There’s a kind of strength I learned early.
The kind that doesn’t ask for help.
The kind that figures it out.
The kind that makes a way—no matter what.
I watched my mother live it.
Even in moments where life pressed hard—through disappointment, through lack, through her own physical limitations—she stood up and handled what needed to be handled. She didn’t crumble in front of us. She carried.
And as her daughter, I absorbed that lesson deeply:
Be capable. Be strong. Don’t let them see you struggle.
That mindset served me well… until it didn’t.
Because somewhere along the way, strength stopped being a tool and started becoming a mask.
Recently, I had to submit a simple work order request for my home. The closet rod in our main suite was coming loose from the wall, and the bathroom needed to be repainted after a potty-training accident with my daughter.
Normal life. Real life.
But telling the truth about it? That felt uncomfortable.
Admitting, “Hey, this happened,” felt more vulnerable than it should have. I found myself wanting to soften the details, to make it sound more controlled, more… presentable.
And that’s when it hit me:
Why is honesty so hard when it makes me look human?
Around the same time, I revisited The Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes. And something in my spirit stirred. I felt like God was nudging me into my own version of a “Year of Yes.”
But not the kind of yes that looks bold and exciting on the outside.
A quieter one.
A deeper one.
A Ruth kind of yes.
Ruth said yes to uncertainty.
Yes to unfamiliar ground.
Yes to being seen in her need before she was ever elevated.
Before favor found her, she was gleaning in the fields—working, asking, showing up in humility.
That part of the story doesn’t always get highlighted.
But it matters.
Because if I’m honest, my resistance isn’t about doing hard things. I’ve done plenty of those.
My resistance is about being seen while I’m doing them.
Seen without the polish.
Seen without the perfect explanation.
Seen without the quiet illusion that I’ve got it all handled.
But here’s the truth I’m learning in this season:
If I only let people see my capability, I train them to only bring me responsibility.
And that’s not the kind of leadership God is calling me into.
This next season requires something different.
It requires surrender.
It requires community.
It requires the kind of strength that knows when to say, “I need help.”
So yes—this is my Year of Yes.
Yes to truth.
Yes to growth.
Yes to letting go of the pressure to perform strength instead of living it.
Because real strength isn’t about holding everything together at all costs.
It’s about knowing that you don’t have to.
And maybe, just maybe…
The most powerful yes I’ll say this year
is the one that lets me be seen—
fully, honestly, and still held by God.
© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
