This final stretch of the Litany of Humility is brutal in its beauty—it doesn’t just ask to be made holy; it asks us to want others to be holier. To let go of comparison, competition, and the craving to be the most anointed in the room. It’s not about invisibility—it’s about freedom. The kind of holiness that doesn’t need applause, credit, or ranking. The kind that rejoices when someone else is chosen, favored, lifted up—because the Kingdom wins, not egos. If we become as holy as we should, even if no one notices, that’s everything. That’s not demotion. That’s deliverance.

This is the part of the Litany that hits like a punch to the ego—asking not just to be freed from the need for love, praise, or preference, but to want others to have it more. It’s not natural; it’s offensive to everything in us that craves to be chosen, seen, celebrated. And yet, that’s where the transformation begins—not by pretending we’re fine being passed over, but by admitting, “Jesus, I just can’t want to do that… not yet.” Because this isn’t about disappearing—it’s about being so secure in His love that we’re free from clawing for our share. It’s not self-erasure; it’s sacred release.

Let’s not sugarcoat it—this is the part of the prayer where most of us flinch. Not just deliver me from the desire to be praised… but give me the desire to be passed over. To want the background. To prefer the hidden role. And all you can think is: I just can’t want that. It’s the kind of honesty a 3-year-old nailed better than most of us ever have. And frankly? Same. We’ve been wired to crave applause, to be seen, to count. Now we’re praying to be okay if someone else gets the spotlight? It feels impossible. But grace has a habit of showing up where our willpower ends. You don’t have to fake it. You don’t even have to want it yet. You just have to be willing to let God shape the part of you that still twitches at the thought of going unseen. Because on the other side of “I just can’t want to do that”… is the wild, quiet freedom of not needing to.

Always the suspect. Never the saint.
You walk in a room and feel it—eyes narrowing, stories writing themselves around you. Not because of what you’ve done, but because of what they’ve decided. You must be hiding something. You must be the problem. So you get good at receipts. At politeness. At making yourself small and spotless. But here’s the truth: suspicion isn’t always about you. Sometimes it’s their projection. Their fear. Their bias. And you? You don’t have to carry it anymore. Let them watch. Let them wonder. Let your life speak while you stay free. You weren’t made to live on trial. You were made to live in the light—and you’ve got nothing to hide.

We’ve all been there. You trusted, showed up, forgave, gave your best… and they still twisted the story, walked away, or wronged you. So now, without even realizing it, you hesitate. You guard your yes. You hold back your hope. Not because you’ve lost faith in God, but because you’re tired of being let down by people. But Jesus gets it—more than anyone. He loved perfectly and was still betrayed. And He gently invites you forward—not into naivety, but into courage. The kind that keeps loving, keeps doing good, keeps walking free—not because it’s safe, but because it’s right. Even if you’re wronged again, your peace doesn’t have to shatter. You did what was yours to do—and that is enough.

Sometimes it’s not rejection that gets to you—it’s the ridicule. The smirk. The offhand comment. The way people look at your faith, your dreams, your convictions and treat them like a joke. It’s subtle, but it sticks. And before you know it, you start shrinking back—not because you doubt God, but because you don’t want to be the punchline. But what if their laughter isn’t proof you’re wrong… but confirmation you’re right where you’re supposed to be? What if holy boldness looks foolish to the world—and that’s the point? Let them roll their eyes. You weren’t called to impress them. You were called to follow Him.

There’s a certain kind of ache that doesn’t shout—it just lingers quietly: the ache of wondering if anyone remembers you. Not because they’re angry. Just because they’ve moved on. You’re not the main character in their story anymore, and maybe you never were. It hits in small, tender moments: when no one notices your absence, when you serve without thanks, when the silence after your prayers feels like abandonment. But God never loses track of His own. He sees what others miss. He remembers what the world forgets. Your name is etched on His hands, your tears counted, your presence never overlooked. Relevance may fade—but belovedness never does.

What if the thing that cuts the deepest isn’t just the lie—but the fact that you don’t get to defend yourself? Calumny isn’t gossip—it’s a full-blown attack on your character. And whether it’s based on your past or twisted out of your present, it leaves you feeling erased, misrepresented, and helpless. So you want to fight. Or hide. Or spin the truth into something more palatable. But Jesus? He faced the slander. He was called every name—and stayed silent. Not because He couldn’t speak, but because He didn’t need to. His identity was secure. And now He calls you to the same freedom: to walk clean even when you’re talked about, to own what’s true and let the rest fall away, to trust that the truth—His truth—will outlast every lie.

What if it’s not correction you’re afraid of—but condemnation? Not the kind that helps you grow, but the kind that silences you. A harsh word, a passive-aggressive comment, the sting of being called out before you’ve even had a chance to explain. So you start playing it safe—rehearsing, shrinking, second-guessing. But Jesus doesn’t correct like that. He doesn’t shame, He shapes. He doesn’t crush, He calls you higher. And when rebuke comes—whether fair or not—He promises to protect, to reveal what’s true, and to use even that for your good. What if the real strength isn’t in never being rebuked—but in letting God use it to make you unshakable?

What if the quietest rejections are the ones that wound the deepest—not loud insults, but the subtle dismissal, the cold glance, the silent judgment that says, you’re not enough? So we start shape-shifting, people-pleasing, over-functioning—all to avoid being despised. But Jesus sees it. He lived it. He was laughed at, mocked, rejected—and never once let it distort His identity. And now He pulls us close, not to shame us, but to remind us: You are not alone. You are not disposable. You are deeply, wildly loved. What if the freedom you’ve been looking for isn’t in being accepted—but in being secure enough not to need it?

What if the thing you’re most afraid of—humiliation—is exactly where Jesus wants to meet you? Not the small stuff, but the gut-punch kind: being exposed, misunderstood, called out, dragged, canceled. So we hide, edit, perform, all in the name of self-protection. But what if Jesus isn’t calling us to be reckless—what if He’s calling us to be clean? To stop curating and start confessing. Because when we live like people with nothing to hide, humiliation loses its grip. And suddenly, the fear that once ruled us becomes the doorway to freedom. Ready to find the kind of courage only humility can hold?

This one’s sneaky. It doesn’t always look like applause-chasing—it might just look like perfectionism, overthinking, or constant self-editing. The desire to be approved can masquerade as humility, but underneath, it’s often fear: fear of being rejected, misunderstood, or exposed as “not enough.” And let’s be honest—living for approval is exhausting. No matter how much praise we get, it’s never quite enough to quiet the fear of disapproval. But what if we didn’t need it anymore? What if faithfulness—not approval—was enough? In this blog, we’re breaking down the craving for approval, and what it looks like to finally be free.

This one hits close to home. We all want to feel included, respected, and valued—and being consulted can feel like proof of that. But what happens when we’re left out of the loop? When decisions are made without us and we start spiraling—not because we weren’t informed, but because we weren’t needed? That sting isn’t just hurt feelings—it might be pride in disguise. This blog digs into the quiet ache of wanting to be consulted and what it reveals about our hearts. Because when Jesus frees us from that need, we stop chasing influence and start living in trust. Want to know what that kind of freedom feels like? Keep reading.

What if the thing we crave most—recognition, applause, a simple “thank you”—is quietly stealing our peace? Wanting to be honored doesn’t sound harmful, but when we need it to feel worthy, it becomes a trap. We start performing instead of serving, comparing instead of celebrating, aching when others get the spotlight. This blog isn’t about rejecting honor—it’s about releasing the hunger for it. Because when Jesus lifts that weight, we find a deeper freedom: to serve without needing credit, to cheer for others without resentment, and to finally rest in the truth that His love is enough. Ready to let go?

We don’t just want to be noticed—we want to be celebrated. But when the applause goes to someone else, or the spotlight skips us entirely, something deeper stirs: the ache to be extolled. In today’s reflection, we confront that subtle hunger for praise—the sting of invisibility, the quiet comparison, the moments we wish someone would just say it. But Jesus doesn’t shame us for that desire—He invites us to be free of it. Because the recognition we’re chasing? We’ve already received it from Heaven.

This line stings for a reason: “From the desire of being loved… deliver me, Jesus.” Because for most of us, it’s not pride—it’s pain. We crave love not to feel powerful, but to feel safe. Today’s reflection calls out the quiet compromises we make just to feel wanted, the moments we lose ourselves to avoid rejection, and the deep ache that keeps us clinging to counterfeit affection. But there’s a better way—a love that doesn’t require shrinking, striving, or surviving.

Let’s be real—most of us want to be liked. Admired. Esteemed. But what happens when that desire starts to own us? In today’s dive into the Litany of Humility, we confront a truth we don’t want to admit: the craving for esteem can quietly hijack our peace. Through honest reflection, a few gut-check red flags, and a bold invitation to surrender the need to be noticed, this post doesn’t just challenge your pride—it offers a way out.

You’ve started to see pride for what it really is—not power, but protection. And now, you might be ready for something deeper. But pride can’t just be fixed—it has to be surrendered. This blog invites you into the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the safest place for the parts of you that are tired of pretending, performing, and protecting. Before we begin the Litany of Humility, we’re laying it all down—and finding that the way forward isn’t through striving, but through surrender. Tomorrow, the real work begins… one line at a time.

You might not think of yourself as prideful—but pride knows how to stay hidden. It whispers in over-explained apologies, masks itself as confidence, and calls self-protection “strength.” But what if all that striving, spinning, and needing to prove yourself… isn’t power? What if it’s just fear in disguise? In today’s post, we’re getting brutally honest about the pride that’s costing you peace—and the kind of humility that can actually set your soul free. You ready? This one’s a mirror.

Not all pride looks proud. Sometimes it sounds like a prayer request, hides behind a Bible verse, or shows up in a well-curated post. It’s called pridentity—and we’ve all worn it without even realizing. But there’s another way. One that’s quieter, freer, and actually looks like Jesus. In today’s post, we’re naming the disguise and offering something better: a new way to live low, love well, and stop performing. Read now—before pride steals the mic again.