You Can’t Keep Pouring When You’re Empty

Theres a type of exhaustion I don’t talk about often.

This exhaustion can’t be fixed by sleep. It is much deeper than that. It’s the kind when you are pouring and pouring and then you run empty. So you dig deeper and pour from your own sources and then you become completely dry and desolate. And when you try to pour — well we won’t go there yet.

It creeps in on busy mornings, long afternoons, or when the laundry pile mocks me again. Someone always needs something.

Especially when you’re raising seven kids.

Especially when you work full-time and the to-do list laughs in your face before your feet even hit the floor.

There’s homework and laundry and meals and bath time and work deadlines and a calendar that somehow doesn’t stop, even when you’re crying in the bathroom trying to catch your breath.

—But then my kids break in and even that moment of silence is gone.

I know what it feels like to pour and pour until I’ve got nothing left in the cup.

And I’ll tell myself, “This is just a season.”

But the truth is, this isn’t sustainable.

And God didn’t design me to live like this.

I am trying to remind myself that even Jesus stepped away.

The Bible says in Luke 5:16,

“But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.”

Even He paused. Even He made room for stillness.

So why do I think I can keep going without doing the same?

Somewhere along the way, I started believing the lie that rest equals weakness.

That stopping means failing.

That if I just try harder, I can keep all the plates spinning.

But friend… when I pour from an empty cup, what spills out isn’t always grace.

Sometimes it’s frustration.

Sometimes it’s silence when I should speak, or sharp words when I should be soft.

It shows in how I talk to my kids when they’re loud.

It shows when my husband asks me a question and I answer with a sigh.

It shows in the resentment that rises when everyone is full, and I’m scraped clean.

That’s when I remember something I’m still learning to live by:

I was never meant to be the well.

Only the vessel.

I’m learning that refilling isn’t selfish. It’s surrender.

Psalm 23:5 says:

“You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.”

Not barely filled. Not scraping the bottom. Overflowing.

But that kind of fullness only happens when I learn to stop trying to be everything for everyone, and start resting in the One who is everything for me.

So I’m letting this be the reminder.

To stop.

To breathe.

To open my hands and ask God to fill me again—before I try to fill anyone else.

Because my joy is worth protecting.

My peace is worth guarding.

But guys, be real. Discipline isn’t just about doing the hard things —

it’s also about making space for the right things.

Like silence.

Like Scripture.

Like prayer before the scroll.

Like five minutes in His Word before the chaos starts.

Like knowing that if I do nothing else but sit with God, I’ve already done the most important thing.

The ones I love don’t need the version of me that’s always tired and always trying.

They need the version of me that’s been with Jesus.

I can’t keep pouring when I’m empty.

And I don’t have to.

Heavenly Father,

You see me — not just the woman doing all the things,

but the soul beneath it all who’s tired, stretched, and trying.

You know the weight I carry.

You hear the cries no one else hears — the whispered “I can’t” behind the smile,

the deep breath before I give again.

Lord, I don’t want to keep pouring from a place of emptiness.

Fill me.

Remind me that I was never meant to be the source — You are.

Let Your Word be the water I need.

Let Your peace quiet the noise.

Let Your joy rise up in me, even when the day is long.

Help me to rest without guilt.

To pause without shame.

To receive from You so I can give in love, not just survival.

Thank You for your grace — for overflowing when I run dry.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

Chasity

Wildflowers and Wonder