“For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Matthew 16:25
I used to read that and think I understood it. I thought it meant something bold and dramatic—like dying for your faith, being a martyr, giving everything in one defining moment. But the truth is, I didn’t understand it at all.
Not until something cracked open in me.
I was watching Like Dandelion Dust, and for whatever reason, that verse didn’t feel distant anymore. It felt personal. It felt like it was reaching right into my life and gently—but firmly—asking:
What are you holding onto that’s costing you everything? That question undid me.
If I’m being honest, before my walk with the Lord, I wasn’t really living—I was performing. Chasing. Grasping. Constantly trying to prove that I was worthy of being seen, loved, admired.
Most people would have said I was a good person. Maybe by the world’s standards, I checked the boxes. But inside, I was tangled up in sin that looked a lot like insecurity, pride, and desperation for approval.
I lived for the world.
I found value in the cars, the houses, the people I knew, anything that could reflect back to me that I mattered. My identity was fragile, constantly shifting depending on who affirmed me that day.
One moment I felt untouchable… like I was shining so brightly no one could look away. And the next, I felt so small I didn’t even think I deserved to exist in the same space as others.
It was exhausting.
And it led me down roads I’m not proud of, places where I had no boundaries, where I let people take advantage of my need to be wanted. And when those situations left me feeling empty or ashamed, I didn’t stop. I spiraled.
Because shame doesn’t quiet you, it chases you.
Somehow, even in the middle of all that, I still managed to look like I had it all together on the outside. Strong, confident, the one who didn’t need anyone. But I needed everyone.
I remember someone once told me I was like the sun, that they lived just to bask in my light. I held onto that like it was truth, like it defined me. I thought, this is it, this is who I am. But that kind of identity is a trap. Because when you believe you need to be someone’s sun, you also believe you’ll disappear when they stop looking for your light. Qhen that happened, I fell hard.
Looking back now, I don’t feel disgust as much as I feel grief. Grief for the version of me who thought she had to be everything to everyone just to feel like she was something. Grief for the girl who kept saying, “I just need to find a soft place to land,” not realizing how heavy that ask really was, because no human being was ever meant to carry that.
And then, slowly, gently, God showed me something different. I don’t need to find a soft place to land. I already have one, in Him, and it changed everything. Not overnight, not perfectly but deeply.
Now, about the dandelions…
Most people see them as weeds, something unwanted, something to pull out and throw away. But they’re resilient. Purposeful, beautiful in a way that’s easy to miss if you’re not really looking, because when a dandelion reaches the end of its life, it doesn’t just disappear.
It releases. It lets go of everything it was holding onto and trusts the wind. In that surrender, it multiplies.
That’s what this verse means.
“Losing your life” isn’t about one big, heroic moment, it’s about a thousand quiet surrenders. It’s about laying down your ego, your pride, your need to control, your craving for approval, over and over again. It’s about dying to the version of yourself that the world built and allowing God to rebuild you into something real. Something rooted, something free.
I won’t pretend it’s easy. Some days it’s a moment-by-moment choice. Some days that old voice is loud. The one that says, you need to be seen, you need to be validated, you need to be more.
But then I remember:
“My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” — Matthew 11:30
I feel the difference, because the life I was carrying before was crushing me. This new life is full. I don’t wake up wondering who will make me feel worthy. I wake up asking how I can love someone well. I don’t search for comfort in people. I rest in the One who never leaves. I don’t need to be the sun, I just need to reflect His light.
And the joy in that… it’s hard to even put into words. It’s steady. It’s deep. It doesn’t disappear the moment someone looks away.
So yes… I finally understand.
To lose your life is to let go of everything that was never truly life to begin with. It’s to trust that in the letting go, God will do something far more beautiful than anything you could have held onto.
I am a dandelion.
Still learning. Still surrendering. Still being carried.
And for the first time in my life…
I’m not afraid of where the wind might take me. 🌼
