Get Strong is a living book, an audio experience, and a growing community for anyone learning to face weakness, stop performing, and rise with real strength.
"You're so strong." That's the line this chapter opens with — and the line it learns to hear differently by the end.
She wasn't wrong. But she wasn't telling the whole story either. This chapter is about the difference between having strength and being strengthened — and the leak most of us are too busy performing to name.
My mother used to say it so convincingly.
“You’re so strong.”
Not, “You might be strong one day.”
Not, “We’ll see how you turn out.”
Not, “Maybe if you keep working at it.”
No.
She said it like she had already seen the evidence.
“You’re so strong.”
She told me that even when I was a baby, I had broad shoulders. Now, you know how parents can get with their children. A baby can roll over one good time and the whole family starts talking like there’s an Olympic scout standing outside the nursery window.
“He’s gonna be an athlete.”
“He’s got the body of a boxer.”
“Look at those shoulders.”
“That boy is strong.”
And I get it. Parents see what they hope for. They bless what they believe is possible. They speak into the little bundle before the bundle even knows it has a name.
My mother was doing more than complimenting me.
She was shaping me with language.
She was handing me a story about myself before I knew how to hold one.
You’re so strong.
I carried that.
Somewhere deep in me, I think I believed it. Maybe not always consciously. Maybe not in the mirror every morning. But somewhere in the hidden software of my soul, that line was running in the background.
You’re so strong.
And that can be a gift.
But it can also become a trap.
Because when people tell you that you’re strong long enough, you can start thinking strength means you should never get tired.
You should never break.
You should never need help.
You should never admit the weight is heavy.
You should never say, “I can’t carry this by myself.”
So you keep showing up.
You keep smiling.
You keep performing.
You keep lifting.
You keep absorbing everybody else’s expectations because, after all, you’re so strong.
And then one day, the line that once blessed you starts telling on you.
Because yes, you may be strong.
But you are only so strong.
That is not an insult.
That is one of the most truthful things about you.
You have strength, but you do not have unlimited strength.
You have capacity, but you do not have infinite capacity.
You have grace for the assignment, but that does not mean you have grace for every appetite, every argument, every performance, every old lie, every secret habit, every emotional leak, and every unnecessary weight you keep calling responsibility.
You are strong.
But you are only so strong.
And if you do not learn how to steward your strength, life will teach you where the leaks are.
That is where this book begins.
Not with the fantasy that you are weak and need to become something else.
No.
This book begins with the possibility that God has already placed real strength in you, but some things have a natural way of draining your strength.
Most of us are not weak.
We are leaking.
We leak strength through fear.
We leak strength through shame.
We leak strength through anger.
We leak strength through secrecy.
We leak strength through people-pleasing.
We leak strength through trying to be spectacular for people who do not actually know us while becoming unavailable to the people who truly need us.
We leak strength through stories we keep repeating because they sound familiar, even when they are no longer true.
And because we are still active, still producing, still posting, still leading, still creating, still showing up, the assumption is that we must be fine.
The state of our union is strong.
That is the line presidents say.
Every year, some president stands before the nation and declares, “The state of our union is strong.”
Wars may be raging. Economies may be shaking. Families may be anxious. The country may be divided down the middle like a torn garment. But there is still this ceremonial need to say it.
The state of our union is strong.
I understand the impulse.
Sometimes you lead with strength because people need courage. Sometimes you speak hope before everybody can see the evidence. Sometimes you declare what can be while standing in the middle of an obvious mess.
But sometimes, if we are not careful, we use forced language to avoid honest language.
We do this in our own lives.
Somebody asks how we are doing, and we give the public relations answer.
“I’m good.”
“I’m blessed and highly favored.”
“Can’t complain.”
“God is good.”
And all of that may be true.
But it may not be the whole truth.
Because behind the headline, something may be quietly burning.
Behind the smile, something may be tired beyond words.
Behind the Sunday hug, the family photo, the public ministry, the creative output, the business plan, the spiritual language, there may be a leak we have not been willing to name.
So let me ask the question this first chapter is built on.
What is draining you?
Not what are you managing.
Not what are you hiding.
Not what are you explaining away with spiritual language.
What is draining you?
What is the main drain in your life?
Let me go first, because I am not going to ask you to get honest if I am not.
For a stretch of my life, the state of my union was reported like a press release.
Up front, I was Pastor Fred: running the ministry, working with inner-city kids, delivering the goods, trying to be the man with the word.
And in the dark, I was quietly struggling with x-rated screens I had no business reaching for, telling myself it was nothing.
Just a slip.
Just tonight.
Just stress.
Just one more thing I would get control of later.
I had a temper the congregation never saw but my wife and kids did.
I was so busy being spectacular for everybody out there that I was running on fumes for the people who actually had my last name.
And the strange thing is, I did not always feel like I was falling apart.
That is what makes leaks dangerous.
A leak does not always announce itself as total collapse.
Sometimes a leak looks like irritability.
Sometimes it looks like numbness.
Sometimes it looks like scrolling too long.
Sometimes it looks like needing one more compliment.
Sometimes it looks like snapping at the people closest to you.
Sometimes it looks like being too busy to be honest.
Sometimes it looks like serving everybody else while slowly disappearing from your own life.
I could minister to people and still be missing pieces of myself.
I could talk about strength and quietly feel tired in places sleep could not reach.
I could encourage others and still be bargaining with my own leaks in the dark.
And the whole time, my podium voice kept right on saying:
The state of our union is strong.
It was not.
And the first strong thing I ever did was stop saying it was.
That is where we start.
Not with adding muscle.
With finding the leak.
Years ago, there was a famous advertisement for the Charles Atlas fitness program.
The headline was shameless.
“Hey Skinny!”
You may have seen it before, especially if you grew up around old comic books. That ad knew exactly where to find its congregation: young men flipping through pages of superheroes, caped saviors, secret identities, impossible muscles, and world-saving fantasies.
Then here comes this little beach scene, sliding into the imagination like a salesman with sand in his pocket.
A skinny young man is sitting on the beach with his girlfriend. A bigger, stronger-looking bully walks up, kicks sand in his face, humiliates him, and calls him out.
“Hey Skinny! Yer ribs are showing!”
The skinny kid is embarrassed.
The girl is disappointed.
The bully wins the moment.
And the girl.
Then comes the hook.
The young man discovers the Charles Atlas program. He buys the mail-order plan. The promise arrives at his house like gospel in an envelope. He trains. He transforms. He comes back to the same beach with muscles, confidence, and revenge in his chest.
This time, he handles the bully, gets the girl back, and walks away as the new strong man.
It is a simple story.
Weak man gets embarrassed.
Weak man buys program.
Weak man becomes strong man.
Strong man gets respect.
Now, let’s just tell the truth.
This crossed the line from advertising into emotional pickpocketing.
That ad reached into the insecure psyche of young men and said, “Aha, there it is. Shame. We can sell to that.”
Because somewhere inside all of us, we know what it feels like to get sand kicked in our face.
Maybe it was rejection.
Maybe it was failure.
Maybe it was betrayal.
Maybe it was a secret habit.
Maybe it was life calling you skinny in an area where you thought you were developed.
Whatever it was, that old ad sold a fantasy many of us still believe:
If I can just get stronger, nobody will ever be able to humiliate me again.
But that is not the kind of strength this book is about.
This is not a quick-fix program promising that you will never get sand kicked in your face again.
This is not a magic list of scriptures that will make you invulnerable, perfectly sculpted, and always right.
This is not spiritual bodybuilding for your public image.
This book is about inner strength.
The kind that grows through honesty.
The kind that rises through surrender.
The kind that begins when pretending finally runs out of breath.
The kind that looks at weakness without flinching because it knows God is not afraid of what is true.
That is the first myth we have to break.
Strong people have weaknesses.
A truly strong person can take you on a tour of their weak places. They may not show everybody everything, because everybody is not worthy of their trust, but they are not strangers to their own soul.
They have learned how to tell the truth about where they are vulnerable.
We all have weakness.
The person who stays stuck is the one who refuses to face their weakness.
The person who stays stuck is the one who keeps calling dysfunction “just how I am.”
The person who stays stuck is the one who calls secrecy “my own business.”
The person who stays stuck is the one who overuses “God knows my heart” as a permission slip to never examine what the heart is actually doing.
Now let me be honest.
I have said that line before.
“God knows my heart.”
And it is true.
God does know my heart.
The question is, do I?
Sometimes when we say, “God knows my heart,” what we really mean is, “Please do not hold me accountable for my behavior.”
We use it like spiritual bubble wrap.
Yes, I was wrong, but God knows my heart.
Yes, I was out of place, but God knows my heart.
Yes, I keep making the same choice, but God knows my heart.
Somewhere deep inside I have good intentions, and surely that should count for something.
But good intentions do not repair the damage caused by unexamined patterns.
At some point, “God knows my heart” has to become an invitation instead of an excuse.
Lord, You know my heart. Now help me know it too.
Show me where I am leaking.
Show me where I am pretending.
Show me where I have confused being gifted with being whole.
Show me where I have been strong for everybody else and dishonest with myself.
That kind of prayer is not pretty, but it is powerful.
Because the moment you stop lying about weakness, weakness loses some of its authority.
One of the reasons weakness keeps draining us is because we do not always hate the lies that are hurting us.
Sometimes we love them.
I call them lovable lies.
A lovable lie is a false story you have lived with so long that it feels like family.
It may be hurting you, but it is familiar.
It may be draining you, but you have excused it for so long that you do not know how to live without it.
It may be keeping you stuck, but at least it is a version of stuck you understand.
Lovable lies sound like this:
“This is just how I am.”
“I work better under pressure.”
“I do not need anybody.”
“I can stop whenever I want.”
“If I slow down, everything will fall apart.”
“If people really knew me, they would leave.”
“I have to be strong because nobody else will be.”
These are lies we grow to love because they protect something.
They protect our pride.
They protect our fear.
They protect our image.
They protect our old way of surviving.
But they do not protect our strength.
They drain it.
And here is the mercy: God does not reveal a lie to shame you. God reveals a lie to free the strength trapped behind it.
Let me share a secret with you.
When we are fake with God and others, it only breeds deeper fakery.
Yes, fakery is a word. And even if it is not, it should be, because we have all seen enough of it to define it.
Fakery is the art of being fake while making the fake look almost believable.
In plain terms: we can get so good at deception that we make deception look good, even to ourselves.
We live in a culture where being fake has become a fortress.
We hide behind likes, shares, filters, captions, and carefully edited versions of our lives. We break our identity into little pieces and spread those pieces around masterfully, letting people see only what we want them to see.
We put it out there that we are strong, happy, successful, and spiritually moisturized.
Meanwhile, it is wearing us out.
All the time and energy we spend looking the part can leave us broken down, weakened, and petty.
There is a Bible verse that haunts me in a good way.
David said:
“To the faithful you show yourself faithful;
to those with integrity you show integrity.
To the pure you show yourself pure,
but to the crooked you show yourself shrewd.”
Shrewd?
I never thought of God as being that gangsta.
But there it is.
God is not fooled by the version of ourselves we present.
God meets us in truth.
When we come with honesty, we discover faithfulness.
When we practice integrity, we begin to recognize the beauty of a God who is the same through and through.
When we align our actions with purity, we gain a deeper attraction to what is clean, whole, and true.
But when we gravitate toward twisting the truth, God will eventually allow us to taste the world we have been building: a twisted version of reality.
That is not punishment as much as consequence.
It is sowing and reaping.
It is mercy through exposure.
It is God letting the false thing become visible so the true thing can finally breathe.
This is where my mother’s words come back to me differently.
“You’re so strong.”
I still receive that as blessing.
I still believe there was something holy in a mother speaking strength over her child.
But now I hear another layer.
You are only so strong.
That is not the voice of shame.
That is the voice of wisdom.
Even Jesus grew.
Luke says Jesus increased in wisdom and stature and in favor with God and people.
Think about that.
Jesus grew.
The eternal Word became flesh and entered the human experience so fully that He submitted to process.
He grew in body.
He grew in wisdom.
He grew in relational favor.
He did not skip development.
So why do we think we should?
If Jesus grew in wisdom and stature, then growth is not a sign that something is wrong with us.
Growth is part of being human.
Growth is holy.
Growth is obedience over time.
You have a measure of strength right now.
Thank God for it.
But you are not meant to live the rest of your life on today’s measure.
The strength that got you through yesterday may not be enough for tomorrow’s assignment.
The strength that helped you survive one season may not be enough to help you thrive in the next.
The strength that kept you from falling apart may not be enough to help you become whole.
That does not mean yesterday’s strength failed.
It means you are being invited to grow.
There is a difference between having strength and being strengthened.
Having strength can make you proud.
Being strengthened keeps you dependent.
Having strength can tempt you to perform.
Being strengthened teaches you to receive.
Having strength can make you think you are the source.
Being strengthened reminds you that God is.
This is why Paul prayed that we would be strengthened by God’s Spirit in the inner person.
Not just inspired.
Not just hyped.
Not just temporarily motivated.
Strengthened.
That means strength can be formed.
Strength can be renewed.
Strength can be increased.
Strength can be restored where it has been drained.
Strength can grow.
When Jesus was asked about the greatest commandment, He did not give a complicated answer.
Love God with all your heart.
Love God with all your soul.
Love God with all your mind.
Love God with all your strength.
Then He added: love your neighbor as yourself.
That is the whole life.
But notice that strength is included.
Love takes strength.
It takes strength to love God with your whole heart when your heart has been disappointed.
It takes strength to love God with your soul when your inner life feels scattered.
It takes strength to love God with your mind when your thoughts keep running wild.
It takes strength to love God with your body, your choices, your energy, your obedience, your yes, and your no.
It takes strength to love your neighbor without needing to control them.
It takes strength to love yourself without lying to yourself.
And you cannot love well while your strength is constantly leaking.
This is why facing weakness is not self-obsession.
It is preparation for love.
God is not trying to make you strong so you can become impressive.
God is forming strength in you so you can love without collapsing, serve without disappearing, lead without performing, repent without spiraling, forgive without pretending, and keep walking without losing your soul.
That is real strength.
Not the kind that flexes.
The kind that remains.
Have you ever watched someone strong in their craft?
A musician.
An athlete.
A preacher.
A dancer.
A writer.
A surgeon.
An emcee.
A teacher.
A person who, through passion, grit, practice, failure, and return, has forged their thing into a craft.
The transformation is amazing.
Depending on the craft, we will pay just to see the phenom in action.
They make barriers look easy.
They transcend obstacles.
They move through opposition.
They make the point.
They hit the note.
They finish the objective.
But what you are seeing in public was forged somewhere private.
That is important.
Because some of the strength you are asking God to reveal in public has to be formed in private first.
Before it becomes testimony, it may become honesty.
Before it becomes impact, it may become surrender.
Before it becomes ministry, it may become healing.
Before it becomes “look what the Lord has done,” it may begin as, “Lord, here is what has been draining me.”
So let me ask you:
What if there is a strong side of you that has been untapped because it has not been exercised?
What if there is a strength in you hidden in atrophy because you have habitually let yourself off the hook to the point of cheapening grace?
What if there is a God-given strength deep inside of you, forged in another realm, waiting to be activated by obedience in this one?
Sounds like a comic book, right?
But it is amazing how our favorite fantasies hold powerful kernels of truth. They call to us because somewhere inside, we know that if it is not true, it should be true.
The truth is, God’s purpose concerning you was fully known before you got here.
Before you had a résumé.
Before you had wounds.
Before you had followers.
Before you had language for your calling.
God thought of you.
And when God said, “Let there be light,” He gave creation a framework where purpose could be seen, named, and lived.
As long as you are in the light, your purpose to be strong remains a living possibility.
Daniel says, “The people who know their God shall be strong, and carry out great exploits.”
Things may not let up.
Wickedness may spread.
Hatred may strut around like a bully on the beach.
But the people who know their God can be strong enough to withstand hate and still become a witness that love outlasts it.
That is what Jesus did.
He faced the greatest bullies of all: sin, death, and the grave.
And He did not overcome them by becoming a bigger bully.
He overcame them through surrender, obedience, love, death, resurrection, and the indestructible life of God.
So getting strong is not about showing off your muscles.
It is not about bullying people with spiritual superiority.
It is about facing the weakened areas in your own life that have been bullied by sin, fear, shame, secrecy, and death.
It is about finding resolve.
Finding life.
Finding transcendence.
It is about facing the skinny side of your soul and reconciling it to the command to love the Lord your God with all your strength.
And this is where the journey starts to open up.
Because once you name the drain, you can start recovering the strength.
Once you stop pretending, you can start receiving.
Once you quit using energy to protect the lie, that same energy can become available for love, obedience, creativity, healing, and purpose.
That is when the book begins to turn.
Not because everything gets easy.
But because you begin to see that the strength you thought you were missing may have been buried under the very thing you were afraid to face.
So here is where we begin.
Not with a stage.
Not with a podium.
Not with a press release.
Not with “the state of my union is strong” if it is not.
We begin with honesty.
What is draining you?
Take a moment and let the question sit.
Do not rush past it.
Do not answer with the polished version.
Do not say what sounds spiritual.
Tell the truth.
Is it anger?
Is it fear?
Is it lust?
Is it resentment?
Is it comparison?
Is it secrecy?
Is it exhaustion?
Is it performance?
Is it an old wound you keep calling wisdom?
Is it a habit you keep managing instead of healing?
Is it the pressure to be strong for everybody while having no place to be honest for yourself?
Name your drain.
You do not have to fix everything today.
You do not have to become a different person by tomorrow morning.
You do not have to come up with a ten-point plan before you turn the page.
Just start here.
Tell the truth.
Because honest is where strong starts.
Before you move on, write this sentence:
“The main drain in my life right now is __________________.”
Do not decorate it.
Do not explain it away.
Do not make it sound better than it is.
Just write it.
Then write this prayer:
“God, help me tell the truth without shame.”
That is enough for today.
Not because it solves everything.
But because a named drain is no longer running the house from the shadows.
My mother was right.
I was strong.
But I was only so strong.
And once I learned that, I stopped trying to prove strength and started learning how to receive it.
That is the journey.
That is the invitation.
That is the beginning of Get Strong.
Because here is the thing:
The leak is not the end of your story.
The lie is not the end of your story.
The weakness is not the end of your story.
The sand in your face is not the end of your story.
Somewhere beneath what has drained you, there is still strength waiting to be recovered.
And once God starts recovering strength in you, He does not stop at getting you back to normal.
He starts teaching you how to thrive.
So now that we have named the drain, we are ready for the next question:
What does it look like to stop merely surviving and start living from the abundance God already placed within reach?
That is where we go next.
Sometimes the truth lands different when it's spoken instead of read.
Get Strong isn't just a chapter — it's becoming a sermon, a sound, a whole world. Here's what's growing around it.
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trying to get strong.
Whether you were at camp or you just found this page — this is the moment. Scroll down, write what's true, and hit send. It doesn't have to be polished. It just has to be honest. That's the whole game.
Tell My Story Now ↓What's draining
your strength?
Not the polished version. Not what you'd say in the lobby. The real one — the thing quietly costing you strength while you keep telling everybody the state of your union is fine. Name it here. You don't have to fix it tonight. You just have to stop lying about it.
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