Still Feel Like You're Losing in Your Life?
maybe growth happens somewhere in the middle
I once had a dream.
I was speaking, but no one could hear me. My mouth sang do, re, mi, but the sound never vibrated in the air.
The thick Miami humidity swallowed it!
I spoke louder.
Still, silence.
People moved around me like shadows—distant… and sometimes just plain cold.
Unlike Spiderman, I could see the ripple effects. I didn’t get any goosebumps.
But they did.
I saw it rising on their arms. But somehow, they didn’t hear me. They only stared.
So, I screamed.
Nothing.
Ever feel like that? Like you’re giving your all, and the world barely blinks?
That dream? It wasn’t just in my head. It showed up again—this time, under stadium lights.
Another night where you leave everything on the pitch. Even your breath. Your shirt’s soaked, actually drenched in sweat. You keep trying to score, but the ball? Hits the post.
Again.
And again.
In your head, you’re like: “Wait… I didn’t sign up for a crossbar challenge. I came to score goals. Win games.”
So you keep telling yourself: “Maybe this time… this’ll be my moment.
If I just do this and that…”
But the more you chase it, the further it feels. It’s easy to think:
“Maybe I should just quit. Maybe it’s not my night.”
Then again:
what if the ache in your chest is proof you’re almost there? Still growing?
Because let’s be real—sometimes growing feels exactly like losing. Like showing up, giving your all, and getting nothing back but sweat stains.
And nothing captures that tension better than football. After 45 minutes of chaos, you get a short window to breathe—listen to your coach’s tactics, soak in the dressing room pep talk from your captain… and then jump right back in.
But halftime? Only works if you walk back out and actually do something.
Whether you’re down 0–2 or just off your rhythm—you show up and impact the game.
Because if your heart’s not in it, none of it matters.
No matter how loud your captain yells, “Lynn! Get back in position!”
Or waves you up to press, or mouths “Calma. Calma.”
The 50–50 duels? You show up like it’s life or death.
You don’t press like a headless chicken.
You pick your moment.
You commit—body, mind, and soul.
When Man City scored twice in five minutes against my team, PSG… PSG wasn’t playing bad, but it didn’t matter.
The ball ricocheted—off our own players.
It landed perfectly… at City’s feet.
And just like that—we were two goals down.
Still—I believed.
Even at 0–2, even when the odds screamed ah game’s done—I held on.
Because possession or shots on target don’t mean control.
Balls shot in the middle of the net are hardly a threat.
Just easy… an easy save for the goalkeeper.
And sometimes, what matters most can’t be measured: Belief. Resilience. Heart.
That’s when it clicked…
On January 22, 2025, PSG made history with a comeback that made no sense.
They won the game 4–2.
And I still can’t believe it.
They weren’t playing bad before—but they were losing.
And with the odds stacked, I watched my team keep fighting for 37 uninterrupted minutes.
No unraveling. No screaming at refs when a call was unfair. No quitting when they lost the ball. Just grit. Pressing the opposition—giving them less space, less time to think.
Now you might be thinking:
Okay, but why are we still talking about football?
Because… sometimes in real life, it feels like you’re always losing. The more effort you put in; the more frustrated you feel because the results just don’t match up.
And this game reminded me of something holy:
As long as the clock’s still ticking, hope isn’t done yet.
You see, I grew up shrinking.
I learned early on that being small meant protection. For years, I went silent—even when I had something worth saying. Even when I felt the nudge to speak.
My stutter took over. English words got tangled as French pronunciations slid off my tongue.
I stopped trying.
But healing has a way of pulling us back into the spotlight we once avoided.
Learning to speak again—truly speak—is like rewiring an old house.
And it’s hard. In this in-between space… sometimes I may want to hide.
But I’ve chosen to go back on the pitch… to keep trying.
I heard that hope is the cry that rises in defiance of despair. It’s not loud, but it’s persistent. A lamp at your feet—not a floodlight—just enough to take the next step.
That’s wild to me! Maybe to you too.
Yet—He said it Himself in Isaiah 41v10:
Ne crains rien, car je suis avec toi;
Ne promène pas des regards inquiets, car je suis ton Dieu;
Je te fortifie, je viens à ton secours,
Je te soutiens de ma droite triomphante.
That’s where God works best.
In the messy middle.
In the struggle to keep showing up—at work, church, and in your own heart.
Giving your all in these growing pains seasons.
Most days, I don’t like this reality. I’ll take a leap and say you probably don’t like it either. We want A + B to equal C.
“Like really God, I need to see the before and after picture.”
“Wait, this is too uncomfortable!”
“This hurts!”
“Did you really tell me to do this?”
“What if things don’t workout well in the end?”
We want prayers answered in predictable packages.
We want to see the score in our favor—from kickoff.
So we can see we’re already winning on paper; and feel secure enough to keep pushing through.
Isn’t this walk of faith upside-down?
Believing first to see.
Giving up control to be free.
Finding strength, not in perfection—but in simply showing up.
And what if that is the victory?
Not the easy win.
Not the perfect speech.
Not the clean path forward.
But— before I ever found my voice, I had to borrow courage from someone else’s story.
Sometimes, when our own strength feels like it’s running out—we can actually borrow courage.
I heard my grandma was a go-getter. She used to ride in the back of a truck just to make a living, traveling from Jean Rabel to Port-de-Paix—just because she had a vision for her kids. Think of it as commuting from North Miami Beach to Coral Gables, 30 miles one way.
And imagine doing that in the scorching Caribbean heat.
That’s just crazyyy!!
She didn’t just want them to learn to read (since she never got the chance). She wanted them far from the Vodou spiritual influences she grew up around, so they’d know Hope.
So, she sent all of them to live with her siblings in different cities.
Even though they’d probably call her… by her first name and never mom.
Little did she know, my mom would find faith in one of those homes. Her sacrifice and courage shaped my mom’s story.
Years later, my mom was diagnosed with cancer.
The doctors told her, “Don’t think you’ll survive this.”
Friends came over and said, “We knew someone who died from this… even after chemo.”
I wasn’t more than 8—and I was already professional snooper.
Guests would come, and my siblings would be like, “Where’s Lynn?”
But they already knew the answer.
I was poking my head around the living room door, trying to hear what the adults were saying.
I never liked the idea of being told, “Leave the room so the adults can talk.”
What is this?! We’re people too. We need to know the tea.
I’m not proud of it, but I did it.
And that’s one day I don’t regret breaking the rules.
I think I may have even had a glass cup—for optimum sound quality.
That’s when I heard her say, from the living room:
“Why are you coming to my house to visit me and telling me this?
This has nothing to do with me or my story.”
Later, she told us the spicy prayer she whispered to Jesus:
“I don’t think you gave me five kids… just so they wouldn’t remember me.”
“I don’t think you’ll let them be raised by another woman… and never know what it feels like to be loved by their mother.”
She wasn’t worried about who would take over her house.
Not even her husband (lol).
She was in pain, had lost her hair and an organ.
Yet—in her pain, she didn’t ask healing for herself. She was looking further in the distance. She was thinking about us.
And reminiscing about that… still gives me goosebumps.
To think that we don’t need to fake courage.
We can stumble through it.
Whisper un-sanitized prayers…
…and still be heard.
And my dad?
When I was being bullied, I left a letter on his nightstand:
“I’m done with life. Everyone hates me. I ruin their family pictures. I want to die so they can celebrate at my funeral.”
I was 11.
He could’ve brushed it off—as just a moody little girl being dramatic.
But that morning, he got dressed for work, walked downstairs, and called me:
“Lynn, we need to talk, little girl.”
“You know home is a safe place, right? Why did you say this?”
“You know your family will always love you.”
He didn’t try to explain anything away.
He didn’t apologize for the things others said.
But he listened.
That morning I remember crying… happy tears.
At the time, it made no sense to me. Caribbean people—we don’t talk about feelings like that.
He was a kid who grew up… going hungry. Listening to the sounds of other people’s kitchens. Smelling their food and hoping someone might ask, “Did you eat yet?”
He knew what it meant to feel unloved.
To be rejected by a stepmom.
And made a decision that morning to do something uncomfortable.
Maybe his pain taught him how to love.
Really love.
The kind of love that connected the dots of my story to his childhood, realizing;
Oh no, I know what rejection feels like. And my little girl needs to know that we love her and her life matters.
He knew how to see me… those minutes probably saved my life.
And now when I think about it—it was their push to stay in the game—that made my story possible.
So I can never wish for a different one…
Where my identity wasn’t bruised.
Where I never shut down.
Where I spoke without hesitation.
Because with ‘a pain-free story’, would I still be me?
Would I still notice the outcast standing alone?
Walk toward them?
Still sense the overwhelm someone’s carrying in the room—just by their body language?
So I lead differently—thinking twice about how my choices make others feel. The thing that once felt like my Achilles heel… becoming my strength. Maybe the wood in my ship was never meant to be polished. Your woods that look broken have purpose, too!
It’s so upside-down, right!?
Just mind-blowing to see—how this goes back to Jesus using our brokenness.
The courage to keep going—especially when it feels like you’re losing.
To let God meet you in your fear and still say, “Use me.”
To see your scars, setbacks, insecurities—and believe they hold purpose in the right hands. First, we are:
Invited.
Maybe feeling like you’re always losing is actually an invitation.
To ask God for help.
To whisper, “This hurts,” and still stay in it.
To say, “I’m scared”—and show up anyway.That’s surrender.
That’s grace.
That’s the kind of courage that doesn’t look loud—but still changes everything.
Formed.
Not every setback is a sign you messed up.
Some of it?
Is God strengthening what won’t break next time.
And let’s be real—it doesn’t feel deep. It just feels exhausting.But sometimes, exhaustion is proof you’ve been showing up.
Even when it’s slow.
Even when it feels like nothing’s working.
That’s still growth. Even if no one claps for it.
Transformed.
It doesn’t always come with some big announcement.
It shows up in the small stuff:
One more minute on the pitch.
One more word you didn’t think you could say.
One more breath like: “Whew—this is hard.”But you’re still here. Doing the uncomfortable.
Maybe small steps… that’s the win.
Heart Call:
It’s my story that reminds me: words and actions have the power to transform lives every. single. day.
And maybe God builds with what’s been broken… so it’s Him that holds us together.
And let’s take a moment to breathe:
Is there a place in your life where effort feels invisible right now?
What would it look like to invite God to meet you there—even if you’re limping?
Photo Credits: Getty Images et PSG