Psychologist Leon Festinger (1957) described cognitive dissonance as the inner tension that arises when what we believe and how we act no longer match. It’s like our thoughts and behaviors clash. This dissonance can sound like an argument between logic and longing. You know how things were going, and part of you knows that perhaps things were unhealthy. You saw the ship going towards the iceberg. Yet, there’s still a part of you that still insists you should have been able to fix it. This is when a person might catch themselves rationalizing unhealthy behaviors. It’s that tug-of-war that leaves a person questioning their own judgment, replaying conversations to find good (or even bad in them) and wondering if they were the problem. Examples include believing someone that we are in close relationship with is an abuser but simultaneously telling yourself they “just have a lot of problems,” and feeling an obligation to remain loyal despite being hurt, or constantly questioning yourself if you’re overreacting. This internal conflict can make a person doubt their own reality, feeling confused, and struggling with making decisions moving forward. This is what the new buzzword refers to as “gaslighting-yourself.”
However, it’s indeed possible to adjust and align with the shift of relational changes. This process is neither immediate nor gentle at the outset. But we get to find harmony and balance between what we thought, felt, believe, know, and God’s truth.
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Enduring May Seem Impossible
Actually, at the onset, when the familiar crumbles, one struggles to comprehend and accept the void of a night or morning with what knew as home.
A Saturday morning devoid of the rhythm that once governed one’s heart for a significant portion of existence could seem as punishment. In my case it was a quarter of my life. A decade. I could not reconcile with the reality. That’s all I could think of, a decade. There was huge feeling of suffering, sorrow, deep wounds of abandonment, self-chattered image, and a nagging feeling of inadequacy. My new Saturday morning felt like my trek, my desert, a beautiful, yet isolated island that I was left set on fire so I could die without witnesses.
Yes, that’s how I felt. And this illustrates the profound depth with which the heart perceives and bears the anguish of such transformations at times. I pray that you’re not enduring a similar ordeal or drastic shift, yet if you are reading this text, chances are that you are. Perhaps you’re on the other side, all well and adjusted to the new road or seeking to help someone else. However, the trek will start to settle. You’ll arrive.
Few can truly grasp the weight of this experience, but sadly to say I get it. I have an understanding of this level of pain. What I lost represented a quarter of my life—the life I was accustomed to for a decade. I refused to minimize what I felt. And if you’re there that’s okay.
If you’ve never faced a sudden and profound change as such, I invite you to join me in a brief empathy exercise. Can you take a moment, just ten seconds to imagine a quarter of your life being stripped from you without a choice. Think of all the things, you did, built, experienced (good and bad) and then feeling as though you have no choice but to let go. Of everything. This could be a home, career, home church, ministry…family members. A combination of a life you lived for 10 years. You now find yourself in a strange, bright, yet lost place. Trying to hold onto memories that feel distorted, you can’t and shouldn’t attempt to revisit. Holding on to those memories only hurt you deeply, they make you want to go back to what you knew and keep going on your known–familiar journey. But you can’t.
This is when you realize that everything has altered, and, whether you like it or not, there is nothing you can do to live that same life or re-create a new version of it again. Not at the same place, not with the same people, not because it’s not up to you. You simply can’t. You can’t because you have no build anew.
Letting go can be painful, shifting from all that you once knew to the unknown can feel as an act of violence against one’s own soul.
I lived it. One day I found myself grappling with the life I believed I was building, one I thought I understood and the one I had to find a way to make.
In the aftermath, often times we find ourselves reminiscing on a season or life of sharing all we had, family, dreams, goals, ministry, walking alongside God…our bodies, our time. And we feel lost. Lost in a loud, yet silence world. That’s normal. The sudden silence can feel heavy, almost unnatural and there’s no knowing for how long it would last.
Six months into the reshaping to me, felt like a journey through fire—that’s was melting, breaking, and turning me to ashes.
It’s okay if twelve months later, you’re questioning whether “dust” has become your new identity or how others see you.
You may wonder if the person you once was is truly vanishing or dishing away.
You wonder how you look in the eyes of others. I questioned “do they call me Denise, the walking dead?” “Do they see me, and see death?”
I felt like a zombie and in full transparency that’s how ninety percent of the people I cared about the most at that moment and love (still live deeply in the Lord) were treating me. Like a person who had some sort of an infectious disease that was looking to spread or whenever she spoke of her pain. Ignorance hurts others and wounds deeply.
Their behavior, actions or lack there of help reinforce what I thought, felt, and was living during this season. Many people don’t know what to do with us or how to help us and they end up distancing from us or blaming and bad mouthing us for isolating.
That’s what we call re-wounding. Instead of educating themselves to help us, they make it about them. Which becomes another relational shift, abandonment, reinforcing the feeling inadequacy, and negative self perception of being a zombie nobody wants to have close contact with.
Phew… all that to say I Got Used to Saturdays
God, and time, that quiet and faithful teacher shows you that He has always been at work, watching us, right alongside us, and giving you quiet, well-measured strength for New Hope.
You’ll get to slowly glance back and realize that 6 Saturdays have become nearly 19 months and the flames of the fire that you thought would kill you didn’t even set you ablaze.
That was me. That is me.
That fire, my dear, wasn’t sent to destroy you. It wasn’t a macabre evil plan against you to scorch you to death.
It was a crucible of war, meant to show you your own process of restoration, and ability to withstand the fire. That process will cause long lasting endurance and growth.
It was meant to show you to yourself. To show no one but your own soul the depth, the brilliance, and unique quality of resilience that you posses. To show you how beautifully you can shine in the middle of pain. How well-and-strongly positioned you are on this testing trek of faith.
And I pray that then one day, you will randomly—in the middle of the day, realize that you’ve begun to get used to Saturdays.
I know, I got used to what I never thought I would. I had no choice.
I got used to not making a body of pillows to be able to fall asleep at night. I got used to taking up the whole bed when I slept and feeling safe in God’s embrace. I got used to eating at midnight if I want to while watching my favorite shows.
I got used to reading or writing until the wee hours or the night and even sleeping with the light on.
I got used to not cooking, and eating alone, or not eating at all. I got used to not fussing or struggling with having to “pick the place.” I got used to coming back to an empty home. I got used to never leaving home at all, without guilt or feeling judge.
I got used to not having to explain myself, or feeling like I had to, even when I didn’t.
I got used to doing what I love without looks that judge louder than words could ever say. I got that I pressure anyone to find a spot to go to and sit for an hour to check a box.
I got used to being late without judgment. I got used to taking my time when it’s my turn to get ready and canceling plans simply because I wanted to stay home and listen to my thoughts.
I got used to singing out loud, worshipping in the kitchen, dancing through the house, crying, and yes, even walking around in my underwear without shame.
I thankfully got used to no longer measuring myself against ghosts, and the perfect lives and images I once thought I had to compete with. I got used to embracing every curve, every gray hair, every line, every year of my life, and every inch of me.
I got used to taking care of my skin without feeling embarrassed or like I was competing to try to stay young.
I got used to lighting candles just because, and even getting mad or being moody without the worry of side-eyes or awkward glances.
With time, I even got used to not receiving check-in calls or worrying that those were going to someone else.
I got used to not checking my phone through the night, in hopes I read or heard a voicemail saying what I yearn and longed for the most.
I got used to being okay with waking up at 5:30am and not feeling that if I stayed in for an extra hour meditating in the presence of the Lord I was lazy or neglectful. I got used to setting the ninja the night before for 6:30am and brewing my own coffee on Saturday mornings.
I got used to wrapping myself in a blanket, stepping outside with my messy hair, and even enjoying the crisp and fresh fall air.
I’ve gotten used to quiet Saturday mornings.
I got used to only speaking with the one who sees it all and not feeling bad for sharing my heart with Him.
I got used to not forcing conversations.
I got use to presence and peace.
I got used to me, to how beautiful I can be, how much I still surprise myself. How much I can still learn.
I got used to my things, my life, and the wonder of what God has been creating.
For years, I fought against the natural tendencies of those who don’t have Christ, and at the same time I would try to prepare myself for being here today. When the inevitable finally happened, I realized I’d never truly been ready for it. All along I was praying and wanted a miracle. I didn’t want the shift. The actual shift felt like fire, at least that was so, or at least the burn today feels less intense.
I won’t say I’ve been reshaped, refined, or made new. But now I see it’s been reframing, reshaping, and refining me, not ruining me.
And it’s wonderful—absolutely beautiful. I got used to looking at myself every day in the mirror. To see my face every morning and recognize today I see the most radiant version of myself, yet.
To think that I dreaded Saturdays and faced them terrified. That I could not think of six Saturday mornings ahead…and now those same mornings are my safe haven. The day is still quiet, and tender, but I’be learned to handle me with care. To be flexible when I’m reminded that life is not what it once was.
I wouldn’t trade Saturdays for anything.
I got healthier. I got stronger.
I still got me.
You’ll get used to your Saturdays!
©️2025 Denise Kilby New Hope MHCLC. All rights reserved.
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