Disclaimer “The preceding story was fictional. No actual person or event was depicted.”

Dear Friends,

I was sipping coffee this morning—okay, more like interrogating it—and had one of those “I should probably journal this but I’ll just spiral instead” moments. It hit me: I am an excellent advice-giver. Truly. If there were Olympic medals for unsolicited wisdom, I’d be standing on the podium with a gold, waving to the crowd while telling them to hydrate and set boundaries.

But when it comes to taking my own advice? Suddenly I’m a motivational speaker with stage fright. I’ll tell you to communicate clearly with your husband because, shocker, he cannot read your mind. He’s not a prophet, he’s a person. You actually have to say the thing. Use words. Out loud. Preferably before you’ve slammed a cabinet and declared, “I’m fine.” But when it’s me? I’ll stew in silence and expect him to decode my sighs like he’s fluent in emotional Morse code.

I’ll preach calorie deficits and joyful movement, then emotionally eat a sleeve of Oreos because my mother-in-law asked, “I thought you were trying to lose weight?” with that sweet smile that says, I’m just here to ruin your day gently.

And don’t even get me started on the coworker who “helps” me with the energy of someone reluctantly assembling IKEA furniture without the manual. She’s overwhelmed, over-caffeinated, juggling her own family drama. Yet somehow, she’s convinced she’s been divinely appointed to train people — despite making it abundantly clear she has neither the time, patience, nor emotional bandwidth to do so.

I know what I should do in these moments. I’ve written the script. I’ve coached others through it. I’ve handed out pep talks like party favors, complete with spiritual metaphors and a side of tough love. I’ve told friends exactly how to respond when someone crosses a boundary, how to advocate for themselves without sounding like they’re auditioning for a courtroom drama, how to breathe through the passive-aggressive nonsense and choose peace over pettiness.

But when it’s my scene? I forget my lines. I fumble the cue cards. I start ad-libbing with insecurity and sarcasm like I’m starring in a one-woman improv show called “Emotionally Unavailable and Spiritually Tired.” I know I should take a deep breath and respond with grace, but instead I rehearse imaginary clapbacks in the shower and write emails I’ll never send. I know I should pray, reflect, and act like the grown-up I pretend to be—but sometimes I just want to slam a cabinet and eat carbs in protest.

It’s not that I don’t know better. It’s that knowing better doesn’t always translate into doing better when your feelings are loud and your patience is on lunch break. I can quote scripture, offer wisdom, and even sound emotionally mature in a group text—but when I’m the one feeling overlooked, misunderstood, or just plain tired, I default to sarcasm and snacks like they’re spiritual disciplines.

James 1:22 says, “Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says.” Which is Bible-speak for: stop being a spiritual know-it-all and start being a spiritual do-something. Because knowledge without application is just information. And information without action is basically a Pinterest board of good intentions and unlit candles.

So today, I’m choosing to breathe, assess, and act. I’m choosing to be the life coach I’ve always been—for myself. I’m choosing to stop treating my own growth like a side hustle and start showing up like I matter.

And if you’re sitting there with your own coffee, wondering why it’s easier to help everyone else than it is to help yourself—welcome to the club. We meet daily. We laugh, we cry, we occasionally cuss in prayer. But we’re learning. One sarcastic sigh and sanctified step at a time.

From Your Friend, Me