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Ten years ago, my husband and I made a dramatic lifestyle change when the Lord called me to leave my job to come home to raise our children. So, in August of 2016, I walked away from a promising career knowing—without question—that I would never regret spending the years ahead with my kids.
What I didn’t realize then was how quietly my expectations were setting up shop in my heart and mind.
I carried an idyllic picture of what life would look like. My children would cherish our time together. I would teach them, and they would grow in wisdom and maturity. I would saturate them in the Word, and they would grow strong in truth and character. They would love the Lord, boldly share the gospel, and build deep, lasting friendships that would carry them into adulthood.
It didn’t seem like too much to ask. After all, we were following the Lord’s leading. We were making significant sacrifices and trusting Him with the outcome. Surely peace was what lay ahead…right?
Looking back over the last decade, I feel a mixture of deep joy paired with intense pain—moments that have both humbled and undone me. It wasn’t until recently that God gently revealed how tightly my joy and peace were tethered to the plans that I had made without even realizing it. This journey has not looked the way I expected.
Over the years, I’ve returned again and again to the same two words: if only.
If only my kids would understand.
If only my husband would be more involved.
If only the Lord would intervene.
If only we had this—or that.
I know I’m not alone in this. We all fill in our own versions of those blanks. And while I won’t pretend my struggles are the hardest or my pain the deepest, I’ve come to believe that unchecked if onlys often lead us to the same place: the quiet, creeping sin of discontentment—especially when God’s plan doesn’t match our own.
Before going further, let’s define what discontentment is—and what it isn’t.
In Libby Glosson’s podcast The Better Way, she describes discontentment this way:
“At its core, discontentment is a restless dissatisfaction with God’s provision, with God’s timing, and with God’s plan for our lives.”
Discontentment looks at the life God has given us—whether outwardly beautiful or painfully messy—and concludes that something has gone wrong. That God has made a mistake. He promised joy and peace, yet we don’t feel them, so His ways must somehow be flawed.
Or perhaps we don’t place the blame on God at all. Instead, we turn inward. We convince ourselves our dissatisfaction exists because we haven’t done enough. If only we parented better. If only we spoke more gently. If only the house were calmer when my husband walked through the door. Surely then things would feel different.
In both cases, the result is the same. Discontentment exposes a deep distrust of God. Either we accuse Him of withholding what we need, or we place our hope in our own ability to fix what feels broken.
To be clear, emotions themselves are not the problem. Emotions can be a helpful barometer, revealing where our focus truly lies. Not every difficult emotion signals discontentment.
At its root, discontentment is not about circumstances or feelings—it is about trust.
So how do we move toward contentment?
Practice, Practice, Practice
Contentment is not a natural human response; it must be learned and intentionally practiced.
In Philippians 4:11–13, Paul writes:
“Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”
The repeated phrases “I have learned” and “I know how” stand out. Paul learned contentment through lived experience—through extremes of abundance and desperation. Every circumstance became a training ground for gratitude which, when paired with the strength of Christ, ultimately cultivated contentment.
But how could Paul maintain this posture amid such dramatic swings? I believe he took notes from our forefather, David.
Anchor Your Hope in Christ
In Psalm 16, David begins with a plea for preservation, yet by the end he anchors himself in hope. In verses 5–11, he reminds himself:
“The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot.
The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.
I bless the Lord who gives me counsel; in the night also my heart instructs me.
I have set the Lord always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.
Therefore my heart is glad, and my whole being rejoices; my flesh also dwells secure.
For you will not abandon my soul to Sheol, or let your holy one see corruption.
You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”
Talk about daily affirmations! David did not live a life of ease, and yet he deliberately reminded himself where his true and lasting hope is found. He understood that the secret to peace and joy is rooted in where our hearts dwell—and for him, that was in the presence of God.
We must follow in the footsteps of the brothers and sisters who came before us and anchor our hope in Christ alone. We cannot divide our hope between Christ and the world. They are at odds with one another, and when we attempt to cling to both, we will always come up empty.
When I find myself frustrated or discontent, I can almost always trace it back to this truth: somewhere along the way, I shifted some—if not all—of my hope onto the outcome of a circumstance rather than onto Christ Himself. This realization brings me to a hard but necessary reality for every believer.
Crucify Your Flesh Daily
This has been one of the most difficult truths for me to grapple with. I have felt this conviction deep in my bones. My flesh has fought against it in every possible way. After all, who wants to die? Who willingly chooses crucifixion? We spend our lives attempting to escape pain and here I am suggesting we head straight to it!
Yet Scripture is clear: following Christ requires daily death to self.
An excerpt from a small but profound book called A Gospel Primer by Milton Vincent captures this reality powerfully:
“Christ’s death and my death are so intertwined as to be inseparable…[God] insists that every hour be my dying hour, and He wants my death on the cross to be as central to my own life story as is Christ’s death to the gospel story…
Crucifixion hurts. In fact, its heart-wrenching brutality can numb the senses. It is a grasping and bloody affair, and there is nothing nice, pretty, or easy about it…
Nevertheless, I must set my face like flint toward the cross and embrace this crucifixion in everything I do…
I must seize upon every opportunity to be conformed more fully to Christ’s death, no matter the pain involved…
‘Not my will, but Yours be done,’ Christ trustingly prayed on the eve of His crucifixion; and preaching His story to myself each day puts me in a frame of mind to trust God and embrace the cross of my own dying also.”
Ladies, we are called to lay ourselves down at the cross of Christ—daily. We are called to delight ourselves in the Lord (Psalm 37:4) and to set our minds on things above (Colossians 3:2).
Summary
Don’t misunderstand me—I still struggle with discontentment. My flesh still wages war against the Spirit within me. As long as I have breath in my lungs, this will remain a daily battle. But God, in His mercy, has not left us unequipped. He has given us strength training. He has given us battle strategies. And day after day, He faithfully meets us in the fight.
To sum it up: Contentment is not found in finally getting the life we hoped for. It is found in trusting the God who authors the life we’ve been given (Ephesians 2:10). When God’s plan doesn’t match ours, the invitation is not to strive harder for control, but to surrender more fully to Christ.
This is not a one-time decision. It is a daily posture—sometimes a moment-by-moment one; a choosing to trust that God is good, even when His ways feel confusing; a choosing to believe that His provision is sufficient, even when our desires remain unmet.
So if you find yourself weary, frustrated, or quietly discontent today, you are not alone. And you are not failing. You are being invited—once again—to anchor your hope where it was always meant to rest.
Not in outcomes.
Not in plans fulfilled.
Not in circumstances changing.
But in Christ alone—who is more than enough.
