Mommy Finger, Baby Finger

One of the most misunderstood ideas in faith is the belief that trusting God means doing nothing—that faith requires shrinking yourself, silencing yourself, or enduring whatever circumstances you’re handed.

For a long time, I believed that. I thought faith meant staying still no matter how uncomfortable things became. I told myself that if I asked for clarity, or named what I needed, or advocated for myself, I was somehow being “too much.” As if wanting more meant I wasn’t grateful enough. As if questioning meant I didn’t trust God. But life has taught me something different.

When I look back over my life, trusting God has rarely looked passive. It’s looked like courage. Like telling the truth when it would’ve been easier to keep the peace. Like sitting with questions I didn’t have answers to and being honest about what wasn’t working anymore. It’s looked like deeply uncomfortable self-reflection—the kind that forces you to ask whether you’re actually listening to God or just holding on to familiarity because it feels safer than change.

And I’ve seen these patterns across generations in my own family. Growing up, survival often meant staying quiet, working hard, and not asking for more than you were given. Those beliefs, handed down through the generations, shaped how I saw faith, ambition, and self-worth. Coming to this country as immigrants layered new realities for my family: the pressure to provide and navigate systems that weren’t built for people like us. As I grew up, it made advocating for myself feel both necessary and scary.

When I look at Scripture, I don’t see a God who only blesses stillness or silence. Moses spoke up. Esther advocated at great personal risk. Ruth made strategic choices. Jesus Himself asked questions and named needs. Faith, over and over again, looks active. 

And still, I have felt tension along the way. Because when you’ve lived in survival mode for a long time, certain messages get lodged deep inside you—especially for women, especially for mothers, especially for survivors of trauma, and especially within church or faith spaces. Messages that whisper: Don’t rock the boat. Be grateful. Wait quietly.

We’re taught not to ask for too much. Not to want more. Not to take up space. So, when we finally begin to plan and imagine more for ourselves, or learn, advocate, and build, guilt creeps in: Am I a deserving? Am I forcing things? Am I trusting God enough? Should I just be grateful for my circumstances?

Here’s what I’m learning in real time: taking responsibility for your life is not a lack of faith. It’s stewardship. It actually takes more trust in God to advocate without knowing the outcome than it does to stay silent out of fear.

What I’m Doing Right Now Is Faith in Motion

Right now, faith doesn’t look like waiting quietly for circumstances to change. It looks like movement over emotions—with intention, with prayer, and honestly, with a little fear too.

Faith looked like sitting down with my supervisor and asking for more money. That conversation scared me. I replayed it in my head beforehand, worried about how it would sound or how I would be perceived. But I also knew the truth: I live in a high-cost city, I’m a single mom, and I bring real value and experience to my work. Wanting to be compensated fairly isn’t greed—it’s reality. Faith also looked like asking for flexibility. Like saying out loud that I need balance for my family. Being present for my child matters, sustainability matters, and I can’t pretend otherwise.

Faith looks like applying for a job even when I don’t know the outcome, check all the boxes, but know my worth. It looks like planning for housing, stability, and long-term safety—especially as a parent. Faith also looks like being strategic when doors close. Recently, I applied for a job I really wanted and didn’t get it. It stung, but instead of giving up, I reached back out to the recruiter who had originally called me. I thought, Well, the worst that happens is they don’t answer. To my surprise, she replied just a few minutes later — and said there might be more opportunities to come. 

Right now, I’m learning new skills. I’m studying money and ownership. I’m tracking my finances. I’m paying down student loan debt instead of avoiding it. I’m allowing myself to imagine a life I once felt guilty for wanting — one where we’re not always barely getting by, where vacations aren’t indefinitely postponed, where money isn’t a constant source of stress, and where I can be present instead of always calculating what we can’t afford. I’m praying and planning. Trusting and taking steps.

My pastor said something recently that landed deeply: many people pray for financial breakthrough—but don’t plan or take action when opportunity shows up. And I realized how often faith without action can look spiritual, but quietly keep us stuck.

Wanting stability doesn’t make me greedy. Dreaming bigger doesn’t mean I’ve lost faith. It means I’ve grown. And maybe, just maybe, the next step God is inviting us into isn’t waiting…but moving. 

Last Thoughts: Trauma Can Complicate Faith

After trauma, the body learns to survive first. Faith becomes more cautious. You start weighing decisions not just spiritually, but physically, emotionally, and practically. That doesn’t mean you trust God less. It means you understand the cost of instability more.

I’ve learned that God is not offended by my need for stability nor is He threatened by my planning. And He often works through people — through conversations, connections, and timely support. I’m doing the work in front of me and I’m open, humbly and honestly, to the ways support sometimes shows up through community.

Letting God work doesn’t mean ignoring your responsibilities or romanticizing struggle. It means partnering with Him—bringing both your prayers and your next steps to the table, trusting that faith was never meant to be passive, but alive, responsible and brave.

If this resonates, I’d love to hear your thoughts, your experience, or even just a word of encouragement. Sometimes the right connection shows up when we share openly.

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With love,
Jeannette