By Benjamin Andrews
I recently made a mistake — probably a big one. I made a major career change that I shouldn’t have made. I spent months arguing with myself about it, vacillating quite emphatically. “I should definitely take it — only a fool would pass up this chance. Except that doing so would be a complete waste of time. What a horrible idea, it’s entirely backwards. Unless of course, you look at it this way…” For better or worse, I eventually took the job. Practically, there isn’t much I can do at this point — the contracts are signed, the caseloads are shifting, the path is set. And, at least on paper, it’s hard to say that I made a bad choice: the job is a better stepping stone in a more interesting career path, the position is more prestigious, the schedule is flexible, the benefits are quite decent, the salary is adequate, and the job is reasonably aligned with my skillset. Apart from some practical inconveniences (like a long commute), there’s really no good reason not to take it. But even if all goes well, I can’t shake the quiet, haunting sense that something is profoundly wrong. And when I listen closely, my inner self informs me: I made this change for the wrong reasons, and worse, I feel nearly certain that I was incapable of not making it. This feels like losing my life by gaining it.
But before we get to that, let’s review:
This month, we have been considering what the Christian worldview tells us about what it means to have a healthy personality and arrived at a concise, prescriptive definition of human health: A healthy person is able to both give and receive love in relationship with themself, with others, and with God. Last week, I offered a list of questions as a tool to help us in this journey. In the February edition of this newsletter, I shared a tool for addressing one’s relationship with God (“Looking at Jesus Looking at Me”), so this time, I wanted to focus on the relationship with self instead. Today, I will do so in the context of my own life.
In my own life, there has never been a greater challenge than the struggle for worth and acceptance, which I have always expressed in simple terms: the struggle “to be good enough.” Virtually every problem I’ve ever had shares this root, and over the years, I nearly forgot there was a life without this ever-present companion. Of course, it has worn many masks:
- the fear of poor grades and need to be a straight-A student (or nearly so)
- the terror of being in trouble with parents or teachers for any mistake
- feeling overwhelmed and then completely shutting down in conflict
- avoiding relational connection due to fear of rejection
- ingratiating myself to others to avoid that same feared rejection
- only trying things I believed I could do well (and conversely, purposefully avoiding things in which I felt I might fail)
- a smug pride in “success” and praise from others
- desperation for approval from parents, teachers, and authority figures
- profound shame of discovered/disclosed sins
- overwhelming internal guilt of hidden sin
- commitment to exceptional moral and ethical practice in my profession
- obsessive fears of becoming morally evil
- deferring decisions to others so as not to be responsible for the outcome
- longing for notoriety and recognition for doing excellent work
- defining myself in opposition to worldliness and worldly values
- priding myself in perceived “persecution” for not adopting secular values and for publicly practicing my faith [note the double bonus points here: better than the lost because I’m living rightly, better than other Christians because I actually practice what I preach]
- my joy in receiving professional and academic feedback, which has typically extremely positive
- being drawn to career advancement and dissatisfaction with “unimportant” tasks
- Holding “values” like reliability, intelligence, excellence, and influence
And the list goes on…
No matter the mask, the face behind it is always the same: mine, a young boy, terrified that if I’m not “good enough,” no one will want me. And that young boy always has the same solution: Excel. To him, life is very simple: if you don’t make any mistakes, don’t offend anyone, are always useful to others, are obviously exceptional to everyone, then no will reject you or leave you, and you will never be alone. You will be needed, loved, and adored. Always and forever. Ahh, safe at last. Of course, this is an exhausting way to live, and it is unmanageably anxiety-prone, since even the smallest and silliest of infractions poses an existential threat to that security.
As I sift through my life behaviors using the lens offered by a Christian perspective of personality health, I see more clearly by considering both function and teleology. Evaluating the function reveals the otherwise healthy-looking behaviors (e.g., having a hard work ethic, maintaining high moral and ethical standards, practicing extra kindness, mastering the Scriptures and theology, etc.) for what they are: excessive attempts to create internal safety and to earn love and acceptance. Evaluating teleology creates room for both compassion and a direction for growth. And this brings us to a series of “litmus test” questions (from last week) that help us discern health in our relationship with ourselves:
- What would I do in this situation if I was going to truly love myself well?
- Does this decision/behavior help me express love to myself more, or make it harder to do so?
- What would I do if I wasn’t afraid? Conversely, what would I do in this situation if I knew I was truly loved?
Let’s apply these to my recent job decision. I have an opportunity, and when I’m honest with myself, I really want it… so much so that saying “no” seems impossible. The rationales can be quite deceptive: “It’s value-congruent,” “it’s got much better benefits,” “the future career opportunities are much bigger,” “the schedules is fantastic,” “these skills will transfer to many other settings…” “the income is more stable.” But none of these reasons really tells me why I need this job. When I ask myself why it matters so much to me, I hear a simple answer: “I want to do something important. Otherwise, I’ll just keep feeling like a nothing, a speck fading into oblivion, who never did anything that mattered.”
This is a huge red flag, because that language isn’t about any practical matters, nor is it even about my “values” (to borrow the ACT framework’s language) — it’s about my value. And the hidden message is clear: “You’re nothing, but with this job, you can be something again.” No wonder I have to have it. Suddenly, the mask is down, and there I am, young and alone, afraid that I’m actually just a worthless failure who no one wants.
Enter the questions:
- What would I do if I was going to truly love myself well?
For starters, I would not call myself worthless or a nothing. Second, I would value both the pain that young version of me felt and the ways I feel the same echoes today. I would comfort him then and be compassionate with myself now. Third, I would let myself make the decision that seems best for me and for my family, not the one that I’m desperate to believe will solve an unsolvable problem. - Does this decision help me love myself more or make it harder to do so? On the surface, I will like myself more in this job. But does it actually help me love myself well? Not really. In fact, it further enslaves me to performance, because I will only like myself more if I am successful in it. Were I to fail, I would loathe myself. It’s hard to argue that perpetuating the belief that I’m valuable because I perform well is actually self-love; it sounds more like something an unhealthy parent would say.
From this perspective, the ego is revealed as the self trying to manage its existential fragility (i.e., a fundamental loneliness, insignificance, and fearful vulnerability) on its own, separate from God. And this is, of course, is literally the human condition. It’s all of us. And for me, it’s quite young. That self is the one that I must learn to love, even when I’m not particularly impressed with myself as a fragile, afraid, lonely little child. But by doing so, I establish the grounds for self-compassion, which then extends into compassion for others.
So I’ve made the wrong decision… Or, more precisely, a decision for the wrong reasons. What now? I ask the same questions again, and the answers are illuminating. I would compassionately acknowledge the reality. I would not sabotage myself or my job performance, but I would reduce the internal pressure by re-establishing an identity outside of my performance. I would absolutely try to ensure that the things that truly matter to me — my family, my faith, my ability to carry out responsibilities well, etc. — are not sacrificed on an alter of ego. I would value self-care, not just accolades. When maintaining my priorities causes me to fail (or at least perform more poorly than I want), I will accept that pain and value it while appreciating myself for putting more important things ahead of my personal safety project. Perhaps most importantly, I will accept my limitations as best I can – living up to them (not down to them) but not rebelling against them.
In practice, I do most of this internal work by employing IFS-styled exercises (though you really don’t need the framework to use the tools; for example, compassion-focused therapy [CFT] employs very similar, and sometimes better, interventions). These imaginative conversations between my most compassionate, wisest self and those versions of me that are wounded, afraid, angry, or otherwise hurting serve two purposes: promoting self-awareness and, more importantly, engaging in the actual practice of self-love. The goal isn’t really to be “healing” — that happens as a byproduct — but is actually much simpler. It is to do what is teleologically healthy: to give and receive love with myself.
Marvelously, when I do, I become more open-hearted, which allows me to extend love to others and to be free of the quiet lies and neuroses that can so easily pervade my life. And as I experience freedom, I can express that in tangible decisions. I also become more able to receive love from God and to love Him in response. Of course, the opposite is true as well. I’m incapable of being an infinite reservoir of self-love, but God’s love re-opens me. I learn to love myself because, in loving God, I learn to love what and who God loves — which includes me (and everyone else). Thus, the ability to give and receive love with God, self, and others can be mutually reciprocal, enhancing one another. And this, in a nearly accidental yet entirely obvious way, becomes healing to the personality, simply as a result of actively doing what we were made to do: love.
Ben is a licensed psychologist who works with adults encountering a variety of challenges in their lives, including anxiety, depression, relationship difficulties, OCD, history of trauma, addiction, and bipolar disorder. He is particularly interested in faith and spirituality as they arise during the course of therapy, and he also enjoys supporting others in the helping professions (therapists/counselors, social workers, doctors, nurses, pastors and priests, etc.).
