When Grit Isn’t Enough: Learning to Carry Grace Too

This week in class, we talked about grit and grace. And something about that pairing stayed with me long after the class ended.

It’s been stirring in my heart, the way certain truths tend to do when the Spirit is trying to say something gentle... but necessary.

For a long time, I believed grit was the goal.
You keep going.
You show up, no matter what.
You don’t complain.
You hold it all together even when your heart is unraveling.

That’s how I knew I was strong… or at least, how I thought I was supposed to be.

I could push through exhaustion.

Smile in hard conversations.

Swallow heartbreak with a quiet prayer and tell myself, “It’s fine. Just keep moving.”

Grit was what got me through early mornings, hard goodbyes, and the ache of prayers that didn’t unfold the way I’d hoped.
It felt like strength.

And for a while, it was.

But eventually… I wore out.

Not all at once. It was slow, quiet. Like something sacred draining out of me without me noticing.

Until one day, I realized I was still showing up...but something inside me felt tired in a way that rest alone couldn’t fix.

And that’s when grace began to whisper.

It didn’t arrive with fanfare. There was no dramatic rescue, no perfect answer to the things I’d wrestled with in the dark.

Grace came like a soft nudge. A breath.
A reminder that I didn’t have to be strong all the time.

It looked like taking a deep breath in the middle of a hard moment and saying out loud, “This is heavy. And I don’t have to pretend it’s not.”
It was letting the tears fall and not rushing to wipe them away.
It was releasing the pressure to have the right words, the right tone, the right posture.

Grit got me through the battle.
Grace reminded me I didn’t have to win it all in one day.

And I think that’s what we need...both.

Grit that says, “I’m not giving up.”
And grace that says, “But I don’t have to do it all perfectly either.”

There are still days I lead with grit.

I lace up my running shoes, put my hand to the plow, and show up because it matters.

But more often now, I remember to carry grace alongside it. To let it soften my edges. To rest when I’m tired. To receive what God offers without feeling like I have to earn it first.

And when I look back? The moments that changed me most weren’t the ones where I was strong and unshaken.

They were the ones where I was tender, uncertain, even broken... BUT still willing to try again.

Not with perfection.
But with grit in one hand, and grace in the other.

Maybe that’s what real strength looks like.