“All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride.”  Sophocles

The older I get, the more convinced I become that pride is one of the most destructive forces in our lives- not because it shows up loudly, but because it often disguises itself as strength.

Pride tells us we don’t need help.

Pride tells us we’re justified in our hurt.

Pride tells us that if we apologize, admit fault, or change our minds, we’ve somehow lost.

Humility, on the other hand, asks a different question entirely.

Not, “How do I protect myself?”

But rather, “What is true?”

“Pride is concerned with who is right. Humility is concerned with what is right.” – C.S. Lewis

The mechanics of pride are surprisingly simple:

The Fear of Being Wrong

Pride convinces us that admitting a mistake somehow diminishes our worth. It whispers that apologizing is weakness rather than courage. Instead of learning, we defend. Instead of repairing, we justify.

Closed-Mindedness

Pride convinces us we’ve already arrived. It closes the door to feedback, growth, and perspective. The moment we believe we have nothing left to learn is often the moment we stop growing.

The “I Can Do It Alone” Trap

Pride isolates us. It keeps us from asking for help, even when we’re drowning. It would rather struggle privately than appear vulnerable publicly.

The trouble with pride is that it rarely feels like pride while we’re experiencing it.

It feels like certainty.

It feels like self-protection.

It feels like being right.

And that’s exactly why it’s so dangerous.

Recently, during one of my many trips across the country, I had the opportunity to make a quick detour through Nebraska and spend time with one of my longtime and dearest friends.

When I say we’ve known each other a long time, I mean twenty-five years.

We met during the very first ministry position my ex-husband and I ever held.

I still remember the night we met.

It was a Sunday evening service. The senior pastor- a gifted and charismatic evangelist- had just given an altar call. Down the aisle came this tiny blonde woman with an enormous reputation attached to her.

I had already heard all about her.

Most of what I heard wasn’t flattering.

She had been judged.

Whispered about.

Labeled.

Written off.

And if there’s one thing that has always activated every protective instinct in me, it’s watching people decide someone else’s story before they’ve bothered to know them.

I’ve never been able to stomach that kind of righteousness.

So when she knelt down at the altar that night, I was kneeling beside her within moments.

Twenty-five years later, she is married to the pastor’s eldest son- the same young man she was dating back then. I stood as maid of honor at their wedding.

Today she’s a therapist.

A pastor.

A mother of four incredible children.

A woman who spends her life helping people who don’t feel seen, don’t feel understood, and often carry the weight of judgment from others.

The irony is almost poetic.

The woman who was once judged became someone who helps others heal from judgment.

Life has a funny way of doing that.

Over the course of twenty-four hours together, we talked about everything: ministry, parenting, loss, faith, dreams, grief, purpose, and love.

But one conversation in particular stayed with me.

In order to honor their story, I won’t share the details.

What I will say is that they pulled back the curtain on a season of their marriage that was far more than “difficult.”

This wasn’t an argument.

It wasn’t a rough patch.

It was one of those moments where two people suddenly realize the life they’ve built isn’t nearly as solid as they thought it was.

The kind of season that forces you to ask whether what you’ve built can survive the truth.

Now before anyone assumes I’m advocating for staying in unhealthy relationships, let me be clear:

I’m not.

Some relationships should end.

Some situations are unsafe.

Some people refuse accountability.

That’s not what this story is about.

What struck me was what my friend discovered about herself.

She realized that the pride she believed she had earned was quietly building a wall inside her life.

Not arrogance.

Not superiority.

Just certainty.

The certainty that she was right.

The certainty that she understood the situation completely.

The certainty that her perspective was the only perspective that mattered.

The wall didn’t appear overnight.

Most walls don’t.

They are built one justified brick at a time until suddenly you’re staring at a barrier you didn’t even realize you were constructing.

What moved me wasn’t simply what happened in their marriage.

It was what happened inside of her.

Because every meaningful transformation begins there.

At the end of the day, our personal journey is the only one we truly have responsibility for.

When we hand that responsibility to someone else- even a spouse- we risk abandoning ourselves in the process.

And the truth is, not everyone is equally invested in your growth.

Some people care more about what THEY can get from YOU rather than who you are becoming.

That’s why self-awareness matters.

That’s why self-reflection matters.

That’s why personal accountability matters.

Because healing doesn’t begin when someone else changes.

Healing begins when we become willing to examine ourselves.

When I watch someone engage in that kind of work- honestly, courageously, without excuses- I cannot help but feel humbled in their presence.

As I caught my next flight, I sent my friend a text.

“Thank you, my dearest friend. I love you so very much and I am incredibly proud of you. Not because of what you do, who you influence, or the integrity with which you live your life. I’m proud of you because after twenty-five years of loving and serving God, you still allow Him to challenge you, stretch you, and reveal places that need growth. You still allow yourself to be humbled. That’s a gift many people lose the longer they remain in these spaces.”

And I meant every word.

Because that may be one of the greatest markers of maturity:

Not perfection.

Not certainty.

Not having all the answers.

But remaining teachable.

Remaining curious.

Remaining willing to ask, “What if I still have something to learn?”

We only get one life.

And self-awareness, self-reflection, and personal responsibility may be the greatest gifts we can give ourselves.

They return something pride can never offer:

The power to heal.

The power to grow.

The power to love more deeply.

And perhaps most importantly, the freedom to become who we were always meant to be.

With all my love, xoxo J