When You Don’t Have Words for What You’re Feeling

The week leading up to my daughter Penny’s first taekwondo tournament was full of excitement. She talked about it constantly—her uniform, her belt, what it might feel like to step onto the mat in front of an audience. She practiced in the living room, part focused and part playful, already imagining how the day would unfold. You could feel how much it mattered to her, in that sweet, wholehearted way kids throw themselves into something new.

But the morning of the tournament felt entirely different.

Penny woke up quiet. Slower than usual. She told me her tummy hurt, and I immediately went into practical mode—wondering if she was coming down with something. A bug? The flu? Today of all days? I watched her closely, trying to piece it together, running through the usual questions in my mind.

As the morning went on, she stayed curled in on herself, not quite herself. And then, in a small voice, she said,

I feel… sad too.

That was the moment it shifted for me.

It wasn’t sickness. It was something deeper, something new. She was feeling nervous—but she didn’t yet have the language for it. Her body felt it first, and all she knew was that something didn’t feel right. The excitement she had carried all week had quietly turned into something heavier, and she didn’t know how to hold it.

I sat with her and gently put words to what she might be experiencing. I told her that sometimes when we’re about to do something new or important, our bodies can feel a little off—tummy aches, heavy feelings, even a kind of sadness that’s hard to explain. I told her I wondered if what she was feeling might be nerves.

I could almost see the relief settle in. Not because the feeling went away, but because it finally had a name. There’s something so comforting, even as adults, about realizing, this is something others feel too.

We stayed there together for a bit—no rushing, no fixing. Just noticing.

And then we prayed.

It wasn’t a long or polished prayer, just simple words spoken quietly in the kitchen. We asked God for peace, for courage, for steadiness in her body. I reminded her that she could talk to Him anytime, even right there at the tournament, even in the middle of a moment that felt overwhelming.

Philippians 4:6–7 came to mind as we stood there together:
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, present your requests to God… and the peace of God… will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

As I spoke those words over her, I felt them gently land on my own heart too.

Because if I’m honest, I don’t always do this well myself.

How often do I carry my worries quietly? How often do I try to reason through them, manage them, or push past them instead of laying them down? Watching Penny struggle to understand her feelings made me realize how often I do the same—feeling something deeply, but not always bringing it fully to God.

There we were, side by side, both learning in our own ways.

I also shared with her that I get nervous too. That even as a grown-up, I still feel that same flutter in my stomach before something new or important. I told her about moments where I’ve felt unsure or anxious, and how I’m still learning what it looks like to pause and bring those feelings to God instead of carrying them on my own. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone in it—and that this is something we grow in, not something we instantly figure out.

We talked about how God doesn’t ask us to never feel afraid—He simply invites us to come to Him in it.

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear,” I told her softly, “but of power, love, and self-discipline.” (2 Timothy 1:7).

Not the absence of fear—but the presence of something steadier, something stronger that we can lean into.

As we got closer to leaving, I didn’t try to take the nerves away. Instead, we talked about what it might look like to carry them differently. I reminded her that she could stay close to me until she felt ready, that she could take a deep breath before stepping onto the mat, that she could whisper a prayer in her heart whenever she needed to.

Simple, gentle things. The kind that make space rather than demand change.

And in many ways, those are the same things I’m learning too.

Not to eliminate the hard feelings, but to bring them somewhere safe. To acknowledge them instead of brushing past them. To remember that I don’t have to hold everything together on my own.

The day didn’t unfold perfectly. She still felt nervous when her turn came. I could see it in her eyes as she stepped forward, that mix of courage and uncertainty that feels so familiar, even as adults.

But she went.

And afterward, with a quiet kind of pride, she said, “I had fun today.”

There was something so tender in that. Not a story of fear disappearing, but of courage meeting her in the middle of it. Of her learning, in her own small but meaningful way, that she could do something even while feeling unsure.

And I think that’s what stayed with me most.

That learning to navigate fear—whether you’re a child at your first tournament or an adult carrying unseen worries—is often less about making it go away, and more about knowing where to place it.

Because the truth is, there are so many moments in life when we don’t even fully understand what we’re feeling. It shows up in our bodies first—a tight chest, a restless mind, a heaviness we can’t quite explain. We try to name it, sort it, make sense of it… and sometimes we just can’t.

And maybe we’re not meant to have perfect clarity before we come to God.

Maybe the invitation is actually the opposite.

To come as we are—uncertain, overwhelmed, unsure of the words—and simply lay it all down at the feet of the One who already understands. The One who sees what we can’t yet name. The One who holds every layer of what we’re carrying, even when it feels tangled and unclear to us.

There is such a quiet freedom in that.

Not needing to have it all figured out. Not needing to package our prayers perfectly. Just bringing what we have—however messy, however incomplete—and trusting that He meets us there with gentleness.

Psalm 62:8 says, “Pour out your hearts to Him, for God is our refuge.”

Not “explain it perfectly.” Not “understand it fully.” Just pour it out.

That morning with Penny reminded me that this is something we’re all learning, in different ways and different seasons. To recognize what we’re feeling. To name it when we can. And when we can’t, to still bring it forward.

To lay it down, again and again, at the feet of a God who knows us completely—and loves us right there in the middle of it.