The Stewardship Series: Part 2
Rock
I’ve always found it fascinating that my first name, Rochelle, literally means “little rock.” Over the years, I’ve often wondered whether I’ve been growing into my name—or whether my name was quietly preparing me for the life I would one day live. It also made me wonder how all of us learn to survive.
Some of us become the rock. Steady. Solid. Reliable. Strong. The one others can lean on for support. The one who carries the family or the one who never cries. The one who keeps going despite exhaustion. Maybe the one who mistakes resilience for invincibility.
From the outside, a rock appears unbreakable. But rocks don’t become smooth because life has been easy to them. They become smooth because they’ve spent years being battered by rushing water, violent storms, relentless winds, and impossible pressure. Along the journey, many of us started believing our strength was measured by how much pain we could carry without asking for help, as though endurance was the highest form of love we could offer the world.
Psychologically, survival teaches us to suppress emotion because expressing it feels unsafe. Our hyper-independence takes root because dependence once led to disappointment. We mistake self-reliance for healing, convinced that if we never need anyone again, we’ll never be hurt again. But hyper-independence is not a personality trait; it’s an adaptation. An understandable one, perhaps—but an adaptation nonetheless.
Here’s the irony.
Real strength doesn’t carry the weight of the world until your spirit collapses beneath it. It knows the difference between responsibility and ownership. It recognizes what belongs to you… and what never did. It allows you to be supported. To rest, grieve, receive, and trust.
A rock is steady.
As am I.
But even a rock knows when to remain rooted and when to let the river shape it. Maybe that’s what sovereignty looks like—not becoming harder. Becoming wiser.
Paper
Paper has always fascinated me because, unlike a rock, it doesn’t push back. It bends and covers. It protects and wraps itself around what matters most.
Some of us became paper long before we ever realized it. We became the peacemakers. The caregivers. The mediators, the dependable friend, and the employee who never says no. We were the partner who kept giving one more chance. The family member who absorbs everyone else’s emotions while quietly neglecting their own. We confuse accommodation with compassion because we believe love is measured by how much of ourselves we’re willing to sacrifice to keep everyone else comfortable. We smooth over conflict, excuse harmful behavior, and carry emotional burdens that aren’t ours because somewhere in our development we learned that keeping the peace was safer than speaking the truth.
Psychologically, this is known as fawning—a trauma response that often develops in environments where love, approval, or safety feels conditional. While some of us learn to fight, flee, or freeze, the rest of us learn to survive by becoming whatever the moment requires. We become agreeable. Helpful. Pleasant. Easy to love. Easy to overlook.
At first, paper seems remarkably strong. It can hold stories. Dreams. Promises. Photographs. Love letters. Sacred texts even. But paper also absorbs. Every single tear. Every apology, disappointment, and promise that was never kept. And eventually, if it absorbs enough without ever being allowed to dry…it begins to tear or shred.
And what does paper do? It spends so much of its life holding everyone else’s story together that it forgets to write its own. Healing taught me that compassion without boundaries isn’t compassion at all; it’s self-abandonment. At some point, the paper must stop folding itself into shapes that make everyone else comfortable. It must finally become the author instead of the page.
Scissors
As children, many of us settled disagreements with a simple game called Rock. Paper. Scissors. Three quick motions of the hand. One winner. One loser. Then we laughed and played again. It seemed so innocent.
What I never realized was that adulthood would ask me to play a much more complicated version of the same game. Not with my hands. With my life.
Rock taught me how to endure.
Paper taught me how to accommodate.
But healing eventually handed me the scissors.
Not to wound, but to discern. Scissors don’t exist to destroy. They separate things, to remove what no longer belongs. They prune what can no longer grow. They free what has become entangled. Every gardener knows this. You don’t prune a healthy plant because you hate it. You prune it because you love what it still has the potential to become. Tending to my inside plants and outside garden taught me this.
Healing asks us to make the same decision, to cut away relationships that no longer nourish us. Habits that no longer honor us. Beliefs that no longer reflect us. Fears that no longer protect us, and versions of ourselves that were designed for survival.
Psychologically, autonomy is one of the greatest markers of emotional maturity. It is the ability to make decisions that are aligned with your values rather than your fears. When you choose your response instead of living in reaction, you learn to trust your own judgment after years of asking everyone else to define your reality.
For much of my life, I thought freedom meant having more options. Now I believe freedom is something much quieter. I TRUST myself enough to choose. And perhaps that is why this childhood game has stayed with us for generations. It was never really about winning. It was about making a CHOICE.
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.
We all needed each one at different points in our lives; whether it was the strength of the rock, the tenderness of the paper, or the discernment of the scissors. And some seasons eventually taught us something the game never could. Real life brings us to a moment when it’s no longer determined by the hand you’ve always thrown.
AUTONOMY is stepping away from the table altogether.
That is sovereignty. That is choice.
The greatest choice I ever made wasn’t choosing rock, paper, or scissors. It was choosing myself.