Matthew 25:25–26
“So I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here, you have what is yours.’
But his master answered him, ‘You wicked and slothful servant…’”
The Lord Speaking
Last night, I came to a realization that led me into a 24-hour fast. I spent time with God journaling, praying, listening. Afterward, I laid down for what was supposed to be a short nap—I had gone to bed late—but instead, God spoke to me. Loudly. Clearly.
Fasting has a way of doing that. It quiets the noise and sharpens what I’ve been yearning to hear.
God said many things to me, but there was one phrase that pierced my heart.
It began with encouragement—God affirming who I am, what He loves about me, how He made me. I don’t remember the exact wording, but the weight of it was unmistakable:
You are afraid of being you. You learned to want to be like the world because when you were fully you, you were mocked or pushed away.
To explain why this affected me so deeply, I need to share some background.
Wounds I Never Fully Named
For a long time, I’ve heard the Lord say, “Don’t be afraid to be you.”
What’s difficult to admit is this: some of the deepest wounds I carry came from people who share my faith—my brothers and sisters in Christ.
Even when you walk uprightly, you can be made to feel like you’re the problem.
That’s hard to say aloud because I’ve kept those wounds tucked away. In my last series, Grief Letters, I wrote about friendship loss—but I didn’t fully name the hurt that came specifically from friendships in the church.
God helped me see something painful but true: I don’t always show up as myself because I’m afraid of being mocked for being fully me.
Some examples still sting.
Two of my best friends in college once said, “We need to figure out why you have so many fans.”
They spoke as if I wasn’t sitting right there. I remember crying quietly. I had just gotten saved. These were people I trusted. And all I could think was—if you can’t understand why people like me, why are you my friends?
Another experience was living with a landlord/roommate whose presence felt heavy and unwelcoming. She threw away my things, made guests uncomfortable, and expected everyone to adjust around her moods.
I’ve had friendships where constant jabs were disguised as jokes—especially about my body. Others where comparison crept in, particularly around dating. Friends who withheld truth from me because they thought I was “too proud” or “couldn’t handle it.” Some walked away over differences in core beliefs.
Looking back, I can also admit my part. I people-pleased. I lacked boundaries. I accepted friendships instead of discerning them.
Proverbs 18:24 says, “A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”
I’m learning that not everyone is meant for every season.
When Hiding Became Protection
After enough wounds, hiding started to feel normal.
I hid parts of who I was in Christ so I wouldn’t seem like “too much” for other Christians. I learned to people-please. I learned not to share deeply. I longed to be understood—but most people never asked.
I didn’t realize how much of myself I was hiding until 2020.
That summer, I reconnected with someone from my Christian group—Michael. We weren’t close, but one day during a walk, we stopped and talked. What I thought would be a brief conversation turned into hours.
He listened. Truly listened. He asked follow-up questions. He didn’t rush me. For once, I wasn’t the one holding space—I was being seen.
I shared things I had never said out loud. Old wounds. Deep grief. It felt like laying out a map of my heart and letting someone study it with care.
I left that conversation lighter—and also sad. Sad because I realized I had never experienced that kind of safety with people I once called my closest friends.
That friendship eventually became one of the healthiest relationships in my life. And today, I’m grateful to have a few friendships like that. Healing friendships exist.
Still, something surprised me.
Hiding Even From My Faith
Despite healing, I noticed something unsettling: I didn’t want to fully be my Christian self.
Why?
Because I had been mocked for my faith. Because I was often made to feel separate. Because being deeply committed to God didn’t always feel safe—or welcomed.
I wanted to belong. I wanted to be “normal.” I wanted to love God quietly and live like everyone else.
At one point, I remember crying and saying, “Lord, your people are mean.”
It sounds harsh, but it was honest.
Only recently did I realize how much pain I’ve carried—especially from Christian friendships—and how that pain shaped how I show up not only in friendships, but also in dating.
Set Apart, But Resisting It
I am strong in my convictions. I love Scripture. I speak confidently. And often—without trying—I find myself stepping into leadership roles. Not because I seek them, but because people see it and place it on me.
And instead of embracing that, it has often made me feel separate.
I think one of the ways I’ve struggled most is with the feeling of being set apart—which is exactly how God intended me to be. Yet, I’ve resented that feeling. I’ve hated standing out. I’ve hated being different. I’ve hated being noticeable when all I wanted was to belong.
What’s hard to admit is that I didn’t want the weight of being different. Sometimes, I wanted to drown it—to quiet it, to soften it, to make it disappear—because it scared me.
God didn’t call me to blend in. And honestly, He didn’t call any of us to. Being set apart is the calling of every believer. But living that out comes with a cost: loneliness, misunderstanding, and sometimes rejection.
Instead of accepting that calling, I tried to make myself smaller. I muted what God made evident. I hid—not because I lacked confidence, but because I was afraid of the responsibility that came with what God had placed on me.
Dating, Desire, and Fear
I love God. Deeply.
And yet, I downplay how much He means to me because following Him has been costly. It has been lonely at times. The easy way sometimes looks tempting.
I don’t want to drag someone toward God. I want a man who already desires Him. I don’t want to manage someone’s spiritual growth. I want a partner walking his own journey.
That isn’t pride—it’s stewardship.
Still, waiting for a spiritually mature man with strong character can feel like a tall order. And sometimes I wonder if hiding parts of myself has actually prevented me from attracting the very thing I desire.
If I hide who I am in Christ, how could I ever attract someone who loves Him deeply?
The Sin of Hiding
Here’s what God showed me:
By hiding who I am in Christ, I’m doing exactly what the servant did in Matthew 25.
Fear made him bury what was entrusted to him. His view of God—and of himself—kept him from multiplying his gift.
That’s a terrifying realization.
Hiding feels safe. But it’s disobedient.
When I hide, I’m not protecting myself—I’m withholding what God gave me. And when I withhold, I can’t attract what He has prepared for me.
A light hidden helps no one.
A gift buried produces nothing.
The Takeaway
This started as a journal entry. It turned into a warning.
Stop hiding.
Hiding distorts who you are.
Hiding delays what God wants to release.
Hiding keeps you from becoming who you were always meant to be.
Like the servant in the parable, fear convinced me to bury what God entrusted to me—not because I didn’t have anything to offer, but because the weight of carrying it scared me.
I don’t want to live as the fearful servant.
I don’t want to drown what God placed inside of me just to feel accepted or safe.
It’s time to step fully into who I am.
It’s time to become.
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