The Sponge Principle: What Comes Out Under Pressure

What comes out of us when life gets hard?

Most of us assume pressure creates our reactions. But what if pressure simply reveals what has already been filling us all along?

After spending a weekend sorting through decades of memories from her late father's life, Kim found herself asking a deeper question:

What actually shapes a person over time?

In this episode, Kim explores how healing, faith, grief, daily habits, relationships, and ordinary choices quietly form us over the course of a lifetime. Through personal stories about family memories, loss, purpose, a surprising personality assessment, and unexpected moments of encouragement, she reflects on how God often prepares us long before we recognize what He is doing.

Together, we'll explore:

• What pressure reveals about us

• Why healing often happens beneath the surface

• How life experiences shape who we become

• What evidence of healing looks like

• How God uses ordinary faithfulness to prepare us for what comes next

Because healing isn't about becoming someone else.

It's about becoming more fully who God created you to be.

Resources

🌐 HealerHopeGiver.com

🎙 Follow Healer & Hope Giver on your favorite podcast app

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:28

Hey friends, welcome back. I've been thinking about a sponge for several days now, and honestly, I think part of the reason it has stayed with me is because of everything that has happened this past week. As I was driving home from my dad's house on Saturday, with my car loaded down with photographs, keepsakes, paperwork, and family memories, I found myself reflecting on how strange grief can be. Earlier that morning, I had pulled into the driveway and for just a second expected him to be inside the office. It wasn't that I forgot he was gone. It was simply one of those moments where your mind reaches for what has always been true before it catches up with what has changed. Then we spent the day opening boxes and more boxes and more boxes. And some of them contained old military records, some had college papers, photographs, things he had painted when he was a kid, old letters, family keepsakes. There were clothes that still looked like something he would wear, and handwritten notes that immediately brought his voice to mind. By the end of the day, I had made three trips loading the things that I was taking home into my car. And I kept thinking the same thing over and over again. None of these items were my dad. They mattered because of him. Every photograph mattered because it captured a moment from his life. Every document mattered because it represented something he experienced, accomplished, valued, or preserved. The boxes contained evidence that he had lived, but they couldn't possibly contain the whole story of who he was. What stayed with me wasn't what was in the boxes. It was everything that wasn't. His sense of humor wasn't found in a box. The conversations we shared weren't in a box. The lessons he taught us kids weren't in boxes. The way he loved people was not in a box. The sacrifices he made were not in a box. And neither was the charity that he so fully believed in. All of these things existed somewhere beyond the physical reminders that we carried home that day. And that's what started this entire train of thought. Because I found myself wondering what actually forms a person over the course of a lifetime. Personality assessments are interesting. Job titles tell part of the story, accomplishments matter, relationships matter, but none of these things fully explain how a person becomes who they are. The older I get, the more convinced I become that most formation happens quietly. We tend to notice the major events because they have obvious starting and ending points. We remember the weddings, the births, the funerals, the promotions, the moves, the diagnoses, and the milestones because they stand out. But I think we're also being shaped by thousands of ordinary moments that never make the highlight real. The conversations we have repeatedly, the beliefs we return to, the people we trust, the stories we tell ourselves, the habits we build, and the things we consume, the ways we spend our time. Most of that shaping happens without us even noticing. I certainly wasn't thinking about formation while I was living through most of the last year. I wasn't standing back analyzing my growth or evaluating my resilience. Most days I was simply trying to be faithful with what was in front of me. I was navigating grief, caring for my family, continuing to work on my health, showing up for church, and trying to discern what God was asking me to do next. Looking back though, I can see something I couldn't see while I was living it. The pressure wasn't just testing me, it was revealing me. And that's where the sponge comes in. Because when you squeeze a sponge, whatever comes out was already in there. The pressure didn't create it, it simply revealed what had been absorbed over time. And lately I've been wondering if the same thing might be true about us. The more I thought about the sponge metaphor, the more I realized when the pressure wasn't actually the part that fascinated me. Life is always going to have some sort of pressure. That's not exactly groundbreaking news, I know. Every person listening to this podcast has lived through seasons they didn't choose. Every one of us has experienced some sort of disappointment, loss, uncertainty, heartbreak, fear, change, or circumstances that felt bigger than we wanted them to be. Maybe you felt all of them. Maybe you felt some combination within that. But the pressure is part of being human. What fascinates me is something else. It's what comes out. Because when I look back over the last year, I don't remember feeling particularly strong while I was living through it. In fact, if you had asked me in the middle of all of it how I was doing, I probably would have told you, I'm just trying to keep my head above water. Not because everything was falling apart, but because life felt heavy. Grief is heavy, responsibility can be heavy. Trying to care for people you love while carrying your own heartbreak is heavy. There were days when I missed my dad so much that it physically hurt. Days when something would happen, and my first thought would be to call him. But if you actually know me, you know it was really just to text him because I don't make phone calls. Only then to remember that I couldn't text him. Days where the loss felt so fresh all over again, and that's even though months had already passed. At the same time, life kept moving. Work still needed to be done, my family still needed me, church responsibilities still existed, the laundry still needed to be washed and folded, dinner still needed to be made. The ordinary responsibilities of life don't pause just because your heart is hurting. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I felt God nudging me towards something completely unexpected. A podcast. Looking back, the timing still seems a little strange. If someone had come to me and said, this is probably the perfect season to launch a brand new ministry project while you're grieving the loss of your father, I would have looked at them like they had two heads and had lost their mind. Most people would have waited. And honestly, I probably would have expected myself to wait. But that's where the surprise begins. Because instead of talking myself out of it, I started planning. Not because I felt ready, not because I had confidence in every step, and not because I had some elaborate business strategy sitting in a notebook somewhere. I simply felt like God was asking me to take the next step. So I did. And then I took another one and another one. And before long, the season was map mapped out. Recording equipment was ordered, episodes were being written, websites were taking shape, resources were being created, and this thing that had existed only as an idea suddenly became real. And even now, I can see where God's hands were all over the planning and timing of all of it. And what's fascinating to me now is not that the podcast exists, it's what made it possible. Because if you had asked me years ago how I would respond to that level of uncertainty, I honestly don't know that I would have moved forward so quickly. There was a time in my life when I wanted guarantees before I acted. I wanted reassurance. I wanted certainty. I wanted to know how things would turn out before I committed myself to the journey. And if I couldn't see the outcome, I often found myself standing still while I tried to think my way into safety. But somewhere along the way, something's something started changing. Not overnight, not dramatically, not in one defining moment, but little by little, conversation by conversation, and prayer by prayer, step by step. Healing has a way of doing that. You don't always notice it while it's happening. Most of the time you're simply living your life. Then one day you find yourself responding differently than you would have before. You find yourself trusting when you would have worried, moving when you would have hesitated, trying when you would have usually talked yourself out of it. And suddenly you realize something has been growing beneath the surface for a long time. When life squeezed the sponge this year, faith came out. Not perfect faith and not fearless faith. Not the kind of faith that never has questions, the kind of faith that takes the next step, the next step anyway. The kind of faith that says, I don't know exactly where this is leading, but I believe that God does. And honestly, that surprised me. Not because God surprises me, but because sometimes healing takes us by surprise. Sometimes we don't realize how much growth has happened until life gives us an opportunity to see it. And lately I've been noticing more and more evidence of that. As I continued thinking about all of this, another question started nagging at me. If faith came out when life applied pressure, where did it come from? Because it certainly didn't appear overnight. And it definitely wasn't something I manufactured through sheer determination. The truth is, when I look back over my life, I can see different seasons where the sponge was filled with very different things. Some of those things were helpful, some of them weren't, some of them were true, and some of them were things I simply learned because they helped me survive in the environment that I was in. And if you've listened to the last few episodes, you've heard me talk about this a little bit already. How some of the things I once thought were personality traits were actually adaptations, ways of navigating life, ways of staying safe, ways of keeping the peace, and ways of avoiding conflict, ways of making sure I wasn't asking for too much, needing too much, or drawing too much attention to myself. At the time, I didn't think of them that way. I thought they simply were who I was. And to be fair, they became part of who I was. That's what adaptations do. When you practice something long enough, it starts to feel like your personality. You stop questioning it, you stop even noticing it. It simply becomes the water that you're swimming in. And the older I get, though, the more fascinated I become by the difference between who we are and what we've learned. Because both influence how we move through the world. Both influence our decisions. Both influence our relationships, but they aren't always the same thing. For years I described myself as conflict avoidant, and that's true. I still don't enjoy conflict. I don't know many people who wake up in the morning hoping for a good argument. Except I do know one of those kind of people, and he knows who he is. But when I start looking deeper, I realized there was more to the story. Part of that tendency probably reflects my natural wiring. My Clifton strengths include harmony. My Enneagram type is nine. I seeing multiple perspectives comes naturally to me. Looking for common ground comes naturally to me. Wanting people to be heard, feel heard, and to feel valued comes naturally to me. But that's not the whole story either, because life experiences influence us too. When you've lived through situations where conflict often led to separation, your relationship with conflict changes. When you're you've watched relationships disappear after divorces, friendships fracture after disagreements, or important people suddenly becoming absent from your everyday life, conflict starts carrying more emotional weight. Not because it actually is, but because that's what the experience taught you to expect. And once you start noticing things like that, you begin begin realizing how much of life is absorbed without your permission. Messages about your worth, messages about if you belong, messages about your appearance, messages about safety, messages about whether your needs actually matter, messages about whether it's okay to take up space, messages about what makes you valuable to others. Most of us don't sit down and consciously choose those beliefs, we absorb them. Little by little, year after year, conversation after conversation, and experience after experience. The sponge soaked them up long before we realized what was happening. And honestly, I think that's why healing can feel so complicated sometimes. Because we're not simply changing behaviors, we're examining what has been filling us for decades. We're sorting through beliefs the same way my sisters and I sorted through those 10 or 15 boxes of stuff. Keeping some things, letting go of others, reevaluating what still belongs, discovering things we forgot were even there, and occasionally finding something that makes us laugh because suddenly we see it differently than we did before. And the beautiful thing is that awareness changes everything. Because once you recognize what has been filling the sponge, you gain the opportunity to choose what continues to fill it moving forward. And I think that's where healing starts becoming less about survival and more about intentional formation. Not becoming someone else, becoming more fully who God created you to be. One of the things I've learned through this healing journey is that awareness is only the beginning. It's an important beginning, but it's still only the beginning. Because once you start recognizing the messages you've absorbed, the beliefs you've carried, the habits you've developed, eventually another question shows up. Well, now what? What do I do with what I've learned? How do I move forward? How do I stop living solely from old survival strategies and start living more intentionally? For a long time, I thought growth was mostly about fixing things, finding the problem, and then solving it, moving on to the next problem. And maybe that's the systems person in me. I like to understand how things work and the why behind it. I like identifying patterns. I like finding practical solutions. But healing has taught me that transformation is usually less dramatic than that. More often it happens through what we repeatedly allow into our lives. It happens through what we practice, what we prioritize, what we re what we revisit over and over again. And again, the older I get, the more convinced I am that our lives are shaped less by occasional grand gestures and more by ordinary ordinary daily rhythms. Not because routines are magical, because repetition is powerful. The things we do repeatedly eventually become part of us. I've been thinking a lot about that lately while building new rhythms within my own life. Not because I'm trying to become some perfectly organized person who color codes every moment of every day, although I do love a good color code. And trust me, perfection is not what's happening. What I'm really trying to do is become more intentional about what fills my days. Because what fills my days eventually fills my life. The time I spend in scripture matters. The conversations that I choose to have matter. The books I read matter. The content I consume absolutely matters. The people I surround myself with matter. And the habits I practice matter. The thoughts I allow myself to reverse matter deeply. The way I care for my body matters. The way I steward my time matters. None of these things seem particularly dramatic in isolation, but neither does a drop of water landing on a sponge. The power isn't in the individual drop. The power is in the accumulation, little by little, day after day, year after year. And honestly, I think that's one of the reasons I've become so passionate about health over the last several years. Not because I finally discovered some secret formula, not because I suddenly became more disciplined, but because I started realizing that the choices I make every day are shaping my experience. The same thing is true spiritually, the same thing is true emotionally. The same thing is true relationally. We're being formed by something. The question is whether the formation isn't whether formation is happening. The question is whether we're paying attention to what is doing that formation. For me, I've reached a place where peace matters more than performance. Faith matters more than certainty. Presence matters more than perfection. I keep care deeply about where God is leading me, even when the direction feels uncomfortable, and even when it stretches me, even when it terrifies me a little. Because if the last year has taught me anything, it's that God can be trusted with the places I've never seen before. And that's changing what I'm choosing to fill my life with. More faith, more truth, more intentionality, more grace, more healthy relationships, more opportunity to serve, more reminders of who God says I am instead of who fear says I am. Not because I've mastered those things, but because that's the direction I want my life moving in. Because someday, decades from now, somebody else may be sorting through the evidence of my life. And when that day comes, I don't hope that they find perfection. I hope that they find evidence that I kept becoming and I never stopped. One of the things that I've learned about healing that rarely announces itself, wouldn't that be nice? Imagine walking up, waking up one morning and finding a note on your nightstand that says, Congratulations, you've successfully healed from that thing, and you may now proceed through life with complete confidence and emotional maturity. Unfortunately, that isn't how life works. Most of the time, healing happens quietly, slowly, in ways that are almost impossible to recognize while they're happening. Then one day you find yourself responding differently than you used to, and it catches you completely off guard. Not because you've arrived somewhere, but because you're beginning to notice evidence that God has been working beneath the surface all along. I've been noticing some of those moments lately. This past weekend was one of them. Of course, going through the things with my sisters. Before, you know, Sunday's sermon, I spent hours with my sisters and stepmom sorting through my dad's belongings. And ever since then, memories of him have been flooding back in unexpected ways. Some have been joyful, some have been bittersweet, and some remind me still how much I miss him. And then Sunday morning arrived. The sermon started, and I almost immediately found myself thinking, this feels like it's awfully personal. Not because Kevin was preaching. Directly to me, not because anyone knew what had been on my mind all weekend. It was something deeper than that. The message seemed to connect with conversations God and I had already been having. Conversations about purpose, about calling, about obedience, about taking the next step, even when you can't see the whole path ahead. And if you've ever experienced one of those moments, you know exactly what I'm talking about. It's that strange feeling where it seems like God keeps bringing the same lesson, the same theme, or the same invitation into your life from multiple directions until you finally stop and pay attention. And then open 10 started. Now, if you listen to this podcast for any length of time, you already know that public speaking isn't exactly where I naturally thrive. I'm an introvert. I process internally. I usually think through things through before I say them out loud. Yet somehow I found myself talking. I stayed right where I was sitting, no microphone, no dramatic speech, no grand moment. But I kept talking long enough that three people turned around to look at me. Which still makes me laugh a little, not because speaking was remarkable. What struck me later was my response afterwards. Years ago, I probably would have spent the rest of the day replaying every word in my head. Did I explain myself correctly? Did I say too much? Did I sound foolish? Did everyone understand exactly what I meant? I would have analyzed the conversation from every possible angle. Instead, I found myself reflecting on the message itself, thinking about what God might be saying, thinking about how it connected to the podcast, the writing, and this strange little ecosystem that keeps growing one faithful step at a time. And that's when it hit me. That's different, subtle, but different. The pressure revealed something different than it used to. A few days later, I had another one of these moments. I ran a quick errand and stopped at Starbucks because let's be honest, that's not exactly unusual behavior for me if I leave the house. While I was waiting for my drink, the barista asked what I was doing that day. And I told her I was scripting my next episode for the podcast. So she started asking questions. What was the podcast about? How long had I been doing it? Where could she listen? We chatted for a few minutes while I waited. And then another employee handed me my drink. And completely unrelated to our conversation, and written on the side of that cup were the words, you are amazing. Now logically, I know they probably write encouraging messages on cups all the time. I've gotten many of them. The words weren't the point. The timing was the point. Because I was already in the middle of thinking about this episode, already reflecting on purpose, already wondering what God was doing in this season. And in that moment, I just smiled and thought, okay, God, I see you. Not because I think every coincidence carries some profound meaning, but because lately I find myself noticing his fingerprints everywhere, in conversations, in sermons, and encouragement from friends, and opportunities that appear at exactly the right time, in doors that open, and lessons that keep resurfacing, and ordinary moments that somehow feel bigger than they should. And honestly, I think that might be one of the clearest pieces of evidence healing leaves behind. Not that life becomes easier, not that uncertainty disappears, not that grief stops hurting, but that our awareness changes. We begin noticing God in places we used to overlook. We begin recognizing his faithfulness while we're still in the middle of the story. We begin trusting him before we have all the answers. And when I look back over this season, that's the evidence I keep seeing. Not perfection, not arrival, not achievement, faith, grace, and hope. A willingness to take the next step, a willingness to trust God's leading, even when I can't see very far ahead. And perhaps most importantly, a growing desire to spend less time asking God to bless my plans and more time asking him to help me follow his. Because that's the mission, friends. Not becoming the best version of myself for my own sake, becoming the person God created me to be so that I can faithfully participate in whatever He has prepared for me next. And when I think about it that way, I realize the sponge was never really the point. The point is what's been soaking it, what's what it's been soaking in all along. As I've been working on this episode, I keep coming back to those boxes, not because of what was inside them, but because of what they represented an entire lifetime, decades of decisions, relationships, experiences, heartbreaks, victories, lessons learned, people loved, faith practiced, ordinary days that slowly accumulated into a life. And somewhere between sorting through paperwork, photographs, finding my dad's personality assessment, reflecting on the last year, and thinking about a kitchen sponge, I realized something. None of us become who we are all at once. We become who we are little by little, day by day, choice by choice, and relationship by relationship. Belief by belief, most of that formation happens quietly. Most of it happens when nobody is watching. Most of it happens through ordinary moments that don't seem important at the time, until years later we look back and realize they were shaping us all along. Maybe that's why I find the sponge metaphor so compelling. Because when pressure comes, and eventually it comes for all of us, it reveals what we've been absorbing, not perfectly, not completely, but honestly. And while we don't always have the control to control the pressure that life brings, we do have some influence over what fills us before the pressure arrives. The voices we listen to, the relationships we cultivate, the truths we return to, the habits that we practice, the ways we spend our time, the places we direct our attention, the thing we allow to shape our hearts. Those things matter more than we realize because one day they become what comes out when life squeezes us. And maybe that's the question I've been carrying ever since last weekend. Not how do I become perfect? Not how do I avoid harsh hardship? Not even how do I become successful? The question is simpler than that. What am I allowing to shape me? What am I filling my life with? And what kind of person am I becoming? Because someday, decades from now, someone else may be sorting through the evidence of my life, the photographs, the notes, the books, the hundreds of cards I've kept, the projects, the keepsakes, the memories, the things that remain after I'm gone. And when that day comes, I don't hope that they find perfection. I don't hope that they find someone who had all the answers. I don't hope they find a woman who never struggled, never doubted, or never got things wrong. I hope they find evidence that I kept becoming, evidence that I kept growing, that I kept learning, that I kept trusting God even when I couldn't see very far ahead. Evidence that I kept getting back up after failure, evidence I kept choosing faith over fear, and that I kept loving people well. And most of all, evidence that I spent my life trying to follow wherever God was leading next, because that's the life I want to live. Not a perfect one, a faithful one. And maybe that's what formation is really about. Not becoming impressive, but becoming available, available for God to use, for God to shape, and for God to leave, lead, sorry, available for God to work through, little by little, day by day, year after year, until one ordinary life becomes a testimony of an extraordinary God. And honestly, I think that's worth becoming. What experiences influenced how you see yourself, other people, and how you see God? What beliefs have been filling your sponge for years without you even realizing it? And just as importantly, what evidence of healing can you already see? Not evidence of perfection, just evidence of growth, of faith, of courage, of grace. Evidence that God has been doing something beneath the surface, even when you couldn't see it happening. Sometimes we're so focused on where we still want to go that we completely miss how far God has already brought us. If you haven't listened to episode 25 yet, I encourage you to go back and spend some time there as well. In that conversation, we explore the difference between who we are naturally and what we learn to become through life experiences. Today's episode builds on that foundation asking a different question. What are we becoming now? And together, those two conversations create a fuller picture of how we're shaped over a lifetime and how God continues swarming us long after we look think the story is written. And honestly, I think we're only beginning to explore that idea. Over the next several episodes, we're going to continue talking about healing, identity, purpose, faithfulness, and what it means to become more fully who God created us to be. Because healing isn't just about what we're leaving behind, it's also about what God is preparing us for. If you'd like to spend some time working through these ideas from today's episode, I've created a companion guide that will help you identify what has shaped you, what may still be influencing you, and where you can already see evidence of healing in your own story. You can find that guide along with all of the other companion resources at Healer and Hopegiver or HealerHopegiver.com. It's all just one word, healerHopegiver.com. Friend, thank you for spending time with me today. Whether you're listening while driving, folding long laundry, taking a walk, cleaning the kitchen, sitting in a waiting room, or stealing a few quiet minutes before the rest of the house wakes up. I'm grateful that you're here. One of the greatest privileges of this podcast is getting to hear your stories. Every week I receive messages from people who were healing, grieving, rebuilding, questioning, growing, and learning to trust God in new ways. I read every single message, every email, every comment, every review. And I want you to know how much they mean to me. So if today's episode resonated with you, I'd genuinely love to hear about it. Tell me what stood out, what you're discovering, tell me where you're seeing evidence of your own healing in your life. These conversations are one of my favorite parts of this journey. And if someone came to mind while you were listening today, someone who is walking through grief, rebuilding after hardship, learning who they are, or simply trying to take the next faithful step, would you share this episode with them? You never know when a little hope can arrive at exactly the right moment. If you're still enjoying the podcast, or if you're enjoying the podcast, I'd love for you to follow the show on your favorite podcast app so you don't miss future episodes. If you're listening on Apple Podcasts, leaving a review helps more people discover these conversations. And if you're part of the YouTube community, liking, subscribing, and leaving comments helps those messages reach people who may need them. You can also find companion guides, resources, encouragement, and more at healerhopegiver.com. And until next time, keep noticing the evidence. Evidence of healing, evidence of growth, evidence of grace, evidence of God's faithfulness because the goal isn't perfection. The goal isn't becoming someone else. The goal is becoming more fully who God created you to be and faithfully following wherever He leads next. I'll see you next time.