Destiny’s Child Lied to Me

There is a part of me that still hears Destiny’s Child singing, “All the women who are independent…” and immediately thinks, “Yep. That’s me.”

Pay my own bills. Handle my own problems. Carry my own burdens. Figure it out. Push through.

For years, I wore independence like a badge of honor.

What God has been showing me lately is that what I called strength was often survival.

Matthew 3:16-17 says:

“After his baptism, as Jesus came up out of the water, the heavens were opened and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and settling on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my dearly loved Son, who brings me great joy.’”

I have read those verses countless times, but this week something hit me differently.

The timing.

Jesus had not healed anyone yet.

He had not preached the Sermon on the Mount.

He had not multiplied bread.

He had not raised Lazarus.

He had not called disciples.

He had not done a single miracle.

Yet the Father publicly declared three things over Him:

You are My Son. (Identity)

I love You. (Affection)

I am pleased with You. (Approval)

Before ministry.

Before performance.

Before accomplishment.

Before proving anything.

The Father gave Jesus what so many of us spend our entire lives trying to earn.

And if Jesus needed those truths spoken over Him before entering ministry, why do we think we can survive without them?

The more I sat with this passage, the more I realized how much of my life has been shaped by deprivation.

Not neediness.

There is a difference.

Neediness is the inability to function without constant reassurance and validation.

Having needs is simply being human.

God never designed us to be self sufficient. He designed us to be dependent on Him and connected to one another.

Having needs is not a character flaw.

It is part of being a creature instead of the Creator.

The problem is that sometimes when our needs go unmet long enough, we stop acknowledging them altogether.

There is a phrase for this called adaptive deprivation.

When you go without something for so long, you adapt to life without it.

The need doesn’t disappear.

The awareness of it does.

That one hurt.

Because I immediately thought back to childhood.

There were moments when I needed help and nobody came.

Moments when I asked for support and was met with silence.

Moments when I learned that vulnerability felt dangerous.

So I adapted.

I learned how to survive.

I learned how to carry things by myself.

I learned how to anticipate disappointment before it happened.

I learned how to stop asking.

Eventually, what started as self preservation became my personality.

People called me strong.

I called myself independent.

God is calling it something else.

Hyper independence.

The compulsive refusal to acknowledge the need for help and the tendency to reject it when it is offered.

What looks like strength from the outside can actually be exhaustion on the inside.

What looks like independence can become isolation.

What looks like self sufficiency can become dysfunction.

I think that’s why so many of us are shouting but still stressed.

Praising but still anxious.

Serving but still exhausted.

We’re trying to carry things we were never meant to carry alone.

What struck me most was realizing how often my life has been fueled by performance.

Not just ministry performance.

Life performance.

If I work harder, maybe I’ll feel secure.

If I achieve more, maybe I’ll feel valuable.

If I take care of everyone else, maybe I won’t need anyone.

It reminds me of Leah in Genesis.

Leah spent years performing for love she had already decided she didn’t possess.

Every child she gave birth to carried the hope that maybe this time Jacob would choose her.

Maybe this time she would be enough.

Maybe this time she would be loved.

How many of us are still doing the same thing?

Not with children.

With accomplishments.

With ministry.

With productivity.

With being the reliable one.

The strong one.

The one who never needs help.

The one who always shows up.

The one who has it together.

The problem with love performance is that it never satisfies. It only creates another stage and another audience.

God never asked us to perform for what He freely gives.

That reality has become incredibly personal for me through my marriage.

My husband has seen me at my absolute worst.

Not the polished version.

Not the ministry version.

Not the “I’ve got everything under control” version.

The exhausted version.

The grieving version.

The angry version.

The recovering from surgery version.

The struggling version.

The version that doesn’t have a Bible study lesson prepared or an encouraging post ready to go.

The version that simply doesn’t have it together.

And somehow he still loves me.

Not because I performed.

Not because I earned it.

Not because I accomplished something impressive that day.

Just because I’m his wife.

The more I experience that kind of love, the more I realize it reflects something much bigger.

God has been trying to teach me what it means to be loved before I produce.

Loved before I perform.

Loved before I prove.

Loved before I accomplish.

Because affection came before assignment.

Approval came before ministry.

Identity came before miracles.

Jesus received all three before He did anything.

Maybe that’s why the enemy immediately attacked Him in the wilderness.

Because temptation is intensified by deprivation.

The enemy weaponizes what you’ve gone without.

Jesus was hungry, so the temptation involved bread.

The enemy always targets the places where we feel empty.

The places where we feel unseen.

The places where we feel unloved.

The places where we feel like we have something to prove.

Which is why we cannot afford to ignore deprivation.

If we don’t deal with deprivation, we will spend our days in avoidance instead of pursuit.

Avoiding vulnerability.

Avoiding dependence.

Avoiding healing.

Avoiding asking for help.

Avoiding the very things God wants to use to make us whole.

I am realizing that freedom is not found in pretending I don’t have needs.

Freedom is found in admitting that I do.

The strongest thing I may ever do is stop performing strength.

The strongest thing I may ever do is receive.

Receive help.

Receive love.

Receive support.

Receive grace.

Receive what God has been offering all along.

Maybe Destiny’s Child wasn’t entirely wrong.

There is something beautiful about being an independent woman.

I just don’t think God ever intended independence to mean carrying the entire world by myself.

After all, even Jesus entered His ministry having first heard the words:

“This is my beloved Son.”

Maybe that’s where real strength begins too. Not in proving who we are, but in believing what the Father has already said.