Still Running
When Survival Stops Being Strategy
Anger gave me energy when I had none.
Control gave me something to hold on to.
Pride kept me from collapsing under the weight.
And for a while, all three worked.
That’s the uncomfortable part.
Some of the things I now recognize as defects of character didn’t show up looking like defects.
They looked like survival.
Anger could get me moving when hurt, fear, or disappointment wanted to shut me down.
Control could make chaos feel manageable. If I could anticipate everything, organize everything, fix everything, maybe nothing could catch me off guard.
And pride could keep me standing when shame was doing everything it could to put me on the ground.
They served a purpose.
Until they didn’t.
Because there comes a point when something that helped me survive begins preventing me from actually living.
And sometimes the emergency ends long before I get the message.
So I keep running.
Still angry.
Still controlling.
Still proving.
Still defending myself against things that are no longer happening.
Still preparing for conversations nobody is having.
Still trying to win battles that ended years ago.
The race is over.
But I’m still running.
Scripture tells us in Hebrews to
“lay aside every weight… and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.” — Heb. 12:1
That hits differently when I realize not everything weighing me down is something I always hated carrying.
Some of it once felt useful.
Anger got results.
Control made me feel safe.
Pride helped me accomplish things.
So when I talk about being entirely ready to have these things removed, that becomes a much harder question.
Because I’m not necessarily asking God to remove something that never worked.
Sometimes I’m asking Him to remove something that worked too well for too long.
Anger may have given me energy.
But eventually that energy starts burning people who were never responsible for the fire.
Control may have given me something to hold on to.
But eventually the grip becomes so tight that I leave no room for God—or anyone else—to move.
Pride may have kept me from collapsing.
But eventually standing tall becomes refusing to kneel.
That’s when survival stops being strategy.
The armor did its job.
The barricade did its job.
The runner made it through the race.
But if I refuse to recognize when the assignment has ended, the very thing that once protected me can become the thing that imprisons me.
And maybe that is part of what humility really asks of me.
Not to hate the man who learned these things.
Not to pretend they never helped him.
Not even to be ashamed that he needed them.
But to become willing enough to say:
Thank you for getting me here.
You cannot take me where I’m going.
That’s surrender.
Not weakness.
Not quitting.
Not erasing what happened.
It is finally admitting that I don’t need the same strategy for every season of my life.
There is a line in Psalm 46 that almost feels impossible for a man who has spent his life running:
“Be still, and know that I am God.”
Be still.
For someone accustomed to survival, that can take more faith than running ever did.
Because stillness means I have to trust that I am no longer being chased.
I don’t have to let anger fuel me.
I don’t have to control every outcome.
I don’t have to let pride prove that I deserved to survive.
