Maybe It's Not the Empty Cup—Maybe It's the Holes

You're doing everything right.

You journal. You read your Bible. You have your quiet time. You pray sometimes desperately. You serve at church. You show up for people. You're faithful in all the ways you've been taught faithfulness looks.

And yet you still feel empty.

So you try harder. You add another devotional. You wake up earlier for prayer. You sign up for another Bible study. You pour out more, believing that if you could just be spiritual enough, disciplined enough, faithful enough, you'd finally feel full.

But what if the problem isn't that you're not doing enough?

The cup may not be the problem. It could be the holes.

You've prayed for God to fill you. You've asked for more strength, more patience, more grace to keep pouring out. You've believed that if you could just be filled enough, you'd finally stop running dry. But what if emptiness isn't about needing more from God? What if it's about the places where everything He gives keeps leaking out?

Because here's what most of us don't realize: some emptiness doesn't come from a lack of effort or faith. It comes from quiet wounds that were never tended, losses that changed you, rejection that reshaped how you relate, trauma that taught you how to survive instead of how to rest. You can be pouring constantly and still feel empty, not because God isn't filling you, but because so much keeps leaking out.

The holes form early. When love felt conditional. When safety wasn't guaranteed. When you learned that being agreeable, helpful, or strong kept the peace. When your needs were minimized, ignored, or exceeded the room's capacity. You adapted. You learned to scan people. You knew when to stay quiet, when to perform, and when to be useful. You learned how to earn a connection rather than simply receive it. That's not weakness, that's survival. But survival creates holes.

People-pleasing is one. The constant need to keep everyone comfortable, everyone happy. The terror of disappointing anyone. The way you overextend, overexplain, and overgive because "no" feels too dangerous. The constant need for validation is another. The checking and rechecking: Did I do enough? Am I enough? The way other people's approval determines your worth on any given day. The fear of rejection that makes you overextend, overexplain, or overgive. Staying in draining relationships because at least there's a connection. Performing past empty because being indispensable feels safer than being vulnerable.

Unprocessed grief leaves holes too losses that were never named, relationships that ended without closure, versions of life you had to let go of without ever being asked how it felt. Trauma leaves holes because it trains your nervous system to stay alert. Always ready. Always braced. Even when God offers rest, your body still doesn't know how to receive it.

So you keep pouring. You pour into relationships hoping they'll finally feel secure. You pour yourself into work to feel valuable. You pour into family to feel needed. You pour into serving, fixing, helping, because being indispensable feels safer than being vulnerable. And over time, you start to confuse exhaustion with faithfulness.

But Scripture never equates depletion with holiness. God doesn't ask you to bleed to prove your devotion. He doesn't measure love by how much you can endure without breaking. "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit" (Psalm 34:18). He comes close to what's wounded not to exploit it, but to heal it.

God cares about the holes not to shame you, but to restore you. "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds" (Psalm 147:3). Binding wounds means stopping the leak. It means addressing the places where love kept draining out faster than it could be replenished. And here's where identity begins to be rebuilt.

Healing the holes means learning that rest is safe. That boundaries are holy. That love doesn't require self-erasure. That being chosen by God is enough. It means allowing Him to sit with the wounded parts of you, the parts shaped by rejection, loss, and unmet needs, and letting Him redefine who you are apart from what you give. You are not just a cup for others. You are a person God longs to fill and keep full.

So maybe today isn't about asking God for more strength to keep pouring. It could be about asking Him to tend to the places that keep leaking. Bring him the trauma. Bring him the grief. Bring him the fear of being rejected if you stop performing. Bring Him the exhaustion you've normalized, not with shame but with expectation.

I know this because I've lived it. On my own healing journey, I realized that handing God the pieces of my heart, every hidden, messy, painful piece, was more potent than anything I had tried before. Better than any version of "I'm fine" I had forced, better than the forgiveness I attempted to manufacture on my own. I had to face the pieces I didn't even know were there, the cracks I had ignored, the wounds I'd shoved under the rug, and truly give them to Him. And when I did, He made me new. Not because I had it all figured out, not because I had patched everything perfectly, but because I finally stopped trying to hold it together myself and let Him graciously put the pieces together, showing me that my heart could be beautiful again.

Because when God heals the holes, the cup doesn't just stay full. It finally rests in His hands. And that's where the absolute overflow begins.

Psalm 20:6 comes to mind: "Now I know that the Lord saves His anointed; He will answer him from His holy heaven with the saving strength of His right hand." Today, let this be your quiet reminder: your strength doesn't have to come from you. God's power, His provision, His presence, this is what truly fills and sustains. Your cup is not empty; it's simply waiting for Him to restore it fully, sealing the holes you never could on your own.