but because surrender would require the end of a story that has provided power, control, and position. Jesus names this plainly: “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone” (Psalm 118:22; echoed in Matthew 21:42). The issue is not ignorance. It is refusal.

When the self insists on remaining the ground, the very things meant to bring life become threatening. Truth feels hostile. Accountability feels unjust. Grace feels destabilizing. The call to repentance is reframed as attack, and the invitation to rest is experienced as loss of control. This is why Jesus warns, “Everyone who falls on this stone will be broken to pieces; but when it falls on anyone, it will crush him” (Luke 20:18). The language is strong because the reality is strong: there is no neutral ground between self-rule and surrender.

To reject Christ as foundation is not merely to stay the same. It is to harden. What was once maintained out of fear becomes defended out of will. The narrative does not dissolve; it calcifies. Scripture does not describe this to condemn, but to tell the truth: the ground will not hold forever.

WISDOM FOR LIVING ON NEW GROUND

When someone is still standing on themselves, Scripture does not require others to absorb the cost in the name of love. Discernment is not unkindness; it is clarity. Jesus Himself practiced this kind of wisdom. “He did not entrust Himself to them, because He knew what was in man” (John 2:24–25). This was not withdrawal out of fear, but restraint grounded in truth. He knew that exposure without readiness hardens rather than heals.

Biblically, relating to someone whose identity depends on control often means less explaining, not more. Truth offered without safety is rarely received; it is often reframed, resisted, or used defensively. “Do not cast your pearls before swine” (Matthew 7:6) is not contempt—it is recognition that some hearts are not yet free to receive what would require surrender.

In practice, this kind of wisdom looks like:

• speaking plainly without over-explaining (Proverbs 15:1)
• refusing to argue over distorted realities (2 Timothy 2:23)
• setting boundaries without accusation (Proverbs 4:23)
• disengaging from repeated harm without hatred (Titus 3:10)

Scripture does not confuse love with access. Distance, at times, is not punishment—it is truth made visible.

RECOVERY WHEN THE GROUND WAS NEVER STEADY

For those who have lived under someone whose self-identity ruled the relational space, healing is not primarily about becoming more understanding. It is about re-grounding.

The first work is not forgiveness. It is truth restoration. “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32) assumes that truth is first allowed to stand. Scripture never asks people to heal from harm they are still required to minimize.

Many who lived under domination learned to stay alert, adjust quickly, and manage emotional space because peace depended on it. Recovery begins when identity is relocated back onto God. “My salvation and my honour depend on God; He is my mighty rock” (Psalms 62:7). The ground shifts again—this time for the wounded.

Biblical healing often includes:

• naming what happened without softening it (Psalms 10; 55)
• grieving what was lost without minimizing it (Ecclesiastes 3:4)
• relearning stillness as safety, not threat (Psalms 46:10)
• rebuilding boundaries as wisdom, not unforgiveness (Proverbs 22:3)

Forgiveness, when it comes, is not amnesia. Scripture distinguishes forgiveness from reconciliation. “Do not avenge yourselves” (Romans 12:19) does not require continued exposure to harm. Repentance is never optional for reconciliation to be safe.

And rest—real rest—is finally permitted. “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). This rest is not earned by understanding others better. It is received by no longer carrying what was never yours to hold. When Christ becomes the ground beneath you, you are no longer required to stand inside someone else’s instability—or your own, but in Jesus, and His alone.

A WORD TO BOTH SIDES OF THE STORY

This turning point does not ask everyone in the room to respond the same way.

For the one who has lived standing on self, the invitation is clear and costly:
step down. Let the old narrative end. Allow what has been defended to be named. Receive a ground that does not require control, performance, or explanation to hold you up.

For the one who has lived under another’s self-rule, the invitation is different:
step away. You are not called to dismantle someone else’s foundation. You are not responsible for making their surrender possible. Scripture never assigns the work of repentance to the wounded.

Both are called to Christ—but not into the same work. One is called to surrender control. The other is called to relinquish burden. And Christ stands steady for both. “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28) is not an instruction to endure more. It is permission to stop carrying what was never yours to hold—whether that weight came from maintaining yourself or surviving someone else’s instability.

The gospel does not ask the wounded to explain away harm, nor does it ask the powerful to soften truth. It calls each person to the same ground, but not the same path.

GOD BLESS YOU ALL!