Letting God work in me

Friction gives you the traction to run, and the grip to stop. Without it, you spin in place or drift off course. I’ve come to see that friction isn’t just resistance — it’s what makes movement possible.

Illness, in many ways, is a kind of friction. It slows you, exposes you, drags you out of autopilot. And more than anything, it shatters the illusion that you’re in control.

Of course, none of us really are — no one chooses when they’re born, or where, or to whom. But we like to pretend. We build glass houses of planning and self-reliance. And when the diagnosis, the crash, the symptom, or the limitation hits — that glass shatters.

For me, it was Type 1 diabetes.

When I was diagnosed, I entered what’s called the honeymoon phase — a brief period where your body still produces a bit of insulin. It’s like riding a bike with training wheels: you still need external insulin, but your body is quietly helping in the background.

That phase doesn’t last. And I knew that. So I kicked into gear — learning, tracking, dosing, trying to get everything right while I still had that buffer. Trying to be perfect before I had to be.

But underneath the action was fear. Fear of getting it wrong. Fear of being too much of a burden. Fear that if I didn’t master it, I’d fail.

I wanted to prove I could carry it. But chronic illness doesn’t care about how well you cope.

And when I looked around and saw others living freely - eating without calculating, resting without alarms, moving without consequence - I felt like they had control and I didn’t.

That illusion had to die. And strangely, I’m thankful it did.

What I’ve learned — slowly — is that even when I’m off course, I’m not off-track. God is still at work in me.

I’m not a failed diabetic. I’m not a failed husband. I’m not a failed brother, son or friend.

I’m someone running the race — not to break a record, but to finish well.

“Let us run with endurance the race that lies before us, keeping our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.” — Hebrews 12:1–2

This wasn’t the first hardship I’ve faced.

There’ve been wounds, seasons of silence, even coeliac disease — but none of it broke through like this.

None of it forced me to finally say: I can’t do this alone.

I’ve always wanted to be someone others could rely on. To follow through. To provide. To matter. But the more I try to secure that through my own strength, the more it slips away.

“Whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.” — Matthew 16:25

This is the deep undoing God has been doing in me:

Not to destroy me — but to grow me into maturity.

Not to leave me in weakness — but to complete His work in me through it.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” — James 1:2–4

For me, I believe one day ‘lacking nothing’ will mean eating a cheeseburger with no issues whatsoever. Simple I know, but until then…

I’m not aiming for perfection. Just iterative progress.

I’m learning to trust the One who perfects my faith, not by making things easy, but by refining me through difficulty.

If I try to save myself through control, I lose.

But if I surrender — if I let God do His work in me — I gain something far better: Grace. Endurance. A faith that’s tested, tempered, and true.

“Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” — Romans 5:3–4

If you’re carrying more than you know how to handle — don’t grip harder.

Let go.

Not into nothingness, but into the hands of a God who finishes what He starts. Lose your life — and you’ll find it.