Learning from Jealousy

Dear Fellow Pilgrim,

Today, I feel a sacred season drawing near, and I do not feel prepared. I want to enter it awake. I want my heart, my mind, my soul to be immersed in whatever God has waiting for me there. I have the books. I have the prayers. I have the traditions within reach. And still, I wonder: will I truly live it? Will I come through it more whole, more steady, more alive to the work of God in me? I want to. Oh, I want to. But as it approaches, I feel like a child standing at the edge of something vast and holy, wearing adult clothes, holding adult responsibilities, unsure whether anyone can tell that I do not quite know how to enter.

CPTSD is very good at making you feel inadequate. Less than. Behind. Like everyone else was handed some secret instruction for living, and somehow, you missed it. Instead of feeling like a mother, I often feel like a child raising children—a bewildered little soul inside a body that keeps aging, while some hidden part of me remains frozen in place. How was I allowed to have children? How is it that I am responsible for these little beings when I still feel so unfinished myself? And yet, God gave them to me. He who knows me better than I know myself entrusted them to my care. Which means something must be true, even if I do not always feel it: not only can I be a mother, but perhaps one day, I will feel like one too. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday, in some quiet ordinary moment, I may look across the table at their faces and realize that, by grace, I became what they needed me to be.

That day is coming. I must not give up before it arrives.

Today, a teenager watched my children. She was poised, mature, confident in that gentle way that makes confidence look effortless. And something rose in me—something tender, embarrassing, and sharp. I envied her. How is it that at her young age she seems to possess the very things I long for? How is it that I, at thirty-eight, can still feel like a teenager myself, frozen in time, watching my body grow older while my soul limps somewhere behind? I could have let the feeling turn against me. I could have used it as more evidence in the case I keep building in my own mind: See? Even she knows how to be a person better than you do.

But then I remembered something my therapist once told me: jealousy is not only about lacking. It is about longing. It points toward what the heart desires. And when I looked at mine honestly, I saw that what I envied was not shallow. It was not material. It was not some glittering thing that would make me appear more impressive. I envied virtue. I envied steadiness. I envied maturity. I envied a way of moving through the world that seemed peaceful, ordered, and whole. And suddenly jealousy became less like an accusation and more like a messenger. Not a holy thing in itself, perhaps, but something that could be turned toward holiness if I listened rightly.

So maybe I do not have to punish myself for feeling it. Maybe I can thank it instead. Thank you, jealousy, for showing me what my heart longs for. Thank you for pointing toward goodness. Thank you for reminding me that this, too, is something I can grow into.

Today, I am practicing observation. Not the kind that stares at the self with suspicion, searching for another flaw to name. Not the kind that spirals into shame and calls it honesty. But the kind that looks gently and tells the truth. I can observe this longing without tearing myself apart. I can observe it one moment at a time without dragging my whole past into the room. I can observe it effectively, letting it become fuel rather than chains. Instead of sinking into inferiority, I can choose inspiration. Instead of dwelling only on what was stolen from me, I can turn toward what can still be formed in me. I can receive hope as something placed carefully into my hands. I can hold it. I can let it grow.

Because grace found me today in that teenager. Not because she made me feel small, but because she became a mirror of what is possible. Her wisdom does not diminish me. Her steadiness does not condemn me. Her maturity does not prove I am too late. It simply reveals that these things exist. That they are beautiful. That they are worth desiring. That what is true, noble, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy should not make me collapse in shame, but lift my eyes toward God. She is not a threat to my worth. She is a glimpse of goodness. And goodness, when seen rightly, always invites us home.

I am learning, slowly, that God does not ask me to come prepared in the way I imagine preparation. He is not waiting for me to become impressive before He begins His work. He does not require me to feel grown before He teaches me how to grow. He does not measure me by how competent I appear, how composed I seem, or how perfectly I perform the life in front of me. He looks for love. Do I give it? Do I receive it? Do I let it shape me? Do I see Him in the child who needs me, in the person who interrupts me, in the ache that humbles me, in the longing that reveals what my soul was made for?

Perhaps this longing is not proof that I am failing. Perhaps it is an invitation. Perhaps the ache to become steady is itself a mercy. Perhaps the desire to be mature, whole, loving, and wise is not a cruel reminder of what I lack, but a quiet sign that God is still drawing me forward. Growth is not measured only in days. It is measured in direction. In orientation. In the small turning of the heart toward Christ again and again and again.

I thought jealousy was something only to suppress. But now I see it can be something to listen to, if I listen with humility. I thought I had to be fully prepared before entering a sacred season. But now I remember that the season itself will shape me as I walk through it. I thought I was falling behind. But perhaps I am simply still growing.

And if I am oriented toward Christ, then I am not wandering alone. He knows the way to Himself. He knows the woman I long to become. He knows the mother hidden inside the frightened child. He knows the virtues I ache for before I know how to practice them. Nothing is lost. Nothing is wasted. I am not too late. I am still growing. And by His mercy, I am still being led.